And it wasn’t like it mattered. “Of course, Your Highness,” I said. Stopping at my mark, I turned to face the audience. “You have been informed that King Antonio Robertson of Angels has stopped his dancing. I remained behind, along with the Luidaeg, better known to many as the sea witch, to ride his blood and determine what had happened.”
“Why do we trust you?” demanded a voice from the back of the gallery. It was unfamiliar. I squinted in its direction.
“Well, for one thing, you can see my face,” I said. “Who are you?”
“Duke Michel of Starfall,” said the voice. Its owner stood, revealing himself as a slim, green-haired Daoine Sidhe whose tabard appeared to have been made by stitching together hundreds of tiny malachite disks. Pureblood women don’t have a monopoly on clothes made of ridiculous materials.
I swallowed several comments to exactly that effect. Instead, I said, as calmly as I could, “I was under the supervision of the Luidaeg at all times. If you wish to challenge my honor, I’ll be happy to meet with you and discuss whether or not I should be insulted. If you wish to challenge her honor, that’s between the two of you. But I don’t recommend it.”
Duke Michel opened his mouth to answer. Then he stopped, eyes going to a point off to the side, and paled. I had no doubt that the Luidaeg was doing something horrible with her teeth. She was fond of that sort of thing.
“I appreciate the clarification,” he said, and sat. The other nobles from Starfall closed around him, rustling and murmuring behind their hands.
I glanced to Arden. She nodded marginally. I turned back to the gallery.
“I rode King Robinson’s blood, not because I’m a changeling, but because I’m a knight errant and hero of the realm; it’s my duty to investigate such matters. I was unable to identify his killer. He never saw them clearly.” There were other issues—the shadows jumping, that torn metal sound—but I didn’t want to reveal them like this. I would chase them down. I would find my answers. I would do it without a dozen nobles tripping over themselves trying to beat me to the prize, to prove they were better than the changeling who thought she could act like a real girl. “Because his body was still present, we decided to wait for the night-haunts to arrive.”
A murmur ran through the crowd, disbelieving, even angry. No one saw the night-haunts. No one questioned them. That’s what I’d thought, once upon a time, before I realized that sometimes doing what no one does is the right way to get what I needed. My whole career has been based around doing what no one does.
The Luidaeg stood, the hem of her gown splashing against the floor as she turned to glare at the room. The gallery went quiet again.
“Once the night-haunts arrived, I questioned them about King Robinson’s death,” I said. “They couldn’t give me any useful information, although I was able to determine, between the blood and the night-haunts, that King Robinson has an heir who’ll need to be informed of his father’s death, and protected until he can assume the throne.”
“When this conclave is over, I will travel with you to Angels to confirm this,” said High King Sollys.
“Great,” I said, feeling briefly light-headed with relief. “I’ll take the kids to Disneyland. Well. Then. Right now, I’m going to return to the dining hall, and—”
“No,” said High Queen Sollys.
I blinked. “I’m sorry?”
“We need you here,” she said. “You were present for the creation of this ‘cure,’ and your testimony may be required.”
Yelling at Arden got me in trouble. Yelling at Maida would probably get me arrested. I swallowed my anger, forcing my voice to stay steady as I said, “I’m not asking you to delay or cancel the remainder of this conclave. But a man is dead, and I need to find out who killed him. I can’t do that sitting here.”
“We have faith in you,” said High King Sollys. “You’ll remain with the conclave until we stop for the day.”
Of course I would. Of course the purebloods, angry at the taint of death and consumed by their own pride, would refuse to let me leave. Of course they’d risk more lives to show they weren’t afraid. Of course. Why would I have thought, even for a second, that this would go any differently? Keeping my voice tightly controlled, I asked the only question I had left: “May I sit?”
“You may,” said the High King.
