Once Broken Faith (October Daye #10)(47)
“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.
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.