The Undersea is a dangerous place. They still settle disputes the old-fashioned way: by beating on each other until only the victor is left standing. Dianda blustered. Dianda threatened. Dianda had never, in my experience, looked genuinely alarmed. She was protecting the people she cared about. She didn’t look openly scared, but there was a tension to her shoulders I’d never seen there before. Not good.
Poppy fell back a step. Marcia didn’t. She was pinned between two planters, her hands full of strawberries, and there was nowhere for her to go.
Quentin took a step toward me. I offered him a quick, encouraging nod, and he crossed the rest of the short distance between us, falling into place at my side. The guards were still coming, making a clear display of force. I touched the knife at my belt, and wondered whether calling for the Luidaeg would do any good at all. One of the many geasa she lives under forbids her to injure any descendants of Titania. I couldn’t say for sure—I don’t have enough practice identifying Undersea fae—but I thought at least some of the guards were Merrow, which would render the Luidaeg powerless to move against them.
Maybe it was better to let her stay inside, where she could watch and take notes, but couldn’t wind up stuck in an untenable position. No matter how much better I would have felt with a really big stick by my side.
“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.”
“Weirdly enough, the land has elevated this vermin, at least twice,” I said. “I was a Countess for a while. It didn’t stick. Good thing, too, since I was pretty bad at it. I’m still a knight. Sir October Daye, hero of the realm, at basically anyone’s service but yours.”
Torin’s eyes widened in shock and what looked, momentarily, like delight. “October Daye?” he echoed. “The changeling knight? The king-breaker? Oh, sister.” He shook his head as he turned back to Dianda. “I knew this would be easy. I never expected it to be such a joy.”
Dianda glared at him, jaw set, and said nothing.
“By the authority of Queen Palatyne of Leucothea, I place you, Dianda Lorden, under immediate arrest.” Torin sounded way too pleased about that. “If you come quietly, you will be treated as any other prisoner. Or you can contest the charges as a Merrow, and face the justice of the sea.”
Dean and Patrick both went pale. There was something I was missing. Dianda’s hands twitched, like she was longing to throw a punch. She glanced at her husband and son, and her shoulders sagged, leaving her looking smaller than I had ever seen her.
“What are the charges, please?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.
Torin scowled. “You truly intend to face justice like a weakling? Like a common—”
“What are the charges?” This time, her voice cracked like a whip, filled with all the fury and embarrassment her body could hold.
For the first time, Torin looked nervous. “Refusal to do your duty and provide the Duchy of Saltmist with a suitable heir. Sedition. Consorting with the enemy. And now, it seems, treason, for you’ve brought a king-breaker into our waters. For shame, Dianda. I regret I must call you ‘sister,’ and hope the tides will never bring us together again once this filthy work is done.”
“I am innocent of all charges; even of bringing Toby here,” said Dianda. “That was the sea witch. If you want to take it up with her, be my guest. I’d love to watch.”
Torin glared. Then he spun on his guards. “Take her,” he commanded.
The guards began to advance. Dianda turned, putting her hands on Dean’s shoulders.
“Do not fight them, any of you,” she hissed, but her eyes were fixed on her son, pleading with him to hear her, to understand. “This will all be fine. It’s a mistake, we’ll fix it, but if you fight, you acknowledge that you would rather be tried as Merrow, and he will kill you. So do not fight them. I’ll be all right. I promise.”
“Mom?” Dean suddenly sounded very young, and very lost.
Dianda pulled him into a quick hug. “Oh, my brave boy.”
Patrick touched her shoulder. She tensed, looking like she was fighting the urge to swing. Then she let Dean go and wrapped herself around Patrick, holding him so tightly that there was no space left between them, no room for a shiver or a sigh.
She whispered something in his ear as she released him and stepped away. He closed his eyes, and didn’t see the guards grab her wrists and wrap them in chains of rowan braided with silver. He didn’t see them pull her toward the exit. He didn’t even see Torin plant a hand between her shoulders and shove, laughing as she stumbled. He just stood there, voluntarily sightless, and let the moment pass him by.
I couldn’t blame him. There was nothing he could do. There was nothing any of us could do, except stand there and watch Dianda’s brother lead her away. She kept her shoulders high and her head up, and he scowled, and then they were gone, and we were alone.
