The Winter Long

“It didn’t sound right because it was only half the story. Fae marriage is a funny, funny thing,” said the Luidaeg. “Easy to do, easy to undo, that was always the goal. Dad wanted us to enjoy the same happiness with each other that he had with my mother and with his pretty Summer Queen—and he wanted it to be just as fleeting. Give us eternity and we still measure our lives by the span of seasons.” She looked at her ice cream, sighed, and put it aside.

“Some of us believe marriage is for longer than a season’s time,” said Tybalt mildly.

“Sure, and some of you believe a marriage that lasts longer than a month is some sort of crime against nature.” The Luidaeg shook her head. “It’s all easy, as long as you only have the people who are getting married to worry about.”

I frowned. “Wait, what are you . . .” My voice trailed off as a thought struck me. It was the sort of thought I didn’t enjoy having, didn’t want to be having, and would probably have paid a considerable amount to stop having. “Fae marriages can be ended at any point by the spouses saying ‘we don’t want to be married anymore,’ unless there are children.”

“Any children have to declare which parent they wish to follow, just like all us Firstborn had to declare which parent we belonged to,” said the Luidaeg. There was an edge to her words, like they carried a meaning the rest of us hadn’t picked up on yet. “It keeps lines of succession straight. But if the child is unable to choose, the marriage must endure.”

“Oh, sweet Titania’s ass, please don’t tell me I’m like Arden and I have an elf-shot brother in a box somewhere,” I moaned, pinching the bridge of my nose with one hand.

“No, that would be easier,” said the Luidaeg. “You have a sister, and she hasn’t been elf-shot, although whether she’s alive or not is anyone’s guess. Her name is August. She’s been missing for over a hundred years, which means the only way your mother can divorce Simon is to admit that August is dead. Until that happens, August has a say in the separation.”

I lowered my hand, staring at her. “A hundred years? You mean . . .”

“She disappeared just before the earthquake. Just before King Gilad died and this Kingdom went to shit.” The Luidaeg’s gaze was as dispassionate as the sea that she was named for. “The numbers all align, when you start looking at them properly.”

“I am . . . I am not even going to ask you why you never thought I should know that I have a sister who’s been missing since before I was born, and am instead going to skip ahead to asking again why you never told me my mother was married to the man who turned me into a fish. You say it would have made it hard for me to sleep. I say I still needed to know.”

“Really?” The Luidaeg tilted her head. “Why is that exactly?”

I blinked at her. “What?”

“I regret saying this even before I have said it, but . . . perhaps there is value in her question,” said Tybalt slowly. “When you first returned to us, you were consumed by despair, and by the longing for vengeance. But what Simon did was not forbidden under any known reading of fae law—he turned a changeling into an animal. There are many who would say that a changeling is already an animal, and so he merely altered your breed. Had you been told, then and there, that Simon Torquill was your stepfather—could anything have induced you to rebuild your bridges with Shadowed Hills? Or would you have devoted your every waking moment to tracking Simon down and getting your revenge, no matter what the cost?”

“You couldn’t have defeated Simon as you were; I frankly doubt you could defeat him now,” said the Luidaeg.

“I like being your squire,” said Quentin. “I’m kind of glad you didn’t know any of this sooner.”

I groaned. “When are you people going to learn that withholding information is not the way to endear yourselves to me?”