Once Broken Faith Page 8

  The list of mid-ranked nobility—important enough to announce, unimportant enough that I’d never heard of most of them—went on and on. Li Qin was announced as interim Duchess of Dreamer’s Glass, which probably pleased her. April O’Leary was announced as the Countess of Tamed Lightning, unable to attend due to duties at home, to be represented at the conclave by her seneschal, Elliot. It was a smart move. April was weird even for Faerie, and sending her to something like this would probably result in her finding a way to baffle and offend all the Kings and Queens at once. Wiring a Dryad into a computer system has that sort of effect.

  Finally, the heralds ran out of Dukes and Counts and Barons and Earls. After a brief pause for consultation, the announcements resumed. “Her Royal Highness, by right of blood, Queen Siwan Yates of Silences, and her consort, His Royal Highness, by right of marriage, King Holger Yates of Silences.”

  Walther’s aunt and uncle entered through the rear door and proceeded down the aisle. Marlis was close behind them, almost as if she were guarding them against possible attack. She glanced our way and offered a quick, genial nod as they neared the stage. Walther, who was less constrained by propriety, grinned and waved. I split the difference with a smile and a nod.

  Queen Siwan kissed her husband on the cheek before mounting the stairs to the stage. Marlis stepped into the front row of seats, gesturing for King Holger to follow her. As he did, he turned, bringing the left side of his body into view. I stopped smiling and sat up straighter. The last time I’d seen him, he’d been missing the lower half of his left arm. Now, it was present and accounted for, supported by a sling, but as much flesh and blood as the rest of him.

  I’d left a portion of my blood in Silences. Queen Siwan had explained her intent to try to work it into a regenerative potion. Looked like she’d succeeded. The ramifications of that were . . . well. I just hoped they wouldn’t be leading to another conclave. I might heal fast, but there was no way I was going to agree to becoming a pharmacy for the rest of Faerie.

  “Their Majesties, by right of equal ascension, King and Queen upon the Golden Shore, Theron and Chrysanthe.”

  A pair of Ceryneian Hinds—Golden Hinds—made their way down the aisle, heads high, hooves tapping on the carpeted floor. Like all of their kind, they were elegant and lithe from the waist up, looking more like Tylwyth Teg than anything else, and golden-furred, bipedal deer from the waist down. They wore tunics belted with woven gold-and-silver wire, but left their legs bare. Their ears were long, curving, and lightly furred. Chrysanthe’s hair fell to her waist, white-gold and curly enough to have some bounce, despite its weight. Theron had antlers, small but distinct, growing from his forehead. His crown had clearly been designed to accommodate them, and echoed the forms in hers. They walked, together, to settle in the front row.

  “Golden Shore,” Quentin murmured, trying to sound like he was doing a casual review, when we both knew it was for my benefit. “Kingdom directly to the South, mostly agrarian, few political aspirations.”

  I knew the basics about my neighbors, but I didn’t tell him to stop. He might tell me something I didn’t already know, and I was so far out of my depth that anything would help.

  “His Royal Highness, by right of conquest, King Antonio Robinson of Angels.”

  Antonio didn’t enter through the doors, although the doors opened: instead, he appeared at the center of the aisle, already halfway to the stage. He was a tall, striking man, with skin the color of slate and hair the color of ashes. Two Merry Dancers appeared with him, globes of floating light that turned and twisted around his body. It was rare for a Candela to aspire to a throne, much less fight to take it. King Robinson was an anomaly in many ways. Still, the people dutifully applauded as he made his way to his seat.

  So it went, on and on, as the monarchs of the neighboring kingdoms made their appearances. It looked like Aethlin’s invitation had gone out to the entire West Coast—that, or the West Coast monarchs were the only ones who’d felt comfortable leaving their Kingdoms for the duration of this meeting, which made a certain measure of sense. The people who were most likely to stage an invasion were always your immediate neighbors, since they were the ones who knew how nice your apple trees were, or how much parking you had. If all your neighbors were in the room, there was no one left to invade you. That was pureblood logic for you.

