Walther finished explaining the alchemical processes and principles behind his cure. Reaching up to remove his glasses, he tucked them into his pocket, and asked, “Are there any questions?”
King Antonio of Angels stood before anyone else could react, his Merry Dancers spinning a pirouette in the air around his head. “How are we to trust that this cure works, and is not simply a bid by the alliance of Mists and Silences to poison our people?” He asked the question mildly enough that it didn’t sound like an accusation, which was a neat trick. He must have spent a lot of time practicing.
“We know it works because it’s been used, while we were trying to retake my family’s throne and didn’t have time to request permission from the High King.” Walther frowned. “I was worried about that, but he forgave us for our indiscretion, once we explained the situation, and he realized that there’d been some major injustices perpetrated against our people.”
High Queen Maida cleared her throat. “Please, Master Davies, stay on the path of alchemy, and not the path of politics. Your aunt’s claim to the throne of Silences is not under debate here, and does not need to be defended.”
“My apologies,” said Walther. He paused for a moment, clearly buying time, before returning his attention to King Antonio. “We know it works because those who’ve used it have been moving amongst us for months now, with no ill-effects.”
“You say this, counting the Queen and King of Silences among their number, but—and forgive me for my indelicacy—it is well understood that the Tylwyth Teg are sensitive to alchemical workings. What works for one of that bloodline will not necessarily work for another, and you do not produce another,” said King Antonio. “Are you hiding something?”
“This is making my head hurt,” I muttered.
Walther kept his temper remarkably well. “Your Highness, I am an alchemist in a room filled with royalty,” he said. “It would not be in my best interests to hide anything right now. Not if I want to be allowed to leave here a free man.”
On the stage, Arden glanced at me. That was alclass="underline" just a glance, a flicker of her eyes. I knew what it meant. It took everything I had to suppress my sigh as I stood, turned to the High King, and asked, “May I have permission to join Master Davies?”
“Of course you may,” said High King Aethlin.
All eyes were on me as I climbed the steps. Some were sympathetic, understanding, even concerned. More were confused verging into hostile. Why was I, a changeling, allowed to speak, much less stand upon a stage that contained the great powers of our region?
Tybalt’s eyes were cool and unreadable, as they’d been in the days and years before the first time he told me that he loved me. I tried not to let myself be hurt by that as I took up my position next to Walther.
“My name is October Daye, Knight of Lost Words, sworn in service to Duke Sylvester Torquill of Shadowed Hills, hero of the realm. I’m also a changeling,” I said. My voice didn’t shake. I was pretty proud of that. “While in Silences, I was elf-shot, and fell into an enchanted sleep. Because elf-shot is fatal to those of us with mortal blood, my body began to die. The alchemical tincture Walther Davies created was able to both wake me and cleanse the elf-shot from my system sufficiently that I did not, in fact, pass away.”
King Antonio switched his attention to me. I read no malice in his expression. Then again, he was a King. That meant he was probably a pretty good liar, even for one of the fae. “Why should we believe this claim?”
Sylvester moved like he was going to stand. I made a quick motion with my hand, hoping he’d understand that I was waving him off. Luna gave me a hard look as he settled back in his seat. I did my best to ignore them both, focusing instead on the greater threat: King Antonio, who didn’t know me and had no reason to trust me. I had too many allies who didn’t let my human blood call my words into question. I needed to remember that it didn’t work that way for everyone in Faerie.
“The High King is Daoine Sidhe,” I said. “I’m willing to let him ride my blood, if that will reassure you.”
“Better plan: I can do it,” said the Luidaeg. She rose. King Antonio shrank back. I might be used to people trusting me, but I was also used to dealing with the Firstborn. That, too, was not common in Faerie.
Smirking, the Luidaeg climbed the stairs and came to stand beside me on the stage. Walther—who, like most people, viewed avoiding the Firstborn as a good, reliable life choice that was unlikely to get him brutally murdered—shifted to the side, cheeks coloring red even as the rest of his face got paler. Poor guy really hadn’t signed up for this when he’d agreed to help me out.
“Does anyone here question my ability to read the blood of a changeling, or the integrity of my word?” the Luidaeg asked, in a voice as mild as milk and laced with sugary sweetness. She was at her most dangerous when she was talking like that, if only because there was the potential that someone might forget. Forget that she was the oldest of us, the most dangerous of us; the one who could slaughter everyone around her without any real effort.
No one spoke.
“That’s good. Especially since I can only tell the truth, so anyone who calls me a liar is out to lose a head.” She turned to High King Aethlin. “I grant you no power over me, child of a child thrice-removed of my father, but I grant that you have power over this gathering. If I sample her blood and tell you its secrets, will that be acceptable to you, and hence, to your vassals?”
Sometimes pureblood protocol makes me want to scream and tear my hair out. I forced myself to remain silent and still, waiting for the High King’s verdict.
“It will, but only if Sir Daye consents,” said the High King. “I will not command any among my subjects to tithe their blood or body to the sea witch without their understanding what it means for them.”
“Oh, Toby’s given me her blood before, haven’t you, Toby?” The Luidaeg smiled at me. Her teeth, which had seemed so blunt and human only a few moments before, were sharp as knives. That sort of swift, mercurial change was almost reassuring, coming from her. If she was changing, she was still herself. No masks. No lies. Just the ever-shifting, ever-faithless sea given demihuman form and a siren’s subtle grace.
“Not normally for something like this,” I said. I looked past her to the High King and nodded. “I consent. There’s no point in having this meeting if we can’t all agree that the cure works.”
“We could always shoot someone and see if they can be awakened,” said Antonio. There was an edge to his voice that hadn’t been there before. Apparently, he didn’t like being interrupted by a changeling and one of the Firstborn—someone below him and someone so far above him that he might as well have been mortal himself. I could see where that might be jarring, but I didn’t feel too bad for him. This was all part of the business of being King.
Tybalt still wasn’t saying or doing anything. That stung. Every other time I’d been questioned in his presence, he’d been there to rise and take my side. Even before we’d been officially together, he’d been willing to stand up for me before the pretender Queen. Now he was silent, not speaking, not raising a hand to challenge a man who’d challenged my honor. I’d always known he was a King, and that sometimes he’d need to do things that put his people ahead of me. But this . . . this sort of silence stung, even if it was necessary. I’d never realized how much silence could hurt.
“No, we can’t,” I said flatly, focusing on Antonio and trying not to let my frustration with Tybalt color my tone. “Elf-shot is a poison. Maybe it’s one we can counter now, if this conclave finds in favor of distributing the cure, but it’s still poisonous, and it still hurts. No one needs to suffer that when we have another way.”