Late Eclipses (41 page)

“Hey!” I yelped, dodging. I was too slow: a goblet caught me on the shoulder, splashing my jacket and the side of my neck in viscous green. The liquid burned when it touched my skin. Behind me, I heard Connor bark in pained surprise. I didn’t stop. There wasn’t time.

“What is the
meaning
of this?” shouted Sylvester. I looked up. He was facing Raysel, his back toward the door, and Oleander was between them with a knife in her hand. The blade glistened in the light. She still wore a Hob’s face, but she wasn’t making any attempt to look like anyone but herself. The masks were coming off.

“Sylvester, get back!” Manuel flashed past me, still running. “
Manuel!
”

He heard me. I know he heard me, and I know he knew his former compatriots well enough to know what would happen if he didn’t stop. He didn’t even pause. He just kept running.

I was ten feet away and gaining speed when Manuel shoved Sylvester aside; his expression was frighteningly like the one his sister wore when she threw herself at death to save my life. Oleander lunged forward, burying her knife between Manuel’s ribs. He fell, taking the knife with him, and she found herself staring down the blade of Sylvester’s sword.

“Explain yourself,” he snarled.

She turned and ran.

Sylvester looked toward his daughter. She stared back at him, golden eyes wide and frightened. Rayseline was no innocent, but she’d been used, just like Manuel. The only difference was that she’d known what she was getting into.

“Raysel—” I began.

She whirled and ran after Oleander, moving with desperate speed. Sylvester watched her go, sword still naked in his hand. “Rayseline?” he repeated, like he’d never heard the name before.

I pushed past Sylvester and dropped to my knees, trying to roll Manuel onto his back. He was heavier than he looked—most teenage boys are—but I managed to hook my hands under his shoulders and flip him over. “Manuel?”

His eyes were open and glazed; he wasn’t looking at me. “Yes?”

“Are you all right?” It was a stupid question: the answer was sticking out of his chest. There wasn’t much blood. The knife formed an almost perfect seal against his skin, keeping his life locked inside. My own skin was burning from the liquid that splashed me, but I ignored the pain. Manuel’s danger was a lot more immediate.

“I’m fine.” He smiled. His eyes were getting more and more distant. “I’m really, really good.”

“Toby, is he—” began Sylvester.

“Get help!” I snapped, resting Manuel’s head on my knee. “Don’t talk. We’re going to get Jin, and it’s going to be okay. Just breathe until she gets here.” Connor came puffing up behind Sylvester, one hand clapped over his left shoulder. The fabric of his shirt was wet there; he’d clearly taken the brunt of Oleander’s attack.

Manuel closed his eyes. “Was that the Duke?” he asked.

Sylvester was still standing there, seemingly rooted in the spot. “Yeah,” I said.

“Is he hurt?” Manuel’s voice was fading.

“He’s fine. You saved him.” I looked back down, biting my lip as I saw how pale he’d become. “We’re gonna get you some help. You’ll be fine.”

“Liar,” he said, and smiled again.

“Just hold on. Sylvester, why are you still here? Why aren’t you getting Jin?” I sniffled. “Please, hurry . . .”

Sylvester knelt beside me. “Look at him, Toby.”

I glanced at the knife again and winced. Thick, nearblack blood was starting to leak out around the blade. Blood isn’t supposed to be that color. “What’s happening?”

“Was that Oleander?” Biting my lip, I nodded. Sylvester sighed deeply, putting his hand on Manuel’s shoulder. “Manuel, can you hear me?”

“Of course, my liege.” Manuel opened his eyes, forcing another frail smile. “Can I be of service?” His voice was fading in and out, becoming weaker.

“No, son, you’re fine; rest,” said Sylvester. “I have something for you.”

“We need to help him.”

Sylvester raised his eyes, looking at me. “There’s no help for him now, October. You know that.”

“There must be
something!
” Connor put his hand on my shoulder. I fumbled to take it, clinging.

