Page 64 of Once Broken Faith

There was an open seat next to her. The King wasn’t there. Neither was the sad-eyed handmaiden.

“What do you know about them?” I asked, without taking my eyes off of her.

“Verona and Kabos,” said Quentin. He didn’t hesitate. This was the sort of thing he didn’t have to think about. “He founded the Kingdom, she became Queen when she married him. They’re traditionalists. Highmountain predates most of the demesnes around it, because they’d been trying to get away from the ‘decadent’ coastal kingdoms.”

“Fae puritans, got it,” I said. “No surnames?”

“They’ve never needed one. No heirs, either. They’ve been married for three hundred years with no kids. Daoine Sidhe, both of them, and supposedly Kabos was in consideration for the throne of North America before it was given to Viveka Sollys, mother of Aethlin Sollys, third in line for the High Crown of Albany.”

It took me a moment to puzzle through that. Then: “You’re saying they’ve been in charge in Highmountain since before the United States was founded, and they don’t like change.”

“Yes,” said Quentin.

This conclave was the ultimate expression of change. Changelings and the untitled were being allowed to speak as if they were equal to monarchs. The fact that we were speaking about something that would impact us all didn’t matter as much as the fact that we were opening our mouths. King Antonio had been an asshole according to the people who knew him, but he hadn’t enforced the classic lines of status and standing: he’d allowed people to be whoever they wanted to be, providing they were able to fight for and maintain their positions. He’d been a populist, in a lot of ways. If no one knew he had an heir waiting to claim the throne—if the assumption was that when he died, someone else would be able to take Angels and run it as a more traditional monarchy—

I stood so fast that the legs of my chair scraped against the floor. Antonio had been an excellent target because he’d been alone, but the attack had happened at mealtime. If I was right, this was the same setting, and another attack could be imminent. If I was wrong, the King of Highmountain was alone somewhere, and could be in danger. We had a wealth of potential targets, and either way, he was a person of great concern.

“Quentin, Patrick, find King Kabos,” I said, scanning the ballroom again, this time trying to think like a bigoted pureblood who hated change. Who were the best targets? Chrysanthe and Theron seemed obvious, but in a weird way, that was what would keep them safe. They isolated changelings by removing them to Golden Shore and keeping them out of the way of the purebloods of the world. What they were doing was good and valuable and necessary, and yet it was almost the expression of a pureblood dream—sending all the changelings away to live on a farm and not bother anyone.

Arden was sitting on the dais with the High King, High Queen, and Queen Siwan. She’d been able to ascend to her throne because of a changeling and a King of Cats, and her upbringing hadn’t prepared her to enforce the sort of rules most nobles found to be second nature. She thought more like a changeling than like a queen. But attacking her would mean risking the High King and High Queen. Maybe this would go that far. Maybe it wouldn’t. I just didn’t think she’d be the third target. Not when they still thought they could get away without being caught. Siwan was protected by the same logic.

I heard a sound like tearing metal, close enough that it seemed to fill the world. Once again there was a faint, distant scent I couldn’t quite identify: attenuated magic, so bleached and thin it was like a ghost of itself. I whipped around. Karen was behind me, wide-eyed and pale, with little red dots on the white fabric of her dress. Little red spots, as if from arterial spray. She wasn’t hurt; the blood wasn’t hers. It wasn’t mine, either. I would have noticed.

The world seemed to slow down. I knew I wasn’t malingering, no matter how much I didn’t want to see, but it felt like it took forever for me to turn and look at Tybalt, who was staring down at the stake protruding from his chest with wide-eyed shock. His gaze moved to me, pupils thinning to slits, before he collapsed.

Someone screamed as he hit the floor.

It may even have been me.

EIGHTEEN

“JIN!” THE NAME was ripped out of me, unthinking. A second name followed it: “Siwan!” Tybalt was bleeding; Tybalt was dying. Being a King of Cats made him sturdier than he had any right to be, but he wasn’t me. He couldn’t walk to the edge of death and come back none the worse for wear.

If his heart stopped beating, it might not start again. I could lose him.

I should have been screaming for him, not for the Queen of Silences, but it was her name I howled again and again as I fell to my knees and gathered my wounded lover in my arms, trying to stop the bleeding with the heels of my hands. It was hurting him, I knew it was hurting him, but that didn’t matter, because he didn’t have enough blood to keep on losing it. He needed to keep what little he had left.

Blood . . . it frothed at the corners of his mouth, a clear sign that the spike had pierced his lung, just like the last one had pierced mine. His breathing was labored and he was struggling to keep his eyes focused. They were fixed on my face, never wavering, like he was greedy for the sight of me.

“I need a fucking medic!” I shrieked. My throat felt like it had been stripped bare, like I wasn’t giving it time to heal between screams. Tough.

There was a popping sound, and the smell of blackberry flowers and redwood sap. I looked up. Arden was in front of me, her dress disheveled, her hands locked around the upper arms of Queen Siwan Yates of Silences. Siwan’s eyes widened as she realized what she was looking at. She’d been on the other side of the ballroom only an instant before. She must have heard the commotion, but she hadn’t understood what it meant.

“Oh, oak and ash . . .” she breathed.

“Fix him,” I commanded. “You fixed Holger’s arm. Fix him.” Jin would have been better. Where was Jin? Probably in the damn tower room with Walther and Marlis, avoiding the conclave. Curse her eyes.

Thank Oberon for intelligent people. Siwan’s expression changed as she realized what I was asking. Offering a quick nod, she knelt and said, “I need flame. Flame, a knife, and as much blood as you’re willing to give to me.”

“Take it all, I don’t care,” I said, and held up my hand. A knife was slapped into it. I glanced up. The Luidaeg was standing there.

“Flame I can give you, but it will cost,” she said, speaking fast. She knew as well as I did that we had no time to waste. “Will you pay?”

The Luidaeg did nothing for free. It wasn’t in her nature, and more, it wasn’t in the rules of her position as the sea witch. I nodded, not bothering to ask her price. Anything she wanted, I would pay. I would pay twice over, if that was what was required to save Tybalt.

She looked oddly sad as she returned my nod and held out her hands, suddenly full of green marshfire that burned and crackled with a chilly heat. I looked to Siwan.

“You need to be bleeding now,” she said, voice tight. “I need marigolds, rosemary, love-lies-bleeding, and a handful of fishbones.”