Page 29 of When Sorrows Come

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I speak to her daily, but rarely alone, and usually about matters of scheduling and protocol. My wife’s chatelaine would have a better idea—we find it works better with the household staff if they each know who they answer to and divide the duties accordingly.”

It made sense, since he and Maida were ostensibly equal rulers, rather than her serving as Queen Consort. It still made me bristle somewhat although I couldn’t put my finger on precisely why. I’d probably figure it out if I thought about it long enough.

“And where is her chatelaine?” I asked politely.

“Honey? I haven’t...” Aethlin paused, looking briefly stricken. “I haven’t seen her all day. You don’t think...”

“I don’t think we can dismiss the possibility,” I said grimly. One Doppelganger could be an isolated incident. Two would definitely be proof that something bigger was going on.

“But she’s a Centaur. Can a Doppelganger even impersonate one of those?”

“I don’t think so. Any Doppelganger impersonating her would need to be able to double their mass, coordinate extra limbs, lots of other fun exercises.” I wasn’t even sure that was possible for a Doppelganger. They can definitely change their size, but they have limits. They can’t impersonate pixies or Bridge Trolls. Even the largest exemplar of their type would be too small to safely twist themselves into a Centaur’s shape. “And they’d have to do it while mimicking the woman who knows the High Queen better than anyone else, save for Aethlin himself. Nope. Can’t replace the chatelaine. Can get her out of the way, though, as long as you keep the High Queen too distracted to go looking for her before you’re ready for her to. She’s probably shoved into a closet somewhere, waiting for us to find her.”

There was a soft pop next to us, and the nearest guard jumped, grabbing for his sword before Aethlin shook his head and ordered, “Stand down.”

Raj, who had just stepped out of the shadow of High King Aethlin’s body, gave the guard a curious look. “Was he going to try to stab me?” he asked. “Is he better at stabbing than the lastbatch was at shooting arrows? Because I barely know which end of the bow is supposed to point away from me, and I still understand the physics of the thing enough to understand that if you fire somethingup, it’s going to comedown.” He managed to sound faintly bored while insulting the prowess of the entire royal guard.

Oh, he was going to make an amazing King of Cats.

“My guards have no training at fighting adversaries on the ceiling,” said Aethlin, matching Raj’s boredom with amusement.See, kitten?his tone seemed to say.You can’t get to me.

“Maybe they should,” I said.

We had left the main hall and were heading down a smaller, narrower one that was just as opulent as the others, maintaining the maple-and-amethyst theme but also somehow making the aesthetic look somewhat shabby and lived-in, like we were walking through a deeply strange-themed hotel. Why anyone would theme a hotel on “smell faintly like pancakes at all times” as the Canadian dream, I didn’t know, but hey, who am I to judge? My house is furnished in early thrift store, with a side order of don’t these people know that recycling is a thing, and you don’t have to keep every single scrap of paper forever.

“The servants’ quarters are this way,” said Aethlin, leading us on as the guards pressed in closer around us, both due to the span of the hall and out of apparently increasing concern. I gave them a narrow-eyed look. We were going to have a little talk later, I and them, when we were no longer in close proximity to the king.

When you want to know what’s really going on in a knowe, ask the servants. When you want to know who’s been trying to kill the king, ask the guards.

The hall ended in a sort of a flat hammer shape, with doors at either end of the “head.” Aethlin indicated one door. “Maida’s chatelaine, Honey, keeps her room there. I believe it’s a nickname, although I’m not sure for what. She came highly recommended and has served without fault for fifteen years.” He indicated the other door. “Nessa’s chambers. Aron, if you would please?”

“Yes, sire,” said one of the guards, and stepped forward.

I realized a moment too late that if the Doppelganger had been here for any length of time, this probably wasn’t a good idea. “Wait—” I said, raising my hand to motion him to stop.

I wasn’t fast enough. He grasped the doorknob, only to yank his hand away, shaking it vigorously as he squinted at his fingertip. “Blasted thingbitme,” he said, turning to face the High King.

So we had a perfect view of the moment when his eyes rolled back in his head and he collapsed, dead before he struck the floor.

seven

The other three guardsrushed to their fallen compatriot, clustering around him but thankfully not touching him before one of them looked up with an expression of wild-eyed terror and almost shouted, “Aron’s not breathing, sire!”

“Let me through.” I pushed my way between two guards, a stocky Satyr and a surprisingly well-groomed Redcap, to drop to my knees beside the fallen guard. The third guard whowasn’tflat on the floor was a Daoine Sidhe, who looked at me warily.

Him being the one to move to help his companion made sense. Daoine Sidhe don’t go into the healing arts very often—something about Eira ordering them to amass as much power as they possibly could puts a damper on most altruistic urges—but their blood magic is strong enough to make some things come easily to them. Realizing that one of their compatriots has stopped their dancing is on the list.

“Let me,” I repeated, more softly this time, specifically to the guard. He hesitated, looking past me to King Aethlin, who must have nodded or otherwise signaled his approval, because the guard sat back on his haunches, allowing me access to the unfortunate Aron.

He was a Gwragen, with the gray-white skin his kind are heir to, which would have made him look like a walking corpse to the unfamiliar eye even before whatever had just happened to him. Now, though, there was a waxen pallor to his complexion that toldme as clear as anything that he had suffered a sudden, dramatic injury.

I still leaned close enough to press my fingers to his throat and my ear to his chest, checking for pulse and heartbeat. It only took a few seconds to verify what wasn’t there. I sat up, turning to face the High King, and shook my head.

That was all it took. The Daoine Sidhe guard wailed disbelievingly, an unprofessional sound for someone wearing the formal livery of a noble house, but hopefully forgivable under the circumstances. I pushed myself to my feet, turning to Raj. “The night-haunts will be here soon, and we should be gone when they arrive,” I said. “I’ll need your lockpicks.”

“Why, Sir Daye, I am offended and affronted that you would suspect me, a Prince of Cats, of carrying thieves’ tools on my person! How could youpresume—”

“Raj. I know you have them because I gave them to you for your birthday. Stacy took mine while she was dressing me, or I’d use my own. Lockpicks, please. This isn’t the time.” I paused, taking a breath. Some things are rarely said bluntly among the fae. But blunt force trauma is my specialty. “A man is dead.”

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