A Killing Frost Page 40

  I glared at him, my hands balled to fists and my knees aching to vanish, as they often did when I was angry. The only reason the Merrow haven’t swarmed the land to slap the smug smiles off the faces of the Daoine Sidhe is our tendency to revert to a finned form when angry. It makes a land war difficult for us.

  Patrick stared at me, clearly startled by my outburst. Then, to my surprise, he laughed.

  “You’re right, aren’t you? No, of course, you’re right. Eira left us. She walked away and she left us, with only a handful of instructions as to how she wanted us to conduct our lives, and none of them suited to the child I was, or the man I would become. I have no yen for crowns or conquests. I would like children, eventually . . .” He paused, cheeks flushing red. “ . . . but not with the bride she would have preferred for me, or as the transaction I am quite sure she would have brokered, given opportunity and time. I want to live for myself, and not for the Firstborn who deserted me.”

  “Well, that makes you the cleverest of your kind I’ve ever heard speak, although that’s a shallow dive to make, and no mistake,” said a familiar voice, accompanied by the distinctive slapping sound of suckers clinging to and releasing from a solid surface. I turned, already smiling, to see Helmi approaching us. As was her wont, she was halfway up the wall, “walking” in a straight line that simply happened to put her in opposition to gravity.

  Patrick gasped softly. I suppose he’d never seen a Cephali before. Unlike Merrow and Selkies, they have little cause to visit the land, and Helmi had never accompanied me on one of our outings.

  From the waist up, she was indistinguishable from one of the Daoine Sidhe, even down to the points of her ears. She lacked my gills and other outward signifiers of her aquatic nature, and even had something of their coloring, with her cherry-red hair and rose-pink eyes; none of them would have rejected her as belonging to another company if she’d appeared among them wearing a dress of sufficient volume. For all the trouble, from that perspective, began at her navel and extended downward from there, as her lower body was that of a giant Pacific octopus, normally and naturally colored a shade of red that matched her hair. Her tentacles seemed to all move independently of each other, but they worked together sufficiently to drive her steadily forward.

  A woman walked behind her, blue-haired and clad in a simple white dress so soaked-through with seawater that she left a gleaming trail behind her as she walked. Her hair was equally sodden, rivulets running down her chest and arms where it touched. There was no possible way she could still be so wet after walking all the way through the air chambers to reach us unless she was generating the water herself. Which, of course, she was.

  I rose gracefully, extending my hands toward Helmi, forearms as flat and exposed to her as my anatomy allowed. She responded by lowering herself to floor level, clasping her own hands to her sternum, and winding her two lead tentacles around my arms in a damp embrace. The Cephali have their own ways of doing many things, and more loyal, more reliable courtiers are not to be found in all the Undersea.

  Helmi had been with me since my girlhood, and she would likely be with me until one or both of us had gone to bones rolling across the bottom of the sea. That is the way of things, with Cephali and Merrow. We prize loyalty, and we prize it well enough to stake our lives on it.

  “Good fishing and kind tides, Helmi,” I said. “Who have you brought me?”

  “This is one of the Naiads, as you requested,” she said. The blue-haired woman raised a hand in languid greeting but did not offer a name. That is also the way of things with Naiads. They come into their lives with the singing of the sea ringing in their ears, and at times it can be all they hear or know. They tend to gather around noble households, less out of a desire to serve or to be protected from the more violent elements of the Undersea, but because they like the way the presence of others changes the song. They speak rarely to the rest of us, not because they wish to keep their secrets but because it takes so much effort for something to be worthy of being said.

  “It is deeply appreciated,” I said, and lowered my arms, signaling her to release them.

  She did not, instead cocking her head and sending a glance toward Patrick. “And who have you brought me, your Grace?” she asked.

  I flushed. My manners are not normally so lacking. “My sincere apologies, dear friend. This is Patrick Twycross, Baron of Feathered Stones, late of Tremont, now of the Mists, and my consort to be. Patrick, this is Helmi, courtier of my halls and my personal lady’s maid since childhood. This place wouldn’t function without her, and neither would I.”

  Helmi finally unwound one tentacle from around my forearm, waving it at Patrick in what seemed like a jaunty manner, but which I recognized as being just shy of a rude gesture. “At last, the suitor deigns to visit our hallowed halls. What brings you so far from the safety of your shore, air-breather?”

  “My lady does,” said Patrick, staying wisely seated. Cephali view height as a form of dominance. The highest person in the room is the one with the superior position. I was taller than both Helmi and the Naiad, and Helmi trusted me. As long as I was the highest, she had no need to go on the defensive. If Patrick placed himself above me, something he could do simply by standing, she might climb to the ceiling on instinct alone.

  Cephali do not tell tales of their Firstborn. I regret that. The story of their lineage must be a fascinating one.

  Helmi snorted. “And you allowed yourself to be brought, like a trinket or a treasure?”

  “My lady is a treasure to me, and I would hope that I am a treasure to her, for if I am not, I am clearly wasting her time. So yes, exactly so.”

  Thoughtfully, Helmi lowered her first tentacle, and unwound the second from around my arm. “There are some who would think ill of my lady for courting a man of the land.”

