Page 59 of When Sorrows Come

“Now what, Sir Daye?” he asked plaintively. “My kingdom is under threat, my son rejects me, my staff is infiltrated and cannot be trusted... what more can I lose for your sake?”

“Hey,” I objected. “Don’t you blameanyof this on me, unless you’re blaming a general shortage of eggs in your kitchens after Kerry finishes baking the wedding cake, or blood in the carpets after I’ve been allowed into a room. I didn’t send your children away, I didn’t foment a coup, and I certainly didn’t replace your staff. If we can help you—any of us except for the Luidaeg, since her services are not mine to promise, and must be paid for whether you’re a king or not—you need only to ask. If we can’t, we’ll stay out of the way. I have a wedding to prepare for.”

Any unease I might have felt at talking back to the High King—which admittedly, wasn’t much—was washed away by the surprised, grateful look Tybalt shot my way, his whole face softening, like he couldn’t quite believe I was still focused on our wedding. I smiled at him. He deserved this. Everything else aside, he deserved this.

“That’s my cue,” said Walther, and levered himself out of the short couch where he’d been reclining. “As I have no official wedding-related duties to perform, and some experience with the intrigues of royal courts, I volunteer myself to assist in interviewing your staff.”

“Really?” asked Maida.

“Really,” Walther confirmed. “If you have access to a stockedalchemy lab whose owner won’t object overly much to my presence, I can even brew up a decent draught of truth to give to anyone whose motives seem in the least questionable.”

“You were able to brew the elf-shot countercharm in this room,” said Aethlin, dubiously.

“That formula is my own creation, and probably the single thing I’ve been called upon to brew most frequently since I was in training with my alchemy instructor,” said Walther. “I carry the base ingredients whenever I travel with Sir Daye. I could mix it in my sleep at this point although you probably shouldn’t swallow anything mixed by a sleeping alchemist, no matter how much you trust us. Doing it out of a suitcase with people breathing down my neck was no big deal. Draught of truth involves ground castor seeds and pressed iris blossoms, as well as several other moderately toxic compounds. If I don’t have the proper equipment, I’ll kill half your staff. And it won’t be murder, it will be negligence. I doubt that will make it any more forgivable for their families.”

Aethlin stared at him for a long moment. Walther looked implacably back, going so far as to reach up and adjust his glasses.

“Cassandra can assist me,” he said. “She’s been spending a lot of time in my lab, and she knows her way around a mortar and pestle.”

“Mom will probably be happier if I’m off doing alchemy with Walther, and not wandering around playing decoy with you and May,” said Cassandra apologetically. “Sorry, Toby.”

“No worries. You do what works best for you,” I said.

“All right,” said Aethlin. “A lab can be found, and basic supplies. We would welcome the assistance.” He looked back at me. “I’ll send someone we’ve verified as trustworthy if we need you.”

“All right, sire,” I said, and offered him a cursory bow.

“Hmm,” he said, and started for the door. Maida grabbed my arm instead of following.

“The blood?” she said, anxiously.

“Right, almost forgot,” I said, and pulled my knife. Maida let me go, having enough common sense not to hang on to an armed knight. I offered her an encouraging smile and walked over to Walther. “Jar, please.”

“Really? What am I, a Container Store?” He still bent to openhis valise, pulling out a small glass jar about large enough to hold a cup and a half of liquid. “I assume you’re about to bleed into this, and I don’t want to ask you to fill something large enough that your lurking King of Cats glares at you.”

“He’s not the only one who’d be glaring,” said Quentin.

“Appreciated,” I said, and took the jar in my free hand. Unscrewing the lid without stabbing myself was difficult, and Walther didn’t offer to help, the jerk, just watched with the dry amusement of someone who knew he wasn’t about to be bleeding, no matter what.

Once I had the jar open, I pressed the edge of my knife against my wrist, where experience had shown me the blood would come fast and easy. Then I looked at Maida, to be sure she was watching me. If I was bleeding for her, I wanted her to see it.

She met my eyes and nodded, very slightly. She understood that no matter what else I was doing, I was hurting myself for her sake, and she acknowledged it. That was all I ever wanted from her, or from anyone, really. For them to see that I was hurting myself on their behalf, and not let them pretend they had no part in it.

The knife bit into my arm as sharply as it always did, the pain not dulled in the slightest by the number of times I’d cut myself in that exact spot. I healed fast enough not to scar, and that meant I also healed too fast for nerve damage to take hold. That was definitely good in the grand scheme of things, but sometimes I wished it would hurt just a little less. I hissed between my teeth, the sound small. Not small enough to keep Tybalt from catching it. He tensed, moving, not toward me, but toward the High Queen.

“Do you see what she does on your behalf, on the behalf of all these cursed, divisive, Divided Courts?” he asked, in a low, unforgiving voice. She glanced at him, startled, before her eyes were pulled back to my bleeding arm, as if she couldn’t look away for long.

The wound was already starting to heal, and the jar was less than half full. I pressed down again, trying to stay focused on my task.

“I would take her into the Court of Cats if it were allowed,” said Tybalt. “I would ask her to forsake her title among your kind and come to live with me. But alas, the shadows would never welcome her, and so I must set aside my crown for her sake, and come intoyour rotten, ruined world to live by her side. But never mistake the fact that she is the best of you. She is the fairest flower of Oberon’s garden, and she bleeds for your sake, who would call yourself her better, who has never earned that name.”

“Why are you angry with me?” asked Maida, finally turning her eyes away from my efforts. “Because I allowed my Firstborn to convince me to send my children away? I’ve been angry with myself for doing that since I did it, and I dare you to sit in front of your own First and do any differently. Because I sit upon a throne? You know how much I gave up to hold that place and call it my own. You know what it cost me better than almost anyone, save maybe for your lady herself, who has forgiven me for more than you ever could. Or is it because my husband was direly injured and she took it upon herself to save him—a favor I did not ask her to bestow, although I would have, had I been there to intercede. Is it because you know that were our positions reversed, she would have been unable to save you, King of Cats, whose magic bends down other paths?”

“Maman,” said Quentin. “Leave him alone.”

“He came first to me,” said Maida, and looked at her son with painful longing. Painful because even though I knew he loved her, the look his face reflected back at her didn’t match the degree of affection I could see so clearly on her own, and I had been standing where she was now not all that long ago, watching my child choose another woman over me.

But unlike Maida and Aethlin, I had never voluntarily sent Gillian away. I put the lid back on the jar and wiped my knife against my hip, further bloodying my already hopelessly-bloodied dress. “Here,” I said, walking across the room to offer it to her. “A mouthful should be enough for anything but a truly mortal wound.”

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