One Salt Sea: An October Daye Novel

Tybalt smiled back. It was nice how normal that was starting to seem to me.

The stream of pages and courtiers heading for the ballroom grew thicker as we moved through the knowe. Their burdens had grown more obviously awkward; they’d had time to empty the lighter parts of the armory, stripping away the arrows, daggers, and chain mail shirts that blocked the serious weapons of war. I suppressed a shudder as a Candela staggered by, half-bent under the weight of a Bridge Troll-sized shield.

Purebloods are immortal, but they can be killed. Faerie wars used to decimate the population so much that entire races died out, becoming legends even to the fae. We kill each other when the excuse seems good enough—as if there’s any excuse good enough to justify killing something that was meant to live forever. The Luidaeg once said, in a moment of particularly black humor, that nature made us territorial and temperamental because otherwise we’d have overrun the world within five generations. Times like this made me wonder if she was right.

No one came to stop us or wave good-bye as we stepped out the exit and into the warm air of the mortal night. Everything smelled green, like the mustard flowers and tall grass that grew all throughout Paso Nogal Park. It was the kind of night that makes war seem impossible, even when you know that it’s inevitable. I sighed and started down the hill, with Tybalt pacing alongside me. His presence was reassuring. I’m not used to being uneasy in Shadowed Hills, but with the threat of war so close at hand, I couldn’t help but wonder about the shadows too deep for me to see into. Having Tybalt there made it easier; if anything attacked me, I wouldn’t be fighting it off alone.

Crickets chirped in the tall grass, and pixies chattered in the distance, their tinkling-bell voices adding to the illusion that everything was business as usual in Shadowed Hills. That illusion died when we reached the edge of the parking lot, and I stopped just short of the pavement, swearing under my breath.

Quentin was sitting on the hood of my car, his increasingly copper-colored hair reclaiming some of its childhood gold in the glow of the streetlights. A rose goblin was curled in his lap. He stroked its yellow-gray back with one hand as it kneaded his leg, keeping the bulk of his attention on one of the more common pathways down the hill.

Tybalt followed my gaze, and blinked. “Perhaps he wishes to avoid heavy lifting?”

“Oberon only knows,” I said, and started walking again. “Come on.”

The rose goblin spotted us before Quentin did. It stood, rattling its thorns in greeting as it stepped off him. Quentin looked up, eyes wide. Then he slid off the hood, standing at something approximating attention. No longer in possession of a convenient lap, the rose goblin jumped off the car and trotted into the darkness.

“Quentin.” I stopped in front of him, Tybalt a silent presence by my side. “Shouldn’t you be emptying the armory with everybody else?”

“No, sir.” Quentin looked me squarely in the eyes. “I should be right here.”

Sir? Uh-oh. “Why?”

“In times of war, all squires are required to attend their knights.” He flashed a smile. “That’s you.”

I groaned. “Did Sylvester put you up to this?”

“Of course.” Quentin shrugged. “That doesn’t mean I argued. He says you’ve got more problems than just the war. I’m your squire. Your problems are my problems.”

“You have a squire now?” asked Tybalt, sounding amused. “When were you going to mention this to me?”

“Oh, half an hour after never,” I said. “Quentin, this is too dangerous. You need to stay at Shadowed Hills.”

“So this is more dangerous than getting shot by a crazy woman?”

“Well, no, but—”

“Oh, so it’s more dangerous than stealing my human girlfriend back from the crazy Firstborn who turned her into a horse.”

“Not exactly, but—” I stopped. “You’re not going to let me talk you out of this, are you?”