Seanan McGuire - One Salt Sea

Still, there had to be something I was missing. Good craftsmanship alone wouldn’t account for the bleakness in Patrick’s eyes.

“What is it?” I asked.

The Roane woman stepped forward, reaching out to touch Patrick’s elbow. “Her confusion is sincere,” she said. Her voice was low and melodic, her accent half-Irish, half-something sharper. “She doesn’t know.”

“I told you she didn’t know,” muttered Connor, a little too loudly.

Patrick shot Connor a sharp look before returning his attention to me. “I didn’t want to risk opening it—not when we didn’t know what it was. We took it to the Asrai, who scried for the contents.”

“And?”

“It’s Dean’s finger.” Patrick’s voice broke as he continued, “They cut off his finger , October. What else are they doing to him? Why haven’t you found him yet? You were supposed to be bringing him home .”

Oh, oak and ash. I stared at Patrick, who looked back at me with the wounded expression of a parent betrayed, and in that moment—that single, horrible moment—I knew that it wouldn’t matter if I stopped the war. We were all of us already losing.

“THE ASRAI SAY THEY CAN FEEL pain when they look into the box,” said Patrick, dull misery surrounding every word. “They say it’s likely he was still alive when it was removed.”

Quentin made a small, dismayed sound. I didn’t blame him. A gnawing anger was uncurling in the pit of my stomach. How dare they? Whoever was helping Raysel with this—Dugan or someone else—how dare they? Children are the most precious thing Faerie has. Cutting pieces off of them to make a point is beyond wrong. As far as I’m concerned, it’s actively evil.

“I . . . Oberon’s bones, Patrick, I’m sorry. I’m doing everything I can to find your sons, I swear.” I shook my head, trying to shake away the idea of someone doing something like that to a child. “Why did you bring it here ?”

“I asked him to,” said Connor. I turned to stare at him. “I reminded him of who your mother is, and what you can do. You can do it, can’t you?”

“Why can’t he?” asked Raj.

“Raj!” I said. “I’m so sorry. He doesn’t understand—”

To my surprise, Patrick actually laughed. It was a short, sharp sound, and there was no humor behind it, but it was laughter. “He’s Cait Sidhe. He doesn’t need to understand, now, does he? That’s been the rule since time immemorial. I can’t do it myself, young squire, because my blood magic was never that strong, and I’ve spent too long in the water. What power I had has been long since diluted, and all that’s left for me is illusions.”

“Oh,” said Raj. Then: “So you really want her to . . . ?”

“They want me to ride Dean’s blood,” I said.

Raj made a disgusted face. “Ew. Isn’t that dangerous? And icky?”

I took a shaky breath. “I’m not sure that matters.”

Connor was right. Daoine Sidhe can use even a small amount of blood to ride the memories and experiences of the person it was drawn from. My mother and I—the Dóchas Sidhe—make them look like amateurs. Blood clings to flesh, no matter how carefully it’s been drained; even the fae who drink the stuff can’t completely remove it from a body. More importantly, I could confirm that Dean was alive when his finger was cut off.

Maybe I could even use it to find the underground room that smelled of spices. The one where a Selkie died, and a war truly began. Raj was right, too—blood magic is dangerous for me. I have power, but very little training, and the only woman who could train me is insane. And none of that mattered anymore. This might be the only way to stop the war.

This might be the only way to bring Gillian home.

“I said I’d do whatever I could,” I said. I stood again, stepping down from the dais. Quentin and Raj moved to follow me. I gestured for them to stay where they were. There were things they didn’t need to see.

Patrick stared at me for a moment, like he still wasn’t quite willing to let himself believe. Then his composure slipped, just enough to let me see the rawness beneath it. “They have my children ,” he said. “I don’t care about war. I don’t care what we have to do to get them back. They could be hurt worse next time, they could be—”

“Whoever it is has my daughter, too, and they’re alive.” The certainty in my voice stunned the entire room into silence. I kept my eyes on Patrick. “I called the night-haunts to me. They hadn’t seen your sons. The night-haunts hadn’t seen them . Wherever your boys are, they’re alive.”

A new quality crept into Patrick’s expression: hope. It was painful to see, because it illustrated how bleak he’d looked, and how bleak I knew I still looked. He had hope for his sons, and I was running out of hope for my daughter. Rayseline had reason to keep Dean and Peter alive, at least for now. I couldn’t come up with any good reasons for her to spare Gillian.

“Could they . . .” He licked his lips. “Could the night-haunts have lied?”

“Night-haunts don’t lie,” said May, her voice loud in the hush. We all turned to look at her. She tipped her chin up, very slightly, and looked me in the eyes as she said, “The night-haunts never lie. They could, if they wanted to, but they don’t really see the point. The truth is so much more dangerous than a lie.”

I blinked at her for a moment before shaking my head and looking back to Patrick. “There you go,” I said. “The night-haunts didn’t lie.”

“They’re alive,” said Patrick, sounding stunned. One of the Merrow burst into tears, burying his face against the shoulder of the Selkie next to him. It was a moment of private elation. I should have looked away. There wasn’t time.

“Now we just need to make sure they stay that way,” I said. The room’s air of relief faded, cold reality intruding on their momentary joy. They didn’t like it. That was okay, because neither did I.

Patrick nodded, glancing at Connor. “Connor was right to bring us to you. He has my thanks.”

Connor stared at him, visibly trying to frame a response.

Patrick ignored him, turning his attention to the box, instead. He tapped all four corners with his thumb before kissing his forefinger and touching the latch. The gold ring dissolved into mist, leaving the air smelling of steel as the chains fell to dangle uselessly. Patrick held the box out to me. “I was raised in the land Courts. I remember your mother.”

“I’m just a changeling,” I cautioned. “I’m not in her league.”

“I’ve heard the stories—Connor alone tells enough to give your skills away, and you invoke the Luidaeg when you give your references. Even my wife likes you, as much as she likes anyone.” He smiled slightly. “You’re a lot of things, but ‘just a changeling’ isn’t one of them.”

“I’ll do what I can,” I said, and reached for the box, only to jerk my hands away as soon as I touched it. I could feel Dean’s blood through the wood, still as connected to Faerie as when it was running through his veins. There was a time when I could have held the finger in my hand and not felt anything, and now I could hear the blood calling me through sealed, enchanted wood. Just one more thing to thank my mother for.

Slowly, more prepared this time, I grasped the box again. For a moment, I thought Patrick wasn’t going to let me take it from him. Then he sighed, unlocking his fingers. “Find them?” It was closer to a plea than a request, filled with a parent’s need to have his heart returned. I’ve heard that tone in a lot of voices, including my own.

“I’ll do what I can,” I repeated. I wanted to make wild promises and swear that it would all be okay, but I couldn’t do that to him.