  The herald named their Kingdoms, places I’d never seen and wasn’t sure I ever would, and I translated them as best I could into mortal landmarks. The Kingdom of Evergreen was Washington and part of Vancouver, ignoring the America-Canada border in favor of drawing its own. The Kingdom of Prisms was farther up the coast, encompassing Alaska, but they hadn’t sent a representative. Either they didn’t care what we decided, or that whole “we might get invaded” problem was a real concern for them. Painted Skies was Nevada, represented by a Crown Princess and two Dukes. Highmountain was Colorado, represented by their Daoine Sidhe monarchs. They were accompanied by a single silent, downcast handmaiden—a Barrow Wight, from the looks of her. Interesting. Copper was Arizona, and their Centaur King took up half an aisle. The delegation that had traveled the farthest to sit in this room and listen to everyone fighting was from Starfall, in Idaho. They hadn’t brought their monarch, but were a small group of interested nobles, no doubt hoping to curry favor by bringing home news of what transpired here.

  Starfall was the last land Kingdom to be announced and seated. There was a brief pause as the heralds checked their notes, and the introductions continued:

  “Representing the Undersea Kingdom of Leucothea, Her Grace, by right of blood, Duchess Dianda Lorden of Saltmist, and her consort, by right of marriage, Duke Patrick Lorden of Saltmist.”

  Dianda and Patrick entered through the rear door. The conclave was likely to go on for quite some time, and while Dianda preferred to deal with land fae on her own two feet, assuming—probably correctly—that most would view anything else as weakness, pride didn’t make her foolish. She was in fins and scales, seated in her wheelchair with her flukes defiantly exposed, like she was daring anyone to say a word about her presence. Patrick was pushing her, a mild expression on his face. He was probably the reason the King of Leucothea had assigned Dianda to be his representative; as the only Undersea noble I knew of who was married to someone who’d grown up on the land, her husband was an invaluable resource for explaining what the hell it was that everyone around her was talking about.

  Arden had thoughtfully reserved a wheelchair accessible seat for Dianda in the front row. One more helpful consequence of having a queen who’d been socialized in the human world: she understood the need for proper disability access, rather than trusting in magic to work it all out.

  The herald continued. “Representing the Oversky Kingdom of Frozen Winds, His Grace, by right of conquest, Duke Islay of Staggered Clouds.”

  Duke Islay was a thin man with shadows in his eyes and hair like a storm cloud. He floated down the aisle, his feet pointed down at the carpet, and settled in an open seat with no immediate neighbors. I couldn’t blame him for that. If he’d settled next to me, I would probably have moved. The Sluagh Sidhe are as much a part of Faerie as anyone else, but they’re damn creepy, and I’ve always been glad that they belonged to the Oversky.

  “They should be just about done,” murmured Quentin. “I can’t think of anyone else they would have invited.”

  “Invited, maybe not, but showing up, definitely,” I whispered back, just as the herald began to speak again.

  “His Majesty, by right of conquest, King Tybalt of the Court of Dreaming Cats.”

  The room went quiet. People twisted in their seats to watch as Tybalt walked down the aisle toward the front row. Raj followed him. So did several cat-form Cait Sidhe, their tails up and their whiskers forward, trotting at his heels like this was the most normal thing in the world.

  There was always something regal about Tybalt: he’d been a King lon
ger than I’d been alive, and graceful arrogance comes easily to the feline. I’d seen him in his element before, among the cats who were his subjects, but I had never seen him in a place like this. He was dressed in brown, with dark leather trousers, boots a few shades darker, and a tan silk shirt. His vest was the same color as his boots. The stripes in his hair and the points of his teeth as he smiled at the gathered nobility marked him clearly as one of the Cait Sidhe, and hence “lesser” in the eyes of many members of the Divided Courts.

  Raj was wearing blue jeans and a Delta Rae T-shirt. He looked exactly as disrespectful as everyone around him expected him to be. I had to suppress a smile at that. They were playing to the expectations of their audience. It was glorious.

