Once Broken Faith (14 page)

“No, you stupid girl,” he said. “They
shifted
, as if my Merry Dancers had been moved. Which is quite impossible.”

But it wasn't impossible for something else to have moved. “I heard the sound twice when I rode your blood,” I said. “Once here, once in the hall. Does that match with what you remember?”

The night-haunt who had been King Antonio nodded.

“One last question, and then you can go,” I said. “Do you know anyone who might have wanted you dead?”

His laughter surprised me. “Oh, you simple changeling creature,” he said. “I was a king, and a good one. Everyone wanted me dead.”

Egil took his arm. “We must away,” he said. He snapped his wings open, launching himself upward, into the air. Antonio was pulled along, and other night-haunts moved to support him, holding him in the air until the instincts of his new body took hold, and his wings began to work. Silently, those of us who were still among the living watched the dead flying away, until only the night-haunt with Connor's face remained.

“October,” he said.

I turned to him. I didn't say anything. I didn't know what to say. I still felt guilty when I saw him, as if his death had been entirely my fault, and not the result of his own actions. I was grateful for those actions—I always would be—but I hadn't asked him to die for my daughter. He had chosen to do that entirely on his own.

“Egil won't thank you for stopping the goblin fruit. His memories of being Devin are too strong, and he blames you for letting the stuff into his streets in the first place, after he died. I've talked to the changelings who died because they got hooked, and they wanted me to tell you that they're grateful, and they don't share his anger. The flock is not your friend. The flock will never be your friend, not until you join us, and fly with us, and belong to us. But the flock isn't your enemy, either.” He paused. Then he smiled, that old, familiar smile, the one that used to greet me when I woke up. My heart clenched. I loved Tybalt more than I would have believed possible, but that didn't mean I didn't miss Connor. He'd been my friend before he was my lover. I don't think I'll ever get used to losing friends.

“I'll see you soon,” said the night-haunt with Connor's face, and launched himself into the air, and left me alone with the living.

W
HEN THE NIGHT-HAUNTS TAKE a body from the mortal world, they leave a mannequin behind, one that mimics the mortal disguise of the deceased. Those mannequins rot, bloat, and decay, just like a human corpse. There's no need for that sort of subterfuge in the Summerlands. All the night-haunts had left of King Antonio were a few scraps of clothing and the shattered husks of his Merry Dancers, which were already dissolving into sand.

“What would have happened if Toby hadn't found the body?” asked Quentin, after a long silence. “Would the night-haunts just have
come
, and not left anything to let us know that somebody was actually dead?”

“Historically, if there was no one to witness the feeding, they would leave dried leaves and rose petals, love-lies-bleeding and sprigs of marigold,” said the Luidaeg. “It's a very specific bouquet. Anyone who found it right after someone had gone missing would know what it meant. I'm surprised you don't.”

“We haven't reached ‘mysterious deaths' in my lessons,” said Quentin uncomfortably.

“Also, I didn't know the answer to that,” I said. “Mom never taught me. Neither did Etienne.”

“Deaths in Faerie are rare enough that they probably thought you'd never need to know.” The Luidaeg snorted. “They never did understand you very well.”

“I guess not.” I turned to Karen. “You okay?”

She was pale, even for her, but she wasn't shaking, and her eyes were clear. “I didn't know it was like that,” she said. “How long will that night-haunt look like him?”

“A year for every year he lived,” said the Luidaeg. “Anything more would be unfair; anything less would kill them all, and we'd be right back where we started. You'll have two lives, when your time comes. The one you lead among the living, and the one you lead among the dead.”

“Wow,” I said. “If that's meant to be reassuring, you need to redefine how you think about the word. Any ideas on that whole ‘I heard tearing metal and then the shadows moved' thing?”

“Not yet,” said the Luidaeg. She put a hand on Karen's shoulder. “You ready to go back to the conclave, kiddo?”

Karen looked startled. “What? Why would we go back? Isn't it over now?”

“If you think a murder is enough to disrupt a collection of kings and queens, it's a good thing you'll never be asked to be a part of the monarchy,” said the Luidaeg. “If anything, this is going to make them more determined to come to a consensus. Their honor has been threatened. How dare the world intrude?”

“Yes,” I said softly. “How dare it.”

