The Unkindest Tide Page 12

  What we were going to do would bring the Roane back to Faerie’s oceans, and it was difficult not to see that as a good thing. Evening had wanted them destroyed, and Evening played a long, brutal game. Maybe she’d been trying to hurt her sister; maybe she’d been doing something more complicated. The Roane could see the future, after all. By arranging their destruction, she had closed the eyes of prophecy, and those eyes had been open for a reason.

  I don’t like prophecy. I don’t like anything that smacks too much of destiny, of needing to follow someone else’s template for what’s to come. But it turns out I like Evening even less.

  And despite all that . . . bringing back the Roane wasn’t going to bring back the Luidaeg’s children. These new Roane would still be the people they had been when Faerie was something they could set aside and walk away from. They would have their own families and their own histories, and they wouldn’t be hers, not really. Maybe in a generation or two, she could have a relationship with them. But it wasn’t going to happen right away, and it wasn’t going to happen on this floating duchy.

  Her elbow caught me in the ribs, knocking me out of my woolgathering. I turned to blink at her. She looked impassively back. Her eyes were green again, the color of sunlight in the shallows.

  “You were getting ready to feel sorry for me,” she said. “I could see it. Don’t. I made this bed for myself, a long damn time ago. If there’s anyone you should feel sorry for, it’s the second sons and the dutiful daughters who always thought their day would come, and are about to find out they’ll never have the waters after all. They’re who I’m worried about.”

  “Worried how?” I asked carefully.

  “I bet we find some bodies floating under the dock before sunrise, no matter what promises I make to my sister.” Her reply was calm, matter-of-fact: she’d had plenty of time to think about it. “The Law has always been a little shaky when it comes to the Selkies because a Selkie without a skin is just a human. The only way to know when one of them was killed, and whether they were wearing their skin when it happened, is to ask the night-haunts. Most reasonable people don’t consider that an option.”

  My ears and cheeks grew hot. “I don’t talk to the night-haunts that often.”

  “You talk to them often enough that one of them chose to give up her wings and move in with you; I’d call that pretty strong evidence that you have no sense of self-preservation.”

  I wrinkled my nose but said nothing.

  Faerie has wondered for millennia where Fetches come from, how they’re called, and why they’re so rare. They supposedly appear for heroes and great rulers, but I’ve been through the records at the Library of Stars, and it seems like Fetches just sort of happen, usually around people who bleed a lot—which, yes, is a group that’s going to include heroes and people who ride the assassination attempt express. Turns out, Fetches are what happens when a night-haunt ingests the blood of the living. Just a little gift from Oberon, who wanted them to stick to devouring the dead. When they feed from the living, they become perfect mirrors of those people, with their faces and their memories and a direct tie to their lives. The sort of person whose blood is likely to wind up in front of the night-haunts is also the sort of person who’s likely to die in the near future, and thus the connection between Fetches and death is reinforced, until seeing someone with your own face is almost as good as an executioner’s ax.

  May has been living with me for several years now. It turns out that while I may be pretty good at dying, I’m equally lousy at staying dead.

  “People will die tonight because of what we’ve come here to do,” said the Luidaeg implacably. “More people will die tomorrow, when the sun is in the sky and there aren’t any witnesses around. I wish I could say I had a plan in place to stop it, but honestly, I don’t think there is one. I think this is the sort of thing that has to play out in its own way, in its own time, because I waited too long for the bargain to come due.”

  “Why—” I began, and stopped when she fixed me with a cold eye.

  “A hope chest couldn’t do what I need you to do, and your mother wouldn’t do what I need you to do, and she made sure your sister wouldn’t do it either, because she didn’t like the idea of destiny,” she said. “She thought if she made the future unknowable, she could keep it from happening. She didn’t understand.”

  “I don’t understand,” I said.

  “I know, and this isn’t when I’m going to tell you, so I guess we’re both going to be unhappy for a while yet.”

  I opened my mouth to argue. A door slammed, and I turned instead, watching Marcia emerge into the courtyard. She grinned when she saw me, walking over with only a quick nod for the Luidaeg.

