Page 16 of Once Broken Faith

“Golden Shore,” Quentin murmured, trying to sound like he was doing a casual review, when we both knew it was for my benefit. “Kingdom directly to the South, mostly agrarian, few political aspirations.”

I knew the basics about my neighbors, but I didn’t tell him to stop. He might tell me something I didn’t already know, and I was so far out of my depth that anything would help.

“His Royal Highness, by right of conquest, King Antonio Robinson of Angels.”

Antonio didn’t enter through the doors, although the doors opened: instead, he appeared at the center of the aisle, already halfway to the stage. He was a tall, striking man, with skin the color of slate and hair the color of ashes. Two Merry Dancers appeared with him, globes of floating light that turned and twisted around his body. It was rare for a Candela to aspire to a throne, much less fight to take it. King Robinson was an anomaly in many ways. Still, the people dutifully applauded as he made his way to his seat.

So it went, on and on, as the monarchs of the neighboring kingdoms made their appearances. It looked like Aethlin’s invitation had gone out to the entire West Coast—that, or the West Coast monarchs were the only ones who’d felt comfortable leaving their Kingdoms for the duration of this meeting, which made a certain measure of sense. The people who were most likely to stage an invasion were always your immediate neighbors, since they were the ones who knew how nice your apple trees were, or how much parking you had. If all your neighbors were in the room, there was no one left to invade you. That was pureblood logic for you.

The herald named their Kingdoms, places I’d never seen and wasn’t sure I ever would, and I translated them as best I could into mortal landmarks. The Kingdom of Evergreen was Washington and part of Vancouver, ignoring the America-Canada border in favor of drawing its own. The Kingdom of Prisms was farther up the coast, encompassing Alaska, but they hadn’t sent a representative. Either they didn’t care what we decided, or that whole “we might get invaded” problem was a real concern for them. Painted Skies was Nevada, represented by a Crown Princess and two Dukes. Highmountain was Colorado, represented by their Daoine Sidhe monarchs. They were accompanied by a single silent, downcast handmaiden—a Barrow Wight, from the looks of her. Interesting. Copper was Arizona, and their Centaur King took up half an aisle. The delegation that had traveled the farthest to sit in this room and listen to everyone fighting was from Starfall, in Idaho. They hadn’t brought their monarch, but were a small group of interested nobles, no doubt hoping to curry favor by bringing home news of what transpired here.

Starfall was the last land Kingdom to be announced and seated. There was a brief pause as the heralds checked their notes, and the introductions continued:

“Representing the Undersea Kingdom of Leucothea, Her Grace, by right of blood, Duchess Dianda Lorden of Saltmist, and her consort, by right of marriage, Duke Patrick Lorden of Saltmist.”

Dianda and Patrick entered through the rear door. The conclave was likely to go on for quite some time, and while Dianda preferred to deal with land fae on her own two feet, assuming—probably correctly—that most would view anything else as weakness, pride didn’t make her foolish. She was in fins and scales, seated in her wheelchair with her flukes defiantly exposed, like she was daring anyone to say a word about her presence. Patrick was pushing her, a mild expression on his face. He was probably the reason the King of Leucothea had assigned Dianda to be his representative; as the only Undersea noble I knew of who was married to someone who’d grown up on the land, her husband was an invaluable resource for explaining what the hell it was that everyone around her was talking about.

Arden had thoughtfully reserved a wheelchair accessible seat for Dianda in the front row. One more helpful consequence of having a queen who’d been socialized in the human world: she understood the need for proper disability access, rather than trusting in magic to work it all out.

The herald continued. “Representing the Oversky Kingdom of Frozen Winds, His Grace, by right of conquest, Duke Islay of Staggered Clouds.”

Duke Islay was a thin man with shadows in his eyes and hair like a storm cloud. He floated down the aisle, his feet pointed down at the carpet, and settled in an open seat with no immediate neighbors. I couldn’t blame him for that. If he’d settled next to me, I would probably have moved. The Sluagh Sidhe are as much a part of Faerie as anyone else, but they’re damn creepy, and I’ve always been glad that they belonged to the Oversky.

“They should be just about done,” murmured Quentin. “I can’t think of anyone else they would have invited.”

“Invited, maybe not, but showing up, definitely,” I whispered back, just as the herald began to speak again.

“His Majesty, by right of conquest, King Tybalt of the Court of Dreaming Cats.”

The room went quiet. People twisted in their seats to watch as Tybalt walked down the aisle toward the front row. Raj followed him. So did several cat-form Cait Sidhe, their tails up and their whiskers forward, trotting at his heels like this was the most normal thing in the world.

There was always something regal about Tybalt: he’d been a King longer than I’d been alive, and graceful arrogance comes easily to the feline. I’d seen him in his element before, among the cats who were his subjects, but I had never seen him in a place like this. He was dressed in brown, with dark leather trousers, boots a few shades darker, and a tan silk shirt. His vest was the same color as his boots. The stripes in his hair and the points of his teeth as he smiled at the gathered nobility marked him clearly as one of the Cait Sidhe, and hence “lesser” in the eyes of many members of the Divided Courts.

Raj was wearing blue jeans and a Delta Rae T-shirt. He looked exactly as disrespectful as everyone around him expected him to be. I had to suppress a smile at that. They were playing to the expectations of their audience. It was glorious.

It was frightening. By allowing Tybalt to be announced as a King—and hence equal to every other monarch at this conclave—Arden had shown how much respect she had for the Court of Cats. That was good. That was the right thing to do. And it just might have made things infinitely more complex, where my relationship was concerned.

“Their Majesties, by right of blood and ascension, High King Aethlin Sollys and High Queen Maida Sollys, of the Westlands.”

Everyone stood, even Tybalt, who had barely had time to sit. Dianda was the only one who remained where she was, although she placed her hands upon her shoulders, fingers pointing toward the back wall, as a sign of respect. It showed that she was neither armed nor making a fist. Among the Undersea, there wasn’t much more of an honor.

Maida and Aethlin came gliding down the center aisle, their steps so smooth and measured that they might as well have been floating. I wondered how much time they’d spent practicing entrances like this one, smoothing away their rough edges and rendering them brief but potent expressions of effortless grace. I decided to stop thinking about it, and just be grateful that there was no circumstance, however unlikely, that could put me in their place.

They joined Arden on the stage. She remained standing until both of them were seated. Then, after bowing deeply to each of them in turn, she settled in her throne.

“Welcome,” she began. “This conclave—”

The doors at the back of the room slammed open. Everyone turned, eyes wide, to stare at the figure standing there.

She wasn’t tall, or thin, or gloriously beautiful. She didn’t need to be any of those things to catch our eyes and hold them, silencing the room. Her skin held the ghosts of old acne scars. Her hair was thick, black, and curly, falling loose down her back. Her dress cascaded down her body and broke into white foam at the hem, a slice of the tide captured eternally in the process of flowing out. It was clear as water, but showed nothing of the skin beneath it. Her eyes were green as driftglass, filled with the deep and silent shadows of the sea. They betrayed nothing. They revealed nothing.

The Luidaeg stepped over the threshold into the room, and said, “As eldest of Maeve’s children, I claim the right to witness. To observe. And to speak, should the need come upon me. Would any deny me this right?”

No one said a word.

“Good.” She took another step forward, moving off to the side as she was followed into the room by another figure. A teenage girl with bone-white hair, looking profoundly uncertain and uncomfortable in her gown of white spider-silk. I gasped. I couldn’t stop myself.

It was Karen.