One Salt Sea
Page 8

“But the Queen’s mixed, isn’t she? And my friend Mitch is part Nixie.”
“One, we don’t point fingers at kings or queens. Everyone knows the Queen of the Mists has sea-dweller blood, but nobody’s going to be gauche enough to point it out. Two, your friend is a changeling. He’s not in line for any thrones, and commoners aren’t as dangerous as legitimate heirs to noble titles. Three . . .” She hesitated, looking briefly uncertain. That was scarier than anything she could have said.
“Luidaeg?”
The sound of her name seemed to snap her out of it. She shook her head, repeating, “Three. Mixed blood can be unstable, depending on how distant the mix is. If two of Daddy’s descendants hook up, it doesn’t really matter what bloodline they’re from. If one of them decides to get it on with one of Mom’s descendants, well. There’s the potential for a lot of crazy.”
“Like changeling madness?”
“Exactly like changeling madness. We just don’t see as much of it in the mixed-bloods, because most of them either learn to hide it or get killed off. Some combinations are stable. Others, not so much. Most people aren’t happy when the nobility decides to risk it.”
“Right,” I said, feeling slightly numb as I reviewed all the mixed-bloods I could think of. Sylvester’s niece, January O’Leary, had a little bit of Tylwyth Teg blood and had been a little bit crazy. Devin was a changeling, but he was also a mixed-blood. And then there was Oleander, and Rayseline . . . “If Dianda and Patrick got married a hundred years ago, why is it a big deal now?”
“Someone’s been threatening to kill their children.”
I nearly dropped my coffee. “What?” The claim was so outrageous that I had trouble giving it credit, but the Luidaeg had never lied to me. She’s alien even among the fae, and too old to think in a way anyone less than a thousand really understands, but she wasn’t a liar.
Children are precious in Faerie, regardless of their heritage, and we don’t have enough of them to go around making threats. Blind Michael had been protected by the fact that he was Firstborn and scarier than anyone wanted to deal with. Even that wouldn’t have saved him if he’d taken his tithes more often. Offering to kill a noble’s kids is a good way to find out how many armed guards that noble can command—and how many soldiers their friends have.
“Whoever it is claims to have the Queen’s sanction. I’ve been trying to keep the Lordens from doing anything stupid, but their sons vanished this morning. Dianda and Patrick are scared. Frightened people—frightened parents—can do some incredibly destructive things.” She pulled a slate-colored abalone shell the size of a silver dollar out of the empty air, dropping it on the table between us. “Carry this; if I need you, you’ll know. The wards on my home are set to allow you. Come if you need me. I’ll be there.”
I’d been so focused on what she was saying that I’d managed to forget why she was saying it. She was calling in my debts. “What do I need to do?” I picked up the shell. It was cold to the touch.
“You need to help me stop this war.” She stood.
“Luidaeg, what do you expect me to do? It’s not like I have any experience in war prevention. Why me?”
“Who else would it be? And all I expect you to do is the best you can. That’s all I ever wanted from your mother, and all I’ve ever asked of you. There’s a gathering tomorrow night at the Queen’s Court. The Lordens are coming to demand their children back; it’s probably going to be their last attempt to prevent the war. The Queen is sending someone to insist you attend as the representative of Goldengreen. Dress nicely. Go armed.”
“Luidaeg—”
“People will die if we don’t stop this. You could be one of them. So could I. We still have to do what we can.” She turned and walked out of the kitchen. I stood, shoving the shell into my pocket, and followed her.
Cagney and Lacey were sitting in front of the door, ears flat and tails lashing. The Luidaeg stopped, looking down at them. “Tell your King he can’t save her this time. My claim comes first, however far that means she has to go.”
“What are you talking about?”
“It doesn’t matter. They know what I mean.” She looked over her shoulder at me as she opened the door and stepped outside. “Be careful. Keep your eyes open. We don’t have time to screw around.”
“What are you—”
“Be careful,” she repeated, and closed the door.
I stared at the door for a moment, and then ran after her, wrenching it open. “Will you stop being obscure for ten seconds and explain yourself?” I demanded.
Dugan’s hand had been raised to knock. He lowered it. “Er,” he said.
I sagged, letting go of the doorknob. “Oh,” I said. “It’s you.”
Dugan Harrow worked for the Queen of the Mists. He was an untitled courtier from Deep Mists, and exactly the sort of prejudiced, arrogant bastard our system of nobility tends to encourage. The last time we “talked,” he was taking a really irritating amount of glee in carting me off to be executed.
We don’t get along.
Shaken by my distinctly nonstandard greeting, Dugan cleared his throat and asked, “May I come in?”
I gave him a weary look. “What time should I be there? Am I supposed to bring an escort?”
“I, uh . . . seven-thirty. And yes. It’s a formal event, and an escort is recommended.” Sounding unhappy, he added, “I was told to volunteer if—”
“That won’t be necessary.” I closed the door in his face, snapping the deadbolt into place with a decisive “click.” It was almost dawn; Connor might still be up if I called him soon. That would take care of the escort. As for the rest of it. . .
Missing children. The Luidaeg calling in my debts. Sometimes I wonder why I ever bother thinking life could be simple. That only happens in fairy tales.
THREE
THE PHONE RANG AS I WAS REACHING FOR IT. I grimaced and picked up, mentally making excuses for why I had to hang up immediately. “Hello?”
“Oh, good. You’re still up.”
All the tension went out of my shoulders. I slumped against the hallway wall, an involuntary smile tugging at my lips. “Connor, hey. I was just about to call you.”