Once Broken Faith Page 7

  “What?” He looked up. I pointed. He followed my finger, squinted, and said, “No, it’s empty. Except for that big pile of dog poop. Humans don’t clean up after their pets as well as they should.”

  “Neither do fae,” I said, pulling forward. “Sylvester’s Afanc crapped all over the walking path the last time I was at Shadowed Hills. I had to throw those shoes away.”

  “Oh, yeah.” Quentin quieted again as I finished parking. He’d been quiet for the entire drive, not even objecting when I turned the radio to the local oldies station. Normally he would have argued with me about that, but not today.

  I killed the engine and turned in my seat to look at him. “All right, spill,” I said. “Before we get to the knowe and have to deal with every petty noble Arden could scrape out of a crevice, you’re going to tell me what’s wrong.”

  “I look like my parents.” Quentin didn’t look at me as he spoke. His attention remained focused on his hands. “I have my dad’s hair, and my mom’s eyes, and her jaw. How are these people not going to know who I am? I might as well be wearing a sign.”

  “Oh. I thought you were worried about something major.” I tried to keep my tone light, even informal. It was still a real concern. As the Crown Prince of the Westlands, Quentin would one day be the regent of every single person we were about to go observe. That made him something to be courted and cosseted. More, it made him a target. Take out the primary heir to the throne and maybe they’d get lucky: maybe his little sister wouldn’t have been prepared for her birthright, and they could enjoy a few years of relative freedom from supervision when she took the throne. Of course, that assumed Aethlin and Maida would be stepping down any time soon, which didn’t seem to be their plan, but things could change. Assassinating heirs was a good way to kick-start the process.

  I was also worried about the local nobles realizing Quentin could be useful to them and trying to take him away from me. He was my squire and semi-adopted little brother, and I wasn’t going to let him go without a fight. Not even if the people who were trying to remove him from my care were his parents. Not unless they had a damn good reason for doing it.

  Quentin gave me a sidelong look. “This is something major.”

  “I know. That’s why it’s not something you need to be worried about right now.” I indicated him with a sweep of my hand. “Look at you. The secret son of a pureblood noble line. If this were a human fantasy novel, of course you would be a prince in disguise. Nothing else makes sense. But this is real life, and more, this is pureblood politics. Anyone who looks at you and thinks ‘gosh, he looks a lot like the High King’ is going to follow the thought with ‘but he’s squired to a changeling, which gives him no political advantage, and could actually hurt him when the time comes to take the throne; there’s no way High King Sollys would be that bone-numbingly stupid. I guess he’s a distant cousin or something.’ Maybe you’ll find yourself in a funny Prince-and-the-Pauper situation, where you have to try to hide the fact that you don’t have a convenient identical double, but nobody’s going to finger you for the prince. It just doesn’t make sense. And they’re used to you! They see you all the time. You’re furniture to them. Annoying furniture with bad taste in friends.”

  “Do you really think so?” he asked, starting to look hopeful.

  “Kiddo, I know so. If you’re really worried, eat a plate of salad with your fingers or something. Your absolute lack of table manners and social graces will convince anyone who happens to be watching that you can’t be the Crown Prince.”

  Quentin looked horrified. Even years of exposure to me hadn’t been enough to cancel out his early socialization, which said he needed to be poised and polite at all times, or at least whenever he was in front of people who never saw him five minutes after he rolled out of bed. He was an ordinary teenage boy when we were alone, but put him in front of someone with a title and he was Martha Stewart reborn with pointy ears.

  I was still laughing as we climbed out of the car and into the cool evening air. I wasn’t wearing a human disguise: I didn’t need one. Between the storms and the warding spells, no humans were going to come within a mile of Muir Woods tonight, unless they were being compelled by some outside force. I was wearing a nice pseudo-medieval blouse that May had dug out of the back of my closet in my mother’s tower; it was black spider-silk and red samite, and while I felt like I was in danger of having my clothes wear me, rather than me wearing my clothes, May had insisted. Instead of jeans, I had black spider-silk pants that clung like they were made of Saran Wrap. I wasn’t sure I was comfortable with that. I wasn’t sure I was comfortable with any of this. Just to gild the lily, my jewelry was tarnished silver and garnets, and all of it was real, estate sale stuff Jazz had found in the back of her store. No amount of dispelling my illusions would change a thing about my clothes.

