Once Broken Faith

SIX

“THIS IS KAREN BROWN, and she is under my protection,” said the Luidaeg. She sounded strained, like the words she was using weren’t the ones she would have chosen. That worried me, almost as much as the sight of Karen standing there, small and scared and alone. “Any who would harm her will need to first pass through me.”

All right. Maybe not totally alone.

The Luidaeg put a hand on Karen’s shoulder. “It’s all right, honey,” she said, and while the charms amplifying the room carried her words clean and clear to the rest of us, her voice was gentler than it had been before. “Just tell everyone why you’re here, and then we can sit down until it’s time for us to talk.”

“Are . . . are you sure?” asked Karen. Her voice was barely a whisper. It was the loudest thing I’d ever heard.

“I promise.”

Karen bit her lip. Then she turned to face the gallery full of nobles and monarchs, and said, “I’m an oneiromancer. I walk in dreams. I can speak to the sleeping. I’m here because I’ve been commanded to come by Eira Rosynhwyr, Firstborn daughter of Titania, who created elf-shot, and wishes to have a voice in its fate. I’m . . . I’m really sorry. I know I’m not supposed to be here, but I couldn’t tell her no. She said I’d never sleep peacefully again.”

“I’m going to kill her,” I said. I wasn’t sure how loudly I was speaking. I didn’t actually care. “I’m going to get Acacia to open a Rose Road, and I’m going to go back to where we left Evening sleeping, and I’m going to kill her.”

The Luidaeg looked amused. She shouldn’t have been able to hear me, but she had. Maybe I shouldn’t have been surprised. “Always the hero,” she said. “Come along, Karen.” She took my niece’s hand and walked the length of the silent gallery with her, until they came to the row where I was seated. Karen moved to sit on Quentin’s other side. He took her hand and squeezed. It was a brotherly gesture, comforting. Her eyes filled with tears, and she dropped her head to his shoulder. The Luidaeg met my eyes and nodded once as she settled next to Karen. She wasn’t happy about this either. But then, when was she happy about anything involving her sister?

The silence in the gallery was profound. I turned back to the stage. All four of the seated monarchs were staring at us. Siwan looked confused. The High King and Queen looked stunned. Arden looked more resigned. This was the sort of thing she’d been dealing with since the start of her reign. She might not be the most accomplished Queen in the Westlands, but she was well on her way to becoming the most unflappable.

I grimaced, spreading my hands and mouthing, “Sorry.” Arden shook herself, snapping out of her surprise, and turned to the rest of the room.

“As you can see, this conclave is of great importance, and will shape the future of our people in a way that cannot be overstated. Everyone will be heard, although the final decision lies with the High King and High Queen of our fair land. For those of you who’ve come because you were summoned, but do not fully understand what is to be discussed, I ask you to be patient, and listen. Master Davies?” Arden beckoned Walther. “Please come, and explain.”

“Yes, Your Highness.” Walther rose, knees only knocking a little, and stepped onto the stage. There was a small “X” on the far right corner, marking the place where guest speakers should go for their presentations. He took his position, took a deep breath, and began telling the room how he’d been able to alchemically create a cure for elf-shot.

I knew this story—I’d been there when it was unfolding—and so I took the opportunity to look around the gallery, trying to size up the participants in this little production. Some of them were familiar to me, Sylvester and Li Qin and Dianda and the rest. Most were strangers, which made it hard for me to judge how opinions were going to go. Sylvester and Luna would want the cure distributed freely: they’d be thinking of their daughter, asleep on her bier of roses, who could wake up so much sooner than a century from now if she had the opportunity. Li Qin would probably also support the cure. She had no one under elf-shot—the people who’d served under her wife, January O’Leary, had been murdered, not put to sleep—but she knew what it was like to lose someone she cared about. Dianda, I didn’t know which way she’d go. The rest of our guests from the Divided Courts . . . I didn’t know which way they’d go, either.

Golden Shore was a mostly changeling Kingdom. Theron and Chrysanthe would probably be in favor. Highmountain was a very traditional Kingdom. Verona and Kabos could go either way, but would most likely support whatever gave the purebloods the most power. And so it went, the math of control, down through all the gathered monarchs, nobles, and silent observers.