I bowed, angling my body so that the gesture was directed half to the figures on the stage, half to the gallery, and fled to my seat. The Luidaeg’s eyes had gone black from side to side, and it was like looking at the deepest part of an unforgiving sea. Her lips were closed, but they seemed malformed somehow, like she was holding back too many teeth. Then she smiled at me, the color bleeding back into her eyes and the flesh of her mouth smoothing into something that looked almost human, if you didn’t know better.
“Good job not fucking it up too badly,” she whispered.
I didn’t say anything, although I rolled my eyes toward the ceiling to make sure she knew how frustrated I was. We had a dead man. We might be sharing this room with a killer. And now I got to sit and listen as a bunch of nobles argued about whether or not we could counteract a spell that had been designed by a woman who enjoyed watching changelings die. This wasn’t just foolishness. This was willful pigheadedness, and I didn’t want any part of it.
“Who will speak?” asked Arden.
Theron and Chrysanthe, the monarchs of Golden Shores, stood. “We will speak,” they said, in eerie, practiced unison. I struggled not to grimace. A glance to the side showed that Quentin was doing the same. Creepy monarchs doing their best impression of the twins from The Shining weren’t exactly a favorite of either of us.
“Then speak,” said Arden. She managed to make it sound like she was conveying a great and precious favor upon them. I wondered if she knew how much of a queen she was becoming. Maybe more importantly, I wondered if she would forgive me when she realized.
Chrysanthe and Theron exchanged a look, silent but laden with meaning. Chrysanthe was the one who took a quarter-step forward, enough to make it clear that she’d speak for both of them. “I was born daughter of the King and Queen upon the Golden Shore, and I married for love before I was tasked with the throne. When my time to ascend came, I bore my crown as an equal to my husband’s, that we might balance each other in our regency.”
Several other monarchs nodded. This was apparently important. It was uncommon, I knew that much: most demesnes were more like Shadowed Hills, where Sylvester and Luna were both in charge, but Sylvester was generally accepted as more in charge than she was, since he would keep his title if they got divorced. The arrangement Theron and Chrysanthe had meant even if they separated, took new lovers, and remarried, they’d still be King and Queen together, and would have to agree on their heir. It was a complicated way to do things, and it either signaled true love or a genuine desire for balance. Or the sort of delusion that looks like true love.
“Your Highnesses, Golden Shore is a rarity among the Westlands: we are a changeling Kingdom. Those purebloods who choose to remain among our population know well that they are considered no better than their changeling cousins. No worse, either. Equality has long been our goal, and we have, for the most part, achieved it.”
“First among farmers,” said a voice from somewhere in the gallery. Snickering followed.
Color rose in Chrysanthe’s cheeks, tinting them an odd shade of rose-gold. Golden Hinds even bled gilded. “Yes, we are a farming community. The agrarian arts are as important as any other—or have you forgotten who provides your fairy fruits? Your pomegranates full and fine, as the poets say? We grow wine-pears and silver grapes in mortal soil, and make them taste as rich as anything grown in Faerie. Without us, you’d all be shopping at Whole Foods and trying to make sense of the tasteless blobs that humans insist count as ‘tomatoes.’ We feed you. Perhaps ours is a bad hand to bite.”
The snickers subsi
ded. No one looked particularly annoyed. This was the way purebloods did things: with snide comments and little jabs, to make sure no one forgot their place.
“The last kingdom census of Golden Shore showed that fully two-thirds of our subjects were changelings, and that is why we stand before you today, and ask you not to approve the distribution of this so-called ‘cure.’” Chrysanthe bowed. “Your attention is most gratifyingly received.”
“Wait, what?” My voice rang out through the gallery. Chrysanthe froze in the act of sitting, turning to stare at me. She looked less offended than simply surprised.
That wasn’t true of everyone. Some of the nobles who were now looking in my direction seemed frankly offended by the fact that a changeling had opened her mouth. I considered sinking into my seat and trying to disappear, but as no one was commanding me to shut up, I decided to push my luck. I stood.
“Why would having so many changelings in your community make you decide against the cure?” I asked. “Most of us don’t have a hundred years to lose.”