We left the dissolving fragments of Merry Dancer where they were. I didn't have anything to carry them in, and I didn't know what the protocols were for handling something that was, in its way, evidence of the existence of Faerie. Maybe once they'd finished dissolving, the sand would be returned to Antonio's widow, or maybe it
would just be scattered to the wind. Either way, that was something to worry about later. Now, I had bigger problems.

I saw the Luidaeg palm one of the larger shards, slipping it into the endlessly cascading waves of her gown. I didn't say anything. If the sea witch had a use for a piece of Merry Dancer, I didn't want to know what it was, and I've learned to trust her over the years. I've also learned that sometimes, I have to be able to put my life in her hands—and that's usually easier for me when I have no idea what she's planning to do.

The hall outside the dining room seemed almost obscenely bright after spending so much time in darkness. Arden's staff had been through, lowering the lights and hanging wreaths of black roses and blood-orange poppies below the windows as a gesture of respect for the departed. The air smelled too sweet, like they were trying frantically to stave off any hints of death.

Quentin walked beside me, his shoulders squared, his chin lifted, and his eyes fixed on the door to the gallery like he was being led to his execution. I understood the feeling. Karen and the Luidaeg trailed behind us, and somehow it seemed less like we were being followed and more like we were their appointed heralds, leading the way and attracting any dangers onto ourselves. Which nicely summed up the relationship between the monarchs of Faerie and its heroes, all things considered.

Lowri and another guard stood to either side of the gallery door. She nodded when she saw us, acknowledging our presence, but she didn't say anything. She just stepped aside, and the doors swung open, allowing us to enter.

We were at the back of the gallery—naturally—forcing us to walk down the long aisle past the gathered nobles and vassals who'd come to participate. The room went silent as we moved toward our seats. Walther was already there, looking about as uncomfortable as I felt.

No one spoke until Quentin, Karen, and the Luidaeg were settled. I was sinking into my own seat when High King Sollys said, “Sir Daye, if you would come before us.”

Well, crap. “Of course, Your Highness,” I said, and straightened, heading for the stage.

I couldn't resist glancing at the audience as I climbed the stairs. Tybalt was back in his seat, and while his lips were pressed into a neutral expression, I could read the worry in his eyes. That made me feel better. At least I wasn't the only one who was miserable and scared. Maybe that was cruel of me. Honestly, it didn't change anything, and so I didn't feel the need to care.

“If you would tell the conclave what you have learned, we would be most grateful,” said High King Sollys. His voice was level. If he was upset about the death of one of his vassals, he wasn't letting it show. I couldn't decide whether that was impressive or chilling.

And it wasn't like it mattered. “Of course, Your Highness,” I said. Stopping at my mark, I turned to face the audience. “You have been informed that King Antonio Robertson of Angels has stopped his dancing. I remained behind, along with the Luidaeg, better known to many as the sea witch, to ride his blood and determine what had happened.”

“Why do we trust you?” demanded a voice from the back of the gallery. It was unfamiliar. I squinted in its direction.

“Well, for one thing, you can see my face,” I said. “Who are you?”

“Duke Michel of Starfall,” said the voice. Its owner stood, revealing himself as a slim, green-haired Daoine Sidhe whose tabard appeared to have been made by stitching together hundreds of tiny malachite disks. Pureblood women don't have a monopoly on clothes made of ridiculous materials.

I swallowed several comments to exactly that effect. Instead, I said, as calmly as I could, “I was under the
supervision of the Luidaeg at all times. If you wish to challenge my honor, I'll be happy to meet with you and discuss whether or not I should be insulted. If you wish to challenge
her
honor, that's between the two of you. But I don't recommend it.”

Duke Michel opened his mouth to answer. Then he stopped, eyes going to a point off to the side, and paled. I had no doubt that the Luidaeg was doing something horrible with her teeth. She was fond of that sort of thing.

“I appreciate the clarification,” he said, and sat. The other nobles from Starfall closed around him, rustling and murmuring behind their hands.

I glanced to Arden. She nodded marginally. I turned back to the gallery.

“I rode King Robinson's blood, not because I'm a changeling, but because I'm a knight errant and hero of the realm; it's my duty to investigate such matters. I was unable to identify his killer. He never saw them clearly.” There were other issues—the shadows jumping, that torn metal sound—but I didn't want to reveal them like this. I would chase them down. I would find my answers. I would do it without a dozen nobles tripping over themselves trying to beat me to the prize, to prove they were better than the changeling who thought she could act like a real girl. “Because his body was still present, we decided to wait for the night-haunts to arrive.”