The door at the back of the room opened and someone slipped through, taking a seat at the back. Elizabeth Ryan, the head of our local Selkie colony. She sat straight and uncomfortable, holding her purse in her lap like she was afraid it would be stolen. It wasn’t that odd to see her here. If anything, it was odd that she hadn’t arrived earlier. Elf-shot was fatal to Selkies, because of the human bodies under their fae-touched skins. If anyone would want the stuff gone, it was her.

Walther finished explaining the alchemical processes and principles behind his cure. Reaching up to remove his glasses, he tucked them into his pocket, and asked, “Are there any questions?”

King Antonio of Angels stood before anyone else could react, his Merry Dancers spinning a pirouette in the air around his head. “How are we to trust that this cure works, and is not simply a bid by the alliance of Mists and Silences to poison our people?” He asked the question mildly enough that it didn’t sound like an accusation, which was a neat trick. He must have spent a lot of time practicing.

“We know it works because it’s been used, while we were trying to retake my family’s throne and didn’t have time to request permission from the High King.” Walther frowned. “I was worried about that, but he forgave us for our indiscretion, once we explained the situation, and he realized that there’d been some major injustices perpetrated against our people.”

High Queen Maida cleared her throat. “Please, Master Davies, stay on the path of alchemy, and not the path of politics. Your aunt’s claim to the throne of Silences is not under debate here, and does not need to be defended.”

“My apologies,” said Walther. He paused for a moment, clearly buying time, before returning his attention to King Antonio. “We know it works because those who’ve used it have been moving amongst us for months now, with no ill-effects.”

“You say this, counting the Queen and King of Silences among their number, but—and forgive me for my indelicacy—it is well understood that the Tylwyth Teg are sensitive to alchemical workings. What works for one of that bloodline will not necessarily work for another, and you do not produce another,” said King Antonio. “Are you hiding something?”

“This is making my head hurt,” I muttered.

Walther kept his temper remarkably well. “Your Highness, I am an alchemist in a room filled with royalty,” he said. “It would not be in my best interests to hide anything right now. Not if I want to be allowed to leave here a free man.”

On the stage, Arden glanced at me. That was all: just a glance, a flicker of her eyes. I knew what it meant. It took everything I had to suppress my sigh as I stood, turned to the High King, and asked, “May I have permission to join Master Davies?”

“Of course you may,” said High King Aethlin.

All eyes were on me as I climbed the steps. Some were sympathetic, understanding, even concerned. More were confused verging into hostile. Why was I, a changeling, allowed to speak, much less stand upon a stage that contained the great powers of our region?

Tybalt’s eyes were cool and unreadable, as they’d been in the days and years before the first time he told me that he loved me. I tried not to let myself be hurt by that as I took up my position next to Walther.

“My name is October Daye, Knight of Lost Words, sworn in service to Duke Sylvester Torquill of Shadowed Hills, hero of the realm. I’m also a changeling,” I said. My voice didn’t shake. I was pretty proud of that. “While in Silences, I was elf-shot, and fell into an enchanted sleep. Because elf-shot is fatal to those of us with mortal blood, my body began to die. The alchemical tincture Walther Davies created was able to both wake me and cleanse the elf-shot from my system sufficiently that I did not, in fact, pass away.”

King Antonio switched his attention to me. I read no malice in his expression. Then again, he was a King. That meant he was probably a pretty good liar, even for one of the fae. “Why should we believe this claim?”

Sylvester moved like he was going to stand. I made a quick motion with my hand, hoping he’d understand that I was waving him off. Luna gave me a hard look as he settled back in his seat. I did my best to ignore them both, focusing instead on the greater threat: King Antonio, who didn’t know me and had no reason to trust me. I had too many allies who didn’t let my human blood call my words into question. I needed to remember that it didn’t work that way for everyone in Faerie.

“The High King is Daoine Sidhe,” I said. “I’m willing to let him ride my blood, if that will reassure you.”

“Better plan: I can do it,” said the Luidaeg. She rose. King Antonio shrank back. I might be used to people trusting me, but I was also used to dealing with the Firstborn. That, too, was not common in Faerie.

Smirking, the Luidaeg climbed the stairs and came to stand beside me on the stage. Walther—who, like most people, viewed avoiding the Firstborn as a good, reliable life choice that was unlikely to get him brutally murdered—shifted to the side, cheeks coloring red even as the rest of his face got paler. Poor guy really hadn’t signed up for this when he’d agreed to help me out.