TEN
PATRICK PUT HIS HANDS over his face, standing stone-still in the middle of the courtyard. Poppy flicked her wings, slowly at first, then more and more rapidly, until her feet left the ground and she was hovering a foot or so in the air, looking genuinely distraught. Dean pressed his face into Quentin’s shoulder. I was fairly sure he was crying.
I looked around the group. No one, not even Tybalt, would meet my eyes.
“What happens now?” I asked.
“Sometimes I forget,” said Tybalt. His voice was soft; almost hollow. “I know your political education has been piecemeal at best, but your mother was Firstborn, and Sylvester only ever wanted to do well by you, and sometimes I forget how much you don’t know.”
“I’d know if you’d tell me,” I snapped. “Torin’s going to take Dianda to Pete, right? Or the Duchess of Ships. Who oversees Dianda’s trial? Where do we need to go?”
“Nowhere,” said a voice.
I turned.
The Luidaeg was standing just outside her apartment, back in what I thought of as her “normal” guise: overalls and tank top and pigtails and pain. Her hands were by her sides, and the sorrow in her driftglass eyes was almost painful to behold.
“The Convocation means people can enter the Duchy, but they can’t leave without Pete’s explicit permission,” said the Luidaeg. “The docks are closed. No ships sail. I’m sure a few people will sneak away in small boats, but something like this? A fully armed guard trying to take a Merrow Duchess away to stand trial? That’s a production. Pete will never approve it. She won’t forbid it, because she doesn’t interfere in the Undersea like that—she hasn’t done so for centuries—but she won’t let them leave until she absolutely has to.”
“So you can stop this.” Patrick uncovered his face and took an unsteady step toward her. “You can make him let her go.”
“I didn’t say that, Baron Twycross,” said the Luidaeg. Patrick visibly flinched as she rested the full weight of her attention on him, even though she looked sympathetic; even though, for her, this was being kind. “You had a hundred years. That’s more than most people can ever hope for. I’m sorry.”
“She’s my mother,” said Dean. He glared at the Luidaeg. Her majesty seemed to have faded where he was concerned. Good kid. “A hundred years isn’t enough.”
“It never is,” said the Luidaeg.
Patrick took another step. “I’ll—I’ll make a bargain with you. I’ll give you whatever you want if you’ll just save her. If you’ll bring her home. I’ll—”
“No.” He turned to stare at me, seeming surprised by my presence, like he’d forgotten I was even there. I shook my head and said it again: “No.” That didn’t seem like enough. “You can’t do that to her.”
“Dianda is your friend,” he said.
“So’s the Luidaeg,�
� I said. “And she’s here to finish burying her children. I won’t let you force her into a bargain right now. Before you say you wouldn’t be forcing anything, remember, if you ask, she has to answer. She doesn’t have a choice.”
“Impressive,” said the Luidaeg wearily. I turned to face her. She shook her head and said, without a trace of sarcasm, “With as much time as we’ve spent together, you still can’t get over thinking of me as a person, and not a salvation dispenser. Most people, when the chips are down, jump straight to telling me what they need and what I should do. It’s a nice change.”
“I’m a hero,” I said. “I can deal with this myself.”
“October.” She folded her arms across her chest in an almost defensive gesture. “Dianda Lorden is a Merrow. She belongs to the Undersea. You can’t just go yell at Queen Palatyne the way you would at Arden. You’d drown before all her guards decided to stab you.”
“I’ll figure something out,” I said. “There has to be a way. I’ll find someone with a SCUBA kit, or . . . or something.”
“The sea witch is right there,” said Patrick desperately. “Please. She has to help us. You have to make her help us.”
“I know you’re new around here, but unless you enter into a bargain with me, I don’t have to do anything, and October’s not going to let you enter into a bargain,” said the Luidaeg. “I can close this door and ignore you all until it’s time to bind the Selkies into their skins and bring back the Roane.”
Patrick clenched his hands into fists by his sides. “He took her.”
“I’m sure he did.” She looked at him levelly. Her eyes had bled back to driftglass green, clear and pale and exhausted. “I’m sure he put her in chains of rowan and silver, and called her all sorts of names, and led her away. But the Merrow are the descendants of Amphitrite, and Amphitrite is the daughter of Titania, and I am bound not to harm or raise my hand against the children of Titania.”
The Unkindest Tide (October Daye) Page 16
