Late Eclipses

by Seanan McGuire

  Shadowed Hills was built. Hands shaped it out of the stone and earth of the Summerlands; spells were cast to shore up the walls and define the grounds. Undine don’t build their knowes that way. Undine tie themselves to springs in the mortal realm, and become springs in the fae realm, channeling not water, but the fabric of their personal homes. Without Lily to channel the magic that made her knowe real, it was fading.

  “What’s going on?” she asked. “What are you talking about?”

  There were a lot of things I could have said. I considered them all, and decided on the hardest thing of all: the truth. “Lily’s gone,” I said. “The knowe’s dying.”

  Marcia’s eyes widened, the color going out of her cheeks. In the end, she didn’t cry. She just nodded, shoulders slumping. “I was afraid you’d say something like that,” she said. “Isn’t there . . . isn’t there anything you can do?”

  A choice needed to be made. I could tell her “no.” I could tell her I’d done everything I could to take care of them, I had problems of my own, I had the Queen of the Mists gunning for me and a possible death sentence hanging over my head. I could tell her Lily couldn’t possibly have thought I could really save them.

  “Yeah,” I said, looking from her to Walther. He was smiling like the sun. “Has either of you ever been to Goldengreen?”

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  “WILL OCTOBER DAYE, COUNTESS of Goldengreen, knight errant of Shadowed Hills, please stand forth?”

  The herald’s voice was cold. I swallowed as I rose and approached the throne, trying to chase the dryness from my throat. My shoes pinched my feet, making me stumble. It could’ve been worse. I could’ve been wearing heels.

  It had been almost three weeks since we ran Oleander to ground: three weeks of sleepless days and anxious nights spent waiting to see what was coming next. Oleander was Simon’s constant companion. If she was there, he should’ve been there, too. But the days passed, and Simon never appeared.

  There was no sign of Rayseline. Sylvester looked, but his heart wasn’t really in it—he didn’t want to fight his own daughter, and I couldn’t blame him. It was a fight I was happy to delay, because I was sure that if we found her, we’d find Simon; snakes den together. I wondered if he knew what he’d created when he set out to break his niece. Oleander certainly hadn’t. She’d been surprised as she died, amazed that something she’d helped to craft could really be that unreservedly, killingly cruel.

  That’s the thing about children: they pay attention, and they learn. Raysel learned coldness, cruelty, and how to kill. Teaching her those lessons may have been the most foolish thing Oleander ever did, and more than ever, I was glad she’d paid for what she’d done. Sylvester and Luna didn’t deserve this.

  Neither did Rayseline. She was an innocent when Oleander took her, and she’d never had a chance to come all the way home. Now she never would. It wasn’t really a surprise when Saltmist sent a herald to announce the formal dissolution of the diplomatic marriage between Rayseline and Connor. Marrying one of your dignitaries to a madwoman was one thing; marrying him to a murderess was something else entirely.

  The Queen has never been a patient woman, and the wolves were at Sylvester’s door long before I made my visit to the Luidaeg or moved Lily’s subjects into the deserted front hall of Goldengreen. Sylvester did his best to shield me from the trouble she was causing him. I heard, instead, that Connor was going to be resuming his diplomatic post within the Duchy, that Luna’s health was improving steadily, and that May and Quentin had broken six vases and a crystal ball trying to play hockey in the solarium.

  And then one day, I heard that Luna was out of bed.

  Jin called Walther a godsend. He was a chemist, not a healer, but his understanding of plants and poisons made it possible for her to take proper care of Luna until Acacia could get there. He told Jin what Luna needed, and Jin made it happen, pulling Luna back from the edge of whatever abyss she’d been facing. Her stolen Kitsune skin was gone, but she would recover. Somehow, watching Sylvester cry as he folded her back into his arms, I thought her recovery was the only thing that mattered.

  Sylvester found me in the Garden of Glass Roses two days after Luna woke up. I was plucking the petals from a frosted pink rose and dropping them to the path, listening to the crystalline chimes they made when they landed. He sat beside me, tucking his hands between his knees in an almost guilty posture.

  “Hey,” I said, putting the flower down.

