Late Eclipses (47 page)

She stared. I looked back as calmly as I could, daring her to speak. For a long moment, all was silent. Then she leaned back, crossing one leg over the other, and said, “Very well. For your crimes against this Kingdom, again I sentence you, October Daye, to burn—”

“Excuse me?” Sylvester’s voice was mild and almost unobtrusive.

The Queen’s head snapped up, eyes narrowing. “It isn’t your turn to speak, Torquill. Your trial is next.”

“I believe,” he said, still, mild, “that as a subject of this kingdom, I have the right to ask why this charming young lady—a friend of my fiefdom, and a knight in my service—is going to be burned. It seems rather a waste of a good knight, if you ask me.”

“I don’t believe anyone did,” she said, between gritted teeth.

“Even so, I’d like to hear the charges, since I believe it’s been established that she killed neither the Lady of the Tea Gardens nor my charming—and quite living—wife.”

The Queen’s eyes swept the crowd, finding no support. Sharply, she said, “She stands accused of the murder of Blind Michael, Firstborn of Oberon and Maeve.” She couldn’t accuse me of Oleander’s death. No one who wasn’t there to see what happened knew the truth about how Oleander de Merelands met her end.

“Oh, yes! Yes, she killed my father-in-law. There’s just one problem, Highness.”

“What’s that?” she asked, voice dropping to a dangerously low register.

“She’s been pardoned for the crime.” Sylvester snapped his fingers. Quentin stepped out of the crowd, a scroll in his hands. If that kid’s grin had been any bigger, it would’ve split his face in two. “Permission for my page to approach the throne?”

“Granted,” hissed the Queen. Quentin crossed the space between Sylvester and the Queen in about eight steps, pressing the scroll into her hands before he bowed and stepped away. She looked at him suspiciously, breaking the wax seal on the parchment.

A deep, melodic voice filled the room. “By the order of King Aethlin Sollys and Queen Maida Sollys, rulers of the Western Lands, Countess October Christine Daye, daughter of Amandine, is granted full pardon for her role in the death of the Firstborn known as Blind Michael. We have examined the events leading to his death and determined that what fault exists is upon Blind Michael himself. We thank the Countess Daye for acting as our executioner in this matter. By our hands, King Aethlin and Queen Maida Sollys of the Western Lands.”

The crowd erupted into cheers as the proclamation finished. Not everyone was cheering—some were silent out of shock, I was sure, and some because they’d wanted to see me burn. Sylvester was quiet, watching the Queen with the mild expression I recognized as a sign of intense concentration. He wanted to see how she reacted.

So did I. My first trial wasn’t a trial; it was an excuse to condemn me. This one would have been the same, but Sylvester changed the rules. He and I were going to have words about that pardon later. I knew it was genuine. He wasn’t dumb enough to forge a message from the King of the Westlands. She didn’t have an excuse to send me to my death this time. She couldn’t even prosecute me for the jailbreak, because the King had made the crime she imprisoned me for irrelevant. So what was she going to do?

The cheering faded, and the crowd waited to hear what she’d say. The Queen stared at the scroll with narrowed eyes, like she could will the words to change. Then she lifted her head, looking at me.

“A pardon,” she said, as lightly as if she were requesting a cup of tea.

“Apparently so, Highness,” Sylvester said.

“From King Sollys, no less. Fascinating. I didn’t know he kept such close tabs on what goes on in our little Kingdom.” This time her gaze was for Sylvester, moonmad eyes filled with suspicion. He met that look without flinching. Maybe he cheated by requesting that pardon, his look said, but she’d cheated first by requiring it.

“Apparently so, Highness,” he said again.

Her eyes came back to me, and I could see the hatred there. I just kept screwing up her plans. “Fine,” she said, throwing the pardon aside. It hit the floor and rolled closed, the wax seal turning deep blue as it melted back together. “It seems we have no crimes to charge you with. Oleander de Merelands killed Lily and was killed in turn by Rayseline Torquill; you’ve been pardoned for the death of Blind Michael. Your luck has held.”

“Does that mean I’m free to go, Your Highness?”

She glared at me even as she nodded. “Yes, you are.”

I paused. It probably wasn’t worth it, but. . . “Your Highness?”

“What is it?” she snapped. Great. Trust me to push my luck with an angry, half-crazy queen.

“My knives, Your Highness.”

She stared at me, then clapped her hands and disappeared. My scabbard appeared in front of me, hitting the floor before I had a chance to catch it. I stooped to pick it up, checking to see that both knives were where they belonged. They were. I could feel the iron knife, even through the leather of the scabbard. That was going to be a problem.

And then May and Quentin were there, swinging me into an embrace that was half joy, half relief. Quentin was laughing, and May was grinning through her tears. I barked a laugh that was almost a sob and hugged them back.

Sylvester walked over, moving at the head of a slightly more sedate wave of people. He nodded to me. “I told you not to worry, didn’t I?”

I stepped away from Quentin and May. “You could’ve warned me.”

“And had you mouth off to the Queen more than you already were?”

He had a point. I do tend to get cocky. “It was still sneaky.”

“Agreed.” I leaned over to hug him, ignoring the way my scabbard dug into my belly. That seemed to be some sort of cue, because Stacy, Cassandra, and Raj hit us from the left, while Walther, Mitch, and Connor came from the right. Someone in the middle of that massive, relieved embrace was laughing; after a moment, I realized it was me.

We weren’t finished. Raysel was missing, and Simon, wherever he was, wasn’t going to be happy about Oleander’s death. The Queen of the Mists hated me, and Goldengreen was full of Lily’s former subjects. Luna was recovering, but weak. And for the moment, none of that mattered. We were here, we were alive, and somehow, things were going to work out. I was sure of it. Things have to work out in the end, even if it takes throwing yourself at them until something gives way. Most of the time it’s you, but sometimes, when you get lucky, it’s the world.

