“Please tell this conclave what happened.”
“After yesterday’s session, while I was retrieving refreshments for my wife, an intruder entered our quarters uninvited and struck her down,” said Patrick. His voice never broke; his gaze never wavered from Duke Michel. “She was elf-shot by a coward who knew the Undersea would see this as an act of war, and did not fletch the arrow in the colors of their demesne.”
“How can you be sure she didn’t elf-shoot herself, to influence this conclave’s decision?” The question came from Maida, which may have been the only reason it wasn’t immediately followed by Patrick launching himself at the person who asked it. He’d been living in the Undersea for a long time. As it was, I saw the tension in his shoulders, and the way his fingers struggled not to ball into fists. He wanted to hurt her for even asking. I couldn’t blame him, even as I silently thanked him for his patience.
“Elf-shot is not a weapon of the Undersea, Your Highness,” he said. His voice was calm and clear. “We’re here because we wish to know what is decided, and because our son is a Count sworn to service of this crown, not because the ban will impact our daily lives. Elf-shot is a coward’s weapon. Even were my wife a liar and a manipulator of men, she would never use elf-shot on herself. She wouldn’t know where to begin.”
Maida nodded before looking to me. That was my cue, then. I stood, offering quick bows to the thrones and to Patrick, who wasn’t technically my superior, but who sure needed the support, before walking up the steps to stand beside him.
“The arrow entered Duchess Lorden’s shoulder from the front, passing through several layers of muscle before coming to a stop,” I said. “Even if she’d wanted to stab herself, the shaft of the arrow was too thin. It would have broken. It needed to be fired from a bow, and as there was no bow found with the Duchess’ body, she didn’t do that.”
“Sir Daye,” said Maida. “Do you know who shot the Duchess?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know this?”
“Karen Brown, the oneiromancer, who has been accepted by this conclave and vouched for by the sea witch, led me into Duchess Lorden’s dreams. Duchess Lorden saw the man who shot her.” I watched the crowd as I spoke. Duke Michel had gone very still, and was staring straight ahead, trying to look like none of this was bothering him. Poor thing. He’d been expecting to get away with it.
“Who was that man?” asked Maida.
“Duke Michel of Starfall.”
“I object to this . . . this mockery!” shouted Duke Michel, jumping to his feet. Apparently, he was going on the offensive. Good. That would make him easier to knock down. “You’d take the word of a changeling who claims to have walked in a mermaid’s dreams? What next—we listen to the testimony of pixies?”
“I would, if the pixies had something important to say,” said Maida. “There is an easy solution to the question of whether Sir Daye is telling lies.”
“I am not a liar,” I said. “I would be happy to accept my punishment, if I were.”
“Excellent,” said Aethlin, sitting forward while Maida sat back, her part in this little shadow show complete. “The fastest, most honorable way for us to resolve this is, as always, through the blood. Duke Michel, will you approach the stage?”
Duke Michel went white. He’d always been a pale man, but now he looked like a wax dummy, bloodless and trapped. “I would prefer not to bleed for the amusement of the masses,” he said stiffly.
“And I would prefer not to have a dignitary from the Undersea lying elf-shot in a private room, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned since assuming my throne, it’s that none of us is guaranteed our heart’s desire,” said Aethlin. There was a warning beneath his words, mild as they were: this was the High King. Refusing him could have negative consequences, not only for the unfortunate Duke Michel, but for the entire Kingdom of Starfall.
Duke Michel recognized that, or at least recognized that he didn’t have a way out of this situation. He approached the stage, keeping his eyes on High King Aethlin the whole time. He either didn’t see or didn’t acknowledge Patrick’s narrow-eyed glare, or the way people leaned away from him as he passed, making sure he didn’t taint them by association.
When he reached the stage, he walked up the three shallow steps and knelt in front of the High King’s throne. “This is an insult,” he said, in a tone that was probably meant to sound humble, but came off as snide, like he was too good to be accused by a changeling and a man who’d given up his political aspirations to go and swim with the fishes.
“Perhaps, but since you’ve already offered insult to Duke Torquill, it could be said that we’re merely evening the scales,” said Aethlin. He removed the ring from his left index finger and pressed his thumb against the stone, which clicked and swung open, revealing a compartment on the other side. He shook the ring above his palm. A silver-coated rose thorn fell out. Grasping the thorn between thumb and forefinger, he looked at Duke Michel. “Your hand, Duke.”
“This is an insult and a sham.”
“Again, perhaps,” said Aethlin. “Your hand.”
Duke Michel grudgingly held out his hand, managing not to wince when Aethlin drove the thorn into the meaty pad of his pointer finger. They remained like that for a moment, the king pressing the thorn into the flesh of the duke. Then Aethlin sat back, pulling the thorn free, and moved it deftly to his mouth, allowing the Duke’s blood to trickle onto his tongue.
It was theater. It was smoke and mirrors and unnecessary drama, and it was very important, because the blood wasn’t a truth detector: the blood was the truth, and the truth was a big, messy thing. If Duke Michel had been thinking about what he’d had for breakfast that morning, the High King would have gotten the memory of eggs and bacon and brambleberry jam. If Duke Michel had been thinking about his laundry, the High King would have learned far too much about how bright he wanted his whites. No: the Duke’s thoughts had to be fixed on what he’d done. Public humiliation was the surest way to bring those memories to the surface.
High King Aethlin’s eyes went unfocused for a moment before he looked at Duke Michel, sorrow etched into his features. “Why?” he asked. “I can see you drawing the bow, I can see the arrow fly, but what I can’t see is why.”
“Because the Undersea has no reason to be here; they should have no say in this matter,” said Duke Michel. All signs of humility, false or otherwise, were gone. He’d been caught, and there was no more reason for him to pretend. “You’re acting like this is a conversation, and not some sort of circus intended to blind the rest of us to the fact that you would withhold a shield against our greatest weapon. Are we truly to believe that Silences would refrain from using the tincture that returned their entire royal family to the throne? That the Mists would be willing to leave a tool shaped by one of their own unused? No. This is not a conversation. This is you pretending there’s any chance the rest of us will have access to something that should belong to all or none.”
“You shot my wife to make a point?” Patrick sounded quietly puzzled. I’d known him long enough to know how dangerous that tone was. Fleetingly, I wondered whether he was really the calm one, or whether it was just a matter of Dianda losing her temper faster than her husband did.
“I shot your wife because I knew they would wake her up,” said Duke Michel.
High King Aethlin stood. All the little whispers and rustles that had spread through the gallery stopped. When the High King rose, it was best to be beneath notice.