Once Broken Faith

by Seanan McGuire

  “Hey, Auntie Birdie,” she said. “We did it. We got out of Dianda’s dreams.”

  “We did,” I agreed solemnly. I paused. “Karen . . . can Evening invade any dream you’re walking through?”

  Her face crumpled like a discarded sheet of paper, her eyes going shuttered and shifty. “She found me when I was visiting Anthony. He’s been having trouble with math, so sometimes I go into his dreams and tutor him. Math can be fun, if the world changes to make it easier to understand. We were doing fractions with dinosaurs and continents when this woman was just there, and she said Anthony had to go because the adults were talking now, and she pulled me out of his dream and into hers. I couldn’t get away! I tried and I tried, and she followed me. I know so many tricks, when I’m in dreams. I know so much more than I knew when B . . . when Blind Michael took me. And it didn’t matter.”

  “She’s Firstborn,” I said softly. “It’s natural that she’d be stronger than you. There’s no shame in being beaten by someone who’s that much stronger.”

  “But no one’s supposed to be stronger than me when I’m dreaming,” she said, with all the petulance and resentment of a teenage girl whose one true stronghold has been invaded. “I want her to stop. She doesn’t want the elf-shot to be fixed, but I do. I want her awake. I want her out of my mind.”

  I put my arms around her, and for a moment, I didn’t say anything. I wanted the elf-shot cure to be distributed, despite what Theron and Chrysanthe had said about people getting careless around changelings. They were insulated, living in a community where changelings were the majority, where they were respected and prized and considered valuable. For the rest of us, a cure for elf-shot wasn’t going to make that big of a difference, because people were already careless with changelings. And I wanted the sleepers awake. I wanted Raysel to have the chance to learn what it was like to live with a body that wasn’t ripping itself apart. I wanted Dianda to threaten and laugh and love her family. I wanted a lot of things, and I wanted them as soon as possible. But I’d never wanted to wake Evening Winterrose, the woman I’d once considered my friend—the woman who’d cost me everything.

  Karen must have heard the conflict in my silence, because she tilted her head back, meeting my eyes, and said, “No matter what we do, we can’t all win. This isn’t the kind of game that works like that.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “But we can sure as hell try. Come on, sweetie. The Luidaeg’s making pancakes. Not everyone can say that the sea witch made them breakfast.”

  That actually earned me a giggle—oh, small mercies—as Karen slid out of the bed and followed me from the bedroom to the front of the suite. Quentin was on the couch as promised, his head pillowed on one arm and his knees drawn up against his chest. He looked like a discarded marionette, and I had never felt the weight of my duty to him more. He was my responsibility, and I was going to take care of him if it killed me.

  From the kitchen came the hiss of batter hitting a griddle, followed by the hot flour and butter smell of pancakes cooking. Quentin sat up, eyes still closed. “I’m awake,” he announced.

  “Good,” I said. “Tell me what you know.”

  He cracked one eye open. Then he opened the other, and said, “You’re awake and you’re not pancakes.”

  “Those are both true and things that you know, but it’s not good enough,” I said. “What did Walther say?”

  “The elf-shot that put Dianda to sleep was about as close to generic as you can get. No hidden poisons, and the only add-on is something that will frustrate her dreams without turning them into nightmares. She’ll sleep for a hundred years and wake up feeling rested and probably super-pissed.” Quentin shrugged. “He said the cure would counter the elf-shot—no problem—if he was allowed to use it, but since he’s not, she’s just going to nap.”

  “We’ll see about that,” I said. “Dianda was able to tell us who elf-shot her.”

  “Oh,” said Quentin. “Wow. What are we going to do about it?”

  “We’re not going to do anything,” I said. “I’m going to go talk to the High King.” I barely caught myself in time to keep from saying “your father.”

  Quentin saw my correction in the way my eyes tightened. He grimaced. “Karen knows,” he said. “She knew before you did.”

  I blinked. “What?”

