One Salt Sea: An October Daye Novel (17 page)

“Every available hand is emptying the armory into the grand ballroom, in preparation for the Queen’s men coming to collect,” added Luna.

That explained why Jin answered the door. I glanced automatically toward the western wall, asking, “Is Amandine . . . ?”

“She’s summoned with the rest of us,” said Sylvester. “That is, she will be, if they can find her. I’m not sure they’ve even managed to find her tower.”

I allowed a fleeting smile. “Mother always liked her privacy.” Privacy, insanity, they’re basically the same where Amandine’s concerned. It’s easier to understand how she gets away with it now that I know she’s Firstborn.

Sylvester stopped pacing and moved to settle in his throne. Luna leaned over, taking his hand in hers. “Have you seen her recently?”

“No.” I bit my lip, watching them. The fae don’t age, but we wear out when we push ourselves too hard. Thin lines were etched around Sylvester’s eyes, and Luna—always pale now that she’s lost her borrowed Kitsune skin—looked almost waxen. War is one of the few things that truly frightens the fae, because it represents an ending. Win or lose, there’s someone who doesn’t walk away. “Sylvester, I . . .”

Tybalt’s hand on my shoulder stopped me. I looked toward him, blinking.

“I believe this is better discussed without my presence,” he said. He offered a shallow bow to Sylvester and Luna as he stepped away. “I will wait for October in the hall, if you don’t mind?”

“Not at all,” said Sylvester. He looked relieved. He’s known me long enough to know that my discomfort meant I was almost certainly about to say something he didn’t want to hear, and he’d feel better hearing it without someone who wasn’t family in the room. “If you need anything, Jin or Melly will be happy to provide it for you.”

Things were worse than I thought if Jin was being drafted into helping the household staff with more than just opening the doors. I shot Tybalt a grateful look, which he answered with a smile before turning and walking toward the doors. They swung open at his approach, swinging closed again behind him.

I turned back to the Torquills. “Sylvester . . .”

“I’m glad he’ll stand with you,” said Luna, pulling our attention to her. “I doubt Connor would. He didn’t stand with Rayseline.”

“I’m not sure that’s fair,” I said carefully. Luna hadn’t commented on my relationship with Connor before that moment��something I’d been deeply grateful for, since I wasn’t planning to break up with him, no matter
what
she said. “She made her choices. He’s made his.”

“Her choices were made for her.” Luna lifted one bone-white hand, looking at it thoughtfully. “Blood decides so much for us. All of us.”

I shifted my weight from foot to foot, not sure what to say, although I was pretty sure pointing out that Connor didn’t choose Raysel in the first place wouldn’t go over well. Luna was right; in Faerie, blood will tell. I was starting to wonder how much of her calm had actually belonged to Hoshibara, the Kitsune girl whose skin Luna used to escape her father’s lands.

“Rayseline was wed for diplomatic reasons,” said Sylvester sharply. “The choice to end the marriage was hers, and was made when she left her duties. Toby, please. What was so important that you had to come here to tell us?”

I took a deep breath, holding it for a moment before I breathed out, and said, “I called a Glastig I know from Home and asked him about the kidnappings. He didn’t really reach beyond his roots after leaving Devin. He generally knows what’s going on in the underworld.”

“And?” asked Sylvester.

Here it was: the moment of truth. “He said the only person who was asking the right kind of questions was a red-haired girl with yellow eyes and a laugh like . . .” I couldn’t finish that sentence. “He described Rayseline.”

Silence crashed down around us. Luna’s hand tightened on Sylvester’s. For his part, he simply closed his eyes, breathing slowly in and out. Finally:

“I see. I suppose, again, that blood will tell.” Sylvester opened his eyes. “What will you do?”

There were so many questions packed into that short, seemingly-simple sentence. What
would
I do? Would I hand Rayseline over to the justice of the Undersea? To the Queen’s justice? To anyone at all? She and I were close, once, before she was stolen and raised in darkness. It wasn’t her fault that she grew up broken—and sadly, the fact that it wasn’t her fault wasn’t enough to un-break her.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I’m going to prevent this war. I don’t know what that’s going to mean, but I’m
going
to prevent this war. I need to search her rooms. I need to know if there’s anything here that might help me figure out what’s really going on.”

Sylvester nodded. Luna wasn’t saying anything. Her eyes were closed, pink lashes unnaturally bright against the stark whiteness of her skin.

“I . . . appreciate that you did not call us with this news. This is too important for that.” Sylvester sighed. “You have free run of her apartments. Etienne will accompany you and provide anything else you need.”

“He isn’t needed in the armory?”

“This is more important,” said Sylvester. “You’ll be sure we know the situation?”

“I will,” I said, with all the sincerity of a promise.

“Good.”

That was my dismissal; it couldn’t have been any clearer. I turned, walking back across the throne room to the doors. They didn’t call me back, and I didn’t turn around. Then the doors swung open, and I left my liege and his lady behind.

T
YBALT WAS LEANING against the wall with his arms crossed, watching the pages walk by with their armfuls of weaponry. I stopped in my tracks, struggling with the image of Tybalt looking so at home in Shadowed Hills. He’d always been a part of my life, a figure lurking on the fringes making snide comments and yet somehow, reliably, coming to my rescue when I needed him.

How long had it taken me to notice that?

He straightened when he saw me. “I take it you’ve finished?” he asked. There was open concern in his tone.

“Yeah. I told them.”

“How did they react?”

“As well as could be expected.” I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose. “I need to find Etienne. He’s going to accompany us for the search of Rayseline’s rooms.”

Tybalt blinked. “Really? Why?”

