“As I was saying, the modern world is a moving target,” said Jolgeir, recovering his composure and starting toward the thorn wall, tugging me along with him. “Once, modernity was measured in horses and carriages, then in steam trains, and now in cars. I have a station wagon. I bought it in 1984. It still runs like it was made yesterday, and the man I was in my youth would have seen it as impossible magic, too powerful for mortal hands to steer, much less build. Everything changes. I can talk like the men you see on the streets—I do, in my shop, although most of my younger patrons will tell you that I’m old-fashioned. They think I’m quaint.”
“If only they knew,” I said, smiling.
Jolgeir matched my smile with one of his own. “Precisely so.”
We were still walking, and should have reached the thorns by now. I looked up, and was unsurprised to see that we were now in a tunnel of brambles. When I looked back, I could see the clearing behind us, still ringed on its far side by the original thorn wall. Tybalt walked behind us, seemingly relaxed, and looking pleased with how this whole encounter was going.
“So,” I said, turning my attention back to Jolgeir. “You own a comic book store. That’s an interesting choice.”
“Why?” he asked. “Because I should have opened a rare book store, crumbling and cobwebbed, to frighten off anyone younger than the age I pretend to, which is so much younger than my own? Comic books appeal to children, and children understand the era they are born to. When the time comes for my current mortal face to die—and it will come, much as I might wish this time could last forever—I will understand the man I must manufacture as my next self all the better because of the children, and their comics. And besides, the X-Men offer many powerful life lessons to which even the eldest among us should attend.”
“Uh, okay,” I said. “I’ll take your word for that.”
Jolgeir was still laughing when we stepped out of the tunnel. There was the twist and stretch that I associated with transit inside knowes, and we were suddenly standing in an old, somewhat repurposed Chuck E. Cheese’s. The stage was still there, although the animatronic animals had been cleared away. There was no throne. Instead, where it should have been, there was a burgundy leather armchair, complete with footrest. Dusty old picnic tables cluttered the room, some in their original positions, waiting for birthday parties that would never begin, while others had been pushed off to the side and piled into towers of furniture.
And then there were the cats. They lounged on the piled-up tables; they prowled the floor. A few had stretched out on the steps leading up to the stage, although none had set foot on the stage itself. They understood the limits of their freedom, and if they were anything like the Cait Sidhe Tybalt was responsible for, they appreciated those limits. Total freedom was terrifying. Boundaries made it controllable, and hence enjoyable again.
“If you will excuse me,” said Jolgeir. He took his hand away from my arm and calmly walked up onto the stage, where he draped himself across the chair. His posture changed subtly, becoming regal without becoming formal. Before, we had been in the presence of Tybalt’s old friend—and, I got the feeling, sometime rival. Now we were in the presence of a King of Cats, and we would do well to remember that.
“Your Majesty,” said Tybalt, bowing.
I didn’t bow. Instead, I dropped into the deepest curtsy I was capable of holding, bending my knee until it nearly brushed the floor and lowering my head so that I was bent virtually double. I stayed in that position, breathing as deeply and slowly as I could manage in order to distract myself from the slow burn starting in the muscles of my thighs.
Jolgeir whistled. It was a long, low sound. “You found a girl from the Divided Courts who would curtsy to a King of Cats. Again, Rand, I must salute you for the novelty of it all, even as I continue to question the sense of it. You may both rise. You have shown sufficient respect to amuse me, and that’s really what this is about.”
“That’s what I always say. If you can’t impress them or dazzle them, at least leave them laughing.” I straightened up, feeling my thighs all but sigh in relief. “Your Majesty.”
“Sir Daye,” replied Jolgeir, with a small smirk. “You came to Silences hoping to meet one King, and here you’ve been so fortunate that you’ve met two! Are you overcome?”
“No, Sire. Just relieved. I came to Silences hoping to meet one King, and until this moment, I wasn’t sure I was going to meet any.”
Insulting Rhys to his Cait Sidhe contemporary’s face was a calculated risk. Jolgeir ran a comic book store and had a mortal wife. Those things put him almost exactly opposed to Rhys, with his anti-changeling policies and his disturbingly ornate Court functions. If I was right about relations between the two men, I was making myself an ally. And if I was wrong . . . well, I’ve functioned in situations where everyone hated me before. It wasn’t fun, but I didn’t die, so I’m calling it a victory for my side.
Jolgeir looked at me thoughtfully for a long moment. Then he grinned, so wide that I could see both his incisors, along with a great white sweep of supporting teeth. “Oh, Rand, I like her. Are you implying that the great King Rhys is less of a King than I am?”
“Implying, no. Stating outright, yes. He’s on the throne because a woman who had no right to make decisions about this Kingdom put him there. I’m here, in your territory, because my Queen sent me to prevent a war. Do I look like the kind of person who can just stroll in and prevent a war? Cause one by accident, maybe, but prevent? Not my strong suit. The fact that I worry him should be enough to prove that he’s no true King.” I shrugged. “Now here I am. It’s an honor to be in your Court, by the way. I know the Court of Cats is private, and I’m grateful to be allowed to pass here.”
“My wife and daughters pass here frequently,” said Jolgeir. He turned his attention to Tybalt. “What of you? Do you find this King of the Divided Courts to be worthy of the name?”
“He is a mewling child playing at the monarchy, making demands he has no right to make and fussing like a kitten when denied,” said Tybalt. “In all these regards, he is as so many of their Kings have been, across the centuries. It’s difficult to look on him and see anything beyond the destiny they have graven for themselves. But my lady speaks true when she says his throne was granted to him by one who had no right to do the granting. It is possible a sea change is coming, one which will reorder the heavens and the earth, or at least the political structure of Portland.”
“Mm,” said Jolgeir. His eyes flicked back to me. “Forgive me if my question is rude, but you have human blood, do you not? I can see it in your lips, in the angle of your cheekbones and the way you hold your hands. It’s dilute, but it’s there.”
“My father was human,” I said. “I’ve never hidden it.”
Jolgeir sat up straighter, making no effort to hide his bemusement. “You lie, lady, you lie; you aren’t a human’s child. You have far too little mortal in you to be a human’s child.”
“Nope. I don’t lie. My father was as human as any man who’s ever lived.” He died for it, too, alone, thinking himself a widower who had buried his only child. I will never stop regretting that. “I told you my mother was Firstborn. Her children are Dóchas Sidhe. We’re blood-workers. For lack of a better explanation, we’re hope chests that walk. I changed my own blood. It was necessary to save my life.”
He sat up straighter still. “And that is the extent of your powers? To slide yourself back and forth along a scale from human to fae and back again, as you like?”
Just like that, I realized what I was being asked. I glanced to Tybalt, who wouldn’t meet my eyes. He’d known this would happen when he brought me here, and he hadn’t warned me, maybe because he was afraid I wouldn’t agree to come, and maybe just because he, like everyone else in my life, was in the habit of keeping secrets that didn’t need to be kept.