  “I walk in dreams,” said Karen. “Um. Not to be creepy or anything, but if I’ve visited you while you were dreaming, you probably don’t have that many secrets from me. I try not to visit people I don’t know. It seems rude. And I always let people know that I’m there.”

  “Not actually reducing the creepy factor by that much, but I appreciate the warning,” I said, feeling the tips of my ears turn red. Some of the dreams I’d had about Tybalt before we’d finally managed to make our relationship more formal had been, well, inappropriate for teenage girls. Some of the dreams I’d had since then made those look positively tame. I had never really considered this aspect of Karen’s dream-walking before.

  I also hadn’t considered what it meant to have Quentin forming all his friendships and allegiances here on the West Coast, rather than back home in Toronto. When the time came for him to become High King, was he going to try to carry half the kids I considered mine to take care of away with him? Was he going to try to take me? And if he did, would I be able to tell him “no”?

  “What about Dianda’s injuries?” I asked, to distract myself from the question.

  “Their Majesties approved Queen Windermere’s request to have Duke Torquill summon Jin from Shadowed Hills,” said Quentin. “Jin was able to heal the wound left by the arrow.”

  “Good,” I said, once I had finished working my way through the chain of monarchs in the sentence. Jin was here. That was one worry off my long and growing list.

  The smell of bacon joined the smell of pancakes. Both teens lit up, beaming at the air behind me. I turned. There was Tybalt, a smile on his face and a tray in his hands, laden with bacon, cinnamon rolls, and various sliced fruits.

  “Breakfast is to be an informal affair, eaten largely in private rooms and not forcing any of us to deal with one another before absolutely necessary,” he said. “I thought you might like food. The, ah, fruit may be a little frozen. I tried to move quickly.”

  “You brought breakfast through the Shadow Roads,” I said. “I can’t decide if that was romantic or really, really stupid.”

  “Always elect for the blessed ‘both,’” said Tybalt.

  “Both it is, then,” I said, and reached for a cinnamon roll. The outside was cool to the touch and the frosting had iced over, but I could still feel the warmth inside the pastry. He really had moved quickly. “How did you sleep?”

  “Poorly and alone, but you’re forgiven, as you had things to do,” said Tybalt. “I thought perhaps the lady sea witch would be less inclined to transform me into something unpleasant if I brought her bacon. Not that I think you would be so easily bribed,” he added, attention shifting to Karen, “but in case you had considered it, I note that there are chocolate croissants buried beneath these more pedestrian pastries.”

  Karen giggled. I rolled my eyes.

  “Stop flattering my niece and put down the tray,” I said. “We need to go see the High King.”

  Tybalt raised an eyebrow. “Am I nothing but a taxi service to you?”

  “No,” I said. “Danny, who actually has his license, is a taxi service. You’re more like a transporter from Star Trek. Me and you to beam up, Scotty.”

  He looked at me blankly. Karen covered her mouth with one hand. Quentin started to snicker.

  “Sometimes I wonder if you’ve ever actually encountered the English language,” Tybalt said, putting the tray gingerly down on the nearest flat surface. Quentin and Karen fell upon it, moving with the speed and efficiency known only to hungry teenagers and the occasional swarm of locusts. Then they took off for the
kitchen, carting their ill-gotten gains with them.

  “I’ll tell the Luidaeg you’re leaving!” called Quentin, before ducking through the door and out of sight.

  Tybalt shook his head. “I think that’s the first time I can remember when he didn’t demand to come with you on the dangerous errand.”

  “I don’t think he wants to spend too much time around his folks; there’s always a chance someone would notice the family resemblance,” I said. “Besides, breakfast is available. He’s a black hole with legs. He’ll catch up with us later, after he’s eaten three pounds of bacon and so many pancakes that the thought makes me feel sort of sick. Now come on. We really, really need to get to the High King.”

  “Without a change of clothing?” Tybalt gestured to my outfit. “Not that I have any issues with your attire—you look lovely, as always, and even more lovely now that you’re rumpled—but there’s something to be said for not appearing before the ruler of this fair land in the trousers you wore yesterday.”

