When Sorrows Come Read online

  DAW Books presents the finest in urban fantasy from Seanan McGuire:

  The October Daye Novels:

  ROSEMARY AND RUE

  A LOCAL HABITATION

  AN ARTIFICIAL NIGHT

  LATE ECLIPSES

  ONE SALT SEA

  ASHES OF HONOR

  CHIMES AT MIDNIGHT

  THE WINTER LONG

  A RED-ROSE CHAIN

  ONCE BROKEN FAITH

  THE BRIGHTEST FELL

  NIGHT AND SILENCE

  THE UNKINDEST TIDE

  A KILLING FROST

  WHEN SORROWS COME

  The InCryptid Novels:

  DISCOUNT ARMAGEDDON

  MIDNIGHT BLUE-LIGHT SPECIAL

  HALF-OFF RAGNAROK

  POCKET APOCALYPSE

  CHAOS CHOREOGRAPHY

  MAGIC FOR NOTHING

  TRICKS FOR FREE

  THAT AIN’T WITCHCRAFT

  IMAGINARY NUMBERS

  CALCULATED RISKS

  SPELUNKING THROUGH HELL*

  The Ghost Roads:

  SPARROW HILL ROAD

  THE GIRL IN THE GREEN SILK GOWN

  ANGEL OF THE OVERPASS

  *Coming soon from DAW Books

  Copyright © 2021 by Seanan McGuire.

  All Rights Reserved.

  Cover illustration by Chris McGrath

  Cover design by Adam Auerbach.

  Interior dingbats created by Tara O’Shea.

  Map by Priscilla Spencer.

  Adapted for ebook by Shayan Saalabi.

  Edited by Sheila E. Gilbert.

  DAW Book Collectors No. 1893.

  Published by DAW Books, Inc.

  1745 Broadway, New York, NY, 10019.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious.

  All resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental.

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  Ebook ISBN: 9780756412579

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  —MARCA REGISTRADA

  HECHO EN U.S.A.

  PRINTED IN THE U.S.A.

  pid_prh_5.8.0_c0_r0

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Also by Seanan McGuire

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  October Daye Pronunciation Guide

  Map of the Kingdom of the Westlands

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Bonus Novella: And With Reveling

  About the Author

  For Kayleigh. Took us long enough, but now we’re here.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I know I say something like this almost every time, but I honestly can’t believe we’re finally here. After book after book of delaying the event we all knew was coming, I finally reached the wedding. And it only took me fifteen books! That feels like it should be enough to get me some sort of award.

  Thank you all so much for still coming with me on these gloriously ridiculous adventures, as Toby demonstrates just how much trouble one protagonist can get into when given carte blanche to bleed all over everything. This is the second October Daye book to be composed and completed during a near-universal lockdown, and torturing her is much of what’s been keeping me sane. I couldn’t do that if you weren’t here with me, and I am genuinely grateful.

  My biggest thanks to everyone who’s been here to help me keep my sanity intact during these trying times, including my D&D group (We blend! We really do!), the Machete Squad, the entire team at DAW Books, and my agent, Diana Fox, who has gone above and beyond the call of duty in beating this pivotal volume of Toby’s adventures into shape. I couldn’t have done it without her.

  Thank you to my dearest, most darling and beloved Amy, who will be meeting me in the corn next October; to Vixy, who stands up against an onslaught of email with compassion and grace; to Crystal, who has been astonishingly graceful about her osmosis into our swarm of weirdoes; and to Dr. Gauley, for her incredible veterinary medical care. Thanks to everyone who has played Dungeons & Dragons with me during these days of awkward Zoom games and virtual dice, and to Chaz, whose well-timed assistance made my lifelong dream of owning my own Dance Dance Revolution machine come true. Thanks to Shawn and Jay and Tea, to Margaret and Mars and a whole list of people, all of whom I adore utterly.