  “So how much are we going to pretend my liege isn’t sleeping in your squire’s room, and how much are we going to ask them to stay focused?” she asked.

  “Okay, first, I don’t need to know that, and second, they’re adults. They can do whatever they like, as long as it doesn’t interfere with the reason that we’re here.” I glanced at the Luidaeg. “It’s not going to interfere, is it?”

  “Sex complicates things, but no, it’s not going to interfere,” she said dryly. “The only people who need to be here are you, me, and the Selkies. Everyone else is a politically necessary extra, or an annoying additional complication.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “And where are you filing Tybalt?”

  “I think you know the answer to that.” She shook her head. “Amy’s on the loose, and Dad only knows what she thinks she’s doing when she messes with you. I know she was trying to protect you once, but these days it feels like she’s trying to punish you for refusing to be protected. I wouldn’t leave my lover behind where she could get to him if I were you. But that doesn’t make him necessary to what we’re going to do, or even relevant. When the time comes, you and I will stand alone.”

  I didn’t like the sound of that. Neither, from the expression on her face, did Marcia. “Count Lorden and I are here to act as go-betweens for the Kingdom of Leucothea and the Kingdom in the Mists, to be represented by Duchess Dianda Lorden and Prince Nolan Windermere. We’re not useless.”

  “Yes, you are,” said the Luidaeg, almost kindly. “This is between a Firstborn, me, and her descendant race, the Selkies. The laws of land and sea have no sway here. If I wanted to slaughter them all, you’d stand back and let me do it, because you’re smart enough to know not to get between me and something I intend to do. It wouldn’t end well for you.”

  Marcia’s cheeks burned red. “I don’t think we’d just stand by and watch you commit murder,” she said.

  “You would,” said the Luidaeg. She shrugged. “I don’t judge you for it. I’d think twice before I tangled with one of my siblings, and I’m strong enough to survive it. Which is, by the way, why we’re here, and not on neutral ground. By calling the Selkies to a place under Pete’s protection, I told them I wasn’t planning to slaughter them wholesale.” She turned to me. “And with that in mind, it’s time for us to go.”

  I blinked. “Go? We’re in the middle of the ocean.” I knew what she meant. I knew I was stalling. I just couldn’t seem to help myself.

  “I know. Isn’t it splendid? But yes, go. We need to speak to the Selkies, and let them know the Convocation is officially begun.”

  I blinked again, harder this time, like I could somehow force the situation to change. Into what, I wasn’t sure. Everything about this moment had been inevitable since before I’d even been born. If I was going to choose Faerie over the mortal world, then I was going to be the one standing here, waiting to bring the hammer down on an entire breed of fae.

  “Tybalt—” I began.

  The Luidaeg cut me off. “He’s a big boy, and he knew the deal when he decided to accompany you here. He can take care of himself for a little while. Now come on. The hour is late, and I’d like to have this part of things done befo
re dawn. Marcia, if you’d excuse us?”

  Her tone was primly, perfectly polite. Marcia nodded, still looking unsure.

  “I’ll let Tybalt know where you’ve gone,” she said. “In case he wants to follow.”

  “Tell him it wouldn’t be a good idea,” said the Luidaeg, before taking me by the shoulders and bodily turning me so she could look me frankly up and down. “Hmm. I know you hate it when other people change your clothing, but you have to realize that you can’t wear that.”

  I frowned, glancing downward at my jeans, sneakers, and as-yet-unstained gray tank top. I didn’t look like I was going to visit kings or queens, but I didn’t look like a slob, either. I was suddenly, fiercely glad I’d left my leather jacket in my temporary quarters, where I wouldn’t need to worry about getting it covered in saltwater. “Why not? This is the sort of thing I wore last time we went to see Liz.”

  “Yes, but that was just this side of a social visit, not a formal Convocation. Tonight, we observe the forms and formalities. Tonight, we make sure no one can say we cut corners or bent rules. Understand?”

