One Salt Sea: An October Daye Novel

I blinked. “What do you mean?”


“I mean, someone slunk into our knowe and left this outside our bedroom door.” Patrick produced a salt-crusted wooden box from his pocket. An unbroken golden ring was looped through the latch, connected to the corners of the box by thin gold chains. I had to admire the construction. Breaking the ring would snap the chains, making it impossible for someone to steal the contents without getting caught.

Still, there had to be something I was missing. Good craftsmanship alone wouldn’t account for the bleakness in Patrick’s eyes.

“What is it?” I asked.

The Roane woman stepped forward, reaching out to touch Patrick’s elbow. “Her confusion is sincere,” she said. Her voice was low and melodic, her accent half-Irish, half-something sharper. “She doesn’t know.”

“I told you she didn’t know,” muttered Connor, a little too loudly.

Patrick shot Connor a sharp look before returning his attention to me. “I didn’t want to risk opening it—not when we didn’t know what it was. We took it to the Asrai, who scried for the contents.”

“And?”

“It’s Dean’s finger.” Patrick’s voice broke as he continued, “They cut off his finger, October. What else are they doing to him? Why haven’t you found him yet? You were supposed to be bringing him home.”

Oh, oak and ash. I stared at Patrick, who looked back at me with the wounded expression of a parent betrayed, and in that moment—that single, horrible moment—I knew that it wouldn’t matter if I stopped the war. We were all of us already losing.





TWENTY-FIVE


“THE ASRAI SAY THEY CAN FEEL pain when they look into the box,” said Patrick, dull misery surrounding every word. “They say it’s likely he was still alive when it was removed.”

Quentin made a small, dismayed sound. I didn’t blame him. A gnawing anger was uncurling in the pit of my stomach. How dare they? Whoever was helping Raysel with this—Dugan or someone else—how dare they? Children are the most precious thing Faerie has. Cutting pieces off of them to make a point is beyond wrong. As far as I’m concerned, it’s actively evil.

“I . . . Oberon’s bones, Patrick, I’m sorry. I’m doing everything I can to find your sons, I swear.” I shook my head, trying to shake away the idea of someone doing something like that to a child. “Why did you bring it here?”

“I asked him to,” said Connor. I turned to stare at him. “I reminded him of who your mother is, and what you can do. You can do it, can’t you?”

“Why can’t he?” asked Raj.

“Raj!” I said. “I’m so sorry. He doesn’t understand—”

To my surprise, Patrick actually laughed. It was a short, sharp sound, and there was no humor behind it, but it was laughter. “He’s Cait Sidhe. He doesn’t need to understand, now, does he? That’s been the rule since time immemorial. I can’t do it myself, young squire, because my blood magic was never that strong, and I’ve spent too long in the water. What power I had has been long since diluted, and all that’s left for me is illusions.”

“Oh,” said Raj. Then: “So you really want her to . . . ?”

“They want me to ride Dean’s blood,” I said.

Raj made a disgusted face. “Ew. Isn’t that dangerous? And icky?”

I took a shaky breath. “I’m not sure that matters.”