“Can we listen to a good station? Please?” asked Quentin, climbing into the backseat. “Something recorded this century, maybe?”
“Says the kid who listens to country music,” I said. I shook my head, starting the car. “No radio. We’re going to talk.”
Tybalt raised an eyebrow, looking at me. “Talk?”
“Yeah, talk. Both of you: what do you know about King Gilad?”
Quentin spoke first: “Are you asking to test whether I’ve been paying attention in my history lessons, or because you don’t know?”
“Both,” I admitted. “I know who he was, but that’s about it. Now spill.”
“If you get anything wrong, I will know,” added Tybalt helpfully.
“Swell,” said Quentin. “Um, Gilad Windermere became King of the Mists—”
“King in the Mists,” corrected Tybalt. I turned to frown at him. “The proper form of the title. Your current regent does not make use of it.”
“In, of, whatever,” said Quentin. “He took over in 1800 after his parents, Denley and Nola Windermere, died in their beds. No one was ever accused in their deaths, but most people assumed they were poisoned. No fingers were pointed at the Prince, since he was extremely open about not wanting to take the throne yet.”
“I knew they were assassinated.” I grimaced. “Wasn’t Oleander already known here?”
“There had been sightings,” said Tybalt. “There was some effort made to blame the deaths on her, but nothing could be proven before she disappeared. It was fifty years before she darkened these shores again.”
“Even dead, she can ruin my day.” Oleander de Merelands had been a paid assassin and major threat right up to the day I killed her. I didn’t want to kill her, but she didn’t leave me any choice, and I’d do it again in a heartbeat if it would keep her from hurting the people I loved.
“Well, she ruined Gilad’s pretty good, too. He was King in the Mists from 1800 until he died in the 1906 earthquake. His knowe was lost at the same time. Um . . . he never married, and there was concern the Kingdom would have to petition the High King to have a new monarch officially recognized when the current Queen appeared, said she was Gilad’s daughter, and took the throne. She had the backing of a lot of local nobles, and I guess they just sort of decided it was easier not to involve the High Court in a matter of local succession.”
“Not all the local nobles backed her claim,” said Tybalt. “She was a haughty thing even then, and she put up the hackles of many of the landholders. Most of them are gone now, fled for kinder political climates.”
“Or buried in shallow graves,” I guessed.
Tybalt nodded grimly. “Nothing has ever been proven, of course.”
“Naturally.” I turned onto a side street, listening to the engine whine as we climbed one of San Francisco’s many hills.
“Where are we going?” asked Quentin. “Home’s the other way.”
“Yes, and Goldengreen is this way.”
“Ah,” said Tybalt. He sounded approving. “The Lordens?”
“The Lordens,” I confirmed. The San Francisco Art Museum houses the doors to Goldengreen, the knowe held once by Countess Evening Winterrose, and once by me, before I weaseled out of my promotion. I’d passed my lands and title to Dean Lorden, eldest son of the Duchess of Saltmist, our local Undersea neighbor. His parents, Patrick and Dianda, were also contemporaries of King Gilad. The old King had been an attendant at their wedding—and if there was a way to speak to them without going into the Undersea, it was by visiting their son.
“A good choice,” Tybalt said. “Your liege knew Gilad, but he was not part of the royal Court. Patrick Lorden was, before he met his lady wife, and Dianda Lorden was a contemporary who spent a great deal of time in Gilad’s halls.”
“I’m glad you approve.” I started down the winding road to the San Francisco Art Museum, a series of white stone buildings right at the edge of a cliff. Maybe some cities would have looked at the priceless treasures housed in the museum and thought, “Hey, let’s put these where a single bad storm can’t destroy everything,” but not San Francisco. We’re a coastal city, and if that means a few expressionist artists get their oeuvres ruined by tsunamis, so be it.
“I just want to see what Dean’s done with the place,” said Quentin. He sounded almost normal, which I took as a good sign. The more stable we all were, the better.