“Does anyone here question my ability to read the blood of a changeling, or the integrity of my word?” the Luidaeg asked, in a voice as mild as milk and laced with sugary sweetness. She was at her most dangerous when she was talking like that, if only because there was the potential that someone might forget. Forget that she was the oldest of us, the most dangerous of us; the one who could slaughter everyone around her without any real effort.

No one spoke.

“That’s good. Especially since I can only tell the truth, so anyone who calls me a liar is out to lose a head.” She turned to High King Aethlin. “I grant you no power over me, child of a child thrice-removed of my father, but I grant that you have power over this gathering. If I sample her blood and tell you its secrets, will that be acceptable to you, and hence, to your vassals?”

Sometimes pureblood protocol makes me want to scream and tear my hair out. I forced myself to remain silent and still, waiting for the High King’s verdict.

“It will, but only if Sir Daye consents,” said the High King. “I will not command any among my subjects to tithe their blood or body to the sea witch without their understanding what it means for them.”

“Oh, Toby’s given me her blood before, haven’t you, Toby?” The Luidaeg smiled at me. Her teeth, which had seemed so blunt and human only a few moments before, were sharp as knives. That sort of swift, mercurial change was almost reassuring, coming from her. If she was changing, she was still herself. No masks. No lies. Just the ever-shifting, ever-faithless sea given demihuman form and a siren’s subtle grace.

“Not normally for something like this,” I said. I looked past her to the High King and nodded. “I consent. There’s no point in having this meeting if we can’t all agree that the cure works.”

“We could always shoot someone and see if they can be awakened,” said Antonio. There was an edge to his voice that hadn’t been there before. Apparently, he didn’t like being interrupted by a changeling and one of the Firstborn—someone below him and someone so far above him that he might as well have been mortal himself. I could see where that might be jarring, but I didn’t feel too bad for him. This was all part of the business of being King.

Tybalt still wasn’t saying or doing anything. That stung. Every other time I’d been questioned in his presence, he’d been there to rise and take my side. Even before we’d been officially together, he’d been willing to stand up for me before the pretender Queen. Now he was silent, not speaking, not raising a hand to challenge a man who’d challenged my honor. I’d always known he was a King, and that sometimes he’d need to do things that put his people ahead of me. But this . . . this sort of silence stung, even if it was necessary. I’d never realized how much silence could hurt.

“No, we can’t,” I said flatly, focusing on Antonio and trying not to let my frustration with Tybalt color my tone. “Elf-shot is a poison. Maybe it’s one we can counter now, if this conclave finds in favor of distributing the cure, but it’s still poisonous, and it still hurts. No one needs to suffer that when we have another way.”

Antonio raised both eyebrows. “I’m sorry, little miss. I was unaware that you were a queen in your own right. Tell me, what demesne do you claim, that you can contradict my words so forcefully, and with so little hesitation? What fiefdom is yours by blood, or conquest, or appointment?”

Dianda made a gagging motion. Oddly, that helped. It broke the back of my anger, allowing me to take a deep breath and look to Arden for the support Tybalt couldn’t give me.

“She is no queen, as well you know, but she speaks from a position of authority that none of us have,” said Arden coolly. “If you like, we can elf-shoot you, and awaken you, and let you testify as to your experience. In fact, I would have to insist. Sir Daye is sworn to one of my most trusted vassals, and by questioning her, you question me. The only way to avoid that becoming dire insult would be to allow honor to cause you to feel the poison for yourself.”

King Antonio stood perfectly still for a moment, weighing his options. Finally, he said, “I yield to the sea witch and her interpretation of the changeling’s blood,” and sat.

“Now that that’s over,” said the Luidaeg. She turned back to me, holding out her hand. “Arm.”

I grimaced as I laid my forearm across her palm. “Please try not to open an artery. I don’t want to have this whole stage bathed in blood.”

“You have so little faith in me,” she said, and bent forward, and bit down.

Her teeth were as sharp as they’d appeared. That didn’t make it hurt any less. The smell of my blood filled the air, mixing with the bitter-cold sea-smell of her magic, which stung like salt when it touched my skin. She drank deeply, and the feel of her pulling the blood from my veins was disorienting enough to make me close my eyes for a moment, centering myself.

I opened them when she pulled away. The wound in my forearm was already healing, leaving only a smear of blood and saliva behind. I wiped it away with my free hand, then scrubbed my palm against the leg of my pants.