  “There are some who think ill of me for falling in love with a mermaid. We all have our burdens to carry.”

  “She swims faster unburdened.”

  “Then I will remain here and wait for her to come back to me.” Oddly enough, Patrick seemed to be relaxing. He was being challenged by a type of fae he had never seen before, whose quirks and abilities were unknown to him, and somehow, that was comforting. I will never understand Daoine Sidhe.

  Meanwhile, the Naiad had wandered aimlessly from behind Helmi and was drifting toward Patrick, humming tunelessly. The water she left in her wake glittered silver and did not dry. He glanced at her, suddenly nervous again.

  A Naiad, harmless unless threatened, was unnerving him, and Helmi was not? We were going to have to have a lot of conversations if he was going to be safe in the Undersea. I realized with a start that I was already thinking of his time here as a lasting thing; of course, he would need to be safe because he was staying. We needed to finish our conversation, so I could know for certain whether our troubles were over or simply taking a moment to reflect before they continued.

  “What makes you think you’re worthy of her time?” asked Helmi, more brusquely.

  “Nothing,” said Patrick, and spread his hands. “I am entirely unworthy of her time. I have no idea what she sees in me or why she bothers to humor my affections. But I also feel that I am unworthy to question her. If she wishes to be so foolish as to attach herself to me, I can only be grateful for her good regard, stand back, and allow the error in hopes that I’ll amuse her too much for her to think of correcting it. Were I worth more, I might have the authority to argue. Lacking that happy circumstance, I shall stay where and as I am, and love my lady, and wed her if she’ll have me, that none save Oberon himself will sunder me from her side.”

  As marriage proposals went, it was somehow both the best and worst I’d ever heard. My ears burned red as I cleared my throat and said, “Helmi, my relationship is not up for debate at the moment. I bade you to bring me a Naiad, and you’ve done so; your duty is discharged, and you are free to go.”

 
Helmi and I have been together long enough that she knew she’d have the opportunity to speak her piece later, when we were alone together. She glared at me briefly, tentacles twitching, before she turned and trundled back down the hall, this time moving at floor level, as if that alone would be sufficient to demonstrate how seriously she took this situation. I watched her go until she vanished behind a doorway and continued to watch until the slap-suck-release sound of her tentacles pulling her forward faded. Then I turned to face the Naiad.

  She had moved closer to Patrick during my silence, and was standing only a few feet away from him, heavy-lidded blue eyes fixed on a point just above his collarbone. “Er, hello,” he said. “I’m Patrick. And you are?”

  “Naiads don’t talk much,” I said, just as she sighed and said, “Hydor.”

  I jumped a little, startled. She tipped her chin up, meeting Patrick’s eyes for the first time.

  “My sisters and I are all Hydor,” she said, in a lilting, dreamy tone as if that was some profound explanation. “You’re very wet. It isn’t in your nature. May I have the water?”

  This was what I’d called her for, and yet I hurried to say, “The water outside his body, if you please. The water inside his body is happy where it is.”

  Patrick looked alarmed. The Naiad sighed.

  “As you say,” she said, and raised her hands in a politely beckoning gesture.

  The water still weighing down Patrick’s clothing and hair began streaming off of him immediately, first pooling at his feet, then shaping itself into a long, sinuous shape, closely akin to an eel, and slithering across the floor to wind itself around the Naiad’s legs. She smiled, clearly charmed. It grew larger as Patrick grew drier, until it extended to her knees. Then she lowered her hands, and the liquid eel splashed into a formless puddle that was quickly absorbed by the hem of her dress.

  “Shore water,” she said thoughtfully. “Shore water and tears, and all the distance between. You’ll be happy here, if you allow yourself to be. You’ll drown if you don’t.” She turned to me then, offering a polite nod, before wandering seemingly aimlessly down the hall after Helmi, leaving us alone.

  The silence remained unbroken for several seconds. Then Patrick said ponderously, “What was that?”

  “That was Hydor,” I said. “Congratulations on getting a name out of her. Naiads don’t habitually speak much or give personal names. Although given that she said all her sisters were Hydor as well, it may be a family name. Naiads sculpt water. It’s one of their talents. We have several living here in the palace. They help to keep the dry rooms dry and prevent cracks from forming in the walls.”

  “There’s much here that I don’t know,” he said. “I’ll seem very foolish to you for a time, I’m sure. I may slow you down.”

  “I could stand to go a little slower,” I said, and moved to sit beside him again. “Did you mean what you said to Helmi?”

  “The woman with the octopus arms?”

  I nodded. He shook his head, seemingly less in negation than dismay. “I’ve never seen anyone like her before,” he said, before admitting sheepishly, “I had no idea there were people like her in the sea.”

  “The sea holds all manner of wonders you have yet to discover or explore,” I said. “There will be time to learn them all. But I do have to know—did you mean what you said to Helmi?”

  He reddened but kept his eyes on mine as he said, “If a landless Baron from a nowhere County is good enough for you, if you would have me, knowing I bring nothing of value save myself . . . then yes. I meant every word and syllable. I would wed you, if you’d have me. I would be the father of your children. I would spend the rest of my life with you.”