  I didn’t. As the Luidaeg had so carefully pointed out, there was no one left, except for maybe Amphitrite, who could say a single word about what we were going to do. We were sailing into uncharted waters, far from the safe harbor of Faerie’s traditions and laws. Still, I nodded and said, “If you need me to be wearing something different, do it.”

  Her smile was a flash of sharp, gleaming teeth. “Remember,” she said, “you gave me permission.”

  She snapped her fingers, and my clothes writhed like a veil of live eels, active and intrusive and horrifyingly vital. I stood frozen, resisting the urge to start shoving the clothes away from my body. For one thing, it probably wouldn’t work. For another, I was reasonably sure that interfering with the Luidaeg’s spell would result in my getting bitten by what had previously been one of my favorite pairs of jeans.

  The eels stopped their writhing, settling back into frozen fabric. Like everything else about the Duchy of Ships, my new gown was archaic and piratical at the same time. The skirt was more properly plural, and had been slashed into strips starting at mid-thigh, both to offer me freedom of movement and to show the layer beneath it, which had been similarly slashed to show the layer beneath it, and so on. The top layer was a deep reddish-brown, like dried blood, and each successive layer grew brighter, from arterial red to rosy red to pink to a final layer as white as newly-fallen snow. My bodice was black, constricting enough to feel like corsetry, and based on the way it felt when I breathed, properly boned. There were no sleeves. Instead, a cascade of elbow-length ribbons in colors that matched my skirts tangled around my arms, creating an effect that was probably striking from the outside, but was annoying as hell against my skin. My sneakers were gone, replaced by snug calf-length boots with low heels.

  The Luidaeg looked critically at my hair. “It’ll do,” she said. “And before you freak out, your knife is still at your side. Just reach through the slit where you think a pocket ought to be.”

  Her clothing had changed along with mine, although her new dress was nowhere near so busy, or so modern. She wore a white samite shift in a distinctly medieval style, the fabric glimmering with hints of blue and green and pearl. Her arms were bare, her neck was exposed, and her hair was loose, cascading down her back in heavy curls. It looked like it had gotten longer when the tape disappeared. The Luidaeg is a protean creature. Just because she usually keeps her physical form within a certain set of constraints, that doesn’t make her any less of a shapeshifter.

  I’m not sure I’ve ever seen what the Luidaeg really looks like. I’m not sure I want to.

  “Come on,” she said, beckoning for me to follow as she started toward the mouth of the courtyard. “We need to get this part over with, so the true troubles can begin.”

  When one of the Firstborn tells you to follow, you follow. I pulled up even with her, matching my steps to hers, and managed not to look back as we stepped out of the hollowed-out ship that was our temporary home, into the greater body of the Duchy.

  It was strange to be walking away from my boys. Quentin and Tybalt should have been by my side, letting me lead them into the dangers of the moment, and the fact that they weren’t was unsettling. They were probably going to be pretty pissed when they realized I was gone. At least they both understood that when the Luidaeg spoke, it wasn’t a good idea to argue.

  The Duchy of Ships seemed to have been modeled off a dockside town from the turn of the twentieth century, just one that happened to be floating on the open ocean and constructed so that “vertical” was as much of a civic planning option as “horizontal.” Our little slice of space was clearly located in a residential area; we walked past more courtyards like ours, and larger, more defined private homes, some of which had been built from repurposed vessels, while others wouldn’t have looked out of place on a San Francisco street.

  Gradually, the bigger residences gave way to stacked shacks connected by rope ladders, with clever pulley systems clearly designed to help the people who lived there transport goods. I blinked at the rope, finally realizing what had been bothering me.

  “There aren’t any pixies,” I said.

  “Too many things out here think of them as snack foods,” said the Luidaeg. “Dangerous as it is for them on the land, it’s twice as bad out at sea.”

