Page 58 of Once Broken Faith

When he reached the stage, he walked up the three shallow steps and knelt in front of the High King’s throne. “This is an insult,” he said, in a tone that was probably meant to sound humble, but came off as snide, like he was too good to be accused by a changeling and a man who’d given up his political aspirations to go and swim with the fishes.

“Perhaps, but since you’ve already offered insult to Duke Torquill, it could be said that we’re merely evening the scales,” said Aethlin. He removed the ring from his left index finger and pressed his thumb against the stone, which clicked and swung open, revealing a compartment on the other side. He shook the ring above his palm. A silver-coated rose thorn fell out. Grasping the thorn between thumb and forefinger, he looked at Duke Michel. “Your hand, Duke.”

“This is an insult and a sham.”

“Again, perhaps,” said Aethlin. “Your hand.”

Duke Michel grudgingly held out his hand, managing not to wince when Aethlin drove the thorn into the meaty pad of his pointer finger. They remained like that for a moment, the king pressing the thorn into the flesh of the duke. Then Aethlin sat back, pulling the thorn free, and moved it deftly to his mouth, allowing the Duke’s blood to trickle onto his tongue.

It was theater. It was smoke and mirrors and unnecessary drama, and it was very important, because the blood wasn’t a truth detector: the blood was the truth, and the truth was a big, messy thing. If Duke Michel had been thinking about what he’d had for breakfast that morning, the High King would have gotten the memory of eggs and bacon and brambleberry jam. If Duke Michel had been thinking about his laundry, the High King would have learned far too much about how bright he wanted his whites. No: the Duke’s thoughts had to be fixed on what he’d done. Public humiliation was the surest way to bring those memories to the surface.

High King Aethlin’s eyes went unfocused for a moment before he looked at Duke Michel, sorrow etched into his features. “Why?” he asked. “I can see you drawing the bow, I can see the arrow fly, but what I can’t see is why.”

“Because the Undersea has no reason to be here; they should have no say in this matter,” said Duke Michel. All signs of humility, false or otherwise, were gone. He’d been caught, and there was no more reason for him to pretend. “You’re acting like this is a conversation, and not some sort of circus intended to blind the rest of us to the fact that you would withhold a shield against our greatest weapon. Are we truly to believe that Silences would refrain from using the tincture that returned their entire royal family to the throne? That the Mists would be willing to leave a tool shaped by one of their own unused? No. This is not a conversation. This is you pretending there’s any chance the rest of us will have access to something that should belong to all or none.”

“You shot my wife to make a point?” Patrick sounded quietly puzzled. I’d known him long enough to know how dangerous that tone was. Fleetingly, I wondered whether he was really the calm one, or whether it was just a matter of Dianda losing her temper faster than her husband did.

“I shot your wife because I knew they would wake her up,” said Duke Michel.

High King Aethlin stood. All the little whispers and rustles that had spread through the gallery stopped. When the High King rose, it was best to be beneath notice.

“This conclave will continue,” he said, in a soft voice. “Should we vote to release the cure, Duchess Dianda Lorden of Saltmist will be the first to awaken. Should we decide the needs of Faerie are better served by keeping the cure under lock and key, she will sleep for a hundred years, in the knowe where she was felled, that we might remember what our failure has meant for an innocent woman and her family. The hospitality of this kingdom will be extended to her husband and youngest son for that entire time, by order of the High Crown—should Queen Windermere step down before century’s end, her successor will be bound to grant the Lordens all the gifts and graces of an honored guest. You have done this, Duke. You have spent the coin of another kingdom as if you had the right, and for that, you must be punished.”

Duke Michel’s eyes widened. There were no rules against the use of elf-shot, which had been invented, after all, as a means of cutting each other down without killing. There were, however, a lot of rules about things like “abusing the hospitality of another kingdom.” With one simple sentence, Aethlin had changed the game.

“Your Highness, I never—” the Duke began. Aethlin silenced him with a glare.

“Whatever your intent, this is what you have done,” he said. “I apologize to Duke Torquill that he will be unable to duel you for a time, but you are needed elsewhere. You will be elf-shot. You will be held here until you wake, whenever that may be. And then, the Duchess Lorden will be asked what penalty the Undersea would lay against one who raised a hand against one of their diplomats. If she wakes soon, that penalty may be slight. If she sleeps a hundred years . . . you had best hope she understands the meaning of ‘mercy.’”

“She doesn’t,” said Patrick.

Duke Michel’s head dropped until his chin was almost level with his chest. It was done; he was beaten. All he could do now was stand silently as the High King’s guards came and led him away.

High King Aethlin remained on his feet. He looked out on the arcade, and asked, “Well? Is there any further business to be conducted before we resume discussion of the matter that has brought us here?”

“Yes, Highness,” I said. He shot me a startled glance. I shrugged, trying to look casual, like I interrupted this sort of thing every day. Which . . . wasn’t too far off, in general, even if the specifics were somewhat unique. “I’ve been granted permission to investigate the matter of Duke Antonio’s murder, remember? I need to be working right now, not sitting here and listening to a conversation that I can’t join or influence. Anything I need to know, someone can bring me up to speed on later.”

“I see,” said Aethlin. “Was there anything else you needed?”

“I was also given permission to remove people from this conclave as I saw fit. I’d like to speak to whomever accompanied King Antonio out of Angels.”

“Very well.” High King Aethlin turned to the audience. “Will the delegation from Angels please rise and follow Sir Daye to wherever she leads? I promise you, there will be no final votes taken in your absence.”

Two Candela and a Glastig rose from where they’d been sitting on the shadowy side of the room. The Candela were unfamiliar. The Glastig . . .

“Hello, Bucer,” I said.

Bucer O’Malley, late of Home, currently of Angels, winced. “Toby,” he said.

I offered a quick bow toward the gathered thrones before hopping down from the stage and heading toward the back door. As I’d hoped, the emissaries from Angels followed me, the two Candela walking almost as silently as one of the Cait Sidhe, Bucer tapping along on sharply pointed hooves that couldn’t be muffled by anything short of being wrapped in pillows. I knew that from experience. He and I had done our share of breaking and entering back when we’d been street rats in Devin’s service, stealing what we were told to steal, shanking who we were told to shank. Since Home had been a changeling domain, there’d been no one to stop us from hurting each other—it didn’t break the Law, and so no one had particularly cared. The last I’d heard of Bucer, he’d been running for Angels, getting the hell out of town before he could be arrested for his part in the kidnapping of the Lorden boys. Looked like he’d managed to fall on his feet.

That was the thing about men like him. They almost always did.

I led my motley little gang down the hall and past the kitchens, stopping at a cold pantry that the household staff had shown me once, proud of how much ground they’d been able to recover from the cobwebs and decay. Opening the door freed a burst of cool air, and the distant, earthy smell of potatoes. “Inside,” I said.

The two Candela, who were used to dust and shadowy spaces, went willingly. Only Bucer hung back, giving me an uncertain look. “Do I have to?” he asked.

“I’m coming in with you,” I said. “It’s not like I’m going to shut the door and lock you in there to die. Even if I did, you’d have two Candela with you.”