Once Broken Faith (October Daye #10)(80)
Patrick walked in alone, head held high, a loop of pearls tied around his upper arm like a lady’s favor. He nodded and met my eyes as he sat. I nodded back. He wasn’t going to be happy about the fact that Dianda was set to stay asleep for a day, much less for the duration of the conclave. He would also, probably, understand. He’d been doing this long enough to know how things worked. That didn’t make the thought of telling him any easier.
The doors closed. The High King and High Queen rose, suddenly regal, suddenly untouchable. “Before we resume the business of this conclave, a new matter has been brought to our attention,” said Aethlin. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. The spells were active again, the air crackling with the faint scent of hot oil and ramps. “Will Duke Patrick Lorden of Saltmist please rise and approach?”
Patrick stood. A murmur spread through the crowd as he walked to the stairs and mounted them, slowly moving to the spot on the stage reserved for presenters.
“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.