Seanan McGuire - Late Eclipses

“I think I’d welcome a sea serpent right about now.”

May glanced at me, eyes glittering in the moonlight. “What?”

“Nothing.”

The rest of the Court of Shadowed Hills walked right behind us, clad in the cold sparkle of their human disguises; Luna was still at the knowe, having pled exhaustion. I was the only one wearing formal clothes visible to mortal eyes. If the Queen stripped my illusions away, I wouldn’t be marching to the Iron Tree in jeans and a dirty sweater.

Sometimes I hate the morbid turns my mind can take. I could almost see the tree and the rope they’d use to tie me to the trunk before they lit the fire—

I shook my head, brushing the image away. “I don’t like this.”

“You don’t have to like it,” said May, prodding me forward again. “You just have to keep walking.”

“That’s good, because I don’t like this.” We were climbing over the rocks now. My dress shoes provided surprisingly good traction. Sylvester caught me and smiled every time I stumbled. He’d been smiling since we left Shadowed Hills. I would’ve felt better if I’d known exactly why.

“Shut up and keep walking,” May said. I glared at her and did as I was told.

Our footsteps sounded like an approaching army as we waded through the shallow water pooled at the mouth of the cave entrance to the knowe. We were almost halfway to the door before I realized that my feet weren’t getting wet. I blinked, looking down.

“Warding spell,” said Sylvester. “Tybalt uses it to stay dry. He taught it to me.”

“Right,” I said, and kept walking as I considered the improbability of Sylvester and Tybalt spending enough time together to teach each other spells. We were almost there, pushing against the intangible barrier between the fae and mortal worlds …

… and we were through. The Queen’s knowe opened in front of us like a mountain appearing through the mist, marble floors and pillars unfolding as the cave walls and the sharp smell of the sea dropped away. I expected that.

It was the size of the crowd that brought me staggering to a stop.

I thought the group that assembled for my first trial was vast. I was wrong. This one was twice that size. Mitch and Stacy were there again; Tybalt was missing, but Raj and Helen were there, holding hands. Walther, Marcia, Kerry—even April O’Leary, the cyber-Dryad Countess of Tamed Lightning, and her seneschal, Elliot. I stood there, stunned and staring until Sylvester made the matter moot, pushing me into the open space between the crowd and the dais.

The Queen’s throne was empty, waiting for her dramatic entrance. The crowd washed me up in front of it like a wave washes driftwood onto the beach; the driftwood can’t fight, and neither could I. Sylvester squeezed my shoulder as he stepped away, whispering, “It will be all right.”

Then he was gone, and the herald called for me to step forward.

“Here,” I said. My voice broke. I paused, closing my eyes, and repeated, “Here,” in a deeper, calmer tone. If I was going to die, I was going to do it with dignity.

“Finally,” said the Queen from behind me. I couldn’t help myself; I whirled to find myself looking directly into her eyes. “I wondered when you’d come see me again.”

My knees dipped in a curtsy without consulting the rest of me, letting me rip my eyes away from her halfmad, black-rimmed gaze. “Highness,” I said, still looking down. I couldn’t forget the things she’d said to me while I was her captive, and suddenly, she scared me more than ever.

“You missed our last appointment,” she said, the heels of her shoes clacking on the marble floor as she walked past me. “I came to see you to your—shall we call it a reward for services rendered, do you think?—and found that you’d left us far too early.”

Even now, she wouldn’t say “death.” Purebloods almost never will. “I’m sorry, Highness,” I said, rising and turning, eyes still downcast, to face the dais.

“No cries of innocence or pretty words geared toward your own defense? You disappoint me.” I heard, rather than saw, her settling onto the throne.

“The Duchess of Shadowed Hills was in danger.” It was true: if Tybalt and the others hadn’t broken me out of jail, Luna would have died.

“So you placed the value of one woman above the Queen’s own justice?” she asked, seemingly oblivious to the murmur that ran through the already whispering crowd. The Torquills have always been well-loved in San Francisco, and from the sound of things, I had more support in the crowd than the Queen thought.

“Yes, I did,” I said, raising my head. “I was half-dead from iron poisoning when I was pulled out of your jail, and I could barely stand, but yes, I chose not to return. I placed the lives of Luna Torquill and the subjects of Shadowed Hills above your justice. And if I had it to do over again, I still wouldn’t come back to be lit like some sort of birthday candle.” I shook my head. “You say I placed Luna’s life over your justice; I say you’re wrong, because whatever sentenced me to die here, it wasn’t justice.”

She stared. I looked back as calmly as I could, daring her to speak. For a long moment, all was silent. Then she leaned back, crossing one leg over the other, and said, “Very well. For your crimes against this Kingdom, again I sentence you, October Daye, to burn—”

“Excuse me?” Sylvester’s voice was mild and almost unobtrusive.

The Queen’s head snapped up, eyes narrowing. “It isn’t your turn to speak, Torquill. Your trial is next.”

“I believe,” he said, still, mild, “that as a subject of this kingdom, I have the right to ask why this charming young lady—a friend of my fiefdom, and a knight in my service—is going to be burned. It seems rather a waste of a good knight, if you ask me.”

“I don’t believe anyone did,” she said, between gritted teeth.

“Even so, I’d like to hear the charges, since I believe it’s been established that she killed neither the Lady of the Tea Gardens nor my charming—and quite living—wife.”

The Queen’s eyes swept the crowd, finding no support. Sharply, she said, “She stands accused of the murder of Blind Michael, Firstborn of Oberon and Maeve.” She couldn’t accuse me of Oleander’s death. No one who wasn’t there to see what happened knew the truth about how Oleander de Merelands met her end.

“Oh, yes! Yes, she killed my father-in-law. There’s just one problem, Highness.”

“What’s that?” she asked, voice dropping to a dangerously low register.

“She’s been pardoned for the crime.” Sylvester snapped his fingers. Quentin stepped out of the crowd, a scroll in his hands. If that kid’s grin had been any bigger, it would’ve split his face in two. “Permission for my page to approach the throne?”

“Granted,” hissed the Queen. Quentin crossed the space between Sylvester and the Queen in about eight steps, pressing the scroll into her hands before he bowed and stepped away. She looked at him suspiciously, breaking the wax seal on the parchment.

A deep, melodic voice filled the room. “By the order of King Aethlin Sollys and Queen Maida Sollys, rulers of the Western Lands, Countess October Christine Daye, daughter of Amandine, is granted full pardon for her role in the death of the Firstborn known as Blind Michael. We have examined the events leading to his death and determined that what fault exists is upon Blind Michael himself. We thank the Countess Daye for acting as our executioner in this matter. By our hands, King Aethlin and Queen Maida Sollys of the Western Lands.”

The crowd erupted into cheers as the proclamation finished. Not everyone was cheering—some were silent out of shock, I was sure, and some because they’d wanted to see me burn. Sylvester was quiet, watching the Queen with the mild expression I recognized as a sign of intense concentration. He wanted to see how she reacted.