  It was frightening. By allowing Tybalt to be announced as a King—and hence equal to every other monarch at this conclave—Arden had shown how much respect she had for the Court of Cats. That was good. That was the right thing to do. And it just might have made things infinitely more complex, where my relationship was concerned.

  “Their Majesties, by right of blood and ascension, High King Aethlin Sollys and High Queen Maida Sollys, of the Westlands.”

  Everyone stood, even Tybalt, who had barely had time to sit. Dianda was the only one who remained where she was, although she placed her hands upon her shoulders, fingers pointing toward the back wall, as a sign of respect. It showed that she was neither armed nor making a fist. Among the Undersea, there wasn’t much more of an honor.

  Maida and Aethlin came gliding down the center aisle, their steps so smooth and measured that they might as well have been floating. I wondered how much time they’d spent practicing entrances like this one, smoothing away their rough edges and rendering them brief but potent expressions of effortless grace. I decided to stop thinking about it, and just be grateful that there was no circumstance, however unlikely, that could put me in their place.

  They joined Arden on the stage. She remained standing until both of them were seated. Then, after bowing deeply to each of them in turn, she settled in her throne.

  “Welcome,” she began. “This conclave—”

  The doors at the back of the room slammed open. Everyone turned, eyes wide, to stare at the figure standing there.

  She wasn’t tall, or thin, or gloriously beautiful. She didn’t need to be any of those things to catch our eyes and hold them, silencing the room. Her skin held the ghosts of old acne scars. Her hair was thick, black, and curly, falling loose down her back. Her dress cascaded down her body and broke into white foam at the hem, a slice of the tide captured eternally in the process of flowing out. It was clear as water, but showed nothing of the skin beneath it. Her eyes were green as driftglass, filled with the deep and silent shadows of the sea. They betrayed nothing. They revealed nothing.

  The Luidaeg stepped over the threshold into the room, and said, “As eldest of Maeve’s children, I claim the right to witness. To observe. And to speak, should the need come upon me. Would any deny me this right?”

  No one said a word.

  “Good.” She took another step forward, moving off to the side as she was followed into the room by another figure. A teenage girl with bone-white hair, looking profoundly uncertain and uncomfortable in her gown of white spider-silk. I gasped. I couldn’t stop myself.

  It was Karen.

  SIX

  “THIS IS KAREN BROWN, and she is under my protection,” said the Luidaeg. She sounded strained, like the words she was using weren’t the ones she would have chosen. That worried me, almost as much as the sight of Karen standing there, small and scared and alone. “Any who would harm her will need to first pass through me.”

  All right. Maybe not totally alone.

  The Luidaeg put a hand on Karen’s shoulder. “It’s all right, honey,” she said, and while the charms amplifying the room carried her words clean and clear to the rest of us, her voice was gentler than it had been before. “Just tell everyone why you’re here, and then we can sit down until it’s time for us to talk.”

  “Are . . . are you sure?” asked Karen. Her voice was barely a whisper. It was the loudest thing I’d ever heard.

  “I promise.”

  Karen bit her lip. Then she turned to face the gallery full of nobles and monarchs, and said, “I’m an oneiromancer. I walk in dreams. I can speak to the sleeping. I’m here because I’ve been commanded to come by Eira Rosynhwyr, Firstborn daughter of Titania, who created elf-shot, and wishes to have a voice in its fate. I’m . . . I’m really sorry. I know I’m not supposed to be here, but I couldn’t tell her no. She said I’d never sleep peacefully again.”

  “I’m going to kill her,” I said. I wasn’t sure how loudly I was speaking. I didn’t actually care. “I’m going to get Acacia to open a Rose Road, and I’m going to go back to where we left Evening sleeping, and I’m going to kill her.”

  The Luidaeg looked amused. She shouldn’t have been able to hear me, but she had. Maybe I shouldn’t have been surprised. “Always the hero,” she said. “Come along, Karen.” She took my niece’s hand and walked the length of the silent gallery with her, until they came to the row where I was seated. Karen moved to sit on Quentin’s other side. He took her hand and squeezed. It was a brotherly gesture, comforting. Her eyes filled with tears, and she dropped her head to his shoulder. The Luidaeg met my eyes and nodded once as she settled next to Karen. She wasn’t happy about this either. But then, when was she happy about anything involving her sister?