“Oleander does her work too well. Let go.” Sylvester looked at Connor’s hand and said nothing, turning back to Manuel. “You’re going to die, Manuel. I’m sorry.”

Manuel licked his lips, whispering, “I betrayed you.”

“I know,” said Sylvester. “I knew as soon as I saw Raysel’s face.”

“She betrayed you, too.”

“I know. Hush, now.” He closed his eyes. “By the root and the branch, the rose and the tree, by oak, ash, yarrow, and thorn, I say you’ve served me well; by the moon and stars, by ice and fire, by willow, rowan, elm, and pine, I name you a knight of my service, bound to Shadowed Hills until Faerie is no more. What say you of this?”

For a moment, I thought Manuel had already slipped past answering. Then, in a voice that was barely a whisper, he asked, “Really, Your Grace?”

“Yes, Manuel. What do you say?”

“Of course. Thank you, Your . . . ” He closed his eyes, sighing. I waited for him to take another breath and finish the sentence.

He never did.

 

 

 

S
YLVESTER OFFERED ME HIS HAND as he stood. I laced my fingers through his, letting him pull me to my feet. Then I pulled away, stepping back to lean against Connor. The fae don’t age: purebloods stop when they hit adulthood, holding onto the illusion of youth forever. Despite all that, at that moment, Sylvester looked very old.

“I didn’t know he’d run ahead,” I said, barely above a whisper.

“Yes, you did.” Sylvester smiled sadly. “He’s been waiting for that sort of cavalry charge ever since his sister died.”

“I guess so.” I glanced at Manuel. He looked more asleep than dead, if you ignored the knife sticking out of his chest. “The night-haunts . . . ”

“They’ll come.” He bent to pull the knife free, not flinching at the gush of black blood that came with it. “Follow me, both of you. We need to be away from here before the guards arrive.”

“The guards?” I asked numbly. Manuel was dead. Paradoxically, I wanted to wait for the night-haunts. I wanted to see Dare again; wanted to apologize for sending her brother to join her so soon.

“Yes. Rayseline knows you’re here. She must have called the guards by now, and told them you kidnapped Connor and attacked me—Connor, it’s good to see that you’re well. I was concerned.”

“Sir,” said Connor, sounding pained. I glanced back. He was still clutching his shoulder. “Sorry I didn’t call. I was busy.”

“I can see that,” said Sylvester. He touched the wall. A door swung open, revealing a narrow hall. “Raysel is doubtless going to say October killed Manuel and possibly kidnapped you, Connor. She’ll claim I don’t know my own mind.”

I stared at him. “Sylvester, she’s your daughter. How can you—”

“Simon was my brother. How can I not?”

I bit my lip before I could say anything more and followed Sylvester into the wall.

Sylvester closed the door once Connor was through. “They won’t find us here,” he said, dropping the poisoned knife. “Raysel thinks she knows my halls better than I do. Half the plans were drawn with me watching over the architect’s shoulders, and yet she thinks she can sneak around without my knowing. Can I have the other knife?”

“What—oh.” I offered the knife I’d taken from Manuel. He took it delicately, dropping it beside the first. Then he turned and pulled me into a tight hug, pressing my face to his chest.

“Stop
dying
on me,” he whispered fiercely.

“I don’t do it on purpose.” His betrayal still stung. I hugged him back anyway. Angry as I was, I’d loved him for too long to let that come between us. There’d be time to yell at him for lying to me later, when we weren’t all in danger.

“I know you don’t. It’s still becoming a habit.” He pushed me out to arm’s length, studying my face. “Are you hurt?”

“A little scorched, but okay. None of the poison got in my mouth. Connor is—”

“Connor is fine,” said Connor firmly. “Just go on.”

“Right.” I sighed. “I’m sorry, Sylvester. I didn’t know—”

“I know.” He reached out to tuck my hair behind one pointed ear, and sighed. “You look so much like your mother. I’m sorry. Now come on.” He stepped back and started down the hall.

I followed him, shivering slightly; Connor followed me. When the silence got to be too much, I said, “I wasn’t sure Raysel was involved.”