  “He knows I was working all day, and I’ll change before the conclave,” I said. “This is important.”

  Tybalt paused to search my face. I knew what he was looking for—signs of strain, of worry, that I needed something other than a quick, private transit to another part of the knowe—and so I didn’t look away. I met his eyes instead, letting him see everything he wanted. For once, thanks to the Luidaeg’s little sleep potion, I wasn’t absolutely exhausted. I’d even eaten two bites of a cinnamon roll. For me, that was the next best thing to “in fighting trim.”

  But more importantly—most importantly—I knew what needed to be done. I needed to be able to tell King Antonio’s son that I’d caught the people who killed his daddy. I needed to wake my friend. I had to keep moving, and I needed Tybalt to help me do that.

  Finally, he sighed, and looped one arm around my waist. “Take a breath,” he said, and stepped backward, pulling me with him, into the shadows.

  The Shadow Roads were the property of the Cait Sidhe, who used them to move from place to place without being seen. Even changeling Cait Sidhe could access them, which explained how some cats could appear and disappear at will. So far as I knew, I was one of very few non-feline individuals to have spent much time in the freezing dark behind the shadows the Cait Sidhe used for transport. Distance was shortened on the Shadow Roads, but not always in a straight line. We ran through Arden’s knowe, choosing speed to keep ourselves from freezing. It was a brief trip, thankfully; after no more than ten steps Tybalt was pulling us back into the light, emerging into a broad redwood-and-glass hallway, in front of a pair of double doors guarded by Tylwyth Teg in the royal colors of the Westlands.

  The guards blinked at us. I hunched forward, hands on my knees, shivering, and put up a hand to signal them to wait. Tybalt, meanwhile, leaned against the wall, looking like he’d just been out for a stroll. I knew better—it didn’t take as much out of him to pull me through the shadows as it had before I learned to run there without resisting, but it was still an effort. He no longer pretended to be untouchable when we were alone. It was probably hurting him to pretend that he was fine, but he would never willingly show weakness among the Divided Courts.

  It was a gift that he would show weakness to me.

  “Just give us a second,” I said, directing my words toward the floor, since the floor didn’t require me to lift my head. “Are the High King and High Queen up?”

  “What is your business here?” demanded one of the guards.

  Okay. That required lifting my head. “My name is October Daye, Knight of Lost Words, hero of the realm, tasked by your bosses to find out what the hell is going on at this conclave. We were polite in appearing in the hall, rather than inside the royal quarters, which I’m pretty sure I have permission to do, what with the whole ‘please fix this’ command they gave me. So are they up, or am I going to tell them I couldn’t provide the update they asked for because you weren’t paying attention during the conclave yesterday?”

  The guards exchanged an uneasy look, and I realized two things. First, that they didn’t look familiar: they had probably been guarding this door during the conclave, and wouldn’t have seen me speaking to the group. Second, that if they were that much older than Quentin, I would eat my shoe. This was probably their first “real” assignment.

  “Hey, I’m sorry,” I said, straightening up. “It’s been a long day, and it’s going to be a longer night. Are they up?”

  “Yes,” said one of the guards. “Please wait here.”

  The guard who’d spoken opened the door and slipped inside, leaving the other to watch me and Tybalt uneasily. Tybalt pushed away from the wall and moved to stand behind me, putting one hand on the curve of my hip as he fell into position. It was a small, reassuring weight, and I stood a little straighter, knowing that no matter what, he had my back.

  The remaining guard watched us for a moment more before asking, in a careful tone, “Pardon me, Sir Daye, but your companion, is he . . . ?”

  “Tybalt, King of the Court of Dreaming Cats, and betrothed to Sir Daye,” said Tybalt. He couldn’t have sounded smugger if he’d been trying—and I’d known him long enough to know that sometimes, he tried. He was a cat, after all. “Don’t look so surprised. Cats may have their lapses in judgment, just like everyone else.”

  “Maybe don’t say these things when my elbows are so close to your kidneys,” I suggested genially.

  Tybalt laughed.