The Luidaeg, eyes now black from side to side like the depths of an angry sea, turned to the gallery, and said, “I, the Luidaeg, sea witch and undying daughter of Maeve, tell you that the woman beside me, Sir October Christine Daye of Shadowed Hills, was elf-shot twice, and lived each time through the intervention of outside forces. The first shot was delivered by an assassin’s bow, and was countered by the magic of my sister, who changed the blood in Sir Daye’s body such as to sunder her from her own death. The second shot was delivered by the hand of the deposed King Rhys of Silences, and was countered by a tincture brewed by Master Walther Davies, alchemist. In both cases, the elf-shot was true: her sleep, and death, should have followed. It did not. The cure works.”

“So it is said,” said High King Aethlin. “Let it be accepted within these chambers that the cure works.”

Some of the people in the gallery muttered, but no one objected. That was a relief.

“You may be excused, Sir Daye,” said the High King.

I turned to him, bowed, and walked back to my seat as quickly as I dared. The Luidaeg followed me, leaving Walther to face the ensuing inquisition alone.

It felt like everyone in the room had a question for him. What was in the tincture? How was it made? Could anyone make it, assuming it wasn’t banned as a result of this conclave? Was he holding anything back? Had there been earlier versions that hadn’t worked? How had he tested them? How had he been sure that using the cure wouldn’t kill us, and result in a violation of the Law? It went on and on, and frankly, I wasn’t listening. I was too busy sinking into my seat, rubbing the place on my arm where the ghosts of the Luidaeg’s teeth still lingered, continuing to try and get a feel for the room.

Most of these people had previously been only names on paper to me, if that. The monarchs of Golden Shore, for example. Their Kingdom is known for being a safe haven for changelings, as long as those changelings are willing to work. Everyone works in Golden Shore. It’s an agrarian community, responsible for providing most of the noble houses on the West Coast with fae produce and livestock. Yes, there are fae cows, called Crodh Sith by people who want to be pretentious about it, and their milk and butter are supposed to be some of the finest in this world or any other. Golden apples, silver grapes, sheep with fleece finer than silk . . . if you want any of those things, you get them from Golden Shore. Golden Hinds are rare, as they breed even more slowly than most fae and don’t like to live in human cities. Seeing a married couple was fascinating.

Both of them were frowning as Walther spoke, and their questions were sharp-edged, like they were trying to trip him up. I didn’t get the feeling they were on the side of distributing the cure. I just couldn’t figure out why.

King Antonio, on the other hand, was definitely opposed to distributing the cure, and I knew exactly why. Angels has a reputation as a place where you could do what you wanted without fear of noble intervention, because the nobility of Angels don’t care. As long as they can party the nights away, the riff-raff in the streets doesn’t matter to them. Elf-shot was the monarchy’s primary method of enforcing the few rules they did have. I’d always thought it was sort of like Shakespeare’s Verona: gleefully lawless, with brawls breaking out every time two warring factions tripped over each other in the grocery store. Take away elf-shot as a threat and a pacifying tool, and Antonio and his court might actually start needing to work.

Queen Siwan of Silences was obviously in favor of distributing the cure, for a lot of reasons. Walther was her nephew. Even if he was currently residing in and serving the Mists, having him be the one to discover a way to break one of the oldest enchantments in our world reflected well on his family and the Kingdom that they held. Aspiring alchemists from all over the world would want to go and train in Silences, the Kingdom that had created the finest alchemist of our age. Also, I was pretty sure the Yates family had already used the cure to wake everyone in their Kingdom, and that would be easier to explain if the cure didn’t wind up illegal.

It was hard to say which side of the argument Dianda came down on. She was glaring at the stage with such intensity that it was almost surprising when no one burst spontaneously into flames. Patrick looked thoughtful. Patrick usually looks thoughtful. Patrick is the leavening influence that keeps Dianda from killing us all because she’s bored, or hungry, or doesn’t like the way someone’s looking at her. I’m very fond of Patrick.

High Queen Maida leaned over and murmured something to her husband who, in turn, leaned over and murmured something to Arden. She nodded, rising gracefully from her throne and clasping her hands together as a signal for silence. The room quieted.