It was almost three in the morning, and while it wasn’t dawn yet, the night was rapidly fading. The museum grounds were deserted. Nothing moved save for the three of us, making our way across the parking lot to a small footpath that led down the gentle slope of the grounds toward the edge of the cliff.
“Are you sure we can’t use one of the entrances that doesn’t involve jumping into empty space?” asked Quentin.
“This is one of the public entrances, which means we don’t need a key to use it,” I said. “It also means we’re not being rude by coming in without an invitation. Come on. I was in charge of this knowe long enough to know where the doors are.”
Quentin gave me a dubious look. “You were never in charge of the knowe. You borrowed it from the pixies. How do you know they didn’t move the door?”
“Shut up.” I grabbed one his hands and one of Tybalt’s, pulling them along as I stepped off the edge of the cliff. The world did a brief twist and roll around us, as disorienting as a carnival hall of mirrors, and then we were standing in the knowe’s main hall with our knees slightly bent to absorb an impact that had never come. Quentin pulled his hand out of mine and straightened, fussily smoothing his hair. Tybalt did almost the same thing on my other side. I stifled a smile as I straightened in turn and looked around the hall.
I only held Goldengreen for a few months, after the Queen of the Mists essentially tricked me into taking it. During that time, we’d started the process of cleaning up and restoring the place, transforming it from Evening’s sterile stronghold into something more welcoming. Dean had continued that process since I’d ceded the knowe to him. The last of Evening’s furnishings and ornaments were gone, replaced by potted trees whose branches were alive with pixies. A rug patterned with golden primroses on a green background stretched the length of the hall, and steadily gleaming lights filled the chandeliers.
The walls were softened with tapestries showing scenes from both Undersea and San Francisco fae history. The one nearest where I stood showed Lily, the Lady of the Tea Gardens, preparing a tea service for my mother. I put a hand over my mouth as I looked at it.
Lily was the last of Oleander’s victims. I miss her every day.
“Toby? What are you wearing?”
We all turned toward the voice. Marcia, the Seneschal of Goldengreen—my only formal appointment as Countess, and one Dean had been more than willing to retain—was standing in the nearest doorway, a dishtowel in her hands, staring at us. She had fae ointment smeared around her eyes, allowing her to see through illusions. It was necessary; without the stuff, she wouldn’t be able to see half of Faerie, including the pixies that plagued her on a daily basis.
I lowered my hand, forcing a smile. “Hey, Marcia. I just came from the Queen. Is the Count in? I need to ask him for a favor.”
“Toby!” She slung the dishtowel over her shoulder as she ran over and hugged me hard. Then she hugged Quentin in much the same way. Tybalt didn’t get a hug, but he did get a smile and a small curtsy. Only when that was finished did she say, “The Count’s in. He’ll be thrilled to see you. I think he’s pretty much bored out of his skull, but he’s being too noble and stupid to say anything.”
I laughed. “It’s good to see you, too, Marcia. Let’s go save the bored.”
“Your noblest endeavor yet,” said Marcia, gesturing for us to follow her to the central courtyard.
Goldengreen’s courtyard was probably intended to host genteel entertainments and noble proclamations. It had been somewhat repurposed by its current inhabitants, who had converted it into a tiered garden, complete with trees,
flowers, and beds of moss. Tree frogs chirped from somewhere high overhead as we entered. I looked up into the branches. No frogs, although I did see a bogey scurrying through the canopy, currently shaped like a spider the size of a terrier.
“I love what you’ve done with the place,” I said, looking down again. “I mean, we planted, but you’ve grown.”
Dean Lorden, Count of Goldengreen, blinked as he raised his head from the book he’d been reading. Then he grinned, standing. “Sir Daye! I didn’t know you were going to visit today!” His attention switched to my squire. “Quentin. You’re looking well.”
“You, too,” said Quentin.
