Except for the part where Evening had been indirectly responsible for me being turned into a fish, and had actually caused the death—however temporary—of one of my greatest allies, I could almost forget that she wasn’t actually my friend.
The doors slammed shut behind us. May and Walther both jumped. I didn’t. Neither did Quentin or Tybalt. That said something sort of sad about the situations we tended to find ourselves in.
“Nice fountain,” I said, still speaking louder than was my norm. “I know that if I had a fountain this great, I’d totally set up a whole courtyard just to show it off. Look, the way I see it, one of two things is happening right now. Either you’re getting ready to ambush us, in which case you’d better do it fast, or you’re not going to like the results. Or you’ve got a really messed-up way of showing hospitality. One more time: I am Sir October Daye, I am here on behalf of Queen Windermere in the Mists, and you are beginning to piss me off.”
The scent of meadowsweet and wine vinegar tinted the air, and a portal opened in the wall on the other side of the fountain. The room on the other side was all polished hardwood and velvet, and I only saw it for an instant before bodies began pouring through the opening.
First came the guards. Eight of them, all wearing the deep pine green and silver livery of Silences. They split, four taking each side as they placed themselves between us and the portal. Then came the courtiers, three this time, two women and a man, a Tylwyth Teg and two Daoine Sidhe, and again, all wearing the colors of Silences, although their tunics were finer and their outfits were accessorized by incredibly silly looking floppy hats.
One of the courtiers produced a scroll from inside her doublet, unrolled it, and read, “By the grace of Oberon, His Majesty, King Rhys of Silences.”
Years of courtly etiquette drilled into me by Etienne, and even more years of silently following my mother through the Courts of the Mists, kept me from rolling my eyes or otherwise doing something to offend the king we had come to visit. Instead, I dropped into a deep and proper bow, bent double at the waist, knees bent, one leg extended so that my thigh muscles began almost immediately to ache. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Walther and Tybalt matching the gesture, their own bows only slightly modified by the variances in custom and region. Tybalt’s bow was shallower than mine, since it would have been inappropriate for him to show too much obeisance to a ruler of the Divided Courts. Walther’s bow included an elaborate hand gesture that I had never seen before.
I couldn’t see Quentin and May from my position, but I had faith that they would be demonstrating the appropriate amount of humility. I had to trust them. If I didn’t, we were already lost.
“You may rise,” said an unfamiliar male voice, tenor and calm, like its owner had never encountered anything that needed to disturb him.
I straightened up, and got my first look at the King of Silences.
He was taller than I expected, with the glossy black hair and olive skin common among the Tuatha de Dannan. He wore that hair cropped short in a style that was almost disconcertingly modern, given his current surroundings, and which did nothing to conceal the sharp points of his ears. His eyes were the color of slightly tarnished pennies, with bolts of molten-looking copper surrounded by streaky verdigris. He was handsome, I had to give him that, but he looked more like a businessman playing dress up than he did a king, even wearing a fur-lined cloak that reached all the way to the floor. Even with a crown resting on his head.
Spike rattled its thorns and hissed, too quietly for anyone to hear it but me. I took the sound for the warning it was, and I said nothing at all.
The King of Silences appeared to take this as a sign of respect. He smiled, a cold expression that did not reach his eyes. “My friends from the South,” he said. “How kind of you to travel hence and see whether our disagreements might be settled like civilized people, instead of clawed from one another’s flesh like animals.” His gaze flicked, ever so briefly, to Tybalt at the end of his statement.
My shoulders tightened. I forced my expression to remain neutral as I said, “Queen Arden Windermere in the Mists, daughter and heir to King Gilad Windermere in the Mists, recognized in her claim to the throne by High King Aethlin Sollys of the Westlands, sends her regards, and hopes we will be able to lay this matter to rest before any further harm is done to her people.”
“No harm has been done to her people, as she has no people to claim,” responded King Rhys, without missing a beat. “The throne she sits is not her own. If she wishes to settle this dispute with no loss of life or damage to property, she will admit her crime, step aside, and allow the true Queen of the Mists to retake what is rightfully hers.”
“See, that’s what we’re here to talk about,” I said, struggling to keep my voice as genial as I could. “We call upon the hospitality of your home.”
“And so you shall have it. We follow the rules set down by Oberon in all his wisdom here in Silences. For three days, you will be honored guests here in my Kingdom. No hands will be raised against you, and we will see to your safety even at the risk of our own. When that time is done, we will part either as friends or as foes, to be determined by your actions while you stand within my walls. Do you agree to comport yourselves as guests, and raise no hands to me or mine?”
“Save in self-defense,” I said.
“Then the bargain is struck.” King Rhys looked from me to my companions. “Who travels with you? I would know whom I welcome into my keep.”
“These are my friends and companions,” I said. “The Daoine Sidhe is my squire, Quentin. He’s kind of slow on the uptake sometimes, but he’s pretty, so we put up with him. The woman next to him is my half-sister, May.” Technically true. She was born of my blood and the flesh of the night-haunt she had been. No one could say that we weren’t blood relatives, just like no one could say that she had been carried or delivered by my mother. Faerie makes everything complicated.
“I see,” said King Rhys. “And the others?”
“Walther Davies of the Mists, my lord,” said Walther. “I am Sir Daye’s alchemist, and travel at her command.”
“King Tybalt of the Court of Dreaming Cats,” said Tybalt. “A war in the Mists would of necessity inconvenience my people. I am here to observe, and, should such a war become inevitable, to return home and prepare the Court of Cats for what has been brought down upon our heads.”
King Rhys narrowed his eyes, studying Tybalt. I had to admire the artistry of the moment, even as it made me squirm. By going last, Tybalt had prevented the King of Silences from spending too much time dwelling on Walther. If Lowri had been able to recognize him as related to the rightful royal family, there was a chance the King who’d replaced them could have done the same . . . if he hadn’t been immediately confronted with a rival monarch that he technically had no power over. It was nicely done. And it was scaring the hell out of me.
King Rhys could deny Tybalt his hospitality, saying that a knight didn’t have the right to claim a King of Cats as a traveling companion. Or he could deny me my hospitality and give it to Tybalt instead, which would mean we had made the entire journey for nothing, since Tybalt didn’t have the authority to negotiate a peace on Arden’s behalf.
Finally, King Rhys said, “I see. We have never hosted a monarch of your Court here; I hope you will not take offense if my people don’t know exactly the right etiquette for treating with you.”