  The door opened and the second guard emerged, pulling the door wider in the process. “Her Majesty, High Queen Maida of the Westlands, welcomes you.”

  “Excellent,” I said. I walked forward, Tybalt following, and stepped into the largest receiving room I’d ever seen in anything short of a knowe’s main hall. If the Luidaeg’s suite was bigger than my old apartment, this one was bigger than my entire house. The décor matched the redwood-and-stained-glass theme of the rest of the estate. Unlike the Luidaeg’s suite, the walls were solid, preventing the morning light from waking the occupants. The ceiling continued upward into a belled dome; while it was stained glass, it was all shades of dark blue, spangled with colored moons and constellations, like a grander version of the hallway.

  “Whoa,” I said.

  “That’s what I said,” said Maida, rising from the chaise longue where she’d been eating her breakfast. She was wearing a long silver dressing gown that almost matched her hair, and her brief smile faded as she moved toward me. “What news?”

  “First, a question, since I was sort of busy. Did Arden tell you about Duchess Dianda Lorden?”

  Maida nodded. “The Duchess Lorden was elf-shot in her quarters yesterday, after the conclave had concluded. We were notified both due to the attack, and due to the request that we open the walls long enough to allow a healer to come inside.”

  “Good. Just checking. I was able to enter her dreams, with the assistance of Karen Brown and the Luidaeg, and speak with Dianda—who is not happy, by the way. Like, I recommend whoever wakes her be wearing protective clothing, because she’s likely to wake up swinging.”

  “We can’t wake her,” said Maida. Her face smoothed into neutrality, and for the first time, I felt like I was having a private audience with the High Queen. “We must be seen to show no favor for those who are our allies, and while Saltmist is not allied with the Westlands, it has worked in alliance with the Mists. We regret what has happened to the Duchess Lorden, but—”

  “But because whoever shot her could stand up and use this to prove it doesn’t matter what the conclave decides, since anyone who’s an ally of the Mists will always have access to the cure, she needs to stay asleep for now,” I said. “I got that part. What I’m getting at is that we know who shot her. Dianda saw them. It was Duke Michel of Starfall.”

  “Do you have proof?”

  “I do,” I said. “It’s called ‘you’re the High Queen, and your hu
sband is the High King, and either of you can command Duke Michel to give you three drops of blood to verify a claim against him.’ Which, by the way, I am happy to make, and Patrick Lorden will be happy to support.”

  “Her husband? Won’t that seem a bit, well, biased?”

  “Blood has no bias. Tell Duke Michel you need to clear the charges before the conclave can continue, and he doesn’t get to say that it’s unfair, because you’re in charge of the continent.” I shook my head. “If we don’t do this, we run the risk of it continuing to happen.”

  “But why? Duchess Lorden was in favor of sharing the cure, as was Duke Michel.”

  I paused. “That’s what he said. People can lie. Blood can’t lie, but people can. Maybe he doesn’t want the cure getting out at all, and so he did this, because he wins either way. If we wake her, he can call the conclave a sham. I’m assuming if there were a mass exodus of offended nobles, the cure would be suppressed?”

  Maida nodded slowly. “For at least another year, while it was discussed behind closed doors. We don’t need the support of the people to release it, but it would go easier if we had it. People get funny ideas about democracy these days.”

  “So there’s a guaranteed delay. And if we don’t wake her, now Michel knows he can erode the vote by shooting people. Faerie isn’t a democracy, but most of us are used to having our opinions matter at least a little, and I’m betting that goes double for kings and queens.”

  “As it happens, we’re very fond of our opinions being heard,” said Tybalt mildly. “We tend to become incensed when ignored.”

  Maida sighed. “What would you have us do?”

  I took a breath. “I would have you ride Duke Michel’s blood and confirm what I’ve told you. Confirm he did it to sway the conclave. And then wake Dianda up, not because she’s an ally of the Mists, but because Michel was trying to use the rules against you, and he doesn’t get to do that. She wouldn’t have been elf-shot if he wasn’t trying to be a manipulative dick. Make it clear that the High Crown is not up for manipulation.”