“Because otherwise, the Queen could question any evidence you produced,” replied Etienne, stepping through a doorway that hadn’t been there a moment before—a glittering hole in the air that vanished as soon as he was through it. “A changeling with reason to have a grudge against the accused, and a King of Cats with his own agendas? Best not to give her the opening.”

“I hate politics,” I sighed. “Hi, Etienne.”

“Countess Daye,” he replied. Tybalt received a nod, which he returned without visible annoyance. It can be hard for the more traditionalist members of the nobility to know how they should address a King of Cats—“Your Majesty” gives them too much credit, but anything else verges on insult.

Most days, watching Etienne talk to Tybalt would be high comedy, and I’d be the first to break out the popcorn. Unfortunately, I didn’t have time. “You know the way?”

Etienne nodded. “Sir Grianne will be meeting us there.”

“Good. Let’s go.”

Etienne waved his hand, filling the air with the smell of limes and cedar smoke. A glittering hole opened in the wall next to Tybalt. I could see the arched windows of the Torquills’ private hall through the portal. Grianne, another of Sylvester’s knights, was waiting for us there.

“I love the Tuatha Express,” I said.

All breeds of fae have their own strange skills. The Tuatha de Dannan are teleporters, capable of opening temporary doors between places. They used to manage the gates between the realms of Faerie, before Oberon sealed them and left the Tuatha looking for something else to do with their time. Most have chosen Etienne’s career path. The rest have Courts of their own, and make pretty decent regents. Some people say they’re just killing time until Oberon returns and puts them all back to work. Stranger things have happened.

Tybalt and Etienne entered the gate close behind me. There was a moment’s blinding light, like I was stepping between the levels of a knowe—

—and I was standing in a different hall. Grianne turned in our direction, the glowing spheres of her Merry Dancers spinning in wide circles around her. She didn’t say anything. That wasn’t unusual; I’ve never met a chatty Candela, and Grianne makes most of her race seem positively loquacious.

“What will you need from us?” asked Etienne. He closed the portal with another wave of his hand.

I resisted the urge to answer “More coffee.” Instead, I asked, “Has either of you been in Raysel’s rooms before?”

“I have,” said Grianne grudgingly, like even that much communication hadn’t been in her plans for the day.

“Good. I’m going to need you to tell me if anything’s out of place.” The lintel above the nearest door was marked with a circlet of pale pink roses, identifying the rooms beyond as Rayseline’s. I started to step forward, and paused, a feeling of undeniable
wrongness
washing over me. After squinting at the doorframe for a long moment, I realized what it was.

There were no wards, either active or inactive. There weren’t even signs that there had been wards set in the past. “Etienne?” I said uncertainly.

He followed my gaze, and sighed. “The young Mistress Torquill never made much use of her magical gifts. Her quarters have never been warded.”

“Oh,” I said, cringing inwardly. Wards are complicated magic. They don’t come instinctively, like basic illusions or some racial gifts. Rayseline never had a childhood; she never got the training that was her birthright.

Out of everyone in Faerie, she might be one of the few who had less of a clue about her own abilities than I did. Something about that struck me as unutterably sad. But there was nothing to be done about it now, and, tragic or not, Rayseline was no longer on the side of the angels. I took a breath to steady myself, trying to dismiss any preconceptions, and stepped past Grianne into the receiving room.

My first impression was of overwhelming pinkness. Everything was one shade of pink or another—the walls, the rugs, even the upholstery on the chairs. Evening Winter-rose had had a similar decorating scheme for her apartment, but while she’d made it look like a private Valentine, this looked more like a preschooler’s room, one who dreamed in Disney princesses and once-upon-a-times.

Oh. That was exactly what this was: the room Sylvester and Luna decorated for their precious baby girl. Then she went away, and came back broken. They didn’t know what to change, what would help her heal . . . and so they didn’t change anything at all, and they never taught her about growing up. I don’t think anyone, or anything, ever did.

There were traces of her adulthood visible around the edges, but not many. Raysel shared this room with the ghost of her own childhood, the little girl who died on the day when she was swept off into the darkness. Her kidnapping was—and is—the case I couldn’t solve. We’re all still paying for it.

I walked forward, scanning the area. This was a showroom, the entry to a noble’s private space. If Raysel had slipped up, it wouldn’t be here. There were two doors at the back of the room. I indicated them, asking, “Grianne, where do these doors lead?”

“Bedroom. Washroom.” Each word was accompanied by a Merry Dancer soaring over to bob in front of the indicated door. Grianne paused before adding, “There’s a door from the bedroom to the family’s private garden.”

“Gotcha.” I started for the bedroom door. “Tybalt, can you shift to cat form and see if anything smells out of place?”

“Will you never learn that I am not a bloodhound?” he asked without rancor.

“Nope.” The door was warm under my fingertips, like some unseen sun had been shining on it. I tried the knob. It turned easily, the door swinging open to reveal a darkened room that seemed like a much better match for Rayseline’s adult character. Heavy drapes were drawn across the windows, blocking any light that might have tried to slip inside. “Grianne?”

She didn’t answer me, but the Merry Dancer that had been marking the door swooped inside and hovered slightly above head height, brightening to cast a soft white glow through the entire room. I stopped where I was, taking a moment to simply look. This was where Raysel had lived, free from the expectations of her family. This was where she hadn’t been forced to hide.

The walls had been papered pink, at one point; scraps of wallpaper still clung around the ceiling and near the floor. The rest had been ripped away, revealing smooth plaster. Even some of that had been torn down, leaving bare the rough gray stone of the actual walls. The floor was hard, uncovered oak. Raysel had removed any trace of softness, leaving the room as stark as she could. A standing wardrobe was shoved against one wall, and a simple bureau was up against the other. In the darkest corner of the room, the one farthest from the windows, a twin bed that was practically a cot had been made up with a thin blanket and a single pillow.