Page 34 of Once Broken Faith

“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.

What I wasn’t expecting was for Sylvester to whirl before anyone else had a chance to speak, and say, in a low, grating tone, “You have insulted the honor of my household, sir. I will see you on the dueling grounds at dawn.”

Duke Michel stared. I stared. For one shining, bizarre moment, we were united. Then Michel turned to the stage, and the moment was over.

“I’ve insulted no one,” he said. “Duke Torquill insults me by claiming insult when none was offered. I simply asked a question.”

“A question you had already asked, if in a different form, that you posed without permission to a knight sworn into his service,” said High King Sollys. He sounded almost bored, like this sort of disruption was to be expected, but was still beneath his notice. “How was that not an insult? You continually call the honor of a member of his household into question, and now he wants recompense. His claim is supported. The insult is valid.”

Duke Michel looked stunned. Sylvester looked smug. I gave serious thought to how much trouble I’d get in if I started knocking people’s heads together. I couldn’t tell whether Michel was so prejudiced that he didn’t realize what he was doing, or whether this was a calculated means of keeping the attention of the conclave focused on the wrong thing: me. The elf-shot cure was what mattered here, not my honor.

“Sir Daye is a hero of the realm and a valued part of my court,” said Sylvester, tone turning deceptively mild. “Defending her honor is only a fraction of what I, as her liege, owe to her. Bring your second, Michel. Bring your sword. And prepare to learn the error of your ways.”

“Now that this has been settled, please, Duke Torquill, if you would continue in your petition for understanding?” Maida settled deeper into her throne, posture reflecting disinterest that I had absolute faith she didn’t feel. No one could slouch that insouciantly without intent.

“My apologies, Your Highness,” said Sylvester, switching his attention back to the stage and offering the High Queen a quick bow. He was bowing so often that he was starting to look like one of those ballpark bobblehead dolls. “I have given my wife’s pedigree so that you’ll understand what we have faced, what we have endured, and what we have risen above.”

The Luidaeg, who had been standing throughout the discussion, sank back into her seat. Her eyes were clear and green and filled with shadows.

“My sister, September, is dead. My brother, Simon, lies elf-shot and sleeping, and will stand trial for his crimes against me when he wakes—crimes which, once, would have carried the penalty of elf-shot.” Sylvester’s mouth twisted like he was trying not to smile. If he had, it wouldn’t have been a gentle expression. “Who knows what the penalty for kidnapping and treason will be now? My only child and heir, Rayseline, also lies sleeping. They’ll wake within a few years of each other if allowed to slumber out their spans. How is that fair, I ask you? When my brother the criminal and my daughter his victim must sleep through the same number of years, must miss the same portion of their lives? My counterparts from the Golden Shore make a true and valid point—that we endanger the weakest among us if we distribute this cure but do not also ask that the use of elf-shot be reduced. So why not take that additional step? Restrict the use of elf-shot to the field of war and to the punishment of those who must make reparation for what they have done.”

“I would speak,” said Dianda.

Several heads turned in her direction, Sylvester’s included. He looked briefly bemused. Then he bowed again, and said, “I yield the floor.”

“Then speak,” said Arden.

Dianda rose from her wheelchair, fins and scales melting into legs as her gown, previously bundled around her waist, fell to cover her to the ankle. It was a striking, elegant movement, and I wondered how often she’d practiced it before she’d managed to get it right.

“I’m here to represent the Undersea,” she said. Her voice was level, calm; regal. She sounded like the reigning monarch she was, and it was more than a little jarring. Dianda was meant to be punching people and gleefully threatening everyone in range, not standing there giving her credentials. “We do things differently below the waves, as some of you may know. We’ve never stooped to the use of elf-shot. A sleeping prisoner must be housed, kept safe, protected; better to keep them awake and allow them to understand what they’ve done to earn their punishment. I have two questions for you, nobles of the land. First, if the Undersea can do without elf-shot, without a weapon that turns napping into imprisonment, why can’t you? And second . . . are you not regents? Are you not the rulers of your lands? How is it that this cure can’t be used as an opportunity to ban elf-shot entirely? Oberon’s Law allows for death on the battlefield. If you feel a war is so warranted that it can’t be avoided, carry real arrows. Pay for your convictions.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” snarled the King of Highmountain, jumping to his feet without being recognized or granted permission to speak. “The humans and their ilk aren’t banging on your door, stripping away your protections by the hour. We can’t afford to let our people die on the battlefield.”

“Tell that to the coral reefs, to the whales on the brink of extinction,” said Dianda. “Tell that to the dead and dying places in the sea. The humans live alongside you. They shit on us.”

“If you can’t afford the deaths you’d risk, perhaps you can’t afford to go to war,” said Patrick mildly. He didn’t rise. Technically, Dianda was the one with authority to speak here: he was just the consort. Still, no one cut him off as he continued, in that deceptively mild tone, “I was raised in the Westlands; I moved to the Undersea after I was married. It was a bit of a culture shock, going from a world where elf-shot allowed us to cut each other down while pretending our hands remained clean to one where every battle was paid for in blood, but I came to see the sense of it. When the Undersea goes to war, the seas bleed. It’s much less casual.”

“May I speak?”

I stiffened. The voice belonged to Tybalt.

Dianda glanced in his direction, looking only faintly annoyed. She didn’t like many land-dwellers, and as a mermaid, she didn’t think much of cats. But she and Tybalt were reasonably well acquainted, and she liked me; this might have been one of the only times when our association put him in better social shape, not worse. “I yield,” she said.

“Then speak,” said Aethlin.

Tybalt rose, fluid and elegant, as Dianda sat. “The Cait Sidhe have never used elf-shot,” he said. “I’ve heard the Divided Courts refer to us as brutes and barbarians—I’m sure no one in this room would ever speak of the Court of Cats in such terms, of course, but I must speak as truly as you do, and I have heard these things—but to us, the helplessness elf-shot enforces upon its victims has always seemed the more barbarous thing. As the Duchess Lorden says, you must store them, protect them, shield them, and do it all for a century’s time, and for what? So you can say you are not killers? We go to war to kill. Admit that, and let the cure be shared.”

He sat. Arden rose.