One Salt Sea: An October Daye Novel (5 page)

“Is it so difficult to believe? The land poisons their waters and kills their people. The Undersea has never dealt with humans when they didn’t want to, and they don’t understand why the land fae have let the humans get so out of control. They’re in a state of mild annoyance about ninety percent of the time. Not actively pissed—hence the lack of annual invasion—but annoyed.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“In small words? Somebody’s been harassing the Duchess of Saltmist and her family. You know Saltmist?”

“That’s Connor’s home Duchy.” He technically hails from the Selkie fiefdom of Roan Rathad in Half Moon Bay, but Roan Rathad answers to Saltmist, which stretches the length of the Northern California shoreline. It was Saltmist that decided he was expendable enough to be sold into a diplomatic marriage with Rayseline Torquill. I’d never met its Duchess. I couldn’t say I had much respect for her decision-making skills.

“It’s a coastal fiefdom, with holdings in both land and sea, although it’s primarily aquatic,” said the Luidaeg, in a calm, “you should already know this” tone. “Duchess Lorden has been regent there for the last two hundred years.”

“Merrow?” I guessed. Merrow are to the sea as Daoine Sidhe are to the land, only without the blood magic, and with a tendency to summon storms when annoyed. Oh, and fins, although they can have legs when they want to. Little Mermaid, eat your heart out.

“Yes.” The Luidaeg sipped her coffee. “She was a contemporary of King Gilad’s. He worked to maintain ties with the Undersea. The current Queen . . . doesn’t.”

I was starting to feel like I’d missed a whole series of memos. “King Gilad had open dealings with the Undersea?”

“Things were very different in this Kingdom before the 1906 quake.” Her expression turned distant. She set her coffee cup gingerly down. “The Queen of the Mists hasn’t cared to stay in Saltmist’s good graces. I doubt she believes they matter.”

“She has Sea Wight blood. Didn’t her parents teach her where she came from?”

The Luidaeg paused, looking at me levelly. Then she continued like I hadn’t spoken: “Dianda Lorden has a soft spot for land fae. Her husband’s Daoine Sidhe. He was a landless Baron before he ran off to play Ducal consort.”

“So how does he not drown?” I was interested despite my innate dislike of water. I’m pretty sure Daoine Sidhe aren’t aquatic. Someone would have told me.

“He’s married to a Merrow. They’ve had plenty of time to work something out. Sadly, there’s been some bad blood over the union, and the Lordens have been forced to cut off the majority of their relations with the land Courts.”

“Why?”

“Some people are more politically aware than kelp, Toby. Please note that I’m not including you in their number.” She sighed. “Most purebloods don’t like mixed marriages, and they especially dislike marriages that cross the realms. So when a land noble marries an Undersea Duchess . . .”

“But the Queen’s mixed, isn’t she? And my friend Mitch is part Nixie.”

“One, we don’t point fingers at kings or queens. Everyone knows the Queen of the Mists has sea-dweller blood, but nobody’s going to be gauche enough to point it out. Two, your friend is a changeling. He’s not in line for any thrones, and commoners aren’t as dangerous as legitimate heirs to noble titles. Three . . .” She hesitated, looking briefly uncertain. That was scarier than anything she could have said.

“Luidaeg?”

The sound of her name seemed to snap her out of it. She shook her head, repeating, “Three. Mixed blood can be unstable, depending on how distant the mix is. If two of Daddy’s descendants hook up, it doesn’t really matter what bloodline they’re from. If one of them decides to get it on with one of Mom’s descendants, well. There’s the potential for a lot of crazy.”

“Like changeling madness?”

“Exactly like changeling madness. We just don’t see as much of it in the mixed-bloods, because most of them either learn to hide it or get killed off. Some combinations are stable. Others, not so much. Most people aren’t happy when the nobility decides to risk it.”

