One Salt Sea
Page 74

“This works,” I said. I pushed it a few inches to the side, centering it on the dais, and sat down. The chair had no back, but it did have sturdy arms, positioned at exactly the right level. I rested my elbows on them, looking toward the boys. “You good?”
“We’re good,” said Quentin, taking a position slightly behind me, to the right. Raj mirrored him, taking up the same position on the left. I briefly considered shooing Raj off the dais—Quentin was my squire, while Raj was technically violating protocol by staying—and decided against it. Connor wouldn’t tell on us, and the rest of the Undersea wouldn’t realize there was anything wrong.
Marcia moved to stand on the floor to the right of the dais, putting her on the same axis as Quentin, just lower. That was exactly right. Standing there marked her as my seneschal, and meant she’d be allowed to speak for me in matters regarding the land itself. It would also make it clear that she was under my protection. Just in case that mattered.
There’s a reason that pureblood manners make my head hurt the way they do. I was saved from further contemplation of our placement as hinges creaked in the distance, and low, murmuring voices drifted down the hall. I sat up straight, composing my expression, and waited.
May looked every inch the obedient courtier as she stepped into the room with her shoulders squared and her face grim. Even her glittery T-shirt couldn’t spoil the effect. The group trailing behind her was a mixture of Merrow and Selkies, save for Patrick and a golden-haired woman with the uniformly blue eyes characteristic of the Roane. That made me sit up a little straighter. The Roane are practically extinct, and have been for centuries. I’d never seen a Roane pureblood before.
The main group fell into a line halfway down the length of the throne room, leaving May to guard the door. Patrick and Connor continued toward me, stopping just short of the dais. I stood.
“Your Grace,” I said.
“Countess Daye,” replied Patrick, and bowed deeply, showing the proper degree of respect from a visiting noble. I returned the bow in kind before straightening and reclaiming my seat. “We received your message.”
“Good. It seemed like a clever enchantment. It’s still always nice to know that things are actually showing up where they’re supposed to.” I frowned. “Forgive me for asking, but . . . why are you here? If you got the bottle, you know everything I do. I was planning to send another update as soon as I had something more substantial.”
A murmur swept through the sea fae. They were keeping their voices too low for me to pick out individual words, but the overall tone wasn’t good. They sounded angry—and some of their whispers sounded almost like accusations.
Patrick took a deep breath. “Someone took it upon themselves to remind us what was at stake in this conflict,” he said, voice measured, like he was trying not to scream. “In case we had somehow forgotten.”
I blinked. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, someone slunk into our knowe and left this outside our bedroom door.” Patrick produced a salt-crusted wooden box from his pocket. An unbroken golden ring was looped through the latch, connected to the corners of the box by thin gold chains. I had to admire the construction. Breaking the ring would snap the chains, making it impossible for someone to steal the contents without getting caught.
Still, there had to be something I was missing. Good craftsmanship alone wouldn’t account for the bleakness in Patrick’s eyes.
“What is it?” I asked.
The Roane woman stepped forward, reaching out to touch Patrick’s elbow. “Her confusion is sincere,” she said. Her voice was low and melodic, her accent half-Irish, half-something sharper. “She doesn’t know.”
“I told you she didn’t know,” muttered Connor, a little too loudly.
Patrick shot Connor a sharp look before returning his attention to me. “I didn’t want to risk opening it—not when we didn’t know what it was. We took it to the Asrai, who scried for the contents.”
“And?”
“It’s Dean’s finger.” Patrick’s voice broke as he continued, “They cut off his finger, October. What else are they doing to him? Why haven’t you found him yet? You were supposed to be bringing him home.”
Oh, oak and ash. I stared at Patrick, who looked back at me with the wounded expression of a parent betrayed, and in that moment—that single, horrible moment—I knew that it wouldn’t matter if I stopped the war. We were all of us already losing.
TWENTY-FIVE
“THE ASRAI SAY THEY CAN FEEL pain when they look into the box,” said Patrick, dull misery surrounding every word. “They say it’s likely he was still alive when it was removed.”
Quentin made a small, dismayed sound. I didn’t blame him. A gnawing anger was uncurling in the pit of my stomach. How dare they? Whoever was helping Raysel with this—Dugan or someone else—how dare they? Children are the most precious thing Faerie has. Cutting pieces off of them to make a point is beyond wrong. As far as I’m concerned, it’s actively evil.
“I . . . Oberon’s bones, Patrick, I’m sorry. I’m doing everything I can to find your sons, I swear.” I shook my head, trying to shake away the idea of someone doing something like that to a child. “Why did you bring it here?”
“I asked him to,” said Connor. I turned to stare at him. “I reminded him of who your mother is, and what you can do. You can do it, can’t you?”
“Why can’t he?” asked Raj.
“Raj!” I said. “I’m so sorry. He doesn’t understand—”
To my surprise, Patrick actually laughed. It was a short, sharp sound, and there was no humor behind it, but it was laughter. “He’s Cait Sidhe. He doesn’t need to understand, now, does he? That’s been the rule since time immemorial. I can’t do it myself, young squire, because my blood magic was never that strong, and I’ve spent too long in the water. What power I had has been long since diluted, and all that’s left for me is illusions.”
“Oh,” said Raj. Then: “So you really want her to . . . ?”
“They want me to ride Dean’s blood,” I said.
Raj made a disgusted face. “Ew. Isn’t that dangerous? And icky?”
I took a shaky breath. “I’m not sure that matters.”