“Satisfied now?” asked Sylvester, shouting to be heard over the crowd.

I grinned, shaking my head. “You
bastard
.”

“And?”

“And nothing.” We weren’t done yet—the world probably still needed to be saved. The world almost always needs to be saved.

The world could wait.

Closing my eyes, I leaned forward and hugged Sylvester more tightly, letting the laughter of the people around me chase away the fears of the last few months. It would be all right, because we would
make
it that way. We had to. Wait and see.

Coming in September 2011 the fifth October Daye novel from

Read on for a sneak preview.

T
HE DINER WAS SMALL ENOUGH TO BE claustrophobic, and the state of the floors and windows told me the owners weren’t particularly worried about the Health Department. The smell of hot grease and fried fish hung in the air, so thick that breathing it was probably enough to clog the average man’s arteries. Pixies hovered above the counter, occasionally diving to seize chunks of deep-fried
something
from a platter that seemed to have been set out for that express purpose.

The man working the grill was portly, balding, and blue-skinned, with fringed gills set deep into his neck. This had to be a purely fae establishment, like Home used to be��a business on the borderline between worlds, owned and operated without mortal intervention.

I glanced at Connor. “Could I find this place without you?”

Connor grinned. “Not unless Bill wanted you to.” He raised a hand in greeting to the man behind the counter. “Hey, Bill.”

Bill looked up, jerking a thumb toward the door at the back of the diner. “She’s waitin’ for you.”

“Got it,” said Connor. “Toby, come on.”

“Private room?” I asked, following. Quentin was only a step behind me, although his attention was diverted by the fish on the counter. Daoine Sidhe and knight-intraining or not, he’s still a teenage boy. “Do they serve food back there?”

Quentin shot me a grateful look. Connor nodded.

“Sure.” Looking back over his shoulder, he called, “Bill! Three seafood stews and a fish and chips platter to the back.” He glanced at Quentin and added, “And a chocolate milkshake.”

“Large,” said Quentin.

“Got it,” rumbled Bill. “Herself has already been here for a while. I’d move it if I were you.”

“We’re moving,” said Connor. He pushed open the door to the back, shooting me a pleading look before stepping inside. I’d have had to be blind to miss the “please behave” in his expression.

I rolled my eyes, following him into the room, and stopped dead. “Holy . . .”

We could have been standing in the main dining room of a five-star restaurant, the sort that tourists would sell kidneys to get reservations at. The opposite wall consisted of three sets of massive sliding glass doors, leading out to a balcony that might, on a warmer night, have been a pleasant place to nurse a cocktail or two. They were open, letting a fresh breeze blow through and circulate the air. The walls were varnished redwood, and the tables were elegant and expensive-looking, made from deep gray slate shot through with veins of white. An appetizer plate in a place like this would cost me a month’s rent. Maybe two.

Dianda Lorden sat alone at the room’s sole occupied table. A half-empty plate of seafood linguine was pushed to one side, and she was sipping from a wineglass of cloudy liquid. Whatever she was drinking was probably heavily laced with salt. Merrow shunt salt almost as fast as they take it in—that’s how they can survive in salt water without getting poisoned. Normally, just breathing underwater would replenish her body’s supply. Up here, she needed to find other ways to take it in.

The other local Duchess of my acquaintance, Luna Torquill, nearly died from salt poisoning not that long ago. The irony didn’t escape me.

At first glance, I thought Dianda was wearing a long blue dress and sitting in a low chair. Then I realized it was actually a short blue blouse, and she was sitting in a wheelchair, which would let her retain a certain amount of mobility on land without the strain of being bipedal. Where her legs had been, she now had a classic mermaid’s tail, scaled in jewel-toned blue, green, and purple. Her flukes trailed to brush the floor, flipping upward every few seconds in what looked like an involuntary motion. She couldn’t have been mistaken for human, or even for Daoine Sidhe . . . but oak and ash, she was beautiful.

She looked up, gaze going from me to Quentin, and finally to Connor, before she raised her eyebrows in silent question.

If anyone was going to justify Quentin’s presence, it was me. “He’s my squire, Your Grace.” On land, any invitation issued to knights automatically includes their squires. I didn’t know if things worked differently in the Undersea, but Connor hadn’t said anything, and I trusted him to keep me from sticking my foot too far into my mouth.

Dianda’s attention swung to me. “Countess Daye,” she said, raising her wineglass for another sip. “Patrick couldn’t join us. He was afraid you’d decide to knock him over again.” A slight quirk of her lips told me she was joking. Possibly.

“I could have decided not to, Your Grace, but then he’d probably be out cold until sometime next century.” Elf-shot won’t kill a pureblood, but it’ll put a major crimp in their social life. “I appreciate your seeing me on such short notice.”

“When the Luidaeg asks me to do something, I try to oblige her.” She set her glass aside. “Besides, I know you. You’re Sylvester’s changeling knight, or you were, until they decided to give you the Winterrose’s County. You’re the one who killed Blind Michael. The Undersea owes you a debt of gratitude for that. He took from us, too.” She paused before adding, more quietly, “You’re Amandine’s daughter.”

“All true,” I admitted, walking over to her table. “May we sit?”

Dianda looked at me appraisingly before turning to Connor. “Take the kid to the front and feed him. Feed yourself, too. Those landers let you get way too thin.”

“Quentin, go with Connor,” I said, still facing Dianda.

“But—”

“You’ll be between us and the door. Now go eat your fish. We’ll be out in a minute.”

“Come on,” said Connor. Quentin doubtless wanted to stay and argue more, but his training won out; arguing with me in front of a Duchess would have been inappropriate. Two sets of footsteps moved away.