  Spider-silk is expensive. I was wearing the equivalent of more money than most changelings would see in their lifetimes. It made me seriously uncomfortable—although there was something to be said for the amusement factor of standing me next to Quentin. He was the pureblood, but he was wearing blue linen trousers, a white peasant shirt, and a vest in the pale shade of daffodil favored in Shadowed Hills. His attire was a quiet reminder of who technically held his fosterage, even as mine was a reminder that I was my mother’s daughter, and bleeding around me would be unwise.

  I would have felt better if May and Jazz had been there, rather than dressing me up like a giant Barbie and throwing me to the wolves. May was concerned that her whole “I’m a Fetch, howdy” routine might cause problems with some of the visiting nobles, and wasn’t planning to come to the conclave until night two, when everyone would presumably be too preoccupied sniping at each other to notice that she wasn’t supposed to exist. It was logical. It was sensible. It still left me feeling like I didn’t have as much backup as I really, really wanted to have.

  Quentin looked at me gloomily across the roof of the car. “I’m glad you think this is funny.”

  “Somebody should,” I said. “Come on. Let’s go embarrass ourselves in front of the nobility.”

  He snorted, but said nothing as he followed me out of the parking lot.

  The stretch of land known as Muir Woods is one of the last remaining semi-virgin redwood forests in California. The giant evergreens used to cover the entire coast, towering over anyone who stood before them. These days, they’re tourist attractions and the vegetative equivalent of zoo animals, hemmed in by cities and protected by laws that do too little and started doing it too late. Mist swirled around the trunks of the ancient trees as we walked into their shadow, following the trails human rangers had cut through the underbrush. Some fae would have no need for those little wooden paths. Tybalt could have stalked across the forest floor and never disturbed a leaf. Grianne, a Candela in Sylvester’s service, could have walked across the surface of the ponds without a ripple. Sadly, some of us were more limited, and some of us were very grateful to the parks service for their help.

  Pixies appeared in the trees as we climbed the hill toward the entry to Arden’s knowe. Some of them flew down to perform loops around us, leaving trails of glittering pixie-sweat in the air as they passed. I smiled. The pixies were no more than four inches tall—most were closer to three—and came in every color of the rainbow. They were some of the smallest members of Faerie. The health of the local pixie colonies was a good indicator of the health of the realm. Judging by the looks of this group, the Mists were thriving under Arden’s rule.

  Lowri was in full armor, standing beside the open doors to the knowe, with a Cornish Pixie in matching attire standing on the other side. Lowri was Arden’s Captain of the Guard, and had served as temporary seneschal while Madden was asleep. Presumably, Madden had his job back now. I tensed. If she held a grudge about my helping Arden wake Madden up so early . . .

  “Sir Daye,” said Lowri, smiling brightly. Her Welsh accent broadened her
consonants and flattened her vowels, adding a lilt to her words. “And Quentin. You’re looking awfully formal today, young master.”

  “It’s a conclave,” said Quentin. He looked at his feet, shoulders tense. I elbowed him. If he didn’t want to blow our cover, he needed to stop acting like we were going to be caught at any moment. Lowri knew him as my squire, and a minor noble at best. She wasn’t going to figure out that things were any different just because we were here.

  “It is, and you’re properly early,” said Lowri. Her smile faded as she turned back to me, replaced by grave concern. “You . . . do understand the company you’re to be keeping these next few nights? There are some who won’t like that you’re allowed inside, much less permitted to have a voice in the proceedings.”

  “I’m not here to have a voice,” I said. “I’m here because the High King of the Westlands wants me to be, and because I had something to do with the whole ‘let’s cure elf-shot’ thing succeeding in the first place. Which reminds me. You were sworn to the Yates family before Rhys took Silences. Are you going to go back when all this is done?”

