Once Broken Faith (October Daye #10)(97)

The handmaiden was still covering her face with her hands, narrow shoulders shaking with the effort of keeping herself together. I gaped at the rulers of Highmountain, the extent of what they’d done—if not why—finally beginning to make itself clear.

Oberon’s Law was simple, to prevent misinterpretation. Killing a pureblood outside of a formally declared war was a crime punishable by death. Forgiveness for breaking the Law was possible only under the most extremely extenuating circumstances, such as when I had killed Blind Michael—and even then, there would always be people who thought the punishments laid down by Oberon should have trumped any forgiveness the world chose to offer. Nowhere in the Law did it say “but it’s okay if someone else made you do it.” Nowhere did it say “if the people who control your life order you to take someone else’s, we will find a way to forgive you.”

“Arrest her,” said Verona, flapping a hand in the direction of her handmaid. “Take her away. She was never a very good servant, anyway. Always wrinkled my gowns and pulled my hair. Her little sister will be a much better ladies’ maid, I’m sure, now that she understands what the job entails.”

The handmaid’s shoulders stopped shaking. It was a small change, but a palpable one. Before, we’d been in the company of a living, if terrified, person. Now we were standing next to a statue.

“We did nothing,” said Kabos. “The High King can ride our blood, and all he’ll find is the truth: that we never laid a hand on anyone. We are innocent.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” I spat.

“No?” Verona raised an eyebrow. “We can’t be held responsible for our thoughts, surely. That would be unjust and wrong. You, of all people, who has fought so hard for the rights of the deposed, must want us to be judged on what we’ve done, and not what we may have thought of doing.”

The handmaid lowered her hands from her face. She was pretty, if pale, in the way of Barrow Wights; most of them stayed in their mounds, avoiding the company of the living, who moved too fast and wanted too much. Stacy’s ancestors, whoever they may have been, would have been considered strange by their pureblood kin for loving another of the fae, even if it had only been for a night. Barrow Wights kept to themselves.

“Don’t touch my sister,” she said, in a voice like wind through a graveyard, thin and cold and filled with ghosts. “She isn’t yours. That wasn’t what you promised me.”

“We never promised you anything,” said Verona.

“I’m the one with the sword here, so maybe you could stop arguing and just agree that I’m arresting you all, okay?” I straightened the arm holding Sylvester’s sword, trying to look like I wasn’t confused and covered in blood. Tybalt’s blood. The thought made it easier to lock my shoulders and glare. “The High King can sort this out.” I could ask him to be merciful, if he found that the Barrow Wight girl really hadn’t been given a choice in what she’d done.

I didn’t want him to be merciful. I wanted her to burn. I wanted them all to burn. But that was why it was so important that someone else be involved in this. She’d hurt Tybalt. Whether she’d done it because someone else had forced her to or not, she had hurt him. That didn’t mean the people who’d turned her into a weapon and aimed her at their targets deserved to get off without punishment. If anything, it meant exactly the opposite. They needed to be punished. They needed to understand that what they had done was wrong. And under the Law, they just might get away with it.

“You said that if I did as you ordered, you would leave my family alone,” said the Barrow Wight doggedly. “You promised.”

“Promises don’t count when they’re made to the lower classes,” said Kabos.

Madden crouched suddenly, snarling in the back of his throat. I glanced down at him, taking my eyes off the scene for a moment.

It was long enough.

There was a cracking sound, followed by Verona, screaming. I whipped around. The King of Highmountain was sprawled on the floor, eyes open, neck bent at an unnatural angle. The Barrow Wight handmaid was next to him, breathing heavily, her features distorted into something more gargoyle than human, her mouth bristling with teeth. I stared. I’d heard stories of the Barrow Wights and their true faces, but Stacy’s Barrow heritage was distant enough that she had no second face to hide—only the one she wore on the outside. This was what they were, down in the dark, where passing for human had never been a concern.

“Never touch her!” she snarled, and leaped for the screaming Verona.

I lunged forward, intending to put myself between them. There was a sound like ripping metal, and the world stopped—

—only for me to stumble into an empty room. The body of the king was still there, sprawled on the floor. The night-haunts hadn’t come yet. Verona and the handmaid were gone. So were Quentin and Madden. I was alone.

Panic surged through my veins, followed by a cold, implacable fury. These people had turned a subject into a sword. From the things she’d said—and more, the way she’d said them—they had done it by holding her sister’s safety hostage. It was a good technique, if you wanted to keep your hands technically clean while accomplishing the unthinkable. It was a technique that didn’t leave much question about how far you would go to accomplish your goals. These people would go all the way, if that was what they considered necessary.