One Salt Sea: An October Daye Novel (36 page)

“The throne room. If we’re going to be receiving guests, we’re going to do it like civilized people, not like, well, us.” I put down my mug. “Come on. It’ll be fun.”

May looked at me dubiously. “Fun?” she echoed.

“Isn’t everything?” I shrugged, starting for the kitchen door. To my relief, the others followed. I’d been happy to let them duck out if that was what they really wanted, but I had to admit, I hadn’t been quite as enthused about the idea of facing the Undersea delegation—whoever it included—by myself.

Our footsteps echoed as we entered the throne room. I frowned a little, looking at the empty dais. “I should probably get a chair,” I said.

“Wait right here,” said Marcia. Gesturing for Raj and Quentin to follow, she started down the hall toward the solarium.

I folded my arms across my chest as I watched them go. “Do I want to know what they’re doing back there?”

“Probably not,” said May. “Do you have anything you need me to do?”

“Yeah.” I glanced her way, quirking a faint smile. “Get the door.”

May raised an eyebrow before looking down at her knee-less jeans and glittery, rainbow-striped T-shirt. “Because what, I have ‘impressive’ written all over me now?”

“Because you’re who’s available to do it. Now go.” I pointed to the door. “See if you can stall them long enough for us to get some sort of seating in here.”

“I’ll juggle,” she deadpanned.

“That’s a start.”

May rolled her eyes, and went.

Marcia came back out of the hall with Raj and Quentin behind her, the boys struggling to hold up a big oak chair that I didn’t remember seeing when we were first cleaning out the knowe. “Put it on the dais,” she said, waving helpfully in the indicated direction. “And
try
not to drop it again.”

Raj muttered something. I couldn’t quite make out the words, but from the tone, I was comfortable assuming that they weren’t complimentary. Quentin did his furniture moving in stoic silence, as befits a squire. At least one of us was taking his training really seriously.

“Where did you find that?” I asked.

“It was jammed into the corner of the kitchen before we moved it to storage,” she said. Giving me a sidelong look, she added, “I figured you’d be happier with a nice-looking kitchen chair than you’d be sitting in Evening’s old throne.”

The idea was enough to make my stomach do a slow flip. “You figured right,” I said, and walked over to help Quentin and Raj position the thing. Purebloods seem to build things according to two mutually exclusive camps of design aesthetic. Everything is either so fragile it can be destroyed by a stiff wind, or so sturdy that it could probably survive being hit repeatedly with a Buick. The chair fell into the second category. It felt like it had been carved so long ago that it had forgotten what it was to be a tree. All it knew now was being a chair, and it was good at what it knew.

“This works,” I said. I pushed it a few inches to the side, centering it on the dais, and sat down. The chair had no back, but it did have sturdy arms, positioned at exactly the right level. I rested my elbows on them, looking toward the boys. “You good?”

“We’re good,” said Quentin, taking a position slightly behind me, to the right. Raj mirrored him, taking up the same position on the left. I briefly considered shooing Raj off the dais—Quentin was my squire, while Raj was technically violating protocol by staying—and decided against it. Connor wouldn’t tell on us, and the rest of the Undersea wouldn’t realize there was anything wrong.

Marcia moved to stand on the floor to the right of the dais, putting her on the same axis as Quentin, just lower. That was exactly right. Standing there marked her as my seneschal, and meant she’d be allowed to speak for me in matters regarding the land itself. It would also make it clear that she was under my protection. Just in case that mattered.

There’s a reason that pureblood manners make my head hurt the way they do. I was saved from further contemplation of our placement as hinges creaked in the distance, and low, murmuring voices drifted down the hall. I sat up straight, composing my expression, and waited.

May looked every inch the obedient courtier as she stepped into the room with her shoulders squared and her face grim. Even her glittery T-shirt couldn’t spoil the effect. The group trailing behind her was a mixture of Merrow and Selkies, save for Patrick and a golden-haired woman with the uniformly blue eyes characteristic of the Roane. That made me sit up a little straighter. The Roane are practically extinct, and have been for centuries. I’d never seen a Roane pureblood before.

The main group fell into a line halfway down the length of the throne room, leaving May to guard the door. Patrick and Connor continued toward me, stopping just short of the dais. I stood.

“Your Grace,” I said.

“Countess Daye,” replied Patrick, and bowed deeply, showing the proper degree of respect from a visiting noble. I returned the bow in kind before straightening and reclaiming my seat. “We received your message.”

“Good. It seemed like a clever enchantment. It’s still always nice to know that things are actually showing up where they’re supposed to.” I frowned. “Forgive me for asking, but . . . why are you here? If you got the bottle, you know everything I do. I was planning to send another update as soon as I had something more substantial.”

A murmur swept through the sea fae. They were keeping their voices too low for me to pick out individual words, but the overall tone wasn’t good. They sounded angry—and some of their whispers sounded almost like accusations.

Patrick took a deep breath. “Someone took it upon themselves to remind us what was at stake in this conflict,” he said, voice measured, like he was trying not to scream. “In case we had somehow forgotten.”

I blinked. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, someone slunk into our knowe and left this outside our bedroom door.” Patrick produced a salt-crusted wooden box from his pocket. An unbroken golden ring was looped through the latch, connected to the corners of the box by thin gold chains. I had to admire the construction. Breaking the ring would snap the chains, making it impossible for someone to steal the contents without getting caught.

Still, there had to be something I was missing. Good craftsmanship alone wouldn’t account for the bleakness in Patrick’s eyes.

“What is it?” I asked.

The Roane woman stepped forward, reaching out to touch Patrick’s elbow. “Her confusion is sincere,” she said. Her voice was low and melodic, her accent half-Irish, half-something sharper. “She doesn’t know.”