  “Even knowing that it would have to be here?” I spread my arms, indicating the palace around us and, by greater extension, the sea outside. “I could give up my Duchy for love, given time to find myself an heir, but a Merrow who willingly forsakes the only shell they have to hide in is a Merrow not long for the sea. I would be hunted down by my own kind, viewed as weak, and driven to the beaches and beyond. I must stay here.”

  “Saltmist is beautiful,” said Patrick. “As long as I could visit the land from time to time, for the sake of those I’d be leaving behind, I could be happy here.”

  “And where is the man who sat on the pier and told me he couldn’t love me enough to hold me to him?” I cocked my head. “Where is the man who was ready and willing to leave me?”

  “He drowned,” said Patrick, and wrapped his arms around me, pulling me close as his lips found mine, and he kissed me like I was the only thing left in the entire world. I was all that mattered. I wrapped my arms around him in turn, returning the kiss with equal fervor.

  I had not gone to the first ball, or even our first outing, with the intention of finding a husband. I had expected to do it in the normal way: to make a political alliance, or to be bested on the field of battle by someone who was willing to consider my bed better than my beheading. I certainly hadn’t been expecting to find my heart in a man who couldn’t breathe water without the aid of a potion, who could barely swim, but sometimes the sea has her own ideas of how a life will go.

  I pulled back, looking at him seriously, and said, “We shall have to find a place to hold the wedding.”

  Patrick smiled, a little besotted. “What do you think of Muir Woods?” he asked.

  I laughed.

  SIMON

  The garden grew lush and green around me, as it always did. Amy’s command over her tower grounds took all the chance and chaos out of agriculture, resulting in a garden where it was always the height of spring and summer, at the very same time, save for the few plants that thrived best in fall and seemed to exist in their own private bubble of time. The beds she had set aside for my use, where I grew the herbs I would use in my potions and tinctures, were the only ones that had any respect for the natural cycles of fruit and flower, passing through the stages of growth at the customary pace, rather than refreshing themselves overnight.

  My Amy is far from unique among our kind. We have all of eternity as a plaything, assuming we’re wise enough to stay away from certain danger, and yet we have the patience of mortal children. If a thing is desired, it is desired right now, and no amount of pleading or argument will change that desire one bit. My need to grow things at their natural pace is often viewed as strange and even stupid by all save other herbalists and the occasional alchemist of my acquaintance.

  I have to think that we were better once, when Oberon was here and the wheel of the seasons more tightly bound our motions, that we understood patience and planning and waiting for what we wanted. How else could we have built kingdoms, constructed dynasties, or composed the beautiful spells and elegant workings of our past? Even my own work, petty and primitive as it is, had to be intuited from foundations crafted from time and care and research. How we can have eternity on our sides and still have less patience than is innate to mortal children?

  It is a mystery for greater minds than mine to solve, I fear. I knelt in my herb bed, golden scissors in my hand, carefully snipping the leaves and blooms I needed to craft another batch of protective tonic. I was consuming more and more these days, fighting the cumulative effects of the potion I drank to keep my lady’s will from entirely overwhelming my own. The tonic I brewed now was five times stronger than I had brewed in the beginning, and even that had been a strain on my system, too potent to consume safely, and yet safer than the alternative.

  I was playing a losing game, and I knew it. The longer I spent in my lady’s company, the more of the potion to protect me from her will and wishes I would need to consume, lest my choices cease to be my own, as I suspected they already had. The more of the potion I consumed, the more of the tonic I would need to keep myself from dying by my own hand—but if it passed a certain quantity, the protection would become the poison, and I would die anyway.

 
None of this was right or reasonable. All of this was by my own choice, for I had sold myself into my lady’s service to protect my dearest friend in all the world, the only person I cared for as much as I did my Amy or my daughter. Patrick Twycross was the best of what the Daoine Sidhe could be: measured, kind, protective of those with less than himself. He thought himself a failure, for he craved no crown, but he had become a king among pixies without a second thought. He had fulfilled the commands we all must live by admirably, save for the children, and many older than he—my own twin brother, even—have failed to fulfill that commandment. We can control many things with magic and with wanting. Our own biology is not among them.

  But Eira’s first commandment, when she left her own face behind and went into hiding as one of her own children, had been to keep the bloodlines pure. She wanted an army of Daoine Sidhe waiting for her when she shrugged off the mask of Evening Winterrose and moved to claim her rightful place.

  I didn’t know why one of the First would want an army, and to be honest, I try not to let my thoughts bend in that direction. With Oberon and the Queens absent, no good can come of a Firstborn with an army at her command. And few words can describe her fury at the cavalier way her descendants have been ignoring her first request. My brother, married to a Kitsune. Myself, married to a woman whose line has, so far as I am aware, no name, but who is not of Titania’s blood in any way, with a daughter whose veins are entirely clear of Eira’s influence. Patrick’s insistence on courting a Merrow-maid had been a stroke too far for her, and she had done her best to drown their fledgling relationship at the beginning of their courtship.