One Salt Sea: An October Daye Novel (31 page)

“Uh, Etienne? A little help here?” I swallowed. The blade she was holding to my neck was very sharp, and I was suddenly intensely reminded of how much she disliked me—and how tempted she might be to “slip.”

“Your Majesty, the Countess Daye was merely undertaking her commission as she understood it, seeking to find the answers to the troubles which plague your fair Kingdom’s shores,” said Etienne, in a voice as slick as buttered silk. “There has been no treason here. You have my word on that.”

“Yours, but not her own? An interesting statement in and of itself.” The Queen’s breath was warm against my ear as she leaned closer, and hissed, “Blood will tell.” Even with her voice pitched so low it was barely audible, the power native to her bloodline—Siren and Banshee both run in her veins—hummed through my bones, chilling them. She can’t command you with her voice. But she
can
kill you.

“I believe the blade in your hand is distracting her such that she is unable to speak in her own defense,” said Etienne, still sounding utterly calm. I wasn’t sure whether I wanted to hug him for keeping things under control, or slap him for not pulling her off me. “If you would release her, I’m sure she would have a great deal of interest to share.”

There was a long pause. Finally, with a snort of derision, the Queen snapped, “Very well. But if she so much as twitches toward a weapon, both your lives are forfeit, for cause of treason.”

I found myself strangely relieved that she hadn’t said “for reason of treason.” I’m pretty sure the Queen would have slit my throat if I’d started giggling. “Cool by me,” I said, trying to move my vocal cords as little as possible.

“Then we are in agreement,” said Etienne. “Your Highness?”

The Queen pushed me away, making a sound that would have been rude coming from anyone who wasn’t royalty. I took advantage of the shove, using it to justify taking two long steps away from her before I turned, dropping immediately into a full formal curtsy. It was the only appropriate thing to do.

“Rise,” snarled the Queen. “I would like the explanation I have been promised.”

I straightened, keeping my expression neutral. It wasn’t easy. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

The threat of coming war had sea-changed the Queen of the Mists once again. Her white-foam hair was plaited back, making the alien lines of her face seem sharper and more angular. There was a new madness in her eyes, layered thick over the old, making it almost impossible to look into them for long. I forced myself to keep looking at her. Whatever she was looking for, she wouldn’t find it if I let her stare me down.

She stared into my eyes for a count of ten, a wordless curse on her snarling face. Bit by bit, the new madness broke, fading back into the old, familiar kind of crazy. It said something about my day that I viewed this as an improvement. “Well?” she demanded.

The power had gone out of her voice. She was still an angry monarch, but she was no longer an angry monarch on the verge of making my brain run out of my ears. “Whoever told you they saw me enter the Undersea was correct. I was invited by the Duchess of Saltmist, so that I could search the quarters of her missing sons for any signs of who might have taken them.” I didn’t mention that she’d invited me because I asked her to. Somehow, I didn’t see that helping my case.

Her eyes narrowed. “How did you survive this ‘visit’?”

“I can show you. May I get something from my pocket?”

“If you reach for a weapon, my guards will cut you down before you draw.”

“Kinda figured.” I slipped my right hand into my pocket as slowly as I could, producing the shell the Luidaeg gave me. It was warm to the touch, but I couldn’t tell how much of that was from my own body heat. “Have you seen one of these before?”

The Queen gasped. The sound grated against my bones. “Where did you . . .”

“You know the Luidaeg and I have a long-standing association. She wanted me to monitor the situation between the land and sea.” The shell was nothing but a communication device, but she didn’t need to know that. I sure as hell wasn’t going to show her any of the other things I was carrying.

“And she’s siding with the land?” Was that hope I heard in her voice? Hope, or something like it. I almost hated to dash it against the cold rocks of reality.

“She’s not siding with anyone. She can’t. But she can ask me to do it.” I glanced toward Etienne, offering what I hoped was a reassuring nod. The poor guy didn’t spend enough time around me to be used to this sort of thing. “She wants this resolved as much as the rest of us do.”

“So she sent you to the seas.” The Queen’s moon-mad eyes narrowed. “What did you learn?”

“That you weren’t responsible for what happened to the Lordens, but someone from the land was.” I took a breath, and launched into my explanation once again. I was starting to feel like I needed flash cards, just to make things go faster. The Queen listened without interruption, her face giving away nothing of what she was feeling.

I told her almost everything. Almost, because I wasn’t willing to tell her my daughter was among the missing. It wasn’t because I was afraid she’d take me off the case—that sort of thing only happens in the mortal world; in Faerie, danger to family is supposed to make you better at your job, not worse—but because if she waved Gillian off as an acceptable loss, I’d have to kill her.

Finally, I finished, and fell into an uneasy silence, waiting for her to respond. After a long pause, she said, “I see. You come here only to add worse news to what I already have. Your courtesy grows with every passing day.”

“I’m here to ask you, to
beg
you, to please call off this pointless war. At least one person has already died.” I offered my hands, palms up, in a beseeching gesture. “The Lordens know you don’t have their children. Help me find them. Give me the resources I need. Apologies and restitutions can be made, and we can end this.”

Her frown was almost puzzled this time. “Call it off? But you said it yourself. People have died. There’s no calling it off once blood is shed.”

“But—”

“Oberon’s Law is very clear. You, more than anyone, should know that. Only in a time of war is killing justified, and I’d not make criminals of my subjects. The war goes forward. There will be a reckoning.”

“For what? The damages done? Won’t that just do
more
damage?”

