Page 90 of The Innocent Sleep

“Names are such protean things, but we place so much import upon them,” said a familiar female voice, lilting and light, and painted with an accent I hadn’t heard her use in centuries. Londinium laced through every word she spoke, like she was a child of that Kingdom, like she had grown up there and not in the deepest reaches of Faerie itself.

“The humans say they can capture us with our true names,” I said, turning toward the sound of Eira’s voice.

“Oh? And what would your true name be, then? Rand, son of Ainmire, Prince of Cats? Tybalt, temporary King of uncounted courts? Or is it the name your mother gave you before she sold you to the man you would call ‘father’? What name would I use to put an arrow in your heart and bind you to my will?”

“Nothing, for I will not serve you,” I said, trying to sound braver than I felt.

“October,” she breathed, and finally stepped out into the open. “That’s the name I’d use. That’s the name that binds you. Your true name isn’t your own, and never was; it’s your heart, ringing like a bell when someone else strikes it.”

“Then you have no true name.”

“No, and I’m stronger for it.” She smiled, sweet as poisoned honey, and I remembered that Oleander had been attracted to her service for good reason. There had always been fellowship between them.

Behind me, Simon made a pained noise. I glanced back. He had moved to stand halfway behind his daughter, trembling, eyes darting to Eira’s face and then quickly away, as if it hurt to look directly at her.

Eira Rosynhwyr moved to stand directly before us, looking us each up and down with undistilled disdain. She wore a dress that appeared to have been cut from a single sheet of silver birch bark, growing around her like she was the tree and her limbs its branches, hugging her every curve. Boughs of branches dripping with leaves in spring green and autumn flame were braided into her long black hair, which danced with opal flashes of color. Her skin was white as snow, her lips red as blood, and her eyes blue as flawless sapphire. It was easy to look at her and see how she had shaped beauty standards in both Faerie and the human world, and equally easy to be repulsed by the thought.

“Naughty boy,” she said. For a moment, I thought she was talking to me; then I saw that she had switched her attention to Simon. “Naughty, naughty boy. You were supposed to stay as you were even to the end, so that you would never know anything other than peace and paradise. Why do you refuse such good gifts as we have given you?”

“You stole me from my family!” Simon stood up straighter as he snarled at her, but didn’t move away from August. “You put me back in a place I had left of my own free will, and for what purpose?”

“You belonged with Amy,” said Eira. “You belonged with the mother of your children. We let you have them both, together, as you had always wished they were. We gave you everything, and you rejected it for a mermaid and a man with no ambitions. Why?”

“I left your service, even before I left my wife,” said Simon. “The things I did in your name were cruel and villainous, and I was no longer that man. I should never have become him to begin with. For you to force me back into it was a crime, even if no law has been written against such an act.”

“You can’t break the law when you control it,” said Eira. She looked around at the four of us one more time, then sighed, heavily. “You’re boring. You’re all boring. Mother promised me you wouldn’t be boring, but you are. You can go now.”

She flicked her fingers at us, like she was dismissing a particularly irritating servant. Any hopes that this meant we were being released were short-lived, as the floor dropped out from under us and we plunged down into fog-choked darkness.

Falling with a spinning, aching head is not pleasant, and I do not recommend it. Landing isn’t much better. All four of us hit the ground hard when our fall came to an end, slamming into the stone floor of the Queen’s dungeon without a chance to catch ourselves or even try to soften the landing. I managed, barely, to avoid cracking my head a second time upon the ground.

Not that I’m sure it would actually have made things that much worse. The air was thick with the scent of iron and rotting yarrow, the latter coming from the heaps of decaying straw pushed up against the edges of our newly-shared cell. The door was solid, and banded with enough iron that I wouldn’t stand a chance at forcing it open. There were no other restraints. With so much iron, none were needed. Thus free to move about our cell, we settled against the walls farthest from the iron-banded door, August beside Simon, Garm and I well apart from one another, and didn’t speak. It seemed there was nothing left to say.

Then a thick fog began to gather in the middle of the room, swirling until it formed a pillar, which burst to reveal October, the Luidaeg, Dean, and Rayseline. The sight of the sea witch was almost enough of a relief to counter the despair of seeing my wife once more surrounded by iron. Dean and Rayseline collapsed as the Luidaeg slumped. October dropped to her knees, looking utterly broken by whatever they had experienced in coming here.

“Toby!” shouted August, the nickname an unfamiliarity strong enough to bring my head whipping around to stare at her. I watched as she rose from the corner she’d retreated to and ran, half-stumbling on the uneven floor to drop to her knees in front of October. She ran her hand over October’s face and shoulders, charting every inch, reassuring herself.

When she began to pull back, October made a choking sound and grabbed hold of her, pulling her close and holding on.

I knew I should hold my tongue. I could only make things worse. And yet, I couldn’t do it, not when a member of their party was missing. “So, you finally got caught,” I said. “Where is Ginevra?”

“The guards took her; she was injured in our arrest, but they bandaged her wounds, at least,” said the Luidaeg.

“If she dies . . .”

“If she dies, you’ll still know better than to pick a fight with me, kitty-cat,” said the Luidaeg, tone bitterly cold and unforgiving. “Now. How many of us have they taken?”

“It’s an ‘us’ now, is it?” I asked. “Myself, clearly. Sylvester’s knight. The renegade Torquills.”

October sniffled, pulling away from August. “Father’s here?” she asked.

August nodded, looking back toward the corner where Simon still huddled, weeping. “He is,” she said, in a soft voice. “He’s . . . not well at the moment.”

“The amount of iron in here would do that to anyone,” said October, moving to rise.

August grabbed her arms, pulling her back down. She turned to blink at her sister, who shook her head. “No, it’s not the iron,” she said. “He’s not well.”

“Is he hurt?”