He was right: Dean was looking well. Life on land agreed with him. As the son of a Merrow and a Daoine Sidhe, Dean was born with a fifty-fifty chance of taking after his mother. Unfortunately for him, he lost that coin toss, although it could have been worse: he could have been a merman who couldn’t breathe water. Instead, he was basically a normal Daoine Sidhe whose mother happened to be the Duchess of the largest local Undersea demesne. Dean had spent the first eighteen years of his life in the ocean, until he was kidnapped as part of a ploy to start a war between the land and sea. The war didn’t happen; Dean and his brother, Peter, didn’t die; and when it was over, Dean didn’t go back to Saltmist. Not to stay, anyway. He was the Count of Goldengreen now, and that meant he finally got the chance to start living on the land.
Dean had his father’s hair, bronze with a light sheen of greenish verdigris, and his mother’s eyes, the blue-black color of deep water. His skin had acquired some color since he claimed Goldengreen; while he was still pale, he no longer looked like a ghost. He was wearing jeans and a gray pirate shirt which would have looked silly if he hadn’t been so clearly comfortable. His feet were bare, exposing slightly webbed toes.
“I didn’t know we were going to visit today either,” I admitted. “But I’ve just been to see the Queen, and now I need your help.”
“Anything,” said Dean. He glanced involuntarily to his left hand. The stump of his little finger had healed cleanly, but it remained a reminder of what he had gone through while he was held captive.
“I need to talk to your parents. Do you think you could call them and see if they can come?”
“Um . . . sure?” Dean blinked. “Why do you need to talk to my parents?”
I took a deep breath, stalling while I tried to decide exactly what to tell him. In the end, it was easiest to go with the truth. “I went to talk to the Queen about the goblin fruit that’s been flooding the streets. Things got a little . . . heated . . . and she banished me.”
“From her Court?” asked Dean.
“From her Kingdom. I have three days. The Luidaeg told me to talk to people who knew King Gilad. That means your parents.”
There was a clatter behind us. We all turned to see Marcia picking up a tray of sandwiches from the floor. “Sorry!” she said. “Sorry, sorry, I tripped over my own feet, sorry.”
“It’s okay, I do that all the time,” said Dean. He was still staring at me, looking a little stunned. “Walking is hard.”
“Gravity sucks,” I agreed. “So can you call them?”
“Didn’t you go to the Undersea on your own last time you needed to talk to Mom? She’s sort of land-averse.” He hesitated before adding, “And maybe she could let you stay in Saltmist for a while.”
I grimaced. “Okay, yes, I went to the Undersea last time, but I had to let the Luidaeg turn me into a Merrow in order to do that. I’m not a big water person. Your mother’s land-aversion? Multiply that times a thousand and you’ve got me and water. Oh, and I’m even less fond of being turned into things. So if there’s any chance she’s willing to come up here, that would be much, much better.” I didn’t touch the idea of my hiding in the Undersea. Horrifying as it was to contemplate, there was a very real chance that things could go that way.
“Toby was a fish for a while,” Quentin informed him, in a matter-of-fact tone.
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah. Fourteen years.”
“Yes, I remember when MTV played videos and only geeks had the Internet, okay?” I crossed my arms and scowled, temporarily forgetting that I was supposed to be asking Dean for a favor. People are more likely to do you favors when you’re nice to them. “Now can you call your parents? Please?”
“Of course.” Dean shook his head. “I probably shouldn’t be relieved, but I’m so bored. It turns out ruling a County full of people who don’t want you to tell them what to do doesn’t actually take up all that much time.”
I bit my lip so as not to smile, having experienced something very similar during my time at Goldengreen. “You don’t say.”
“I do.” Dean sighed. “I’ll go call my folks. Be right back.”
“We’ll be here.” I was surprised when I first learned that the Undersea has DSL and phone service. I shouldn’t have been. Faerie likes to stay in touch as much as anybody.
Marcia returned with a fresh tray of sandwiches while we waited. She had a large mug in one hand. “I thought you could use this,” she said, handing it to me.
“You are a genius,” I said, before taking a long drink of coffee. “Oh, that’s good.”
“The Luidaeg didn’t have any coffee,” said Quentin.
