Page 82 of Night and Silence

“I knew you were a liar,” snarled the servant. “I knew you just didn’t want to fix what you had broken. Well, you’re going to fix it now.” He lunged, grabbing Nolan around the neck and flinging a small vial at the floor in the same motion. Then he stepped backward, jerking the prince into the hole that had opened in the air, and was gone.

TWENTY-TWO

ARDEN SCREAMED. I IGNORED HER, rushing for the place where the hole had been and breathing in as deeply as I could. The smell of Dugan’s magic—cinnamon and cardamom and how had I been so stupid, how had I not considered that he was a courtier born and bred, fully capable of observing protocol well enough to conceal himself in a noble court—swirled around me. I breathed it in, searching for the shallower scents beneath it.

“What are you doing?” Arden’s hands grasped my shoulders, spinning me around to face her. “Who was that man? Where is my brother?”

“His name is Dugan Harrow, he works for the false Queen, and I’m trying to figure that out,” I snapped. “Tybalt?”

“Yes,” he said, and took Arden’s arm, pulling her back. She stared at him in shock. His smile was quick and cool. “I think you’ll find, my lady, that as a King, my title is equal to yours, and so while my setting hands upon you is rude, it is not a proper insult, nor have you the authority to punish me. Let her work. She does her best under pressure.”

He was still talking as I turned back to the place where Dugan had opened the door, doing my best to tune out everything but the thin scent of cinnamon and cardamom. The false Queen and her people had always been fond of borrowed magic. They had cultivated it, hoarded it for occasions just like this one. I had always wondered where they could get so many tricks—it wasn’t like the Luidaeg had been brewing for them—but things had started making a lot more sense when I discovered that Eira had sponsored the false Queen to the throne. Eira was the mother of the Daoine Sidhe. Of course, she could bottle blood and magic together. There was nothing to stop her.

Reaching under the cinnamon and cardamom scent of Dugan’s magic, I strained until I caught the faint hint of some sweet, half-familiar fruit. “It’s not pear,” I said aloud. “It’s close, but it’s . . . quince.” I breathed in again. “Juniper sap and quince. Whose magic is he using?”

Arden gasped. I looked over my shoulder. She was staring at me, looking even more stricken than she had before.

“My father,” she whispered. “That was his.”

“Your father’s magic? Are you sure?”

The look she gave me could have split stone. “I’ll never forget my father’s magic.”

“Okay. That’s . . . that’s good. He’s been dead a long time. There shouldn’t be anything confusing his trail.” I turned back to the trailhead, such as it was, and inhaled again. “Arden, what are you willing to do to find your brother?”

“Anything.” There was no pride in the word, no anger, only the earnest need of a woman who was no longer willing to be alone in the world.

I understood the feeling. “Good,” I said, drawing the silver knife from my belt. There was a gasp that ran around the room as the real servants realized I’d drawn a weapon in the presence of the queen. Madden even growled, the sound cut off quickly as he realized what I was doing.

It was good that they were loyal to her. It was good that they were willing to get angry on her behalf. She was still going to bleed for me. Maybe this was what it was like for the Luidaeg: she always knew why she was asking me to let her hurt me, but she didn’t have the vocabulary, or the time, to explain it all.

I held out my free hand. Arden slipped hers into it, and I ran the edge of my knife across the back of her knuckles, cutting as shallowly as I could. Blood welled up fast and red and all too tempting. There was a time when I couldn’t stand the sight of blood. Now I couldn’t take my eyes off of it.

“Think about your magic,” I said, and raised her hand to my mouth.

Her blood tasted like her magic, like blackberries and the trees, and her memories slammed down on me like a hammer.

He’s gone Nolan is gone he’s gone and she isn’t going to be able to get him back, I’m going to lose him forever and it’s all my fault, I should never have—

I broke the connection with a gasp, blinking away the red-tinged veil of Arden’s fear. “Arden, please. Think about using your powers. I know it’s hard to stop focusing on your brother, but this is how we follow him.” I could feel the trail and she couldn’t. She had the magic to follow it, and I didn’t. By borrowing her magic, I could bridge that gap and try to bring him home.

“I’m trying,” she said in a small voice.

“Try harder,” I said, and took another mouthful of her blood.

This time, the memories slammed down harder, carrying with them the effervescent joy of using her magic freely after spending so many years concealing herself from Faerie. Images of Arden opening a gate to get from one side of the gardens to the other, all for the sheer delight of doing so, danced across my mind. I grasped them as firmly as I could, swallowed one more time, and reached.

An archway appeared in the air, smelling of her magic but also of mine, a blend that should never have been possible. My head spun, pain lancing through the space behind my ear in quiet warning that even when I was using someone else’s blood to set the shape, it was my own power fueling the enchantment. That was fine. That was dandy. I didn’t need to stay on my feet for much longer.

“Quentin, watch her,” I snapped, and jumped through the arch, the knife still in my hand.

I landed heavily in the mists of the false Queen’s receiving hall, my legs buckling beneath me. I turned my fall into a roll, remaining low to the ground, where the mist would have a chance of concealing me. Something moved near me in the gray. I didn’t think. I just turned and swung, aiming for what should have been the center mass of anything human-sized.

Tybalt grabbed my wrist, stopping me before I could actually stab him, and raised an eyebrow in silent question. I grimaced and shook my head. If he didn’t want to be stabbed, my expression said, he shouldn’t sneak up on me in foggy rooms full of potential enemies.

It said something about how well he had learned to read me that after a beat he sighed silently and let my wrist go, ceding the point.

“I know you’re there,” called Dugan. “Did you really think I wouldn’t hear you? You walk like an ox, Sir Daye. It’s a wonder you’re allowed shoes, with as loudly as those mortal feet of yours seem determined to tread.”