“Right,” I said, feeling slightly numb as I reviewed all the mixed-bloods I could think of. Sylvester’s niece, January O’Leary, had a little bit of Tylwyth Teg blood and had been a little bit crazy. Devin was a changeling, but he was also a mixed-blood. And then there was Oleander, and Rayseline . . . “If Dianda and Patrick got married a hundred years ago, why is it a big deal now?”

“Someone’s been threatening to kill their children.”

I nearly dropped my coffee. “What?” The claim was so outrageous that I had trouble giving it credit, but the Luidaeg had never lied to me. She’s alien even among the fae, and too old to think in a way anyone less than a thousand really understands, but she wasn’t a liar.

Children are precious in Faerie, regardless of their heritage, and we don’t have enough of them to go around making threats. Blind Michael had been protected by the fact that he was Firstborn and scarier than anyone wanted to deal with. Even that wouldn’t have saved him if he’d taken his tithes more often. Offering to kill a noble’s kids is a good way to find out how many armed guards that noble can command—and how many soldiers their friends have.

“Whoever it is claims to have the Queen’s sanction. I’ve been trying to keep the Lordens from doing anything stupid, but their sons vanished this morning. Dianda and Patrick are scared. Frightened people—frightened
parents
—can do some incredibly destructive things.” She pulled a slate-colored abalone shell the size of a silver dollar out of the empty air, dropping it on the table between us. “Carry this; if I need you, you’ll know. The wards on my home are set to allow you. Come if you need me. I’ll be there.”

I’d been so focused on what she was saying that I’d managed to forget why she was saying it. She was calling in my debts. “What do I need to do?” I picked up the shell. It was cold to the touch.

“You need to help me stop this war.” She stood.

“Luidaeg, what do you expect me to
do
? It’s not like I have any experience in war prevention. Why me?”

“Who else would it be? And all I expect you to do is the best you can. That’s all I ever wanted from your mother, and all I’ve ever asked of you. There’s a gathering tomorrow night at the Queen’s Court. The Lordens are coming to demand their children back; it’s probably going to be their last attempt to prevent the war. The Queen is sending someone to insist you attend as the representative of Goldengreen. Dress nicely. Go armed.”

“Luidaeg—”

“People will die if we don’t stop this. You could be one of them. So could I. We still have to do what we can.” She turned and walked out of the kitchen. I stood, shoving the shell into my pocket, and followed her.

Cagney and Lacey were sitting in front of the door, ears flat and tails lashing. The Luidaeg stopped, looking down at them. “Tell your King he can’t save her this time. My claim comes first, however far that means she has to go.”

“What are you talking about?”

“It doesn’t matter. They know what I mean.” She looked over her shoulder at me as she opened the door and stepped outside. “Be careful. Keep your eyes open. We don’t have time to screw around.”

“What are you—”

“Be careful,” she repeated, and closed the door.

I stared at the door for a moment, and then ran after her, wrenching it open. “Will you stop being obscure for ten seconds and explain yourself?” I demanded.

Dugan’s hand had been raised to knock. He lowered it. “Er,” he said.

I sagged, letting go of the doorknob. “Oh,” I said. “It’s you.”

Dugan Harrow worked for the Queen of the Mists. He was an untitled courtier from Deep Mists, and exactly the sort of prejudiced, arrogant bastard our system of nobility tends to encourage. The last time we “talked,” he was taking a really irritating amount of glee in carting me off to be executed.

We don’t get along.

Shaken by my distinctly nonstandard greeting, Dugan cleared his throat and asked, “May I come in?”

I gave him a weary look. “What time should I be there? Am I supposed to bring an escort?”

“I, uh . . . seven-thirty. And yes. It’s a formal event, and an escort is recommended.” Sounding unhappy, he added, “I was told to volunteer if—”

“That won’t be necessary.” I closed the door in his face, snapping the deadbolt into place with a decisive “click.” It was almost dawn; Connor might still be up if I called him soon. That would take care of the escort. As for the rest of it. . .