  “The Queen’s guard was here today,” he said. “She knows you’re here, Toby. She’s not . . . the Queen is not a stupid woman, and she knows we’re hiding you.” He paused. “She’s known for a while.”

  “I’d be more surprised if she didn’t.” I wasn’t frightened anymore—just numb. Everything ends. Lily’s people were safe in Goldengreen. I’d done what I needed to do. “Are they still here? I can go with them.”

  “No. We sent them away.”

  “What, then?” I leaned back on my hands. I hadn’t expected him to let me go quietly, but I didn’t see much else he could do. She was the Queen of the Mists, and he, for all that he’d been a hero, was just a Duke. She’d take me eventually, unless—a thought hit me, and I froze, eyes widening. “You’re not planning to go to war, are you?”

  Sylvester shook his head. “Not quite. We’ve admitted that you’re here. She’s not willing to lay siege to Shadowed Hills; we’re too well-defended, and she knows most of the Kingdom would come to my aid, not hers.”

  “The man who would be King?” I said lightly.

  “I should hope not.”

  “So what are we going to do?”

  “We’re going to wait.” He smiled, but his jaw was set in the hard line that I’d long since come to recognize as a sign that he wouldn’t budge. “And then we’re going to go to her and find out how far she’s willing to push this little game.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You don’t have to.” He stood, kissing my forehead before turning and walking away. I watched him go. He was a hero once, and it’s the nature of heroes to throw themselves headlong into impossible odds, believing that somehow they’ll come through them alive. The problem is that it’s also in the nature of heroes to die, and I had no way of being sure that Sylvester didn’t plan to do exactly that. I should know how heroes are. Somewhere along the way, I became one.

  I was still mad at him. I still loved him. I didn’t know what to do about that. So I didn’t do anything, and every day, Karen came to me and kept me dreaming for as long as she could, guiding me through fanciful landscapes and showing me her siblings’ dreams. There’s something to be said for having an oneiromancer in the family. Her visits, intangible as they were, helped me feel like I wasn’t quite as trapped as I actually was. They probably reassured Mitch and Stacy, too. That was a nice bonus.

  May came to my rooms eight days after I sat with Sylvester in the garden. She was carrying an armload of clothes I recognized from our apartment. Her selections confused me. Normally my Fetch—former Fetch, these days, even if neither of us is sure exactly what she is now—goes out of her way to dress me in bright colors and fabrics. These were simple, bordering on sedate: a knee-length black cotton skirt, the matching blazer, and a burgundy silk shirt. There were even nylons. She must have stopped at a store before coming to the knowe, because I knew I didn’t have those at home.

  I looked at the clothes, then at her. “What’s all this?”

  “Clothing.” She held up a pair of black dress flats with the price tag still attached.

  “I got that far,” I said. “Why do I need these clothes?”

  “Because it’s time to go to Court.”

  It took a moment to realize she meant the Queen’s Court, not the Court at Shadowed Hills. It was time, in other words, to face the music and deal with everything that had happened. There was still a death sentence hanging over my head. I’d have to face it sometime, and “sometime” was apparently “now.”

  The nigh
t was cold when we drove into San Francisco. Mist hung heavy all the way around the coast, blurring the shape of the land. The narrow beam of a lighthouse lamp swept through the distance, trying to warn any ships stupid enough to be out sailing that they were about to have a final, fatal encounter with the shore. It wasn’t the sort of night you want to be outside on, no matter what species you are.

  We parked in the shadow of a crumbling tenement that miraculously had a parking lot large enough for all eleven of our cars. Magic comes in handy for a lot of things, not the least of which is finding parking on a Saturday night in San Francisco. It was a short walk from there to the beach. Sylvester and May paced on either side of me, prodding me whenever I slowed down. I was as anxious to get this over with as they were, but that didn’t make it easier to walk to my own execution.

  “I think I’d welcome a sea serpent right about now.”

  May glanced at me, eyes glittering in the moonlight. “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  The rest of the Court of Shadowed Hills walked right behind us, clad in the cold sparkle of their human disguises; Luna was still at the knowe, having pled exhaustion. I was the only one wearing formal clothes visible to mortal eyes. If the Queen stripped my illusions away, I wouldn’t be marching to the Iron Tree in jeans and a dirty sweater.

