The Eighth Court tcotf-4 Read online

  “Your reason may be what you left behind,” said Altair.

  She turned her black almond eyes on him and stared. In the end it was he who looked away. “What has been long apparent to me,” she said, “has finally become your concern. We are dying.” She looked slowly around the ring of faces.

  “Do you say that from foresight, or deduction?” asked Kimlesh.

  “Both,” said Kareesh. “We have played a trick on ourselves, and now it tricks us in return.”

  “If this is another one of your bids to mingle the bloodlines of the courts, Kareesh, you can save your breath,” said Krane. “There is none other that will live in abomination as you and Gramawl do.”

  “It is not an abomination to love another,” she said. “No matter which court they are from. Sadly, it was too late for us, but there may be others who still have time.”

  “None of the others wish to indulge in your… practices,” said Altair. “They prefer to remain pure.”

  “Then they prefer extinction,” said Kareesh with bitterness. “Deefnir is the last, Altair. There will be no more after him.”

  “You cannot know that,” said Altair.

  “Do not tell me what I cannot know,” said Kareesh. “You haven’t seen it. Would you like to?” Kareesh stretched out her hand, but Altair shook his head, scowling at her.

  “Your problem,” said Krane, “is that you want everyone to be like you. You cannot conceive of a life unlike your own.”

  “No,” said Kareesh. “The problem is that I cannot conceive at all. Neither can you. Nor can they.” She gestured to the wider world. “We have fostered our power down the millennia, using the courts to breed our bloodlines pure but bleeding them dry in the process. There will be no more children.”

  “The answer is no,” said Barthia.

  “Unless…” said Kareesh, “there is another way.”

  “Another way?” asked Kimlesh, leaning forward.

  “Each of you knows that there have been occasions… incidents… where the Feyre have mixed their bloodlines with humanity.”

  “Not in my court,” said Altair.

  Kareesh nodded. “With the exception of Altair’s court then, but the fact remains — the union between humanity and the Feyre is fertile.”

  “What are you suggesting?” asked Teoth.

  “The children of these unions are… unpredictable. Fate rolls her dice and the child may inherit from either parent. Some are more fey than others.”

  “That’s true,” said Yonna, “but they are not fey. They are the gifted ones, something in-between.”

  “And yet there is no barrier against them. The Feyre have long had liaison with humanity. It has become accepted.”

  “Not as a substitute for our own children,” said Teoth.

  “There are those that have fostered such children into their homes and presented them to the courts as their heirs, there being none other,” she said. Kareesh turned her gaze on Teoth. “How many of your court have children these days, High Maker?” Now it was Teoth’s turn to avoid meeting that blank black stare. “When was it last you celebrated a naming day?” The question hung in the air between them. “Any of you?” she asked.

  Altair drew himself up in his chair. “Are you suggesting that these children be accepted as fey? On what basis? In which court? Half the time no one even knows what court begat them. Would you have us start taking in waifs and strays and pretending they are ours?”

  “Then mix the bloodlines between the courts. We have a last chance, a sliver of opportunity,” she pleaded. “Even now it may not be too late. There is reason for hope — we could snatch back our fecundity from the hand of fate and have children once again,” said Kareesh.

  “Even were we to decree it,” said Teoth, “we cannot compel action which goes against the fundamental culture of our people. It’s a deeply held taboo, Kareesh, as you knew well when you crossed it. It has set you apart for centuries. Does anyone visit you now?”

  She stood there in the candlelight, and did not refute it.

  “Enough,” said Altair. “We have heard your plea and that is all we are obliged to do, even for you, old one.”

  “Then humanity is our only hope,” she said. “Remember that in your deliberations.”

  Altair shook his head slowly, but I could see thoughtful expressions in the eyes of the others there: Kimlesh, Yonna, even Barthia. Kareesh turned to leave, and as she did, caught sight of a nod from Altair to the darkness beyond the candlelight. A shadow detached itself.

  She paused and then turned back slowly. “There is a chance,” she said, “That one of you might think I have become a thorn in your thumb that must be plucked lest it goad you into rash action. I speak to you in particular, Lord Altair.”

  She made the title sound like an insult.

  Her crackly voice continued. “Remember this. I have seen the day of my death and I know what awaits me. I will say this, speaking true and clear. The day of my death is also the day of yours. If I were you, I would have every care for the health of this old one.”

  She turned again and continued slowly towards the door. Behind her, Altair shook his head minutely and the shadow retreated.

  Altair spoke first. “She is old, and she does not see as well as she did.”

  Mellion opened and closed his fist three times, in response.

  “I too acknowledge the debt,” said Altair, “but she is not the only one with sight, and she does not see everything. There are others we should listen to.”

  “Even so,” said Kimlesh. “She is right in one thing. We cannot sit here and watch our numbers fade. We have to do something.”

  “I, for one, will not be mixing my bloodline with humanity,” said Altair. “You do not clean the well by adding poisoned water.”

  “Cleaning the well?” asked Krane. “Is that what we’re doing?”

  “Are you considering adopting this mad scheme now, Krane?” Altair asked.

