Seanan McGuire - One Salt Sea

Most changelings don’t have the resources to house a fiefdom’s-worth of Faerie’s cast-off odds and ends. Most changelings don’t have access to entire knowes. I put two and two together, and things became almost functional, by certain generous definitions.

The ballroom Sylvester and I used for our lessons was one of the first rooms to be cleaned out and restored. The kitchen across the narrow servants’ hall was another. It was a square room almost the size of my apartment, probably designed to prepare banquets for kings and queens. One side of the room was dominated by a scarred oak table, used both for meals and for food preparation; a tray of sliced bread, cheese, and apples was laid out for us there, next to a clay pitcher of water. I smiled, recognizing Marcia’s handiwork.

Sylvester unbuckled his sword, hanging it from a hook on the wall before sitting. I mirrored the gesture, taking a seat at the other side of the table. Sometimes it amazes me how well I’ve internalized the often erratic etiquette of the purebloods, which mixes the sensible and the insane with surprising ease. Never say “thank you” if you can help it; keep your promises even if it means your death; never bring a weapon too big to double as a dining utensil to the table when dining with friends.

I took the cup of water Sylvester handed me and emptied it in a single gulp, holding it out to be filled again. This time, I forced myself to sip, feeling my heartbeat return to normal. Whether or not I appreciated the archaic nature of swordsmanship, I was grateful for the training. I needed to relearn my limits before I got myself hurt.

We were quiet for a few minutes, most of my attention going to the food. I’ve always been a fast healer, and thanks to Amandine’s tinkering, I’m beginning to approach superhero status. It takes a lot out of me; I’m starting to get “hunger” hard-wired into my pain responses. Sylvester ate more slowly, studying me. I quirked an eyebrow upward, watching him watch me.

Sylvester Torquill is classic Daoine Sidhe, with the pointed ears and striking coloration common among their purebloods. His hair is russet red, and his eyes are a shade of gold that’s shared by every Torquill-by-birth I’ve ever met. He’d been looking tired recently, new lines appearing on his eternally youthful face. I wasn’t all that surprised. It had been one hell of a summer, and it wasn’t over yet.

The silence lasted until half the bread and all the cheese was gone. Then he said, “I wanted to discuss something not related to our lessons, if you don’t mind.”

“Sure,” I said. “You’re my liege.”

“Only because you still swear to me—you’re a Countess now, and could ask to be released at any time.” He smiled a little. “I am here on your sufferance.”

“My sufferance has nothing to do with it,” I said, grimacing. “You’re here to remind the Queen that you have a standing invitation to visit my lands and she doesn’t, even if she has a clear line of fealty on me. And it was your idea.”

“Even so, I’m asking you as your friend, not your liege, and I’d like you to consider my request the same way. It’s a request, not an order.”

I sat a little straighter. “Sylvester, what’s going on?”

“Nothing bad. Don’t be so paranoid.”

“I can’t believe you just said that,” I said, eyeing him. In the past two years, I’ve been shot, stabbed, poisoned, betrayed, and nearly clawed to death, frequently while in Sylvester’s service. This endless excitement has left me with too many scars for polite company, nightmares I try not to think about, and a resident Fetch who teases me about my tendency to spend Sundays in my bathrobe watching TV and spending quality time with the cats. I’ve earned my paranoia.

“I’m sorry! ” He held up his hands in surrender, not quite swallowing his laughter. “I promise not to question your right to be irrationally worried by everything I say. Now will you listen?”

“As long as you don’t say the words ‘simple,’ ‘little,’ or ‘favor,’ we’re fine.”

“I need to ask you for a favor.”

I closed my eyes, counting to ten. It seems like every time I do Sylvester a favor, somebody winds up dead. It’s not his fault, but it’s still enough to make me superstitious. “What is it this time?”

“You were never a squire, but you were knighted.”

That was surprising enough to make me open my eyes. I squinted at him. “Are you yanking my title?”

“Oh, no; far from it. I’m simply requesting you do your duty as a knight and take a squire.” His expression was open and guileless. Never a good sign. “Your methods are unorthodox, but in today’s world, being able to drive a car and survive among the mortals are probably more useful arts for a young knight than riding horses and looking noble. Any holes in your educational methods can be worked around.”

“Even assuming I agree, that’s going to be a hard sell,” I said slowly. Take a squire? Me? I have trouble keeping myself alive. “Where are you going to find somebody who’s willing to have their kid squired to a changeling from an unknown bloodline? Especially one with my track record?”

Sylvester smiled. “I’m responsible for the training of those fostered in my care. That includes selecting their knights when necessary.”

“You . . .” I stared. “Please tell me you’re not about to say what I think you’re about to say.”

“I’d like you to stand as Quentin’s knight.”

I groaned. “That’s what I was afraid of. Sylvester, I can’t . I’m not a good influence on him. I keep getting him shot. I swear too much, I don’t brush my teeth every time I go to bed, and I never remember to eat a balanced breakfast. You want someone with culture. Poise. A lack of gunfire.”

“You’re his friend. You’ve already been responsible for much of his training. You’re the one who convinced Etienne to start giving him fighting lessons—no one else had seen the need to start them until he was older. And—”

I saw my chance, and I seized upon it. “Yes! Etienne! Etienne would be a much better knight for him. Etienne even lives at Shadowed Hills—he’s convenient, he’s a great guy, he’d be perfect for Quentin. He knows how to do proper knightly things, like using a sword and not getting shot.”

“And being hidebound, formal, and unwilling to deal with the modern world when he doesn’t have to,” Sylvester said. “Are these qualities you’d like to inspire in Quentin?”

“I . . .” I stopped, closing my mouth, and glared at him. “That’s low.”

“That’s as may be. Did it work?”

“I still say Etienne would be better for him.”

“Quentin is my foster, not yours, which makes this my decision. I’ve spoken to his parents. They know all about you, and they think you’re the best possible knight for him. He’ll eventually inherit his father’s lands, and they’d like him to be more flexible than most of his generation. He listens to you, considers you a friend, and looks to you as a mentor. Can you really say I’m going to find someone better?”

I wanted to say, “Of course you will, don’t be silly.” I wanted to say, “Absolutely, and I’ll be happy to help.” When I opened my mouth, what came out was, “What would I have to do?”

Sylvester had the grace not to look smug. “You’ll be responsible for his training in blood magic and dealing with the mortal world. We don’t expect you to teach him the courtly arts—we’re handling that at Shadowed Hills—but the practical side of things needs equal attention. Are you still in the apartment?”

“Yeah. Why do you—”

“It would be good if he could live with you at least part-time, but it’s not essential. If it’s a matter of finances, we own a great deal of property all around the Bay Area. We could help you find something.”