“Then we’ll have a reckoning for that, until the better side stands triumphant, and the last reckoning pays for all.” She looked serious, like what she was saying made perfect sense. Her knife had vanished in the frills of her skirt, leaving her the very image of the innocent, slightly puzzled Queen of Faerie—Titania in disarray. I only had to see her eyes to know that I couldn’t change her mind. As long as there was an excuse to fight, they’d fight. I had to take their excuses away, and that meant proving this war had been provoked.

“What if the Undersea forgives it?” I asked, desperately.

Her innocence cracked, revealing the anger in her eyes. “Would you have me forgive their insult?”

“If they can forgive a death, yeah, I sort of would. It seems like the reasonable thing to do, you know?” Etienne shot me an alarmed look. I did my best to ignore it. Maybe baiting the Queen isn’t smart, but neither is going to war to prove that you can.

The Queen took a sharp breath. Then—so marginally I almost missed it—she nodded. “
If
the Undersea will absolve us of all complicity in this matter, and
if
no subject of this Kingdom dies . . . perhaps I can see fit to standing down the troops.”

It wasn’t enough. It was going to have to do. “Who told you I’d gone into the water?” I asked, trusting my abrupt change of subject to get me an answer.

“A messenger,” she said, eyes narrowing.

“Who spoke to the messenger?”

“Dugan.”

“In that case, we’d like to speak to Dugan, if you don’t mind.”

She looked like she wanted to refuse me, but couldn’t find a good reason. In the end, she shook her head, and grudgingly replied, “Fine. He’s in the armory.”

“Your Highness is gracious,” I said, and bowed before turning to walk away, leaving her standing, alien and angry, surrounded by the preparations for a war we didn’t need to have.

Sometimes I think the world never learns. Or changes.

D
UGAN WAS WHERE THE QUEEN said he��d be: in the armory, conducting a small army of pages in the complicated business of preparing for a war. Most of them were too occupied with their tasks to notice our arrival. I cast a glance toward Etienne, raising an eyebrow. He was frowning, his attention on the children. I shared the sentiment.

It’s hard to estimate age on fae kids—differing rates of growth and standards of physical maturity mean it’s possible for an adolescent to be in his thirties, although most don’t slow that sharply until they hit puberty—but even so, I wouldn’t have placed some of those kids at more than nine. There’s a certain ungainliness that comes with the years between eight and fourteen that tends to fade away on kids who get stuck at that age for more than the customary span. These kids didn’t just look young; they
were
young.

“Should I be calling child welfare, Harrow?” I asked, leaning in the doorframe.

Dugan’s head snapped up, eyes widening, then narrowing as he took in the sight of me. He focused on Etienne, and spat, “You bring a traitor here, unbound? Is this a joke? Or have you elected to join her in her treasons?”

“Um, hello?” I raised a hand. “Not a traitor, and the Queen told us where to find you. Or do you think we’re such major badasses that we fought our way through the knowe to come and loiter at you in an imposing fashion? Because I’ve got to say, I’m flattered.”

I was forcing a levity I didn’t feel. It had the desired effect. Several pages ducked their heads, trying to hide their amusement. Dugan’s anger faded as confusion and irritation battled for dominance over his expression. As seemed to be often the case with Dugan, irritation won. “How is it that you were allowed to enter without being arrested and—one would hope—executed on the spot?”

“I’m starting to think I may be the only person in this Kingdom who doesn’t see my survival as a bad thing.” I pushed away from the wall. “Well, except for the local King of Cats, and the Duke and Duchess of Saltmist, and most of the staff at Shadowed Hills, and everyone at Goldengreen, and if we’re done with the name-dropping and being pissy part of our program, we
did
come here for a reason. Beyond annoying you, I mean. That’s just a really nice bonus.”

“October,” said Etienne. He was trying to sound chiding, but he couldn’t even manage to sound like he meant it. Turning his attention back to Dugan, he continued, “We were sent by Her Highness to speak with you. If you would have a moment?”

“Oh, of course. I always have time to drop everything for the Countess,” said Dugan, sounding disgusted.

I smiled. There’s nothing like open disdain to make me feel better about my role in this world. “And that’s how I like it. Can we get on with it?”

“Will it make you leave faster?”

“Generally.”

“Please.”

“According to the Queen, you’re the one who spoke to the messenger who saw me go into the water with the Duchess of Saltmist. Can you describe this messenger to us, please?”

Dugan frowned. “You’re here for
that
?”

“Yup. So it should be easy for you to give me what I want and get me out of your hair.” A page paused next to me, staggering under the weight of his armload of arrows. I leaned over to steady him, never taking my eyes off Dugan. “I can wait until you do.”

“She was a changeling. Brown hair. Blue eyes. I’d never seen her before in my life.” He sneered. “Just another bit of mongrel trash seeking to purchase a place in the Court.”

“I’m going to ignore the part where you’re trying to bait me,” I said. “What else? What breed was she? Did she use magic in your presence?” A nasty suspicion was taking shape at the back of my mind. Brown hair and blue eyes didn’t describe any of the changelings I knew—except, by a very generous definition of “blue,” me. But illusions are wonderful things, and if you keep them subtle, they can make a lot of details difficult to be certain of.

“Some sort of Daoine Sidhe out-breed,” he said, sniffing. “I’m surprised you don’t know her by description, Daye. I’d think you mongrels would have a great deal in common.”

“I’ve been upgraded to mongrel? You flatter me.” Taunting him was keeping me from losing my temper, if only just. “Magic, Harrow. Did she use any?”

“She had some sort of filter around her,” he said dismissively, as if nothing a “mongrel” did could be of any concern.

Idiots like that are why I sometimes despair for the future of Faerie. “What did it
smell
like?” I asked, from between gritted teeth.

“Wax,” he said, with a wave of one hand. “Wax and some sort of flower.”