“With my own two hands, and with the help of the man I loved most in all the world.” We had reached a small door. Sylvester pushed it open.
The room on the other side was as shabby as the hall. The walls were papered in lilac brocade that peeled in places, revealing the plaster beneath. The window had no glass; instead, the panes held sheets of oiled paper, no doubt enchanted to stand up to the elements, turning the world outside into a blobby impressionist painting. A single twin bed was pushed up against the wall, and in the bed was Simon Torquill, my old enemy, my last hope.
Asleep, with all the hard lines and worry eased from his face, he looked more like Sylvester than ever. They had the same bones: it was the way they wore them that differed. They were even dressed similarly, although Sylvester’s clothes were faintly medieval, while Simon’s were more “I stopped keeping up with mortal fashions somewhere in the 1920s.” He was wearing shoes. I guess when there’s no chance the sleeper will roll over, it’s less about dressing them for comfort, and more about dressing them for display. Like a funeral.
His cuffs were frayed. I realized that every time I’d seen him without Oleander there to put on a show for, his cuffs had been frayed. He was holding on tightly to the few things he had, mending them when he had to, never letting go.
That was his problem, really. He’d never figured out how to let go.
I turned, looking to Etienne. “You know where we are now,” I said. “Can you go check the grounds for Raj? He’s supposed to be coming with the countercharm.”
Etienne frowned. “I thought the stuff was too delicate to be exposed to magic.”
“Walther’s still tinkering with it. Every batch is more stable than the last, and cold is good for it. Helps it settle. According to him, carrying it through the Shadow Roads is actually beneficial—the magic may do a little damage, but the cold repairs all that, and more.”
“Fine,” said Etienne. He looked to Sylvester, who nodded minutely, granting permission. With that formality observed, Etienne turned, sketched a portal in the air, and was gone.
Grianne remained behind. Her Merry Dancers spun around her, betraying an unusual degree of agitation.
“Is he not to be bound?” she asked.
Ah.
For Grianne, that was a speech—she doesn’t talk much, and when she does, it’s always to make a point. Unlike the rest of us, who will probably go to our graves yammering wildly away. This time, her point was a valid one: Simon, for all that I needed him, and for all that I was embarking on a quest that was to his personal benefit, had run away before. He’d betrayed everyone in this room, to one degree or another, at least once. What was going to stop him from doing it again?
“He will be,” said Sylvester. He looked at Simon as he spoke, and his words were filled with a mixture of regret and longing that hurt my heart to hear. “His punishment does not end because I must wake him. For what he’s done, his suffering has just begun.”
Oberon’s Law forbids us to kill each other. That’s it: that’s everything. The rest of the crimes we commit, the rest of the times we transgress, there’s no law to describe what happens next. There’s tradition, and there are punishments, but the basic judicial system of Faerie is “I do what I want.”
Simon Torquill was a landless Count who had committed crimes against a landed Duke in his own home. He had committed treason by kidnapping his brother’s wife. He had imprisoned Luna and Rayseline for years, in a place we had yet to identify or find. He had assaulted another noble’s vassal by transforming me against my will. No one would question Sylvester for taking his revenge, whatever form that revenge might take.
Sometimes, revenge could take some pretty vicious forms. The former King of Silences had been using his rivals for spell components, cutting them apart one piece at a time. While he had been elf-shot for his crimes against the Crown, he wasn’t specifically being punished for that. In the eyes of fae law, he had done nothing wrong. Also in the eyes of fae law, Queen Siwan—who was now back in her rightful place as ruler of Silences—would be doing nothing wrong if she ordered him sliced to bits, as long as he didn’t die.
When Faerie decides to hold a grudge, the ramifications can echo for centuries.
“Your knife, please, October,” said Sylvester. He held his hand out, making it clear that this was not entirely a request.
Feeling uneasy, I pulled the silver blade from its sheath under my jacket and passed it to him. “Do I need to bleed?”
“For once, no. Your blood is not required.” He leaned forward, grasping Simon’s left hand and turning it so the palm was facing toward the ceiling. With a quick, decisive motion, he sliced the ball of Simon’s thumb lengthwise. The smell of blood filled the room.
I could smell Simon’s magic in his blood, the smoke and rotten oranges tracery that marked him now, and the smoky mulled cider scent that had marked him once, before things had gone so wrong for him. It was complicated all out of proportion, that mix of scents: people’s magic isn’t supposed to twist to such a degree that it actually changes. I couldn’t imagine what it would take to rewrite a person’s essential nature like that. If there was any kindness left in the world, I would never have to learn.
The world is so rarely kind. Sylvester drew the blade of my knife across his own thumb, making a cut identical to the one on his brother. The daffodils and dogwood scent of his magic rose, stronger than Simon’s, which was—after all—still slumbering, unable to rise in his defense.
The true horror of elf-shot kept revealing itself, like a terrible flower opening one petal at a time. Simon could no more defend himself against his brother than he could wake of his own accord. I’d known that, I’d always known that; the sleeping monarchs of Silences had been the proof, if I’d ever needed any. Yet physical damage can almost always be healed, in Faerie. Losing a leg is a tragedy and an inconvenience, but there are healers who can rejoin severed flesh, artisans who can craft replacements from enchanted wood, or stone, or living fire. There are options. Magic, though . . .
Sylvester could bind Simon’s magic into his bones, and it might take him a hundred years or more before he could find someone capable of unweaving his brother’s workings. He could turn Simon to stone and leave him there, to wake one day in the dark and the cold, frozen, awake but still captive, forever.
I reached out before I could think better of it, grabbing Sylvester’s arm. He turned to look at me.
“Don’t . . . don’t hurt him,” I said. “Please. I need him to help me.”
“He will,” said Sylvester, and there was no warmth in his tone.