Chrysanthe straightened, standing again, and looked at me with almost sympathetic eyes. “How far back in your family line is your human ancestor?” she asked. There was kindness in her voice. That was surprising. “A grandparent? A great-grandparent? You may not understand the challenges faced by those who are more mortal.”
“My father,” I said, somehow managing not to wince. I was used to living in the Mists, where everyone sort of understood the circumstances of my birth, and had grown accustomed to watching the mortality bleed out of me, one drop at a time. Faerie always demanded payment for the sort of things I did. All too often, what it wanted was my heritage.
“What?” Chrysanthe looked confused. Then her eyes narrowed. “I would appreciate it, Queen Windermere, if you’d keep your vassals from making jokes during what should be a serious discussion.”
“She isn’t making a joke, I assure you,” said Arden. “She’s Amandine’s daughter.”
Mom has a reputation for being the best blood-worker in Faerie. Maybe it’s unfair—I bet Eira could have given her a run for her money, if she were, you know, awake—but as she’s one of the only Firstborn still walking around and doing things, it’s not unearned. Mom being Firstborn isn’t common knowledge outside of the Mists. Quickly, I said, “My mother changed the balance of my blood to protect me, and I had access to a hope chest for a short time. I promise you, my father was human. I haven’t given up this much of my mortality out of shame or pride, but for the sake of Faerie, and to protect the ones I care for.”
“I . . . see,” said Chrysanthe, looking faintly bemused. “The choices you have made aren’t available to most of our subjects. Hope chests are rare to the point of becoming legend, and Amandine doesn’t come to visit very often. The blood they are given by their parents is the blood they will carry all the days of their lives.”
“I know,” I said. “That’s why I’m confused.”
Chrysanthe blinked slowly. “You really don’t understand, do you? You are aware of what elf-shot does to those with mortal blood?”
“As you were told earlier, I’ve been elf-shot twice,” I said, fighting to keep the chill from my voice. “I nearly died both times. So yeah, I have some idea.” The image of my daughter struggling to breathe flashed unbidden through my mind. Gillian had been too human from the beginning. The elf-shot would have claimed her if I hadn’t changed her blood. To save her, I had been forced to lose her forever. How dare this pureblood queen look at me like I didn’t understand what elf-shot could cost? I knew better than anyone.
Elf-shot could cost the world.
“Right now, with no cure, when purebloods go to war, we have to weigh the chance of putting our people to sleep for a hundred years against the desire to end the conflict quickly and cleanly,” she said. “We have to decide between real arrows and elf-shot, because it is a decision. Oberon’s Law allows for deaths in war, but most of us don’t want to kill each other, even when a conflict must turn violent.”
A general murmur of agreement swept through the room. I didn’t believe it—most of the purebloods I’d known were perfectly happy to kill each other, as long as they felt like they could get away with it—but I didn’t say anything.
“Give the world a cure, and there’s no decision,” said Chrysanthe. “Most purebloods would have the elf-shot notched before they knew whether there was a changeling in the room, because under the Law, changelings don’t count. If they kill a few mongrels in the process of subduing an enemy force, who cares? They can always wake up the people who matter. They can fill the air with arrows, and suffer no losses at all.”
I stared at her, mouth suddenly dry. What she was saying made a terrible, brutal sort of sense. I’d been looking at the cure for elf-shot as if it would somehow remove elf-shot from the equation completely: like the purebloods would willingly set aside one of their greatest weapons because the game had changed. They wouldn’t. They were never going to give it up. They were just going to change the way that they used it.
Faerie was never going to be safe for changelings. The fact that I persisted in believing it someday, somehow could be was just another sort of madness.
Chrysanthe shook her head. “The cure is too dangerous. It would take a weapon used judiciously and turn it into a weapon to be used without hesitation or thought. The Kingdom on the Golden Shore will not support its distribution, and we hope those of you with compassion in your hearts will see as we do.” She remained standing for a few seconds longer, clearly waiting for someone to speak. When no one did, she offered a shallow bow to the stage, and sat.
