Page 54 of When Sorrows Come

Fiac had moved, despite his hands still being tied, to give Aethlin something to lean against as he levered himself off the floor.The back of the High King’s tunic was completely soaked through with blood, as was the carpet where he had fallen. This had been an unreasonably nice cell, as prisons went; they were going to be rewarded for that with a remarkable amount of cleaning. Well, at least their Bannicks would be happy.

The last guard—Artyom—moved to put himself between Aethlin and Fiac and the two of us. “What did you do to the High King?” he demanded.

“Healed him,” I said. “Saved his life. You’re welcome.” Aethlin still looked dazed. I sighed and relented, explaining, “He’s a blood-worker and he’s just swallowed a considerable amount of my blood. He’ll lose access to my magic soon enough, but my memories may linger a little longer.”

Aethlin swung his head around, staring at me with wide, puzzled eyes.

“You’re you,” he said.

“Yes,” I agreed.

“You’re October Daye.”

“Yes.”

“ButI’mOctober Daye.”

“No,” I said, and remained exactly where I was as his eyes rolled back in his head and he collapsed to the floor in a dead faint. Artyom stepped between us again, sword at the ready. I sighed heavily. “I think we’re going to need to get some backup in here. Tybalt...?”

“I came with you on a simple questioning, and you found two Doppelgangers and the High King got stabbed,” he said. “Why you would think me willing to leave you is entirely beyond me.”

“Because you love me and don’t want Artyom here to arrest me for crimes against the High King?” I said, as endearingly as I could. “I will stay right here, and I will not stab anyone, including myself, unless it’s in self-defense. But we need someone else who understands blood magic and is unquestionably loyal to the crown, which means we need the High Queen.” Technically, we had two members of our little crew who could potentially help someone who was struggling with blood memories, Dean and—no. No, Quentin couldn’t help.

Quentin had traded his natural magic for a Banshee’s compelling, repelling wail. He couldn’t help. And Dean’s natural magic had always been somewhat suppressed by the unique blend of his heritage, which seemed to focus most of its energy on keeping himlocked in an air-breathing shape, rather than sliding into a form that couldn’t breathe on landorin water. He’d never shown any inclination toward transformation, but the magic didn’t lie.

“I’ll make sure she behaves herself,” said Cassie. “Cross my heart. And you should go. The air says you’ll be able to convince the High Queen to come.”

Tybalt blinked, but as Fiac didn’t contradict her, he couldn’t really argue. Instead, he made a frustrated sound and turned to rest his forehead against mine, sighing deeply.

“You are running out of reasons to bid me to leave you behind, little fish,” he said. “Be careful you do not exhaust your supply. It will not, I fear, regenerate as quickly as you do.” Then he kissed the bridge of my nose and wrenched himself away, walking in long strides toward the wall.

Fiac was looking oddly at Cassandra. “I don’t know you,” he said. “I know all the seers of the Westlands, but I don’t know you. How does the air speak to you, girl I don’t know?”

“The High King has been poisoned,” said Artyom sharply. “I think we have bigger concerns than a girl you don’t know.”

Fiac sighed, turning briefly to me. “This is the trouble with putting most of your magic into seeing the truth,” he said. “We can’t be around people unless they’re so careful with us that it’s not sustainable, and so our numbers dwindle, since we can’t even stand each other most of the time, and people still lie to us, or twist the truth to suit what they want it to be, and it doesn’t rouse our tempers because they don’t know they’re lying. If I had just come into this room, I would believe him when he said the High King had been poisoned, and all my wrath would be for you.”

“And now?” I asked carefully.

“Now I know what I saw, and I know what a blood-worker overwhelmed by stronger magic looks like.” Fiac shook his head. “I might be able to blame you if you had bled to prove your good intentions, or to share a memory, but given you bled to save my liege’s life, it’s not fair to hold you responsible if he’s blood-drunk on what he got from you. He’ll recover.”

“But—” protested Artyom.

“No,” said Fiac. “No buts. She didn’t poison the man, and right now, I have no more important concerns than how she can be traveling with a seer I don’t know. We’re few and far between in this world. Eira Rosynhwyr saw to that.”

I blinked. I knew Eira had been responsible for the original slaughter of the Roane, as part of an elaborate attempt to make a monster of her sister—to make the Luidaeg seem like the one who had wiped out her own descendant line, one of the few crimes unique to the Firstborn, and one of the few that Faerie could never forgive. This was the first I’d heard of her targeting all prophets.

I’d wondered, of course, whether that could have been a part of her motivation, whether she’d worried the Roane would foresee and reveal some other plan of hers and twist it somehow out of true. It was impossible not to wonder. But I’d never wondered whether she could have been going after other seers, too. Maybe that explained why they were so rare. Having one of the most ruthless of the Firstborn targeting them without concern for the consequences would certainly have done a lot to reduce their numbers.

“I’m an aeromancer,” said Cassie, voice a little unsteady. It wasn’t an admission she made often. “I can see the way the air moves, and it tells me things, whether it means to or not. I don’t know where I got it. Neither of my parents is a seer.”

“But your sister is,” I said. She turned to look at me. “Karen’s an oneiromancer. We don’t know where that came from either.”

“That’s different,” she said.

“How?”

“Karen doesn’t read dreams so much as she moves through them,” said Cassie.

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