  “Huh.” It was strange, walking through a fae holding and not seeing any sign of Faerie’s smallest residents. The varieties of fae around me were even stranger, largely due to unfamiliarity. I knew some of them—Cephali, Sirens, even the occasional Asrai—but others were new. I wanted to breathe in their heritage, to get a sense of the shape of their blood, but I didn’t dare. I had no idea how many spells were woven into the body of this impossible duchy, and the last thing I needed was to be knocked on my ass by too many unexpected magics.

  Everyone we passed shied away from us, refusing to meet the Luidaeg’s eyes. They seemed to know who she was, better than people normally did when we were at home. In San Francisco, she was the sea witch, but almost no one understood what that meant. Here, out at sea, there was no question. She was their mother in mourning and their unforgiving monster, and while she might not have seen the longing in their eyes, I did.

  They missed her. They’d been missing her for centuries; they might miss her forever, depending on how things went with the resurrection of the Roane. My heart went out to them, and to her. Why does Faerie have to make everything so hard?

  We had entered a small market area, packed with stalls selling fruit, vegetables, bread, and less edible goods, when Tybalt stepped out of the narrow space between a spice vendor and a slightly more permanent-looking tailor’s shop. He was carrying my leather jacket over one arm, and had an expression on his face that couldn’t seem to decide between amusement and irritation.

  “Imagine my surprise when I emerged from unpacking to find Marcia saying you’d gone on without me.” He fell into step beside us, offering the Luidaeg a nod. “Lady Sea Witch.”

  “Sir Cat,” she replied, without breaking stride. “Don’t be too annoyed at October. I told her she didn’t have time to go get you. I also told Marcia to tell you not to follow us.”

  “She did,” he said, offering me my jacket. “I elected to ignore her, as is my right as both a cat and a king.”

  “How did the Cait Sidhe survive past infancy?” asked the Luidaeg.

  Tybalt raised an eyebrow. “If any of us would know the answer to that, milady, I would expect it to be you. You were, after all, there when it happened.”

  The Luidaeg laughed and kept walking.

  I shrugged my leather jacket on, taking a moment to fuss with the ribbons that served as my sleeves, trying in vain to make them lie flat, or at least not get all twisted and tangled around my elbows. Tybalt watched this with some amusement, waiting until I was done before he reached over
and took my hand.

  “You look quite elegant, if a bit anachronistic,” he said. “The Luidaeg’s work, I assume?”

  “I can dress myself.”

  “Yes, but you generally choose not to unless under serious duress, and I have never once seen you voluntarily trend toward corsetry.” Tybalt shook his head. “I fear I’ll need to take all responsibility for your wedding gown, lest you show up in one of those abominable knee-length creations.”

  “They’re called skater dresses, and they’re very comfortable,” I protested.

  The Luidaeg looked over her shoulder at us. “Now is when you want to do your wedding planning? Now? Do you have no sense of timing, or are you just oblivious?”

  “We are surrounded by water on all sides,” said Tybalt. “Forgive me if I wish to take my betrothed’s mind off the situation.”

  I flashed him a smile and kept walking. The Luidaeg rolled her eyes and did the same.

  The shopping district—if it could really be called a district, under the circumstances—gave way to another residential neighborhood, this one consisting entirely of tiny shacks. It was shabbier here. The air smelled more strongly of saltwater and decaying wood, and the walkways were slipperier, damp with condensation and streaks of drying seaweed. I cast the Luidaeg a curious look, allowing my question to go unasked.

  She answered it anyway. “The Duchy of Ships is home to a great many Selkies and their families, but that doesn’t make them wealthy, or even particularly well-regarded,” she said. “Their inability to breathe water means they can never fully belong to the Undersea. Still, they work as couriers and messengers, and they hold on.”

  “Can Roane breathe water?” I asked, unable to stop myself.

  “Yes and no,” said the Luidaeg. “They don’t have gills, but their control over the currents is such that they can call air bubbles to themselves, and keep breathing without coming to the surface. It’s a relatively common trick in the Undersea. There are several descendant races who are technically air-breathers, but manage to do it subtly enough that they never get called on it. An open secret, if you will. Now can you stop asking me questions about my kids? You know I have to answer, and you know that makes me uncomfortable.”