Page 32 of Once Broken Faith

“Duke Michel of Starfall,” said the voice. Its owner stood, revealing himself as a slim, green-haired Daoine Sidhe whose tabard appeared to have been made by stitching together hundreds of tiny malachite disks. Pureblood women don’t have a monopoly on clothes made of ridiculous materials.

I swallowed several comments to exactly that effect. Instead, I said, as calmly as I could, “I was under the supervision of the Luidaeg at all times. If you wish to challenge my honor, I’ll be happy to meet with you and discuss whether or not I should be insulted. If you wish to challenge her honor, that’s between the two of you. But I don’t recommend it.”

Duke Michel opened his mouth to answer. Then he stopped, eyes going to a point off to the side, and paled. I had no doubt that the Luidaeg was doing something horrible with her teeth. She was fond of that sort of thing.

“I appreciate the clarification,” he said, and sat. The other nobles from Starfall closed around him, rustling and murmuring behind their hands.

I glanced to Arden. She nodded marginally. I turned back to the gallery.

“I rode King Robinson’s blood, not because I’m a changeling, but because I’m a knight errant and hero of the realm; it’s my duty to investigate such matters. I was unable to identify his killer. He never saw them clearly.” There were other issues—the shadows jumping, that torn metal sound—but I didn’t want to reveal them like this. I would chase them down. I would find my answers. I would do it without a dozen nobles tripping over themselves trying to beat me to the prize, to prove they were better than the changeling who thought she could act like a real girl. “Because his body was still present, we decided to wait for the night-haunts to arrive.”

A murmur ran through the crowd, disbelieving, even angry. No one saw the night-haunts. No one questioned them. That’s what I’d thought, once upon a time, before I realized that sometimes doing what no one does is the right way to get what I needed. My whole career has been based around doing what no one does.

The Luidaeg stood, the hem of her gown splashing against the floor as she turned to glare at the room. The gallery went quiet again.

“Once the night-haunts arrived, I questioned them about King Robinson’s death,” I said. “They couldn’t give me any useful information, although I was able to determine, between the blood and the night-haunts, that King Robinson has an heir who’ll need to be informed of his father’s death, and protected until he can assume the throne.”

“When this conclave is over, I will travel with you to Angels to confirm this,” said High King Sollys.

“Great,” I said, feeling briefly light-headed with relief. “I’ll take the kids to Disneyland. Well. Then. Right now, I’m going to return to the dining hall, and—”

“No,” said High Queen Sollys.

I blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“We need you here,” she said. “You were present for the creation of this ‘cure,’ and your testimony may be required.”

Yelling at Arden got me in trouble. Yelling at Maida would probably get me arrested. I swallowed my anger, forcing my voice to stay steady as I said, “I’m not asking you to delay or cancel the remainder of this conclave. But a man is dead, and I need to find out who killed him. I can’t do that sitting here.”

“We have faith in you,” said High King Sollys. “You’ll remain with the conclave until we stop for the day.”

Of course I would. Of course the purebloods, angry at the taint of death and consumed by their own pride, would refuse to let me leave. Of course they’d risk more lives to show they weren’t afraid. Of course. Why would I have thought, even for a second, that this would go any differently? Keeping my voice tightly controlled, I asked the only question I had left: “May I sit?”

“You may,” said the High King.

I bowed, angling my body so that the gesture was directed half to the figures on the stage, half to the gallery, and fled to my seat. The Luidaeg’s eyes had gone black from side to side, and it was like looking at the deepest part of an unforgiving sea. Her lips were closed, but they seemed malformed somehow, like she was holding back too many teeth. Then she smiled at me, the color bleeding back into her eyes and the flesh of her mouth smoothing into something that looked almost human, if you didn’t know better.

“Good job not fucking it up too badly,” she whispered.

I didn’t say anything, although I rolled my eyes toward the ceiling to make sure she knew how frustrated I was. We had a dead man. We might be sharing this room with a killer. And now I got to sit and listen as a bunch of nobles argued about whether or not we could counteract a spell that had been designed by a woman who enjoyed watching changelings die. This wasn’t just foolishness. This was willful pigheadedness, and I didn’t want any part of it.

“Who will speak?” asked Arden.

Theron and Chrysanthe, the monarchs of Golden Shores, stood. “We will speak,” they said, in eerie, practiced unison. I struggled not to grimace. A glance to the side showed that Quentin was doing the same. Creepy monarchs doing their best impression of the twins from The Shining weren’t exactly a favorite of either of us.

“Then speak,” said Arden. She managed to make it sound like she was conveying a great and precious favor upon them. I wondered if she knew how much of a queen she was becoming. Maybe more importantly, I wondered if she would forgive me when she realized.

Chrysanthe and Theron exchanged a look, silent but laden with meaning. Chrysanthe was the one who took a quarter-step forward, enough to make it clear that she’d speak for both of them. “I was born daughter of the King and Queen upon the Golden Shore, and I married for love before I was tasked with the throne. When my time to ascend came, I bore my crown as an equal to my husband’s, that we might balance each other in our regency.”

Several other monarchs nodded. This was apparently important. It was uncommon, I knew that much: most demesnes were more like Shadowed Hills, where Sylvester and Luna were both in charge, but Sylvester was generally accepted as more in charge than she was, since he would keep his title if they got divorced. The arrangement Theron and Chrysanthe had meant even if they separated, took new lovers, and remarried, they’d still be King and Queen together, and would have to agree on their heir. It was a complicated way to do things, and it either signaled true love or a genuine desire for balance. Or the sort of delusion that looks like true love.

“Your Highnesses, Golden Shore is a rarity among the Westlands: we are a changeling Kingdom. Those purebloods who choose to remain among our population know well that they are considered no better than their changeling cousins. No worse, either. Equality has long been our goal, and we have, for the most part, achieved it.”

“First among farmers,” said a voice from somewhere in the gallery. Snickering followed.

Color rose in Chrysanthe’s cheeks, tinting them an odd shade of rose-gold. Golden Hinds even bled gilded. “Yes, we are a farming community. The agrarian arts are as important as any other—or have you forgotten who provides your fairy fruits? Your pomegranates full and fine, as the poets say? We grow wine-pears and silver grapes in mortal soil, and make them taste as rich as anything grown in Faerie. Without us, you’d all be shopping at Whole Foods and trying to make sense of the tasteless blobs that humans insist count as ‘tomatoes.’ We feed you. Perhaps ours is a bad hand to bite.”

The snickers subsided. No one looked particularly annoyed. This was the way purebloods did things: with snide comments and little jabs, to make sure no one forgot their place.