“Well, we are.” Cassandra shrugged. “Karen was the one who showed me. She didn’t know what she could do until Blind Michael took her. After that . . . it was like the dead bastard had woken her up by putting her to sleep. She watched the way I watched the air, and she started telling me how to interpret it. You want humbling? Try having your baby sister teaching you how do something that feels like it should be as natural as breathing, but somehow isn’t. I See things. My sister Sees things.”
“I . . . okay. Okay. I am going to stop arguing with reality, because it never gets me anywhere, and just beg you, please. Tell me what we need to do to wake my brother up. I need him. I need . . . I need my family back, and he’s the only one left for me to save. Please.”
Cassandra grimaced, reluctance written plainly across her features. “Can you get me a candle?”
“I have one in my bag,” said Walther.
“Of course you do,” said Cassandra, with the ghost of a smile. “Will someone turn out the lights?”
“I’ve got it,” I said.
The knowe wasn’t wired for electricity, but we knew how to mimic it. Most of the rooms were lit with a marsh-charm that looked a lot like witch-light without requiring each bulb to be lit independently. I turned the dial next to the door. The tubes feeding the charm into the room went cold, and the light dimmed before flickering out, so only Walther’s witch-light provided any illumination. He handed Cassandra a candle before dousing that light as well. Everything was darkness. The starlight creeping in around the edges of the curtains cast the walls into vague relief, more an idea of architecture than anything clearly seen. That was all.
There was a brief flare as Cassandra lit a match and held it to the wick of her candle. She had sunk into a cross-legged position on the floor while I couldn’t see her, and her hair fell around her face like a curtain as she bent over the flame. It would have been easy to assume that she was staring at the fire. I took a step closer, and saw that she was staring at the air above it, her eyes unfocused again, darting back and forth as she followed the motion of something only she could see.
“The first sword didn’t come from the stone; it came from the sea,” she said, voice hollow and distant. “They called it a lake, later, when they were trying to contain its power, but it was sea-forged and sea-drawn, and its blade knew brine before it knew blood. Sharp it was, and cold it was, and unforgiving, always.”
“What?” I demanded.
A hand touched my shoulder. Walther. I tensed, ready to remind him that touching queens without permission was never a good idea. He caught my eye and shook his head.
“I’m sorry, Highness, but you need to let her work,” he said, voice low—he was trying not to distract her. “She can use the wind to scry, and that’s clear, just like Karen can walk in lucid dreams, but when you ask her to See, what you get is images and ideas. We’ll interpret them when she’s done.” Unspoken: This is what you asked for. This is what you wanted.
I forced myself to calm. I nodded. He withdrew his hand.
“She gave the sword away. She gave so many things away. Some for good and some for ill, but oh, she gave them all away.” Cassandra sighed. “So many things, and yet she can’t forsake the water. She never set the sleepers sleeping, never plumped their pillows or made their beds. Still, people came to her and asked for clever trinkets, and she had to say them yea. She never had a choice. Not since she chose once, and all her choices were taken away.”
Silence fell. Cassandra tilted her head to the side, like she was looking at something she didn’t understand. Finally, she said, “They asked and she said ‘yes.’ She has to say ‘yes.’ That’s why she hates us for asking. She gives and she gives and she gives, and we built a world on the idea that thanking her for what she’s already given is against the rules. We built a world on never being grateful, because we were entitled to everything we got. She’s the one who bottled the moon. She’s the one who refined the stars. She’s the one we have to talk to. But there will be costs. There are always costs. There have to be. It’s the only way we ever thank her. With our tears.”
She pitched forward, hands hitting the floor on either side of the candle. The motion was so swift that the wind it generated blew out the flame, casting us into total darkness. A wisp of smoke rose through her hair, paradoxically visible.
“Ow,” muttered Cassandra.
I leaned over and turned the lights back on. They trickled into life, revealing Cassandra unmoving on the floor. Walther was watching her, lips thin, face drawn.
“You okay?” he asked.
“No,” she said, and raised her head, offering him a shaky smile. “You know, I think I’d prefer to have been an oneiromancer. At least Karen gets to go to bed before she beats the crap out of herself.”
“Do you remember what you said?”
She looked at me and nodded. “I do. I don’t understand it, but I remember it.”
“Sadly, I understood it,” said Walther. “There’s only one woman I can think of who has to help when she’s asked, who resents basically everyone, and who always charges for her favors. She doesn’t do anything for free. I’m not sure she can.”
“Who?” I asked.
“The Luidaeg,” he said.
Silence fell.
SEVEN
The Luidaeg. The sea witch. The terror of the fens. The woman who had, not a week ago, stood in my place, enjoying the hospitality of my home, and told me that while familiarity might breed contempt, I should never make the mistake of thinking she was a tame monster. She would end me if she was given half the chance.
And yet. And yet.
And yet it was because of her that I’d survived to reach adulthood. Without the charms Marianne had purchased from her, the false Queen would have tracked me down long ago and put me into the ground with my parents. Without the Luidaeg supporting October, I would still have been in the bookstore—and when Nolan’s elf-shot had worn off on its own, the secondary sleeping charm would have killed him for sure. It was only the fact that I’d woken him early that had allowed us to discover it existed, much less start looking for a cure.
The fact that according to Cassandra, the Luidaeg had also brewed the sleeping potion hidden under the elf-shot, was almost beside the point. I knew she hadn’t had a choice. That was one of the things Marianne had been very clear about, back when I’d been a child and she’d been teaching me about the kingdom that would one day be mine.
“The Luidaeg is the oldest of Maeve’s daughters, firstborn among Firstborn,” she’d said, Nolan asleep with his head on her knee and me sitting on the floor in front of her, her hands moving through my hair, braiding and binding, tying elf-knots in every lock. I could barely remember my mother’s face, but I would always remember Marianne’s hands, and the sound of her voice by firelight, when she meant safety, when she meant home.
“She was born so long ago that time has no meaning; it’s a name and a number, and it barely matters, because she was happy then, my sweet girl, she was at peace. She and her sisters kept to the fens, to the places where land met sea, and they kept their own counsel, and they made their own peace. But time will have its due. She buried both her sisters, and she saw her powers bound by her father’s other wife, turned to the cause of service. She does what she’s asked, and she dies a little more inside with every gift she grants. That’s why she asks for voices and for peace and for the sound of a baby’s laughter. She charges dear not out of cruelty, but as a plea to be left alone.”