Page 38 of The Unkindest Tide

“Toby,” said Quentin in a low voice.

“Stand your ground,” I said. “We’ll figure this out.”

The guards stopped coming, and a final man stepped into the courtyard.

Unlike the guards, he wore no armor. His clothing was far more reminiscent of that worn by the denizens of the Duchy of Ships, almost but not quite historical, like something from a maritime fantasy novel. His doublet was the same red as the chevrons on the guards, and he had the hippocampus and sea stars stitched above his right breast, the lines of the insignia picked out in small glass beads that shimmered blue and green and crystal clear. His hose were pale gold, and he carried no visible weapons. He didn’t need to. Everything about him radiated quiet power. His arms were thick with muscle, and would have looked entirely out of proportion if not for the breadth of his chest and the thickness of neck. This was not a man who’d spent a single day of his life sitting idly, not when there was something else to be done with his time.

His hair was dark and his skin was golden brown, and I didn’t have to ask to know he and Dianda were related. Technically, all Merrow are related, but he looked enough like her that it was jarring.

The man smiled without warmth. It was the cold smile of a predator, something rising out of the deeps to snatch its prey. “Open waters and kind tides to you, Dianda Lorden, Duchess of Saltmist.”

“Torin.” The name fell from her lips like a stone. “I’m afraid I don’t know your current title, little brother, and so can’t offer it to you as a peaceful hello. You’re looking . . . well.”

I swallowed my shock at the word “brother,” although I couldn’t stop my eyes from widening. This complicated things. As my own experiences with August proved, siblings complicate everything.

“I stand heir to the Duchy of Bluefish, as you well know,” snapped the other Merrow. His eyes skated across the rest of us, smile twisting into a scowl. “This is the company you keep? Landers and animals and creatures of the air? You shame yourself and your father’s name with your behavior.”

“It’s my name to use as I like, since I’m the one he kept,” said Dianda. “Get your own name, if you’re so worried about the dishonor done to mine. It’s not my fault our mother carries no family name to give you.”

Torin’s lip curled. He said nothing.

So there’d been a separation. That at least made his existence—and the lack of mention—make sense. When married fae have children, divorce is impossible until those children are old enough to choose which parent’s family line they want to claim as their own. Maybe that’s part of why fae children tend to come reasonably close together. A couple can be married for hundreds of years with no luck at conceiving an heir or a spare, only to get both in less than a decade.

It’s hard to say, in Faerie, whether our social customs stem from our biology, or whether our biology has been shaped by our social customs. Honestly, it could go either way.

Some fae, especially among the noble houses, have been known to marry solely for the sake of conceiving that all-precious heir. Once the first child comes along, there’s a decent chance of having a second in an irrelevant number of years, and then it’s only a few decades before they can separate and get on with their lives. This doesn’t mean divorces can’t be messy—and while supposedly, parents aren’t allowed to pressure their children to choose one over another, that’s not how it works in reality. That’s never been how it worked.

It looked like Torin, who had chosen to be his mother’s son sometime in the deep past, was having second thoughts now.

Dianda yawned luxuriously, stretching her arms above her head, before planting her hands on her hips and looking, narrow-eyed, at her brother. “Well?” she asked. “You brought a lot of guards for a friendly visit. You here to start something with me? Because if you are, you’re a coward who knows he can’t take me in a fair fight. You couldn’t do it when we were children, you couldn’t do it when I was sent to school to become a better warrior than you, and you can’t do it here.”

“Technically, dear, he’s not allowed to do it here,” said Patrick, in the mild voice that meant he was genuinely annoyed. “The Duchy of Ships has strict rules about such things, and attracting the wrath of Captain Pete is less than desirable.”

A briefly stricken look crossed Dianda’s face at the thought of even being in the vicinity of her Firstborn’s wrath, mirrored by a look of abject horror on Dean’s. Torin, on the other hand, continued to sneer. Either he didn’t realize who Pete was, or he somehow didn’t care. Looking at the number of heavily armed guards he’d brought with him, I thought it could go either way. This was a man who didn’t believe he needed to play by the rules.

“You think a Duchy’s rules supersede the rules of Leucothea?” Torin asked, lip curling like he smelled something unpleasant. “That would explain a great deal, given the way you flaunt your perversions and disregard for our traditions. You think yourself an empire, inviolate, unapproachable. You’re wrong. You’ve always been wrong. Every action you’ve ever taken has led us here, to this inevitable moment, this inevitable conclusion.”

I frowned deeply, shifting closer to Tybalt, my hand once again going to my hip, where the hilt of my knife waited under the careful layers of my skirt. For the first time, I really appreciated the artistry of the Luidaeg’s design. No one could even tell that I was armed, but I could be ready to defend myself in an instant if I needed to.

Patrick glanced at Dianda, clearly ready to take his cues from her. As for Dianda herself . . .

It was like a light I’d never realized was burning in her eyes had suddenly been extinguished, leaving her a little smaller, a little more breakable. She’d always been a warrior queen, ready to fight the world if that was what she needed to do. Now, she looked almost frightened. She looked almost vulnerable.

Until this moment, I’d never seen her stand like she wasn’t sure whether she’d be able to win.

“I think no such thing,” she said. Her voice didn’t shake: it was still clear and strong and unyielding, and I was proud of her for that. “Saltmist answers to the Queen, as it has always done, as it will always do. I have never set myself above Queen Palatyne’s laws, nor would I think to do so. She is chosen of the sea. She will keep us safe through all the storms to come.”

“And yet you didn’t trust her, or the sea, well enough to marry a Merrow man when he came to you with an offer of alliance.”

Dianda visibly bristled. “That was over a hundred years ago. We were ill-suited, to put it lightly. His life would have been a misery with me, and I would have been cruel to him, even without meaning to.”

“You rejected a good man of Merrow blood because you wanted to dally with lander filth,” spat Torin. He pointed to Patrick, who raised one eyebrow in silent judgment, but otherwise didn’t respond. “He has no right to stand on these grounds.”

“Patrick’s not the only air-breathing scum here, in case you were wondering,” I said mildly. His head snapped around, staring at me like he was just registering my presence. It was a nice touch, even though I knew it was a lie. He’d already admitted he knew we were there, and if he’d ignored us that completely, I would have taken him for a fool as well as a bully. I raised my free hand, leaving the other resting against my knife, and offered a tiny wave. “Hi. Not nice to meet you. Sort of lousy to meet you, actually. Anyone ever tell you that you’re kind of a jerk?”

Quentin shifted positions until he was more beside me than behind me. Tybalt didn’t move at all, but somehow loomed a little taller, the bones of his face subtly shifting to a more predatory mien. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Marcia inching into the shadow of a tomato plant, and that was good; that was exactly right. She wasn’t a combatant. If this got ugly, I wanted to know that she was safe. I only wished I could do the same for Poppy, who was continuing to stand and stare with open-mouthed fascination at the scene unfolding around her.

“I should have the tongue from your head for daring to speak to me so disrespectfully,” snapped Torin. “Who claims you, changeling?” He spat the word like it was the direst of insults. “You’re not of noble blood. Not even the land would elevate vermin.”