  My editor, Sheila Gilbert, makes so many things possible, as does the patient work of Joshua Starr, who emails me to nag when I let things slip. Diana Fox has finally learned how to use Discord, while Chris McGrath’s covers just get better and better. All my cats are doing well: Elsie, Thomas, and Megara all thrive on my being home constantly, and spend most of their time glued to my side, when not socializing our newest addition, Verity. Finally, thank you to my pit crew: Christopher Mangum, Tara O’Shea, and Kate Secor.

  My soundtrack while writing When Sorrows Come consisted mostly of “Monument” by Keiino, the soundtrack to Eurovision Song Contest: the Story of Fire Saga, The Horror and the Wild by The Amazing Devil, The Light and The Dark by Delta Rae, endless live concert recordings of the Counting Crows, and the two new albums from Taylor Swift (I like evermore better than folklore, but both are lovely). Any errors in this book are entirely my own. The errors that aren’t here are the ones that all these people helped me fix.

  Now come with me. It’s time to attend a wedding, and hope that everything goes smoothly. . . .

  OCTOBER DAYE PRONUNCIATION GUIDE

  THROUGH WHEN SORROWS COME

  All pronunciations are given strictly phonetically. This only covers races explicitly named in the first fifteen books, omitting Undersea races not appearing or mentioned in the current volume.

  Adhene: aad-heene. Plural is “Adhene.”

  Aes Sidhe: eys shee. Plural is “Aes Sidhe.”

  Afanc: ah-fank. Plural is “Afanc.”

  Annwn: ah-noon. No plural exists.

  Arkan sonney: are-can saw-ney. Plural is “arkan sonney.”

  Bannick: ban-nick. Plural is “Bannicks.”

  Baobhan Sith: baa-vaan shee. Plural is “Baobhan Sith,” diminutive is “Baobhan.”

  Barghest: bar-guy-st. Plural is “Barghests.”

  Blodynbryd: blow-din-brid. Plural is “Blodynbryds.”

  Cait Sidhe: kay-th shee. Plural is “Cait Sidhe.”

  Candela: can-dee-la. Plural is “Candela.”

  Coblynau: cob-lee-now. Plural is “Coblynau.”

  Cu Sidhe: coo shee. Plural is “Cu Sidhe.”

  Daoine Sidhe: doon-ya s
hee. Plural is “Daoine Sidhe,” diminutive is “Daoine.”

  Djinn: jin. Plural is “Djinn.”

  Dóchas Sidhe: doe-sh-as shee. Plural is “Dóchas Sidhe.”

  Ellyllon: el-lee-lawn. Plural is “Ellyllons.”

  Folletti: foe-let-tea. Plural is “Folletti.”

  Gean-Cannah: gee-ann can-na. Plural is “Gean-Cannah.”

  Glastig: glass-tig. Plural is “Glastigs.”

  Gwragen: guh-war-a-gen. Plural is “Gwragen.”

  Hamadryad: ha-ma-dry-add. Plural is “Hamadryads.”

  Hippocampus: hip-po-cam-pus. Plural is “Hippocampi.”

  Kelpie: kel-pee. Plural is “Kelpies.”

  Kitsune: kit-soo-nay. Plural is “Kitsune.”

  Lamia: lay-me-a. Plural is “Lamia.”

  The Luidaeg: the lou-sha-k. No plural exists.

  Manticore: man-tee-core. Plural is “Manticores.”

  Naiad: nigh-add. Plural is “Naiads.”

  Nixie: nix-ee. Plural is “Nixen.”

  Peri: pear-ee. Plural is “Peri.”

  Piskie: piss-key. Plural is “Piskies.”

  Puca: puh-ca. Plural is “Pucas.”

  Roane: row-n. Plural is “Roane.”

  Satyr: say-tur. Plural is “Satyrs.”

  Selkie: sell-key. Plural is “Selkies.”

  Shyi Shuai: shh-yee shh-why. Plural is “Shyi Shuai.”

  Silene: sigh-lean. Plural is “Silene.”