“I told you she didn’t know,” muttered Connor, a little too loudly.

Patrick shot Connor a sharp look before returning his attention to me. “I didn’t want to risk opening it—not when we didn’t know what it was. We took it to the Asrai, who scried for the contents.”

“And?”

“It’s Dean’s finger.” Patrick’s voice broke as he continued, “They cut off his
finger
, October. What else are they doing to him? Why haven’t you found him yet? You were supposed to be bringing him
home
.”

Oh, oak and ash. I stared at Patrick, who looked back at me with the wounded expression of a parent betrayed, and in that moment—that single, horrible moment—I knew that it wouldn’t matter if I stopped the war. We were all of us already losing.

“T
HE ASRAI SAY THEY CAN FEEL pain when they look into the box,” said Patrick, dull misery surrounding every word. “They say it’s likely he was still alive when it was removed.”

Quentin made a small, dismayed sound. I didn’t blame him. A gnawing anger was uncurling in the pit of my stomach. How dare they? Whoever was helping Raysel with this—Dugan or someone else—how
dare
they? Children are the most precious thing Faerie has. Cutting pieces off of them to make a point is beyond wrong. As far as I’m concerned, it’s actively evil.

“I . . . Oberon’s bones, Patrick, I’m sorry. I’m doing everything I can to find your sons, I swear.” I shook my head, trying to shake away the idea of someone doing something like that to a child. “Why did you bring it
here
?”

“I asked him to,” said Connor. I turned to stare at him. “I reminded him of who your mother is, and what you can do. You can do it, can’t you?”

“Why can’t he?” asked Raj.

“Raj!” I said. “I’m so sorry. He doesn’t understand—”

To my surprise, Patrick actually laughed. It was a short, sharp sound, and there was no humor behind it, but it was laughter. “He’s Cait Sidhe. He doesn’t need to understand, now, does he? That’s been the rule since time immemorial. I can’t do it myself, young squire, because my blood magic was never that strong, and I’ve spent too long in the water. What power I had has been long since diluted, and all that’s left for me is illusions.”

“Oh,” said Raj. Then: “So you really want her to . . . ?”

“They want me to ride Dean’s blood,” I said.

Raj made a disgusted face. “Ew. Isn’t that dangerous? And icky?”

I took a shaky breath. “I’m not sure that matters.”

Connor was right. Daoine Sidhe can use even a small amount of blood to ride the memories and experiences of the person it was drawn from. My mother and I—the Dóchas Sidhe—make them look like amateurs. Blood clings to flesh, no matter how carefully it’s been drained; even the fae who drink the stuff can’t completely remove it from a body. More importantly, I could confirm that Dean was alive when his finger was cut off.

Maybe I could even use it to find the underground room that smelled of spices. The one where a Selkie died, and a war truly began. Raj was right, too—blood magic is dangerous for me. I have power, but very little training, and the only woman who could train me is insane. And none of that mattered anymore. This might be the only way to stop the war.

This might be the only way to bring Gillian home.

“I said I’d do whatever I could,” I said. I stood again, stepping down from the dais. Quentin and Raj moved to follow me. I gestured for them to stay where they were. There were things they didn’t need to see.

Patrick stared at me for a moment, like he still wasn’t quite willing to let himself believe. Then his composure slipped, just enough to let me see the rawness beneath it. “They have my
children
,” he said. “I don’t care about war. I don’t care what we have to do to get them back. They could be hurt worse next time, they could be—”

“Whoever it is has my daughter, too, and they’re alive.” The certainty in my voice stunned the entire room into silence. I kept my eyes on Patrick. “I called the night-haunts to me. They hadn’t seen your sons.
The night-haunts hadn’t seen them
. Wherever your boys are, they’re alive.”

A new quality crept into Patrick’s expression: hope. It was painful to see, because it illustrated how bleak he’d looked, and how bleak I knew I still looked. He had hope for his sons, and I was running out of hope for my daughter. Rayseline had reason to keep Dean and Peter alive, at least for now. I couldn’t come up with any good reasons for her to spare Gillian.

“Could they . . .” He licked his lips. “Could the night-haunts have lied?”

“Night-haunts don’t lie,” said May, her voice loud in the hush. We all turned to look at her. She tipped her chin up, very slightly, and looked me in the eyes as she said, “The night-haunts never lie. They could, if they wanted to, but they don’t really see the point. The truth is so much more dangerous than a lie.”

I blinked at her for a moment before shaking my head and looking back to Patrick. “There you go,” I said. “The night-haunts didn’t lie.”

“They’re alive,” said Patrick, sounding stunned. One of the Merrow burst into tears, burying his face against the shoulder of the Selkie next to him. It was a moment of private elation. I should have looked away. There wasn’t time.

“Now we just need to make sure they stay that way,” I said. The room’s air of relief faded, cold reality intruding on their momentary joy. They didn’t like it. That was okay, because neither did I.

Patrick nodded, glancing at Connor. “Connor was right to bring us to you. He has my thanks.”

Connor stared at him, visibly trying to frame a response.

Patrick ignored him, turning his attention to the box, instead. He tapped all four corners with his thumb before kissing his forefinger and touching the latch. The gold ring dissolved into mist, leaving the air smelling of steel as the chains fell to dangle uselessly. Patrick held the box out to me. “I was raised in the land Courts. I remember your mother.”

“I’m just a changeling,” I cautioned. “I’m not in her league.”

“I’ve heard the stories—Connor alone tells enough to give your skills away, and you invoke the Luidaeg when you give your references. Even my wife likes you, as much as she likes anyone.” He smiled slightly. “You’re a lot of things, but ‘just a changeling’ isn’t one of them.”