Chrysanthe shook her head. “The cure is too dangerous. It would take a weapon used judiciously and turn it into a weapon to be used without hesitation or thought. The Kingdom on the Golden Shore will not support its distribution, and we hope those of you with compassion in your hearts will see as we do.” She remained standing for a few seconds longer, clearly waiting for someone to speak. When no one did, she offered a shallow bow to the stage, and sat.
“We appreciate your candor,” said Maida. There was a thin note of strain in her voice. Like me, she hadn’t considered what the cure might mean for the changelings of the Westlands; she’d seen it as a salve, and not a new form of poison. I wondered whether anyone who didn’t know her origins would hear that unhappiness, or whether it only seemed clear to me because of what I’d already learned. “Who will speak?”
“I will speak,” said Sylvester. I stiffened as my liege stood, standing as straight and proud as he had on the day when he first came through the wall of my room and offered me the Changeling’s Choice. That was the real problem with being surrounded by immortals: my childhood heroes still looked exactly the same. The only one changing was me.
“Then speak,” said Maida.
Sylvester inclined his head in gracious acknowledgment. “I was granted regency over the Duchy of Shadowed Hills as a reward for my service to the Kingdom of the Westlands, and for my service before coming here, when I dwelt in the Kingdom of Londinium. I have been a hero of the realm for centuries, called upon to serve as Faerie required. By any measure, I have paid my dues as a member of our glorious society of the undying, and while I have no aspirations to be a king in my own right, I have as much a place in our world as any who wears the crown.”
His words were smooth, evenly cadenced: he was drawing on some obscure point of pureblood etiquette to make his point, reminding the others of the days when crowns were passed with more regularity. Kingdoms used to be smaller, and more prone to randomly invading each other. The situation with King Rhys and his puppet government in Silences had been unusual for the modern world. There was a time, though, when that was just as common a means of taking a throne as inheritance.
Then again, considering what had happened to King Antonio, maybe things hadn’t changed that much after all.
“We see and acknowledge your place,” said High King Aethlin.
“My wife, Luna, is the daughter of two of the Firstborn,” said Sylvester. “Her father was the monster we called ‘Blind Michael.’ Her mother, Acacia, yet lives, and is known as the Mother of the Trees.”
There was barely time to register the tension in the Luidaeg’s shoulders before she was on her feet, eyes narrowed and mouth twisted. “You can’t use your wife’s parentage to support your claims of status and call my brother ‘monster’ in the same breath,” she said. “That right is not yours.”
To his credit—his small, self-destructive credit—Sylvester met her eyes without flinching. “My apologies, sea witch, and believe me when I say I have no desire to incur your wrath, but . . . your brother was a monster.”
“That doesn’t mean you have the right to call him that,” the Luidaeg spat back.
A murmur ran through the crowd, and a few people shifted in their seats, putting themselves a little further from Sylvester and the smiting that was presumably about to happen. I didn’t move. Neither did Quentin. Sylvester was Daoine Sidhe. That made him a child of Titania’s bloodline, and meant the Luidaeg couldn’t raise a hand against him, no matter how much she wanted to. The bindings Evening had placed upon her were too strong. For the first time, I was grateful for that. Sylvester and I might not currently be on the best of terms, but that didn’t mean I wanted him reduced to a fine red mist.
There was a long pause before Sylvester offered her a shallow bow. “I meant neither offense nor to claim status that was not mine by right,” he said. “I merely wish to be sure my situation is known and understood before I make my plea.”
The Luidaeg said nothing. She just stood there and looked at him. I was close enough to see the white lines beginning to thread through her irises like creeping fog. Nothing good ever came of the Luidaeg’s eyes changing. Quickly, before I thought better, I reached over and put a hand on her arm. She glanced at me, eyes going wide, startled, and—thankfully—back to driftglass green as she snapped back into the moment.
“Please,” I said softly, and managed not to scowl when the spells on the stage caught my voice and projected it to the entire room. “Can we just let him finish? Please. For me.”
“Does the changeling run this conclave?” asked a voice—Duke Michel from Starfall again. I should probably have expected him to be on my case after he’d been told to basically sit down and shut up.
What I wasn’t expecting was for Sylvester to whirl before anyone else had a chance to speak, and say, in a low, grating tone, “You have insulted the honor of my household, sir. I will see you on the dueling grounds at dawn.”
Duke Michel stared. I stared. For one shining, bizarre moment, we were united. Then Michel turned to the stage, and the moment was over.
“I’ve insulted no one,” he said. “Duke Torquill insults me by claiming insult when none was offered. I simply asked a question.”
“A question you had already asked, if in a different form, that you posed without permission to a knight sworn into his service,” said High King Sollys. He sounded almost bored, like this sort of disruption was to be expected, but was still beneath his notice. “How was that not an insult? You continually call the honor of a member of his household into question, and now he wants recompense. His claim is supported. The insult is valid.”
Duke Michel looked stunned. Sylvester looked smug. I gave serious thought to how much trouble I’d get in if I started knocking people’s heads together. I couldn’t tell whether Michel was so prejudiced that he didn’t realize what he was doing, or whether this was a calculated means of keeping the attention of the conclave focused on the wrong thing: me. The elf-shot cure was what mattered here, not my honor.
“Sir Daye is a hero of the realm and a valued part of my court,” said Sylvester, tone turning deceptively mild. “Defending her honor is only a fraction of what I, as her liege, owe to her. Bring your second, Michel. Bring your sword. And prepare to learn the error of your ways.”
“Now that this has been settled, please, Duke Torquill, if you would continue in your petition for understanding?” Maida settled deeper into her throne, posture reflecting disinterest that I had absolute faith she didn’t feel. No one could slouch that insouciantly without intent.
“My apologies, Your Highness,” said Sylvester, switching his attention back to the stage and offering the High Queen a quick bow. He was bowing so often that he was starting to look like one of those ballpark bobblehead dolls. “I have given my wife’s pedigree so that you’ll understand what we have faced, what we have endured, and what we have risen above.”
The Luidaeg, who had been standing throughout the discussion, sank back into her seat. Her eyes were clear and green and filled with shadows.
“My sister, September, is dead. My brother, Simon, lies elf-shot and sleeping, and will stand trial for his crimes against me when he wakes—crimes which, once, would have carried the penalty of elf-shot.” Sylvester’s mouth twisted like he was trying not to smile. If he had, it wouldn’t have been a gentle expression. “Who knows what the penalty for kidnapping and treason will be now? My only child and heir, Rayseline, also lies sleeping. They’ll wake within a few years of each other if allowed to slumber out their spans. How is that fair, I ask you? When my brother the criminal and my daughter his victim must sleep through the same number of years, must miss the same portion of their lives? My counterparts from the Golden Shore make a true and valid point—that we endanger the weakest among us if we distribute this cure but do not also ask that the use of elf-shot be reduced. So why not take that additional step? Restrict the use of elf-shot to the field of war and to the punishment of those who must make reparation for what they have done.”