  Sometimes I hate the morbid turns my mind can take. I could almost see the tree and the rope they’d use to tie me to the trunk before they lit the fire—

  I shook my head, brushing the image away. “I don’t like this.”

  “You don’t have to like it,” said May, prodding me forward again. “You just have to keep walking.”

  “That’s good, because I don’t like this.” We were climbing over the rocks now. My dress shoes provided surprisingly good traction. Sylvester caught me and smiled every time I stumbled. He’d been smiling since we left Shadowed Hills. I would’ve felt better if I’d known exactly why.

  “Shut up and keep walking,” May said. I glared at her and did as I was told.

  Our footsteps sounded like an approaching army as we waded through the shallow water pooled at the mouth of the cave entrance to the knowe. We were almost halfway to the door before I realized that my feet weren’t getting wet. I blinked, looking down.

  “Warding spell,” said Sylvester. “Tybalt uses it to stay dry. He taught it to me.”

  “Right,” I said, and kept walking as I considered the improbability of Sylvester and Tybalt spending enough time together to teach each other spells. We were almost there, pushing against the intangible barrier between the fae and mortal worlds . . .

  . . . and we were through. The Queen’s knowe opened in front of us like a mountain appearing through the mist, marble floors and pillars unfolding as the cave walls and the sharp smell of the sea dropped away. I expected that.

  It was the size of the crowd that brought me staggering to a stop.

  I thought the group that assembled for my first trial was vast. I was wrong. This one was twice that size. Mitch and Stacy were there again; Tybalt was missing, but Raj and Helen were there, holding hands. Walther, Marcia, Kerry—even April O’Leary, the cyber-Dryad Countess of Tamed Lightning, and her seneschal, Elliot. I stood there, stunned and staring until Sylvester made the matter moot, pushing me into the open space between the crowd and the dais.

  The Queen’s throne was empty, waiting for her dramatic entrance. The crowd washed me up in front of it like a wave washes driftwood onto the beach; the driftwood can’t fight, and neither could I. Sylvester squeezed my shoulder as he stepped away, whispering, “It will be all right.”

  Then he was gone, and the herald called for me to step forward.

  “Here,” I said. My voice broke. I paused, closing my eyes, and repeated, “Here,” in a deeper, calmer tone. If I was going to die, I was going to do it with dignity.

  “Finally,” said the Queen from behind me. I couldn’t help myself; I whirled to find myself looking directly into her eyes. “I wondered when you’d come see me again.”

  My knees dipped in a curtsy without consulting the rest of me, letting me rip my eyes away from her halfmad, black-rimmed gaze. “Highness,” I said, still looking down. I couldn’t forget the things she’d said to me while I was her captive, and suddenly, she scared me more than ever.

  “You missed our last appointment,” she said, the heels of her shoes clacking on the marble floor as she walked past me. “I came to see you to your—shall we call it a reward for services rendered, do you think?—and found that you’d left us far too early.”

  Even now, she wouldn’t say “death.” Purebloods almost never will. “I’m sorry, Highness,” I said, rising and turning, eyes still downcast, to face the dais.

  “No cries of innocence or pretty words geared toward your own defense? You disappoint me.” I heard, rather than saw, her settling onto the throne.

  “The Duchess of Shadowed Hills was in danger.” It was true: if Tybalt and the others hadn’t broken me out of jail, Luna would have died.

  “So you placed the value of one woman above the Queen’s own justice?” she asked, seemingly oblivious to the murmur that ran through the already whispering crowd. The Torquills have always been well-loved in San Francisco, and from the sound of things, I had more support in the crowd than the Queen thought.

  “Yes, I did,” I said, raising my head. “I was half-dead from iron poisoning when I was pulled out of your jail, and I could barely stand, but yes, I chose not to return. I placed the lives of Luna Torquill and the subjects of Shadowed Hills above your justice. And if I had it to do over again, I still wouldn’t come back to be lit like some sort of birthday candle.” I shook my head. “You say I placed Luna’s life over your justice; I say you’re wrong, because whatever sentenced me to die here, it wasn’t justice.”