“Of course she was.” Sylvester sighed. “I hoped you’d find it was someone outside the knowe, even someone outside my fiefdom altogether, because if it was someone on the inside, Raysel was involved. It’s that simple.”

“But how did you—”

“I didn’t; not until Connor vanished, and she took it as calmly as if a vase had been broken. If I’d known for sure—if I’d known
anything
for sure—I’d have stopped her.” There was ice in his voice. “Being my daughter wouldn’t have protected her.”

I glanced at Connor. He was looking steadily forward, face an expressionless mask. Hearing that your wife didn’t care when you vanished had to hurt, even if the marriage was strictly political. There was nothing I could say to make it better, and so I turned my attention to Sylvester. “We left the knives.”

“We can’t carry them with us.”

“Why not?”

Sylvester looked at me blandly. “Do you really want to wander the knowe with a poisoned knife when my daughter’s telling people you’re trying to kill me?”

Sometimes it’s impossible to argue with him. “No,” I admitted, “but that doesn’t make me happy about being unarmed.”

“Unarmed?” He laughed. “Toby, the day you’re unarmed, I’m giving you the Duchy.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Yeah, but it’s accurate,” said Connor. I wrinkled my nose at him, and he smiled. It was a small smile. It still made me feel better about how he was taking things, and how badly he might have been hurt in Oleander’s attack. If he was being snotty, he was going to be okay.

Sylvester stopped, opening a small door. I looked at him curiously. He motioned for Connor and me to go through. When Sylvester gives a direct order, it’s best to follow.

The room on the other side of the door was large but seemed small, since it was jammed past capacity with swords, spears, and other instruments for making people die. I stopped, staring. Connor did the same. Sylvester knocked him into me as he came through the door, nearly sending us both sprawling.

“We’re in the
armory?
” I said. “You just said I shouldn’t be armed!”

“No: I said you shouldn’t carry Oleander’s knives. I didn’t say anything about being unarmed.” Sylvester turned to select a sword from the wall. It was a delicate thing, with a hard, gleaming edge that promised sharpness. A trail of brambles and wild roses was etched near the hilt—the sort of ornamental touch Faerie has never been able to resist. The purebloods would carve pretty pictures in the sky if they could find a ladder long enough. “This should do. Not too heavy, but you have enough muscle in your shoulders that I don’t want to give you something too light, either.”

“I don’t know how to use a sword,” I protested.

Connor snorted, taking down a bow for himself. “If you can use it to break something, you’ll figure it out.” I shot him a look. He grinned.

“You did well enough with Blind Michael, and it’s time you learned,” Sylvester said implacably, pressing the hilt into my hand. “Hang on. I’ll find you a scabbard.”

I studied the sword, feeling the weight of it as Sylvester moved away. I’ve watched people fight with swords for most of my life, but I never got past the “swing it like a baseball bat and hope for the best” stage. Etienne gave me lessons. Three of them. Then he said I was a menace and refused to teach me anything more for fear that I’d slice his head off. Still, if Sylvester said it was my sword, it was my sword.

Sylvester returned, offering a scabbard and belt. “This should do until we can get something fitted to your hips,” he said.

“I’ll refrain from taking offense,” I said dryly, and held out my hand.

Etienne opened the armory door.

The four of us stared at each other. I had time to say, “Etienne, this isn’t—” before he rushed forward, knocking the sword out of my hand and driving me to the floor. For once, I landed on my ass rather than either my abused back or shoulders. That was the only positive side of the fall. The armory floor was hard as hell, especially when I was being slammed into it by two hundred pounds of testosterone-charged Tuatha de Dannan. As often as men slam me into things, you’d think I’d get laid more.

The impact knocked the air out of my lungs. Etienne yanked my head back, slamming it against the floor, and I winced, although not too hard. I was too busy trying to figure out when the knife wound up in his hand. Connor was trying to pull him off me, but wasn’t having much luck—Etienne outweighed him by a good thirty pounds, and a whole lot of angry.