  “I’m open to all the options, Altair, as we all should be. If you have something new, please share it with us.” It was the first time I’d seen Krane say anything against Altair, and the result on the wraithkin Lord’s face was worth the wait.

  He stood. “Well let me say this, loud and clear. The Seventh Court will not pollute its bloodlines with humanity no matter how fertile they are. Nor will we sully ourselves with the blood of the other courts. We are proud of what we are, as you should be.” He strode across the candlelit space, making the candles flutter as he passed. The door opened, and he left. The shadow dwelling in the darkness beyond the flickering lights followed him, closing the door after.

  “Well,” said Kimlesh. “That places us in a difficult position.”

  “That depends,” said Barthia. “Altair has departed, expecting that as we are no longer quorate we must do the same, though I, for one, am not yet minded to leave.”

  “Nor I,” said Yonna.

  “Nor I,” Kimlesh echoed.

  Mellion extended his hand and then placed it on his knee.

  Krane said, “I am not leaving if no one else is.” He looked at Teoth, who looked from side to side, assessing the situation.

  “You understand,” said Teoth, “that if we continue, there will be accusations of treachery from Altair?”

  “The meeting was not declared closed, Teoth,” said Kimlesh. “Are you going to let our brother dictate to you when you may speak and when you may not?”

  He looked from one to the other. “Very well then,” he said. “I too shall stay.”

  Even so, they dropped their voices and I leaned forward to hear them better. Their voices became fainter, and the flickering candlelight faded.

  The interior of the Church of All Hallows by the Tower received the morning sunrise like a blessing. It streamed through the east window leaving long shadows striped across the altar out into the church. As the morning progressed, the light slid sideways, becoming narrower as the sun rose and the world turned and the sun moved round to
the stained glass windows along the south aisle, leaving the altar in shadow.

  Into that shadow stepped two men. One wore a long coat, and the other a dark suit.

  “Do you know what to do?” asked the one in the coat.

  “I do,” said the suited man.

  “It must be done right,” said the man in the coat.

  “I know,” the suited man replied.

  “It’s almost noon.” The man in the coat glanced down the central aisle and then nodded to the second man. “Be careful.”

  “I will,” said the suited man. He waited until the first had left the church via the vestry door and then walked quietly into the Lady Chapel and knelt before the image on the wall before him. To one side there was a white sculpture on a stand which was supposed to represent the Madonna, but appeared to have spikes emerging from it. Somehow it seemed appropriate. He bowed his head. He heard Blackbird and Angela when they entered through the door at the far end of the church, but he did not stir. He listened to them approach and only then did he rise and step out into the central aisle.

  “There is no service today,” he said. “I’m so sorry.”

  Blackbird started at his sudden appearance. She was holding a white rose in one hand, being careful of the wicked thorns that adorned its stem. “We didn’t come for a service,” she said.

  “Indeed,” said the man, noting the rose and glancing from Blackbird to Angela and back to Blackbird. “Is there something else I can do for you?”

  “We would like to present this white rose,” said Blackbird, “at the foot of the altar of All Hallows by the Keep on the eve of the winter solstice.”

  “Are you sure you have the right day?” said the man. “And the right church?”

  “It is the winter solstice tomorrow,” said Blackbird. “Today is the eve.”

  “I’m sure it is,” said the man. His smile was indulgent, as if they were a little stupid, or perhaps confused.

  From outside the church, they could hear the chimes of a clock starting to toll out the noon bells. “Do I simply place it on the steps?” she asked the man.

  “Do you?” he said. “I won’t prevent you, if that’s what you wish to do,” he said.

  “On the cushion before the altar?” she asked, “Is there anything special for it to rest on?”

  He smiled. “You’re confusing this with the rose rent on the summer solstice,” he said. “Do return in the summer and you can see the ceremony then. It’s quite a spectacle.”

  “When you say confusing this,” said Angela. What is this, that you are referring to?”

  “That’s not for me to say,” he answered her, smiling politely.

  The chimes ended and there was a slight pause when all was silent. Even the muted rumple of the traffic seemed to pause for a moment. Then the bell started tolling the hour. Blackbird stepped forward and placed the rose on the kneeling cushion at the step of the sanctuary. The man did not move.

  “There,” she said. “It’s done.” She turned back to the man.

  He waited until the full twelve chimes has rung, then he reached inside his jacket pocket and extracted a large bronze key. “I believe this is what you require,” he said, dropping the key into her open hand.

  “Is that it? The key to Grey’s Court?”

  “Isn’t that what you were expecting?” he asked them.

  “Yes,” said Blackbird. “Is that all? There’s no deed, no contract?”

  “As the key-holder, what else do you require?” he asked. “You are welcome to stay and give thanks.” He gestured towards the pews arrayed down the church.

  Blackbird looked at Angela and Angela shrugged her shoulders.

  “Thank you,” said Blackbird.

  “You’re welcome,” said the man.

  He watched as Blackbird and Angela walked back down the central aisle, waiting until he heard the outer door close and the sound of the traffic recede. Then he turned and walked slowly to the back of the church and stepped through the arch, turning towards the vestry door. He opened it and stepped through. Inside the man with the coat waited for him.