  The silence in the gallery was profound. I turned back to the stage. All four of the seated monarchs were staring at us. Siwan looked confused. The High King and Queen looked stunned. Arden looked more resigned. This was the sort of thing she’d been dealing with since the start of her reign. She might not be the most accomplished Queen in the Westlands, but she was well on her way to becoming the most unflappable.

  I grimaced, spreading my hands and mouthing, “Sorry.” Arden shook herself, snapping out of her surprise, and turned to the rest of the room.

  “As you can see, this conclave is of great importance, and will shape the future of our people in a way that cannot be overstated. Everyone will be heard, although the final decision lies with the High King and High Queen of our fair land. For those of you who’ve come because you were summoned, but do not fully understand what is to be discussed, I ask you to be patient, and listen. Master Davies?” Arden beckoned Walther. “Please come, and explain.”

  “Yes, Your Highness.” Walther rose, knees only knocking a little, and stepped onto the stage. There was a small “X” on the far right corner, marking the place where guest speakers should go for their presentations. He took his position, took a deep breath, and began telling the room how he’d been able to alchemically create a cure for elf-shot.

  I knew this story—I’d been there when it was unfolding—and so I took the opportunity to look around the gallery, trying to size up the participants in this little production. Some of them were familiar to me, Sylvester and Li Qin and Dianda and the rest. Most were strangers, which made it hard for me to judge how opinions were going to go. Sylvester and Luna would want the cure distributed freely: they’d be thinking of their daughter, asleep on her bier of roses, who could wake up so much sooner than a century from now if she had the opportunity. Li Qin would probably also support the cure. She had no one under elf-shot—the people who’d served under her wife, January O’Leary, had been murdered, not put to sleep—but she knew what it was like to lose someone she cared about. Dianda, I didn’t know which way she’d go. The rest of our guests from the Divided Courts . . . I didn’t know which way they’d go, either.

  Golden Shore was a mostly changeling Kingdom. Theron and Chrysanthe would probably be in favor. Highmountain was a very traditional Kingdom. Verona and Kabos could go either way, but would most likely support whatever gave the purebloods the most power. And so it went, the math of control, down through all the gathe
red monarchs, nobles, and silent observers.

  The door at the back of the room opened and someone slipped through, taking a seat at the back. Elizabeth Ryan, the head of our local Selkie colony. She sat straight and uncomfortable, holding her purse in her lap like she was afraid it would be stolen. It wasn’t that odd to see her here. If anything, it was odd that she hadn’t arrived earlier. Elf-shot was fatal to Selkies, because of the human bodies under their fae-touched skins. If anyone would want the stuff gone, it was her.

  Walther finished explaining the alchemical processes and principles behind his cure. Reaching up to remove his glasses, he tucked them into his pocket, and asked, “Are there any questions?”

  King Antonio of Angels stood before anyone else could react, his Merry Dancers spinning a pirouette in the air around his head. “How are we to trust that this cure works, and is not simply a bid by the alliance of Mists and Silences to poison our people?” He asked the question mildly enough that it didn’t sound like an accusation, which was a neat trick. He must have spent a lot of time practicing.

  “We know it works because it’s been used, while we were trying to retake my family’s throne and didn’t have time to request permission from the High King.” Walther frowned. “I was worried about that, but he forgave us for our indiscretion, once we explained the situation, and he realized that there’d been some major injustices perpetrated against our people.”

  High Queen Maida cleared her throat. “Please, Master Davies, stay on the path of alchemy, and not the path of politics. Your aunt’s claim to the throne of Silences is not under debate here, and does not need to be defended.”

  “My apologies,” said Walther. He paused for a moment, clearly buying time, before returning his attention to King Antonio. “We know it works because those who’ve used it have been moving amongst us for months now, with no ill-effects.”