Missing children. The Luidaeg calling in my debts. Sometimes I wonder why I ever bother thinking life could be simple. That only happens in fairy tales.

T
HE PHONE RANG AS I WAS REACHING FOR IT. I grimaced and picked up, mentally making excuses for why I had to hang up immediately. “Hello?”

“Oh, good. You’re still up.”

All the tension went out of my shoulders. I slumped against the hallway wall, an involuntary smile tugging at my lips. “Connor, hey. I was just about to call you.”

“Then it’s a good thing I’m still up, too.” Connor’s laugh was slightly distracted, like his attention was being pulled in eight directions at once. “Can I see you?”

“That’s why I was calling. Connor—”

“Tell me about it when I get there. I’m right down the street.” He hung up before I could object. Not that I’d intended to; I needed a date to the Queen’s Court, and more than that, I needed a friend. I needed Connor.

Connor O’Dell and I started “dating” when I was a teenager. We broke up because his family said he couldn’t waste his time with a changeling, but we never got over each other, not even when I hooked up with a human man and he wound up in a diplomatic marriage to a crazy woman. I don’t think it surprised anyone when Connor celebrated his annulment by asking me to join him for breakfast. I know it didn’t surprise either of us when I said “yes.”

Breakfast started at sunset—a perfectly reasonable hour, since fae are primarily nocturnal—and lasted until the restaurant closed. After that, we wandered around the city, holding hands, talking, and remembering why we’d been attracted to each other in the first place. He kissed me good morning on my front porch ten minutes before sunrise, and I pulled him inside so he could kiss me good night. To hell with pleasantries and waiting for people to forget the scandal of his wife’s desertion. We’d waited years, and I wasn’t waiting anymore. Maybe it was a bad idea, but, by Maeve, I’d earned a bad idea or two. We both had.

I was heading back to the kitchen to get my coffee when there was a knock at the door. I glanced at the clock as I moved to answer it. “You weren’t kidding when you said you were right down the street. That took you what, three minutes?”

Connor smiled wanly. “I barely remembered to call first.”

“I would have been happy to see you either way. Come in.”

I gave him an assessing look as he stepped inside. Connor’s taste in clothes had always run to beachcomber casual, and tonight was no different; he was wearing jeans and a white T-shirt, and his feet were bare. The sealskin that kept him tied to his fae nature was tied around his waist with a complicated sailor’s knot. His dappled brown-and-gray hair was fluffed up in that barely-dry way that made me want to comb it down with my fingers until it was tame, or until he distracted me with some tangles of my own.

Connor caught my appraisal and shook his head. “I got a ride over from a Kelpie. It’s been a long night.”

If I tried to ride a Kelpie, I’d wind up shredded and devoured before I could blink. “I’m pretty sure this is the calm before the storm.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” said Connor. He put his hands on my shoulders, turning me to face him, and leaned in to kiss me deeply. His lips tasted like kelp and sweetened seawater.

Connor’s kisses had a way of making even the worst nights seem like they weren’t such a big deal. I melted against him, curling the fingers of one hand through his hair and hooking the fingers of my other hand under the knot on his sealskin belt, effectively pinning him in place. I don’t like the water, but where Connor was concerned, I was willing to make an exception. If he was the sea, I was more than happy to drown.

I made a dissatisfied whining sound as he broke contact enough to murmur, “You taste like coffee.” His hands had somehow found their way under my shirt, and were tracing delicate lines down my back.

“There’s a surprise.” I kissed him again before resting my forehead against his, leaving my hands tangled where they were. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“So am I.” His expression turned serious. “Salt and sand, Toby, I don’t know how to say this, but . . .”

My heart sank. “Saltmist is sending you away, aren’t they?”

“What?” He pulled away. Heart sinking further, I let him. “Why would you think that?”

I forced a wry smile, despite the ache in my chest. “You’re wet, and the Luidaeg was here just before you called. Is it really as bad as she thinks? Are you leaving?”