  Lowri gave a quick, decisive shake of her head. “No,” she said. “I loved my lieges when I served them, but that part of my life is over, and my oaths are sworn to Queen Windermere in the Mists. I wish the Kingdom of Silences well. Their recovery will be performed without me.”

  “Good,” I said. “I’d miss you. Quentin, come on. We need to check in.” He hurried to dog my heels as I walked through the open doors into the long redwood entry hall. Carved panels on the walls around us showed stylized scenes from the history of the Mists, including Arden’s crowning and a figure who looked suspiciously like Walther pressing a bowl to the lips of a man who looked like Madden. More and more, I was coming to suspect that the knowe did its own carving. Fae craftsmen were good, but I didn’t see how the best of them could have finished that panel and put it in place among the others in only three days.

  A new doorway opened off the end of the hall, revealing a secondary hall that curved away from the receiving room where Arden normally held Court. We walked down it. Voices drifted back to meet us, until we stepped into a gallery as grand as any theater. I stopped dead.

  “Whoa,” I said.

  Quentin didn’t say anything. He just blinked, his thoughts apparently mirroring my own.

  The room we were now in had two stories—there was an actual balcony section, which wasn’t something I’d ever expected to see in something that wasn’t a theater. There was a stage at the far end of the room, flanked by gray velvet curtains, like someone was trying to use stagecraft to create an impression of the mist across the Bay. I couldn’t be sure how many people the space would seat, but I was guessing somewhere between a hundred and fifty and two hundred, depending on how deep that balcony was.

  Arden was on the stage conjuring balls of witch-light and tossing them up to join the others that were already bobbing among the rafters. With each ball, the light in the room got a little brighter, twilight melting into day. She looked toward the sound of my voice and smiled, although it didn’t remove the lines of strain around her eyes. “The bookstore used to host a lot of author events,” she said. She didn’t seem to be raising her voice, but it carried, clean and clear, to the back of the gallery. There must have been amplification charms on the stage. Neat trick.

  Arden continued her thought as we walked toward her: “Usually, we just had to move a couple of shelves and set up folding chairs, but it could still get pretty intense. Genre authors can attract some weird crowds. So I’m trying to think of this as if it were that. We’re hosting like, Stephen King and J.K. Rowling at the same time, and the weirdoes are going to ride, ride, ride.”

  “I thought I heard voices while we were in the hall,” I said, looking around. “Who else is here?”

  “I am,” chirped Madden, sticking his head out of the wings. This place really was a little theater. Tybalt might try to move in and stage a new Shakespeare production every Thursday. “Hi, Toby. Hi, Quentin. Ever cater a banquet for royalty?”

  “Can’t say as I have,” I said. Peanut butter and tuna sandwiches slapped together for Quentin and Raj at two o’clock in the morning probably didn’t count.

  “Well, don’t. It’s awful. Just awful.” He vanished again.

  I turned to Arden. “We’re here. Where do you want us?”

  “My Court is going to be sitting over there,” she said, indicating the seats curving around the left side of the stage. “I was planning on putting anyone unaffiliated but with good reason to be heard on the other side.”

  It was clear she wanted me to decide where we belonged. I knew what she was hoping for, but I still smiled as I said, “Okay, cool,” and led Quentin to the unaffiliated seats.

  Arden did a good job of hiding her disappointment. Her face only fell a little. It was the best I could do. My fealty has been sworn to Duke Sylvester Torquill since I was young. Even though he’s Arden’s vassal, that doesn’t make me hers. He would have to release me formally for that to happen, and he’s not going to do that unless I ask him to.

  Quentin’s fealty ultimately lies with the Westlands, but while he’s my squire, he’s also considered sworn to Sylvester, at least until the day when I declare him a knight in his own right. When that happens, Quentin’s obligations to Sylvester will dissolve, allowing him to go out into the world for his knight errantry. During that time, he’ll answer only to the High King—and his knight. Up until the day he takes the throne, he’ll be expected to answer to me.

  No pressure or anything.