  Tuatha de Dannan: tootha day danan. Plural is “Tuatha de Dannan,” diminutive is “Tuatha.”

  Tylwyth Teg: till-with teeg. Plural is “Tylwyth Teg,” diminutive is “Tylwyth.”

  Urisk: you-risk. Plural is “Urisk.”

  one

  April 11th, 2015

  When sorrows come, they come not single spies,

  But in battalions.

  —William Shakespeare, Hamlet.

  If six months ago, you’d told me I would be the one to bring Oberon, King of all Faerie, home from his long exile, I would have laughed in your face. If you’d gone on to tell me I was going to declare myself a Torquill in all but blood, formally emancipate myself from my mother’s line of descent, stand witness to a marriage which technically made Dianda Lorden my stepmother, and still be expected to spend time worrying about my wedding, I would have looked at you like you’d just grown a second head. Or possibly a third one.

  Then again, if you’d tried to warn me I was even going to need to be concerned about any of those things happening—up to and including the wedding—I would have looked at you the same way. My life does not lend itself well to prognostication.

  Thankfully for my ability to get out of bed in the evening, my sister-slash-Fetch, May, and my best friend, Stacy, figured out early on that I have slightly less than no idea what I’m doing when it comes to weddings. And because Stacy was the first person in my group of changeling hooligans to get married—only person so far, since Kerry prefers the “love ’em and leave ’em” model of relationship, and Julie’s most recent serious boyfriend died—she was more than happy to step in and take over. May hasn’t been married yet, although I expect her to propose to her live-in girlfriend, Jazz, as soon as I get my own marriage out of the way, but as a Fetch, her memory goes back much, much longer than a normal person’s, and she remembers having been married at least a dozen times, as both the bride and groom.

  Sometimes I think being May must be deeply confusing. And then I remember that being me is deeply confusing, and amend that to “being a person” is deeply confusing, and move on.

  Anyway, between them, May and Stacy had seized control of all but the smallest details of the ceremony and were happily adrift in a sea of complicated plans and traditions I neither understood nor actually cared to understand. As long as they were willing to work with Tybalt on the parts he had strong opinions about, and I wound up married at the end of this, I was content.

  All the parties involved seemed to find my inability to care about my own wedding somehow weird. I’d like to know when, precisely, I have done anything normally in my life. Most changelings can’t even manage to get knighted, thanks to pureblood prejudices against anyone with a drop of mortal blood in our veins. Me, I got knighted, got counted—there’s probably a better way of saying “was made a Countess and given a knowe of my own,” but I don’t know it—gave up the greater title in favor of returning to simple knighthood, became a Hero of the Realm, and somehow got engaged to a King of Cats while all that was going on. Weird is what we do around here. Weird is the only way we know how to live.

  My name is October Daye. I’m still a changeling, even if my mortality is thinner than it used to be. I’m one of only two Dóchas Sidhe in the entire world, descended from Amandine the Liar, Firstborn daughter of Oberon and Janet Carter, and I’m the legal daughter of Simon Torquill. Something else has changed in the past six months: during her divorce, at which she was very much not a willing participant, Mom tried to say Simon couldn’t leave her because Oberon was her father and she didn’t want him to go.

  Turns oxut the laws of fae divorce don’t care if one of the parties is Firstborn. They only care whether all the children of the parties involved are old enough to declare which bloodline they want to officially be a part of going forward. Since Simon was married to my mother when I was born, he’s considered my father in Faerie, even though my actual father was human, which meant I was able to declare myself a Torquill and sever myself from my mother’s family line forever. So now I’m a descendant of Oberon who’s legally considered a child of Titania, and if that’s not a headache happening in slow motion, I can’t tell you what is.

  Mom outing herself as a Firstborn has caused some changes in my life as well. She’d been passing herself off as Daoine Sidhe for centuries, leaving me looking like an underpowered descendent of Titania and not a perfectly normal descendent of Oberon. Not all the changes brought on by Mom’s big announcement have been negative ones, although all of them have been annoying for one reason or another.