  She stared. I looked back as calmly as I could, daring her to speak. For a long moment, all was silent. Then she leaned back, crossing one leg over the other, and said, “Very well. For your crimes against this Kingdom, again I sentence you, October Daye, to burn—”

  “Excuse me?” Sylvester’s voice was mild and almost unobtrusive.

  The Queen’s head snapped up, eyes narrowing. “It isn’t your turn to speak, Torquill. Your trial is next.”

  “I believe,” he said, still, mild, “that as a subject of this kingdom, I have the right to ask why this charming young lady—a friend of my fiefdom, and a knight in my service—is going to be burned. It seems rather a waste of a good knight, if you ask me.”

  “I don’t believe anyone did,” she said, between gritted teeth.

  “Even so, I’d like to hear the charges, since I believe it’s been established that she killed neither the Lady of the Tea Gardens nor my charming—and quite living—wife.”

  The Queen’s eyes swept the crowd, finding no support. Sharply, she said, “She stands accused of the murder of Blind Michael, Firstborn of Oberon and Maeve.” She couldn’t accuse me of Oleander’s death. No one who wasn’t there to see what happened knew the truth about how Oleander de Merelands met her end.

  “Oh, yes! Yes, she killed my father-in-law. There’s just one problem, Highness.”

  “What’s that?” she asked, voice dropping to a dangerously low register.

  “She’s been pardoned for the crime.” Sylvester snapped his fingers. Quentin stepped out of the crowd, a scroll in his hands. If that kid’s grin had been any bigger, it would’ve split his face in two. “Permission for my page to approach the throne?”

  “Granted,” hissed the Queen. Quentin crossed the space between Sylvester and the Queen in about eight steps, pressing the scroll into her hands before he bowed and stepped away. She looked at him suspiciously, breaking the wax seal on the parchment.

  A deep, melodic voice filled the room. “By the order of King Aethlin Sollys and Queen Maida Sollys, rulers of the Western Lands, Countess October Christine Daye, daughter of Amandine, is granted full pardon for her role in the death of the Firstborn known
as Blind Michael. We have examined the events leading to his death and determined that what fault exists is upon Blind Michael himself. We thank the Countess Daye for acting as our executioner in this matter. By our hands, King Aethlin and Queen Maida Sollys of the Western Lands.”

  The crowd erupted into cheers as the proclamation finished. Not everyone was cheering—some were silent out of shock, I was sure, and some because they’d wanted to see me burn. Sylvester was quiet, watching the Queen with the mild expression I recognized as a sign of intense concentration. He wanted to see how she reacted.

  So did I. My first trial wasn’t a trial; it was an excuse to condemn me. This one would have been the same, but Sylvester changed the rules. He and I were going to have words about that pardon later. I knew it was genuine. He wasn’t dumb enough to forge a message from the King of the Westlands. She didn’t have an excuse to send me to my death this time. She couldn’t even prosecute me for the jailbreak, because the King had made the crime she imprisoned me for irrelevant. So what was she going to do?

  The cheering faded, and the crowd waited to hear what she’d say. The Queen stared at the scroll with narrowed eyes, like she could will the words to change. Then she lifted her head, looking at me.

  “A pardon,” she said, as lightly as if she were requesting a cup of tea.

  “Apparently so, Highness,” Sylvester said.

  “From King Sollys, no less. Fascinating. I didn’t know he kept such close tabs on what goes on in our little Kingdom.” This time her gaze was for Sylvester, moonmad eyes filled with suspicion. He met that look without flinching. Maybe he cheated by requesting that pardon, his look said, but she’d cheated first by requiring it.

  “Apparently so, Highness,” he said again.

  Her eyes came back to me, and I could see the hatred there. I just kept screwing up her plans. “Fine,” she said, throwing the pardon aside. It hit the floor and rolled closed, the wax seal turning deep blue as it melted back together. “It seems we have no crimes to charge you with. Oleander de Merelands killed Lily and was killed in turn by Rayseline Torquill; you’ve been pardoned for the death of Blind Michael. Your luck has held.”