Once Broken Faith (October Daye #10)(72)
“It was a good one,” said Aethlin. “Yes, I’ll ride his blood to determine his guilt, and yes, if what you say is true, we will wake the Duchess Lorden regardless of what the conclave decides—but we’ll do it after the conclave is finished, and her vote will go to her consort.”
I frowned. “Why?”
“Because Patrick Lorden was once Patrick Twycross of Tremont, and I know how he’ll vote, especially when his lady love lies sleeping. Hate me for it if you like, but I want this cure to have the support of my vassals, and I would rather deal with an angry man whose opinion is predictable and fixed than an angry Merrow whose thoughts will be more of revenge than what is good for Faerie as a whole.”
There was nothing I could say to that. I shook my head slowly, trying to absorb his words, and finally settled for: “That’s cold. Sire.”
“It may be, but that’s kingship,” he replied. “I know you understand how important this cure is. We can change the world, but we need the vote to go the correct way.”
“Forgive me for intruding on a matter that impacts the Divided Courts in so complicated a manner, but within the Court of Cats, my word is law,” said Tybalt. “Why is it you can’t simply wave your hand, declare, ‘This is how things will be done,’ and smack anyone who challenges you?”
“Well, first, I don’t really, ah, smack my vassals all that often,” said Aethlin. “It’s sort of frowned upon. And second, you’re the absolute authority within your own Court. Can you make rules for other Kings? Other Queens? Can you tell them how to do things?”
“Of course not,” said Tybalt. “A King is sacrosanct within his own territory; the same of a Queen.”
“So why do you assume I can?”
Tybalt paused before saying, more carefully, “The Divided Courts have always presented themselves to the Court of Cats as an authority unimpeachable, because they were founded at the request of the Queens. Maeve to stand for darkness; Titania to stand for light. We were granted our independence at the word of Oberon, but he has never stood for us as the Queens agreed to stand for you.”
“And maybe if the Queens were still here to support us and back up our decisions, that’s how it would work,” said Maida. “Or maybe we’d be back to the old ways, with a different King for each half of the year, and half our children slaughtered out of fear that they’d challenge for the crown. Some aspects of absolute power have to be forgotten if you want to live a peaceful life. Call me strange, but I like knowing that the place I hold today is likely to be the place I hold tomorrow. Predictability is an odd obsession of mine.”
I said nothing. I was thinking.
Back when Oberon and his Queens were still here—when they were people, not stories—the title “Divided Courts” meant something. Seelie and Unseelie, dark and light, beautiful and terrible, all those factors played into where someone belonged . . . but what really mattered was which of the Queens had claimed your bloodline. Apart from them, we had the children of Oberon, the heroes, who were rarer, since Oberon has always been more reluctant to claim descendant lines as his own, and whose role was less rulership, and more “keeping everyone else from killing each other.” The Tuatha de Dannan were Oberon’s by birthright. None of the stories I’d heard about Faerie before the King and Queens vanished placed a Tuatha on a throne. It was always Daoine Sidhe and Tylwyth Teg before that, Titania’s and Maeve’s respectively, playing out the age-old conflict of our Queens over and over again in microcosm.
Sometimes I wondered whether our forebearers did us a favor when they disappeared. Maybe it was the only way we could ever have learned to stop slaughtering each other.
“Before we go too far down the political rabbit hole here, which hey, you boys can do all day if that’s what floats your boat, but I have things to do and a murderer to find, so I want to be absolutely sure I understand how this is going to go,” I said. “We’re going to return to the conclave. You’re going to open with the announcement that Dianda has been elf-shot, and with the statement that Duke Michel was responsible. After you ride his blood and confirm what I’ve said, you’re going to do what? Kick him out?”
“No,” said Maida, before Aethlin could speak. A slow smile spread across her face. “We’re going to have him elf-shot.”
I blinked. “I thought we were discussing the merits of getting rid of elf-shot.”
“We were, and we are, and this will be an interesting conversation starter,” said Maida. “If he objects too strenuously, then he’s admitting he views elf-shot as an unfair punishment—one he was all too happy to inflict on someone from another Kingdom, and all because he thought he could do so safely. If he goes willingly and without objection, then he’s saying the status quo is absolutely fine by him, and he, and the people he represents, would be happier if nothing changed.”
“Oh, oak and goddamn ash,” I said, putting a hand against the side of my head. “That’s it. I’m going to go find a murderer before you make my head explode.”
“No, you’re not,” said Aethlin.
“What?” I lowered your hand. “Begging your pardon and all, but it’s my job.”
“So is this. Go, change your clothes, and bring Quentin to the conclave. You can leave after Duke Michel is dealt with.” He raised an eyebrow. “Unless you want to argue with me?”