  Most of the Firstborn have long since removed themselves from casual fae society, although I interact with enough of my aunts on a regular basis that it doesn’t always feel that way to me. I don’t tend to interact with my uncles—the only one of them I’ve met, I murdered. So there’s that. Anyway, having access to one of the Firstborn is something most people, having never actually had it, would consider a good thing. So they want it. Because they’re not particularly smart. And now that they know Mom’s Firstborn, they assume they can somehow get it through me, even though I publicly repudiated her during the divorce.

  This has resulted in a lot of “problems” in need of “solving” that, when I arrive at the place the problem supposedly occupies, have magically gone away and been replaced by a formal dinner party which mysteriously has a chair open for my bedraggled changeling ass, and a polite question about whether I have my mother on speed dial.

  I have flipped off more nobles in the last six months than in my entire life previous, and that’s saying something. My sister—lucky, awful August—is living Undersea in the Duchy of Saltmist with her father and staying fortunately clear of all the crap. The Undersea has a more pragmatic view of the Firstborn and tends to fight them rather than flirt with them. Probably smarter, in the long run.

  One good thing about this development: I had been building a bit of a reputation as a king-breaker, due to a couple of acts of treason that really weren’t entirely my fault, and it’s unfair that people keep acting as if they were. A lot of borders had been closed to me unless Arden Windermere, the Queen in the Mists, got me special permission to travel. That includes the borders with our nearest neighbors: Silences, Painted Sands, and Golden Shore. I promised ages ago to take my squire to Disneyland, and not being allowed to drive through Golden Shore to get to Angels down in Southern California has made that a lot harder than it ne
eded to be.

  If monarchs are that much against being overthrown, they shouldn’t do things that would make it seem like a good idea. The rot at the root isn’t the revolution, it’s the ruler who refuses to resign. King-breaking is a symptom of sickness, not the cause.

  Anyway, it turns out that being able to travel freely because my mother’s a terrible person is helpful with the whole “getting married” thing, since the High King of the Westlands, Aethlin Sollys, has claimed the right to host the wedding party. The only problem was that he’s in Toronto, which is several Kingdoms away from California. Like, probably a dozen, even if we charted the route that crossed the fewest borders possible. Without Mom’s selfish revelation, getting to my own wedding might have been impossible unless the High King wanted to make a royal decree—something he tries to avoid as much as he can, not wanting to offend the kings and queens serving under him. Part of avoiding king-breakers is, again, being smart enough to not encourage their development.

  Luckily, with no one wanting to offend my mother by banning me from their demesne these days, I was finally in a position to draw a straight line across the continent, heedless of whose boundaries ended where. It was a heady change, and I would probably have been pushing Tybalt to let me upgrade our Disneyland trip to Disney World if I hadn’t been afraid he’d kill me for skipping out on having a proper honeymoon with just the two of us.

  Finding out that I was allowed to travel again was enough to kick wedding prep, which had been ongoing at a slow, almost stately pace for quite some time, into high gear. I think everyone who actually knew me was afraid I’d do something or overthrow someone and get myself put back on home kingdom arrest before the wedding could take place. I couldn’t entirely blame them for that. The more surprise dinner parties I get ambushed with, the more tempting it became to stab somebody who probably didn’t entirely deserve it but was getting on my nerves enough to make it feel like a good idea at the time.

  As I’ve already established, most steps in the planning process were taken out of my hands by the people smart enough to know that I cannot be trusted with an entire wedding, especially not my own. There were still a few decisions that needed my input, although none of them involved either the dress or the flowers, two things I was reasonably sure were usually the bride’s responsibility. Tybalt was handling both, and questions about what he intended to do had a tendency to either result in Shakespearean profanity or actual feline hissing. My fiancé is Cait Sidhe, but he’s normally better about keeping that from influencing his behavior.