Once Broken Faith (22 page)

But more importantly—most importantly—I knew what needed to be done. I needed to be able to tell King Antonio's son that I'd caught the people who killed his daddy. I needed to wake my friend. I had to keep moving, and I needed Tybalt to help me do that.

Finally, he sighed, and looped one arm around my waist. “Take a breath,” he said, and stepped backward, pulling me with him, into the shadows.

The Shadow Roads were the property of the Cait Sidhe, who used them to move from place to place without being seen. Even changeling Cait Sidhe could access them, which explained how some cats could appear and disappear at will. So far as I knew, I was one of very few non-feline individuals to have spent much time in the freezing dark behind the shadows the Cait Sidhe used for transport. Distance was shortened on the Shadow Roads, but not always in a straight line. We ran through Arden's knowe, choosing speed to keep ourselves from freezing. It was a brief trip, thankfully; after no more than ten steps Tybalt was pulling us back into the light, emerging into a broad redwood-and-glass hallway, in front of a pair of double doors guarded by Tylwyth Teg in the royal colors of the Westlands.

The guards blinked at us. I hunched forward, hands on my knees, shivering, and put up a hand to signal them to wait. Tybalt, meanwhile, leaned against the wall, looking like he'd just been out for a stroll. I knew better—it didn't take as much out of him to pull me through the shadows as it had before I learned to run there without resisting, but it was still an effort. He no longer pretended to be untouchable when we were alone. It was probably hurting him to pretend that he was fine, but he would never willingly show weakness among the Divided Courts.

It was a gift that he would show weakness to me.

“Just give us a second,” I said, directing my words toward the floor, since the floor didn't require me to lift my head. “Are the High King and High Queen up?”

“What is your business here?” demanded one of the guards.

Okay.
That
required lifting my head. “My name is October Daye, Knight of Lost Words, hero of the realm, tasked by your bosses to find out what the hell is going on at this conclave. We were polite in appearing in the hall, rather than inside the royal quarters, which I'm pretty sure I have permission to do, what with the whole ‘please fix this' command they gave me. So are they up, or am I going to tell them I couldn't provide the update they asked for because you weren't paying attention during the conclave yesterday?”

The guards exchanged an uneasy look, and I realized two things. First, that they didn't look familiar: they had probably been guarding this door
during
the conclave, and wouldn't have seen me speaking to the group. Second, that if they were that much older than Quentin, I would eat my shoe. This was probably their first “real” assignment.

“Hey, I'm sorry,” I said, straightening up. “It's been a long day, and it's going to be a longer night. Are they up?”

“Yes,” said one of the guards. “Please wait here.”

The guard who'd spoken opened the door and slipped inside, leaving the other to watch me and Tybalt uneasily. Tybalt pushed away from the wall and moved to stand behind me, putting one hand on the curve of my hip as he fell into position. It was a small, reassuring weight, and I stood a little straighter, knowing that no matter what, he had my back.

The remaining guard watched us for a moment more before asking, in a careful tone, “Pardon me, Sir Daye, but your companion, is he . . . ?”

“Tybalt, King of the Court of Dreaming Cats, and betrothed to Sir Daye,” said Tybalt. He couldn't have sounded smugger if he'd been trying—and I'd known him long enough to know that sometimes, he tried. He was a cat, after all. “Don't look so surprised. Cats may have their lapses in judgment, just like everyone else.”

“Maybe don't say these things when my elbows are so close to your kidneys,” I suggested genially.

Tybalt laughed.

The door opened and the second guard emerged, pulling the door wider in the process. “Her Majesty, High Queen Maida of the Westlands, welcomes you.”

“Excellent,” I said. I walked forward, Tybalt following, and stepped into the largest receiving room I'd ever seen in anything short of a knowe's main hall. If the Luidaeg's suite was bigger than my old apartment, this one was bigger than my entire house. The décor matched the redwood-and-stained-glass theme of the rest of the estate. Unlike the Luidaeg's suite, the walls were solid, preventing the morning light from waking the occupants. The ceiling continued upward into a belled dome; while it was stained glass, it was all shades of dark blue, spangled with colored moons and constellations, like a grander version of the hallway.

