“Then speak,” said Arden. She managed to make it sound like she was conveying a great and precious favor upon them. I wondered if she knew how much of a queen she was becoming. Maybe more importantly, I wondered if she would forgive me when she realized.
Chrysanthe and Theron exchanged a look, silent but laden with meaning. Chrysanthe was the one who took a quarter-step forward, enough to make it clear that she’d speak for both of them. “I was born daughter of the King and Queen upon the Golden Shore, and I married for love before I was tasked with the throne. When my time to ascend came, I bore my crown as an equal to my husband’s, that we might balance each other in our regency.”
Several other monarchs nodded. This was apparently important. It was uncommon, I knew that much: most demesnes were more like Shadowed Hills, where Sylvester and Luna were both in charge, but Sylvester was generally accepted as more in charge than she was, since he would keep his title if they got divorced. The arrangement Theron and Chrysanthe had meant even if they separated, took new lovers, and remarried, they’d still be King and Queen together, and would have to agree on their heir. It was a complicated way to do things, and it either signaled true love or a genuine desire for balance. Or the sort of delusion that looks like true love.
“Your Highnesses, Golden Shore is a rarity among the Westlands: we are a changeling Kingdom. Those purebloods who choose to remain among our population know well that they are considered no better than their changeling cousins. No worse, either. Equality has long been our goal, and we have, for the most part, achieved it.”
“First among farmers,” said a voice from somewhere in the gallery. Snickering followed.
Color rose in Chrysanthe’s cheeks, tinting them an odd shade of rose-gold. Golden Hinds even bled gilded. “Yes, we are a farming community. The agrarian arts are as important as any other—or have you forgotten who provides your fairy fruits? Your pomegranates full and fine, as the poets say? We grow wine-pears and silver grapes in mortal soil, and make them taste as rich as anything grown in Faerie. Without us, you’d all be shopping at Whole Foods and trying to make sense of the tasteless blobs that humans insist count as ‘tomatoes.’ We feed you. Perhaps ours is a bad hand to bite.”
The snickers subsided. No one looked particularly annoyed. This was the way purebloods did things: with snide comments and little jabs, to make sure no one forgot their place.
“The last kingdom census of Golden Shore showed that fully two-thirds of our subjects were changelings, and that is why we stand before you today, and ask you not to approve the distribution of this so-called ‘cure.’” Chrysanthe bowed. “Your attention is most gratifyingly received.”
“Wait, what?” My voice rang out through the gallery. Chrysanthe froze in the act of sitting, turning to stare at me. She looked less offended than simply surprised.
That wasn’t true of everyone. Some of the nobles who were now looking in my direction seemed frankly offended by the fact that a changeling had opened her mouth. I considered sinking into my seat and trying to disappear, but as no one was commanding me to shut up, I decided to push my luck. I stood.
“Why would having so many changelings in your community make you decide against the cure?” I asked. “Most of us don’t have a hundred years to lose.”
Chrysanthe straightened, standing again, and looked at me with almost sympathetic eyes. “How far back in your family line is your human ancestor?” she asked. There was kindness in her voice. That was surprising. “A grandparent? A great-grandparent? You may not understand the challenges faced by those who are more mortal.”
“My father,” I said, somehow managing not to wince. I was used to living in the Mists, where everyone sort of understood the circumstances of my birth, and had grown accustomed to watching the mortality bleed out of me, one drop at a time. Faerie always demanded payment for the sort of things I did. All too often, what it wanted was my heritage.
“What?” Chrysanthe looked confused. Then her eyes narrowed. “I would appreciate it, Queen Windermere, if you’d keep your vassals from making jokes during what should be a serious discussion.”
“She isn’t making a joke, I assure you,” said Arden. “She’s Amandine’s daughter.”
Mom has a reputation for being the best blood-worker in Faerie. Maybe it’s unfair—I bet Eira could have given her a run for her money, if she were, you know, awake—but as she’s one of the only Firstborn still walking around and doing things, it’s not unearned. Mom being Firstborn isn’t common knowledge outside of the Mists. Quickly, I said, “My mother changed the balance of my blood to protect me, and I had access to a hope chest for a short time. I promise you, my father was human. I haven’t given up this much of my mortality out of shame or pride, but for the sake of Faerie, and to protect the ones I care for.”
“I . . . see,” said Chrysanthe, looking faintly bemused. “The choices you have made aren’t available to most of our subjects. Hope chests are rare to the point of becoming legend, and Amandine doesn’t come to visit very often. The blood they are given by their parents is the blood they will carry all the days of their lives.”
“I know,” I said. “That’s why I’m confused.”
Chrysanthe blinked slowly. “You really don’t understand, do you? You are aware of what elf-shot does to those with mortal blood?”
“As you were told earlier, I’ve been elf-shot twice,” I said, fighting to keep the chill from my voice. “I nearly died both times. So yeah, I have some idea.” The image of my daughter struggling to breathe flashed unbidden through my mind. Gillian had been too human from the beginning. The elf-shot would have claimed her if I hadn’t changed her blood. To save her, I had been forced to lose her forever. How dare this pureblood queen look at me like I didn’t understand what elf-shot could cost? I knew better than anyone.
Elf-shot could cost the world.
“Right now, with no cure, when purebloods go to war, we have to weigh the chance of putting our people to sleep for a hundred years against the desire to end the conflict quickly and cleanly,” she said. “We have to decide between real arrows and elf-shot, because it is a decision. Oberon’s Law allows for deaths in war, but most of us don’t want to kill each other, even when a conflict must turn violent.”
A general murmur of agreement swept through the room. I didn’t believe it—most of the purebloods I’d known were perfectly happy to kill each other, as long as they felt like they could get away with it—but I didn’t say anything.
“Give the world a cure, and there’s no decision,” said Chrysanthe. “Most purebloods would have the elf-shot notched before they knew whether there was a changeling in the room, because under the Law, changelings don’t count. If they kill a few mongrels in the process of subduing an enemy force, who cares? They can always wake up the people who matter. They can fill the air with arrows, and suffer no losses at all.”
I stared at her, mouth suddenly dry. What she was saying made a terrible, brutal sort of sense. I’d been looking at the cure for elf-shot as if it would somehow remove elf-shot from the equation completely: like the purebloods would willingly set aside one of their greatest weapons because the game had changed. They wouldn’t. They were never going to give it up. They were just going to change the way that they used it.
Faerie was never going to be safe for changelings. The fact that I persisted in believing it someday, somehow could be was just another sort of madness.