“Well, then, I’m amazed Toby hasn’t started stabbing people yet.” Marcia looked at me frankly. “It looks like you’ve been eating, and I can’t see any circles under your eyes. Have you started actually sleeping?”
“Tybalt makes her,” said Quentin.
“That’s wonderful,” said Marcia, and handed Tybalt a sandwich.
I raised an eyebrow. “You three realize I’m right here, don’t you?”
“Yes, but as you can’t be trusted to take care of yourself, we’re doing it for you.” Marcia thrust her tray in my direction. “Sandwich?”
I sighed. “Sure.” I may be stubborn, but I know when I’ve been beaten. I took a sandwich. Quentin took two. “How are things around here?”
“Good. The Count’s getting his land-legs, and he’s a thoughtful boy who’ll be a thoughtful man someday. Sooner rather than later, if he has his way, but he’s only eighteen. We’re not pushing him yet.” Marcia cocked her head. “How about you? Are you doing well?”
“I am, yeah, except for the whole banishment thing.” The admission would have seemed impossible a year ago, when I’d lost my boyfriend and my daughter on the same brutal night. But time heals all wounds, and mine were healing.
“Banished. You, by her, over goblin fruit. I never thought I’d see the day.” Marcia scowled. “It’s filthy stuff. The Count doesn’t allow it in the knowe, and we’ve managed to keep everyone away from it, but that can’t last forever. Not with the way it’s spreading.”
“I don’t like goblin fruit either.” Marcia was a quarter-blood, more human than fae. Goblin fruit would probably kill her even faster than it killed most changelings. I took another drink of my coffee, and said, “I just can’t focus on that until I’ve dealt with the banishment. I’m not sure what King Gilad has to do with my being kicked out of the Kingdom, but when the Luidaeg tells me to do something, I try to do it. If it can get me un-banished, it’s worth the time.”
“And if not, at least there are sandwiches,” said Quentin.
“Way to look on the bright side there,” I said.
He grinned. “I know.”
Marcia, on the other hand, looked genuinely concerned. “Toby, are you sure that challenging the Queen’s declaration is, you know, a good idea?”
“No,” I admitted. “But it’s the only one I’ve got. She’s not going to stop the goblin fruit, and she’s not going to let me stay in her Kingdom. Right now, you could be handing out goblin fruit sandwiches in her Court and you wouldn’t actually be doing anything wrong.”
“Yes,” said Marcia bitterly. “I know.”
Oberon’s Law is supposedly the one unbreakable rule in Faerie: thou shalt not kill. Or at least, thou shalt not
kill purebloods. Killing humans is okay. So is killing changelings. As a changeling who’s known and loved a lot of humans in my time, I’m not a big fan of the way the Law is enforced. I’m even less a fan of the way the Law is sometimes used: as a weapon. I killed a man named Blind Michael. It was self-defense, which is allowed under the Law. I was still considered guilty of his murder by the Queen, who would gladly have put me to death if I hadn’t been pardoned by the High King. At the same time, the bastards who were peddling goblin fruit to changelings could kill hundreds of people and not even get a slap on the wrist.
The Luidaeg was right: Faerie isn’t fair.
“Toby will find a way to fix it,” said Quentin. “She always does.”
“I wish I had as much faith in me as you do,” I said.
“Believing in you is not your job,” said Tybalt mildly. “It’s ours.”
“He’s right,” said Marcia. “So let us work, and eat another sandwich.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Between the burritos, the sandwiches, and the caffeine, I was starting to feel better—or at least less hungry, which was sort of the same thing. Now all I needed was something to hit, and I’d be doing great.
We chatted about the state of the County, our lives, and Marcia’s sandwiches until Dean came back, bare feet slapping against the stone. He looked entirely pleased with himself.
“Mom and Dad are on their way up, and they’d be glad to find you here upon arrival, so don’t leave,” he said.
“First part, formal message, second part, Dean’s addition,” I said to Quentin.
He nodded. “Definitely.”
Dean’s smile didn’t waver. “Hey, this is the most interesting thing that’s happened all week. Let me enjoy it.”
Chimes at Midnight Page 6