“Whoa,” I said.

“That's what I said,” said Maida, rising from the chaise longue where she'd been eating her breakfast. She
was wearing a long silver dressing gown that almost matched her hair, and her brief smile faded as she moved toward me. “What news?”

“First, a question, since I was sort of busy. Did Arden tell you about Duchess Dianda Lorden?”

Maida nodded. “The Duchess Lorden was elf-shot in her quarters yesterday, after the conclave had concluded. We were notified both due to the attack, and due to the request that we open the walls long enough to allow a healer to come inside.”

“Good. Just checking. I was able to enter her dreams, with the assistance of Karen Brown and the Luidaeg, and speak with Dianda—who is
not
happy, by the way. Like, I recommend whoever wakes her be wearing protective clothing, because she's likely to wake up swinging.”

“We can't wake her,” said Maida. Her face smoothed into neutrality, and for the first time, I felt like I was having a private audience with the High Queen. “We must be seen to show no favor for those who are our allies, and while Saltmist is not allied with the Westlands, it has worked in alliance with the Mists. We regret what has happened to the Duchess Lorden, but—”

“But because whoever shot her could stand up and use this to prove it doesn't matter what the conclave decides, since anyone who's an ally of the Mists will always have access to the cure, she needs to stay asleep for now,” I said. “I got that part. What I'm getting at is that we
know
who shot her. Dianda saw them. It was Duke Michel of Starfall.”

“Do you have proof?”

“I do,” I said. “It's called ‘you're the High Queen, and your husband is the High King, and either of you can command Duke Michel to give you three drops of blood to verify a claim against him.' Which, by the way, I am happy to make, and Patrick Lorden will be happy to support.”

“Her husband? Won't that seem a bit, well, biased?”

“Blood has no bias. Tell Duke Michel you need to clear the charges before the conclave can continue, and he doesn't get to say that it's unfair, because you're in charge of the continent.” I shook my head. “If we don't do this, we run the risk of it continuing to happen.”

“But why? Duchess Lorden was in favor of sharing the cure, as was Duke Michel.”

I paused. “That's what he said. People can lie. Blood can't lie, but people can. Maybe he doesn't want the cure getting out at all, and so he did this, because he wins either way. If we wake her, he can call the conclave a sham. I'm assuming if there were a mass exodus of offended nobles, the cure would be suppressed?”

Maida nodded slowly. “For at least another year, while it was discussed behind closed doors. We don't
need
the support of the people to release it, but it would go easier if we had it. People get funny ideas about democracy these days.”

“So there's a guaranteed delay. And if we don't wake her, now Michel knows he can erode the vote by shooting people. Faerie isn't a democracy, but most of us are used to having our opinions matter at least a little, and I'm betting that goes double for kings and queens.”

“As it happens, we're very fond of our opinions being heard,” said Tybalt mildly. “We tend to become incensed when ignored.”

Maida sighed. “What would you have us do?”

I took a breath. “I would have you ride Duke Michel's blood and confirm what I've told you. Confirm he did it to sway the conclave. And then wake Dianda up, not because she's an ally of the Mists, but because Michel was trying to use the rules against you, and he doesn't get to
do
that. She wouldn't have been elf-shot if he wasn't trying to be a manipulative dick. Make it clear that the High Crown is not up for manipulation.”

“I could easily point out that
you
are now trying to
manipulate the High Crown,” said Maida, lips twitching with amusement.

“Yeah, but I'm upfront about it.” I turned toward the half-open door on the other side of the room, raising my voice a bit as I called, “Isn't that right, Your Highness?”

The door swung open. Aethlin stepped out. “How did you know?”

“I live with your son. He likes to lurk. He's a lurky, lurky boy. He had to get that from somewhere, and he actually didn't get it from me.” I shrugged. “I figured there was no way you were sleeping when people were getting murdered—no progress on that front, by the way, since Duke Michel decided to complicate my life by shooting my friend—and there's nowhere else in the knowe you have particular reason to be, which meant you were somewhere in this room, listening to us. I made an educated guess.”

