Chimes at Midnight

I stared at her. “What?”


“I’m just saying, you have more resources at your disposal than you think you do, and she’s letting her own prejudices blind her. You’re just a changeling, after all. What could you possibly do to hurt her?” She grinned broadly. “You can do a lot. For starters, you can try talking to some of the people who knew King Gilad and find out what they can tell you.”

Quentin and Tybalt looked at her blankly.

For once, I wasn’t the last one in the room to get what the Luidaeg was hinting at, and I didn’t like the feeling very much. I stared at her. She raised an eyebrow, clearly content to wait me out if that was what it took. Finally, slowly, I asked, “Luidaeg, if there’s something you want me to know, why don’t you just tell me?”

“Because I can’t.” Her smile slipped, replaced by an expression of deep frustration. “This is one of those areas where I’m bound and counter-bound until I can’t see straight. Unless you know the right questions, I can’t give you the answers you need.”

I slammed back the rest of my taqueria coffee in a long, profoundly unsatisfying gulp. Wiping my mouth, I said, “Just one question, then. Can the people who knew King Gilad help me take down the Queen?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, then. So it’s time to play scavenger hunt.” I looked at Tybalt and Quentin, who were watching me hopefully, and sighed. “Okay. Just one more question.”

The Luidaeg gave me a flat, frankly disbelieving look. “Really.”

“Yes, really.”

“What is it?”

“Can I have one of your Diet Cokes? Because I’m not up for saltwater coffee right now.” And if I was going to go talk to the only people who I knew for sure had known King Gilad before he died, I was going to need more caffeine. Hell, I was going to need a caffeine IV.

The Luidaeg blinked at me. Then she laughed, indicating the fridge with one hand. “Help yourselves.”

“That’s what you’re always telling me to do,” I said, and went to get myself a soda.





FIVE


WE LEFT THE LUIDAEG’S about half an hour later, after burritos and sodas had been consumed. Give me another six cups of coffee and I might start feeling normal, if not for the whole “counting down to exile” thing. Tybalt didn’t even complain as we walked back to the car. He didn’t trust the Queen not to have guards out looking for me, and, consequently, he wasn’t willing to take the Shadow Roads if I wasn’t with him. I wanted to call him paranoid, but after the night we’d had, I couldn’t. It’s not paranoia if they are really out to get you.

“Can we listen to a good station? Please?” asked Quentin, climbing into the backseat. “Something recorded this century, maybe?”

“Says the kid who listens to country music,” I said. I shook my head, starting the car. “No radio. We’re going to talk.”

Tybalt raised an eyebrow, looking at me. “Talk?”

“Yeah, talk. Both of you: what do you know about King Gilad?”

Quentin spoke first: “Are you asking to test whether I’ve been paying attention in my history lessons, or because you don’t know?”

“Both,” I admitted. “I know who he was, but that’s about it. Now spill.”

“If you get anything wrong, I will know,” added Tybalt helpfully.

“Swell,” said Quentin. “Um, Gilad Windermere became King of the Mists—”

“King in the Mists,” corrected Tybalt. I turned to frown at him. “The proper form of the title. Your current regent does not make use of it.”

“In, of, whatever,” said Quentin. “He took over in 1800 after his parents, Denley and Nola Windermere, died in their beds. No one was ever accused in their deaths, but most people assumed they were poisoned. No fingers were pointed at the Prince, since he was extremely open about not wanting to take the throne yet.”