A murmur ran through the crowd, disbelieving, even angry. No one saw the night-haunts. No one questioned them. That's what I'd thought, once upon a time, before I realized that sometimes doing what no one does is the right way to get what I needed. My whole career has been based around doing what no one does.

The Luidaeg stood, the hem of her gown splashing against the floor as she turned to glare at the room. The gallery went quiet again.

“Once the night-haunts arrived, I questioned them
about King Robinson's death,” I said. “They couldn't give me any useful information, although I was able to determine, between the blood and the night-haunts, that King Robinson has an heir who'll need to be informed of his father's death, and protected until he can assume the throne.”

“When this conclave is over, I will travel with you to Angels to confirm this,” said High King Sollys.

“Great,” I said, feeling briefly light-headed with relief. “I'll take the kids to Disneyland. Well. Then. Right now, I'm going to return to the dining hall, and—”

“No,” said High Queen Sollys.

I blinked. “I'm sorry?”

“We need you here,” she said. “You were present for the creation of this ‘cure,' and your testimony may be required.”

Yelling at Arden got me in trouble. Yelling at Maida would probably get me arrested. I swallowed my anger, forcing my voice to stay steady as I said, “I'm not asking you to delay or cancel the remainder of this conclave. But a man is dead, and I need to find out who killed him. I can't do that sitting here.”

“We have faith in you,” said High King Sollys. “You'll remain with the conclave until we stop for the day.”

Of course I would. Of course the purebloods, angry at the taint of death and consumed by their own pride, would refuse to let me leave. Of course they'd risk more lives to show they weren't afraid. Of course. Why would I have thought, even for a second, that this would go any differently? Keeping my voice tightly controlled, I asked the only question I had left: “May I sit?”

“You may,” said the High King.

I bowed, angling my body so that the gesture was directed half to the figures on the stage, half to the gallery, and fled to my seat. The Luidaeg's eyes had gone black from side to side, and it was like looking at the deepest part of an unforgiving sea. Her lips were closed, but they
seemed malformed somehow, like she was holding back too many teeth. Then she smiled at me, the color bleeding back into her eyes and the flesh of her mouth smoothing into something that looked almost human, if you didn't know better.

“Good job not fucking it up too badly,” she whispered.

I didn't say anything, although I rolled my eyes toward the ceiling to make sure she knew how frustrated I was. We had a dead man. We might be sharing this room with a killer. And now I got to sit and listen as a bunch of nobles argued about whether or not we could counteract a spell that had been designed by a woman who enjoyed watching changelings die. This wasn't just foolishness. This was willful pigheadedness, and I didn't want any part of it.

“Who will speak?” asked Arden.

Theron and Chrysanthe, the monarchs of Golden Shores, stood. “We will speak,” they said, in eerie, practiced unison. I struggled not to grimace. A glance to the side showed that Quentin was doing the same. Creepy monarchs doing their best impression of the twins from
The Shining
weren't exactly a favorite of either of us.

“Then speak,” said Arden. She managed to make it sound like she was conveying a great and precious favor upon them. I wondered if she knew how much of a queen she was becoming. Maybe more importantly, I wondered if she would forgive me when she realized.

Chrysanthe and Theron exchanged a look, silent but laden with meaning. Chrysanthe was the one who took a quarter-step forward, enough to make it clear that she'd speak for both of them. “I was born daughter of the King and Queen upon the Golden Shore, and I married for love before I was tasked with the throne. When my time to ascend came, I bore my crown as an equal to my husband's, that we might balance each other in our regency.”

Several other monarchs nodded. This was apparently important. It was uncommon, I knew that much: most demesnes were more like Shadowed Hills, where Sylvester and Luna were both in charge, but Sylvester was generally accepted as
more
in charge than she was, since he would keep his title if they got divorced. The arrangement Theron and Chrysanthe had meant even if they separated, took new lovers, and remarried, they'd still be King and Queen together, and would have to agree on their heir. It was a complicated way to do things, and it either signaled true love or a genuine desire for balance. Or the sort of delusion that
looks
like true love.

“Your Highnesses, Golden Shore is a rarity among the Westlands: we are a changeling Kingdom. Those purebloods who choose to remain among our population know well that they are considered no better than their changeling cousins. No worse, either. Equality has long been our goal, and we have, for the most part, achieved it.”