“It was a good one,” said Aethlin. “Yes, I'll ride his blood to determine his guilt, and yes, if what you say is true, we will wake the Duchess Lorden regardless of what the conclave decides—but we'll do it
after
the conclave is finished, and her vote will go to her consort.”

I frowned. “Why?”

“Because Patrick Lorden was once Patrick Twycross of Tremont, and I know how he'll vote, especially when his lady love lies sleeping. Hate me for it if you like, but I want this cure to have the support of my vassals, and I would rather deal with an angry man whose opinion is predictable and fixed than an angry Merrow whose thoughts will be more of revenge than what is good for Faerie as a whole.”

There was nothing I could say to that. I shook my head slowly, trying to absorb his words, and finally settled for: “That's cold. Sire.”

“It may be, but that's kingship,” he replied. “I know you understand how important this cure is. We can change the world, but we need the vote to go the correct way.”

“Forgive me for intruding on a matter that impacts the Divided Courts in so complicated a manner, but within the Court of Cats, my word is law,” said Tybalt. “Why is it you can't simply wave your hand, declare, ‘This is how things will be done,' and smack anyone who challenges you?”

“Well, first, I don't really, ah, smack my vassals all that often,” said Aethlin. “It's sort of frowned upon. And second, you're the absolute authority within your own Court. Can you make rules for other Kings? Other Queens? Can you tell them how to do things?”

“Of course not,” said Tybalt. “A King is sacrosanct within his own territory; the same of a Queen.”

“So why do you assume I can?”

Tybalt paused before saying, more carefully, “The Divided Courts have always presented themselves to the Court of Cats as an authority unimpeachable, because they were founded at the request of the Queens. Maeve to stand for darkness; Titania to stand for light. We were granted our independence at the word of Oberon, but he has never stood for us as the Queens agreed to stand for you.”

“And maybe if the Queens were still here to support us and back up our decisions, that's how it would work,” said Maida. “Or maybe we'd be back to the old ways, with a different King for each half of the year, and half our children slaughtered out of fear that they'd challenge for the crown. Some aspects of absolute power have to be forgotten if you want to live a peaceful life. Call me strange, but I like knowing that the place I hold today is likely to be the place I hold tomorrow. Predictability is an odd obsession of mine.”

I said nothing. I was thinking.

Back when Oberon and his Queens were still here—when they were people, not stories—the title “Divided Courts”
meant
something. Seelie and Unseelie, dark and light, beautiful and terrible, all those factors played into
where someone belonged . . . but what
really
mattered was which of the Queens had claimed your bloodline. Apart from them, we had the children of Oberon, the heroes, who were rarer, since Oberon has always been more reluctant to claim descendant lines as his own, and whose role was less rulership, and more “keeping everyone else from killing each other.” The Tuatha de Dannan were Oberon's by birthright. None of the stories I'd heard about Faerie before the King and Queens vanished placed a Tuatha on a throne. It was always Daoine Sidhe and Tylwyth Teg before that, Titania's and Maeve's respectively, playing out the age-old conflict of our Queens over and over again in microcosm.

Sometimes I wondered whether our forebearers did us a favor when they disappeared. Maybe it was the only way we could ever have learned to stop slaughtering each other.

“Before we go too far down the political rabbit hole here, which hey, you boys can do all day if that's what floats your boat, but I have things to do and a murderer to find, so I want to be absolutely sure I understand how this is going to go,” I said. “We're going to return to the conclave. You're going to open with the announcement that Dianda has been elf-shot, and with the statement that Duke Michel was responsible. After you ride his blood and confirm what I've said, you're going to do what? Kick him out?”

“No,” said Maida, before Aethlin could speak. A slow smile spread across her face. “We're going to have him elf-shot.”

I blinked. “I thought we were discussing the merits of getting
rid
of elf-shot.”