“We’re agreed, then, that this is no small topic: whatever we decide will change the course of Faerie for however long remains before Oberon returns to us. In light of this, no decisions will be made rashly, or without consideration of all perspectives. Many of you have traveled far to be here. The hospitality of my home is open to you for the duration of this conclave, plus the traditional three days, should you wish to remain and enjoy the courtesies of my Kingdom when our business here is done. For now, we’ll stop to enjoy a meal, and to consider what we have heard so far. The conclave will resume after we have all eaten.”

She waited for Siwan to rise and join her before the pair turned and walked off the stage, followed by the High King and High Queen. I stayed where I was. If I could avoid being trampled by royalty, that would be swell.

I wasn’t the only one: basically everyone in my row was holding still, as if that would somehow keep them from being noticed by the outgoing kings and queens. Having the Luidaeg with us probably helped a lot, since no one wanted to poke the Firstborn if they could help it.

Sylvester cast a look in our direction as he walked up the aisle, like he wanted to come over and speak to me, but didn’t quite have the nerve. I turned my face to the side, not waving him over, and eventually, he just left.

Tybalt didn’t look at us at all.

Politics were politics, and I could worry about them later. For now, I had bigger things to focus on. Twisting in my seat, I leaned forward until I could see Karen. “Honey, are you okay?”

Her face crumpled, like she’d been holding herself together by the thinnest of lines. “Auntie Birdie!” she wailed, flinging herself across Quentin to get to me. She wound up mostly in my lap, arms around my neck, legs slung over his lap. Quentin looked nonplussed but didn’t say anything. He knew she wasn’t trying to invade his personal space, no matter how much she was succeeding.

“Oh, honey.” I put my arms around her and held her as tightly as I could, feeling the warm wetness of her tears against my neck. She was crying too hard to talk. I stroked her back with one hand, turning to look at the Luidaeg.

“Karen appeared on my doorstep at sundown,” she said. “I was already planning to come to this shit-storm circus, so she’s lucky she didn’t miss me. Said my scumbag sister had appeared in her dreams and threatened her family if she didn’t come and represent her interests.”

There was a lot of “she” and “her” in that sentence, but I followed it well enough, especially because I knew where the Luidaeg’s restrictions were. She couldn’t say Eira’s name, or any of her aliases. For her, Evening Winterrose was a pronoun and a problem, a looming disaster that had already killed her once and wouldn’t hesitate to do it again.

I also knew that whatever Evening had said to threaten Karen, she could follow through on those threats. We’d learned that Karen was an oneiromancer after she was taken captive by Blind Michael, who had been a Firstborn son of Oberon and Maeve, and hence the Luidaeg’s younger brother. He’d stolen Karen while she was sleeping, leaving her body behind while he prisoned her dreaming form in a glass ball. If one of the Firstborn could hurt her that way, I had no doubt that another Firstborn—especially one as powerful as Evening—could do the same.

“You know, I was worried when we started working on this cure,” I said bitterly. “I thought ‘well, hell, we just got Evening out of the way for a hundred years, and now we have to worry about somebody waking her up like the villain from a bad slasher movie.’ Only now even elf-shot can’t keep her from hurting my family. Why didn’t we kill her, again?”

“Because if you were in violation of Oberon’s Law, you’d be imprisoned or executed, and either way, you wouldn’t be able to finish my training,” said Quentin. His voice shook. He was as unhappy as I was about this; he just didn’t know what to do about it. It didn’t help that Evening was his Firstborn. Everything he was told him he should obey and honor her, not side against her. Carefully, he reached over and patted Karen’s shoulder. “Hey. It’ll be okay. Toby’s not going to let her hurt you.”

Sometimes I was so proud of that kid that it hurt. I stroked Karen’s hair with one hand, and asked, “Anybody got any bright ideas about how to keep Evening from using Karen as her catspaw forever once she gets woken up?”

“What?” Karen pulled back, letting me see her tear-streaked face. Her eyes were wide, glossy, and filled with tears. “What do you mean?”

I frowned at her, confused. “I meant that after the cure is approved, and Evening is woken up, what’s going to make her leave you alone?”

“She didn’t send me here because she wants the cure to be used, Auntie Birdie,” said Karen. “She sent me here because she wants it to be buried.”

I stared at her. So did Quentin. The Luidaeg, who had presumably heard this before, sighed and pushed herself to her feet.

“Okay, kids,” she said. “Let’s go eat.”

Karen climbed out of my lap. Walther, Quentin, and I stood, and together, the five of us walked toward the door. When we were halfway there, Karen took my hand. I didn’t pull away.