Once Broken Faith (October Daye #10)(106)

“Not dead,” I managed to wheeze. “That means I need to breathe.”

“Sorry! Sorry.” He set me gingerly to my feet and took an exaggerated step backward, giving me my space. “Are you all right?”

“I’m still in one piece, despite the best efforts of gravity and the ground,” I said. I felt light-headed with relief. This was the closest thing to an intimate moment Sylvester and I had shared since the night I’d learned that he had lied to me for my entire life. He’d done it out of loyalty to my mother and love for me, but he had still hurt me, and that had damaged my trust in him. I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed feeling like I could turn to him in times of crisis.

“Please don’t do that again. My heart can’t handle it.”

“I’m pretty sure you’re not the only person who’s going to say that to me,” I said. “Did you get your sword back?”

“I did,” he said. Then he smirked. “Even dropping yourself from a great height is not enough to defeat the art of a good blacksmith.”

“I’ll try harder next time.” I took a deep breath. Let it out. And said, “I’m still mad at you. If you ever keep secrets from me for my own good again, we’re done. I will ask you to release me from my oaths, I will find a new liege, and I will be gone. But I miss you. I miss my friend. I miss my liege. Please, can we make up now?”

Sylvester nodded. He looked tired. Daoine Sidhe don’t age after they reach maturity, staying young and vital forever, but there were still shadows around his eyes, and he looked older than he had before Evening Winterrose came back, before I learned that he could lie to me. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “I will do my best never to break your trust again.”

This time, I was the one who hugged him, wrapping my arms around his waist and breathing in the reassuring dogwood and daffodil scent of him, letting it fill my lungs. Sylvester put his arms around my shoulders, and I allowed myself to take a moment and just exist.

But only a moment. I had work to do. “I need to get to the conclave,” I said, letting go and stepping away. “I need to find out what’s going on.”

Sylvester blinked. “Forgive me if this is indelicate, but . . . were you planning to go in what you’re wearing?”

“First Jin, now you, I swear, it’s like you think this is a bikini or something.” I crossed my arms. “I don’t have clean clothes here, and I’m not going to my room to change. I can’t lace myself into half those outfits without help.” Quentin usually helped me, or Tybalt, and both of them were asleep in a high tower, waiting for the people who held the final say to tell me whether or not I was going to get them back.

Fae don’t age, but humans do. If I wanted my boys returned to me, I was going to have to burn away the last of my humanity, and I was never going to forgive the gathered Kings and Queens of the Westlands for demanding that of me. Never.

“I could spin you an illusion—”

“No. I got hurt in their service. They can take me as I am.” Still mortal. Still breakable. Still longing to go home.

“At least take my coat.” Sylvester shrugged out of his greatcoat, which hung to his knees and would fall almost to my ankles. It was soft blue wool, embroidered with abstract yellow daffodils and white dogwood flowers, and it felt like he was still hugging me when I pulled it on. I had to belt it tight around my waist to keep it from slipping off my shoulders, but when I was done, it looked almost like an overdress rather than a coat stolen from someone bigger than me.

“Cool,” I said, and smiled. Sylvester smiled back, offering me his arm. I slipped my hand into the crook of his elbow, and together we walked down the hall, his shoes clicking with each step, my bare feet slapping softly against the redwood.

My recovery room was located in a part of the knowe I wasn’t familiar with. Sylvester led and I followed, down a long hall and two flights of stairs, until we came to those old, familiar receiving doors. They were flanked by guards. Lowri stood on the left-hand side, and her eyes widened when she saw me.

“October,” she said. “You’re alive.”

“Alive, awake, and in sort of a hurry to get back to work, hence the lack of shoes,” I said. “Can I go inside?”

“The conclave is already in session,” said Lowri.

“We were invited,” said Sylvester. His tone was mild. His expression was steel.

Lowri hesitated for a bare second before she looked to me, said, “Welcome back,” and opened the door, revealing the arcade. I offered her a quick smile, and stepped through.

There had been deaths and political intrigue, but we’d started with a large enough group that the absences were only noticeable if you took the time to look at them. As I walked down the aisle in my borrowed shift and coat, I took the time to look. To find the holes. Some of the missing would be back—Dianda, Quentin, Tybalt—but others were gone forever, and they were owed the small acknowledgment of my attention. As for the rest, they were dressed in their court finery, as always, listening with impatient attention as the Centaur King of Copper explained, in a droning voice, why distributing the elf-shot cure would endanger his community, and thus could not be borne.

We walked down the aisle, and as we passed, people began to whisper and point. Arden, who had been slumped in her throne like she was dreaming of finding an excuse to go for her phone, sat up straighter. Maida stiffened, tapping Aethlin’s arm. The High King turned his head, saw me, and stood, cutting off the King of Copper mid-sentence. The Centaur stared at him for a moment before turning to scowl at whatever was causing this disruption. Then he went very still, only his tail swishing.