  Quentin and I took our seats. Madden reappeared a few minutes later, waving before heading to his place on the other side of the stage. As if that were a cue of some sort, other members of Arden’s court began appearing and settling themselves nearby. Walther entered through a side door and moved toward us, pointing to the seat on the other side of me.

  “Is this seat taken?” he asked.

  “Please. Spare me the anxiety of wondering who might come and claim it,” I said.

  “Excellent.” He looked profoundly relieved as he sank into the cushion. “Marlis just called to let me know she’s in the queue outside with our parents, Aunt Siwan, and Uncle Holger. They’ll be entering when the heralds announce them. She wanted to know if I was going to sit with her.”

  Walther’s Aunt Siwan was better known as the rightful Queen of Silences. Holger was her King and consort, and Walther’s parents were the court alchemists. Marlis was still seneschal, as far as I knew; she’d served under the pretender King, Rhys, and knew the modern shape of the Kingdom better than anyone else in her family. In a human monarchy, she would probably have been executed as a traitor, or at the very least imprisoned for life. Oberon’s Law changes things, and so does magic. Rhys had been using loyalty potions to compel her obedience. She couldn’t be held responsible for that.

  Arden walked onto the stage, followed by a group of courtiers. They set out four thrones. One was silver, patterned with graven redwood branches and blackberry vines. One was golden, patterned with yarrow branches and rose briars. The other two were bronze, patterned with maple leaves and heather flowers. Arden, Queen Siwan, and the High King and Queen. Which made sense. The ownership of the cure was split between Silences and the Mists, and the High King and Queen were here to oversee the proceedings. Of course, those would be the four who sat at the head of the room.

  Humans would probably have insisted on giving the High King and Queen golden thrones, focusing on the value of the metal. Because this was Faerie, the division was determined by the colors of their Kingdoms, and how well the metals suited them. Arden had silver, for fog; Queen Siwan had gold, for yarrow; and the High King and Queen had bronze, presumably for King Aethlin’s hair.

  The doors opened, and people began entering. Normal people, people who’d heard a conclave was happening and had come to witness the largest gat
hering of Kings and Queens that they were ever likely to see. I had to wonder whether this was a ploy on Arden’s part to keep the cure from being suppressed; after all, it was harder to bury something people knew about. Or maybe it was just the natural result of gathering this much royalty in one place. Even if each of the Kings and Queens traveled with a minimal staff, they’d still fill the gallery without trying. That would also explain the number of faces I didn’t recognize.

  There were no other changelings in the first wave of arrivals. That was no real surprise.

  The crowd settled quickly, filling the balcony and the back of the room. When the last of them was seated, Arden’s herald took up a position next to the rear door. “Her Royal Highness, by right of blood, the Queen in the Mists, Arden Windermere,” he announced.

  Arden, who was already on the stage, bowed her head to the audience and walked regally to the throne marked for her use. She sat. The people applauded. So did I. It seemed like the only appropriate response.

  The applause died down. The herald spoke again. “His Grace, by right of appointment, Duke Sylvester Torquill of Shadowed Hills, and his consort, Her Grace, by right of marriage, Duchess Luna Torquill of Shadowed Hills.”

  “Oh, sweet Oberon’s ass, they’re going to tell us how every single person got their throne, aren’t they?” I whispered, before flinching and waiting for the reaction from the crowd. There wasn’t one. The amplification charms apparently didn’t cover our part of the gallery. Thank the rose and the branch for that.

  Quentin smirked and said nothing.

  Sylvester and Luna appeared at the back of the gallery, followed by Etienne. They made their way to the middle rows of seats, well ahead of Arden’s courtiers and the commoners who’d come just to watch, but leaving plenty of room in the front for the higher-ranking nobility. It was the first time I’d seen Sylvester since before I’d gone to Silences to play diplomat. He glanced my way. I didn’t smile. I didn’t look away either. We were going to have to find our peace sooner or later. Honestly, I wanted it to be sooner. He was my liege. I was planning to get married. He shouldn’t be excluded from being part of that.