  “Did they take it?” he asked.

  “They did,” said the suited man.

  “What about that?” asked the man in the coat. He gestured towards the floor of the vestry where a man lay dead, his neck at an awkward angle.

  “An accident,” suggested the suited man. “Hard to prove otherwise. There’ll be an investigation, but that needn’t concern us.”

  “Excellent,” said the man in the coat. He led the way to the side door and placed his hand on the wood of the door. There was a clunk as the lock tumbled and he pulled open the door, allowing the other man through.

  “I would make a good priest,” said the suited man.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” said the man in the coat. “You’ve just murdered someone.”

  “Ah, yes,” said the suited man. “There is that.”

  TWELVE

  “Altair!”

  “Do not use that name here,” said the whisperer. “I forbid it.”

  “You were watched.”

  “When?”

  “Whoever it was you sent to put pressure on Kimlesh’s Court. They were seen negotiating. Tate followed them.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Of course it matters. How could you be so careless?”

  “Do not think that because you share my secrets that you can speak to me so. When you chose to throw your lot in with mine, we sealed a bargain, but I am the Lord of the Seventh Court, and you… you are my servant.”

  “I am not your servant.”

  “Your loyalty is to none other, not any more. Remember that.”

  “We did strike a bargain, and I’ve seen precious little in the way of a return.”

  “They have taken the bait,” he whispered.

  There was a pause. “What? You’re sure?”

  “Of course. I would not say if it were not so.”

  “Then it could be soon?”

  “The solstice. There will be a window of opportunity,” said the whisper.

  “And then you will deliver on your side of our bargain?”

  There was only silence.

  When I awoke, I was in bed alone. I tried to sit up, and then regretted the attempt as the skin at my side tightened, making me gasp. Looking down at my side, the wound was already scarring over. Blackbird’s skill was healing them even faster than I would normally heal, but they were still tender to touch.

  Sunlight edged through the gap in the curtains, and I rolled out of bed in an ungainly but less painful manner and went to draw them back, revealing a crisp day where the frost still lay wherever the winter sun had not yet touched. The sun was as near high as it was going to get — Blackbird must have already left to keep the appointment at the church with her white rose, leaving me here asleep. Perhaps she thought I would be more trouble than help, or perhaps she thought I needed the rest. Checking in the nursery, I found the cot also deserted. I found it hard to believe I had slept through my son’s awakening, but it had been the sleep of exhaustion, and hopefully of healing.

  Then it came back to me — the dream of the courts. I felt sure it was a true dream, but how long ago had that happened? If I asked any member of the High Court, they would want to know where I came by such information, and I was not ready to show my hand. Some of the memories that Angela had given me were coming to the surface and I was slowly discovering things that no one outside the High Court knew. I wondered if even Garvin was aware — or had that been him skulking in the shadows at the edge of the court?

  I showered, cleaning the pink skin on my side where Sam’s bullet had left a puckered scar, now bisected by a newer scar running down my side. The water allowed me to clean off the patches of dried blood. I was healing impressively fast now that the iron bullets were removed. I probed the new skin with my finger, finding it still tender.

  I washed the rest of me, then dried and shaved, being careful to a
void the pattern of red marks that still covered one side of my face like a livid tattoo. I had to admit that I was starting to look like a patchwork — too many injuries, too quickly. Still, I was alive.

  I rinsed my face and inspected the damage. With a shake of my head, my glamour concealed the mark, but almost invisibly slowly it began to creep back, rising like a pale shadow across my face. Was that because it had been caused by iron? I found myself rubbing the palm of my hand where I had once grasped a set of iron gates. The scars there had healed eventually, but in that case I had barely touched them. Resigning myself to the fact that there was nothing I could do about it either way, I pulled on my Warders greys, and went in search of my son and something to eat. I was suddenly ravenous.

  I found him in his favourite place, in the high chair at the end of the big table in the old kitchen, a bread stick in one hand and his other hand in his mouth. There was a bowl of greenish goo in front of him, some of which he appeared to eaten while the rest was smeared across his face.

  “Good morning,” said Lesley. “We were beginning to wonder if you’d sleep all day, weren’t we?” My son grinned at me — not a pretty sight with a mouth full of green goo. I attempted to take the bread stick from him, but he would not relinquish it. His grip was firm and his determination was greater than mine, so I let him keep it. He used his hand to scoop up some more from the bowl, pressing it against his lips so that the goo squeezed between his fingers.

  “You’re enjoying that aren’t you?” I said to him.

  “It’s one of his favourites,” said Lesley, “though what there is in peas, potato and sprouts that he likes is hard to fathom. Still, he shows his appreciation, don’t you, Sweet Pea?” She kissed him on the top of his head, and he craned his neck around to see what she was doing.

  “How are you feeling? I understand it was a busy night?” she said.

  “I missed most of it, but I’m doing OK, thanks. Surprisingly well, given that I was shot.”

  “Are you up to breakfast?”

  “I’d love some,” I said.