“We appreciate your candor,” said Maida. There was a thin note of strain in her voice. Like me, she hadn’t considered what the cure might mean for the changelings of the Westlands; she’d seen it as a salve, and not a new form of poison. I wondered whether anyone who didn’t know her origins would hear that unhappiness, or whether it only seemed clear to me because of what I’d already learned. “Who will speak?”
“I will speak,” said Sylvester. I stiffened as my liege stood, standing as straight and proud as he had on the day when he first came through the wall of my room and offered me the Changeling’s Choice. That was the real problem with being surrounded by immortals: my childhood heroes still looked exactly the same. The only one changing was me.
“Then speak,” said Maida.
Sylvester inclined his head in gracious acknowledgment. “I was granted regency over the Duchy of Shadowed Hills as a reward for my service to the Kingdom of the Westlands, and for my service before coming here, when I dwelt in the Kingdom of Londinium. I have been a hero of the realm for centuries, called upon to serve as Faerie required. By any measure, I have paid my dues as a member of our glorious society of the undying, and while I have no aspirations to be a king in my own right, I have as much a place in our world as any who wears the crown.”
His words were smooth, evenly cadenced: he was drawing on some obscure point of pureblood etiquette to make his point, reminding the others of the days when crowns were passed with more regularity. Kingdoms used to be smaller, and more prone to randomly invading each other. The situation with King Rhys and his puppet government in Silences had been unusual for the modern world. There was a time, though, when that was just as common a means of taking a throne as inheritance.
Then again, considering what had happened to King Antonio, maybe things hadn’t changed that much after all.
“We see and acknowledge your place,” said High King Aethlin.
“My wife, Luna, is the daughter of two of the Firstborn,” said Sylvester. “Her father was the monster we called ‘Blind Michael.’ Her mother, Acacia, yet lives, and is known as the Mother of the Trees.”
There was barely time to register the tension in the Luidaeg’s shoulders before she was on her feet, eyes narrowed and mouth twisted. “You can’t use your wife’s parentage to s
upport your claims of status and call my brother ‘monster’ in the same breath,” she said. “That right is not yours.”
To his credit—his small, self-destructive credit—Sylvester met her eyes without flinching. “My apologies, sea witch, and believe me when I say I have no desire to incur your wrath, but . . . your brother was a monster.”
“That doesn’t mean you have the right to call him that,” the Luidaeg spat back.
A murmur ran through the crowd, and a few people shifted in their seats, putting themselves a little further from Sylvester and the smiting that was presumably about to happen. I didn’t move. Neither did Quentin. Sylvester was Daoine Sidhe. That made him a child of Titania’s bloodline, and meant the Luidaeg couldn’t raise a hand against him, no matter how much she wanted to. The bindings Evening had placed upon her were too strong. For the first time, I was grateful for that. Sylvester and I might not currently be on the best of terms, but that didn’t mean I wanted him reduced to a fine red mist.
There was a long pause before Sylvester offered her a shallow bow. “I meant neither offense nor to claim status that was not mine by right,” he said. “I merely wish to be sure my situation is known and understood before I make my plea.”
The Luidaeg said nothing. She just stood there and looked at him. I was close enough to see the white lines beginning to thread through her irises like creeping fog. Nothing good ever came of the Luidaeg’s eyes changing. Quickly, before I thought better, I reached over and put a hand on her arm. She glanced at me, eyes going wide, startled, and—thankfully—back to driftglass green as she snapped back into the moment.
“Please,” I said softly, and managed not to scowl when the spells on the stage caught my voice and projected it to the entire room. “Can we just let him finish? Please. For me.”
“Does the changeling run this conclave?” asked a voice—Duke Michel from Starfall again. I should probably have expected him to be on my case after he’d been told to basically sit down and shut up.