One Salt Sea

remembered. He was Daoine Sidhe, but sturdier than the average, built more like a sailor than a nobleman. A light patina of verdigris covered his bronze hair, and his eyes were dark blue. His features were pleasant without being spectacular. That alone was unusual: the Daoine Sidhe seem to make a habit out of unnaturally refined beauty.

He also looked exhausted. Thin worry lines were etched into the skin around his mouth, and he had the haggard complexion of a man who hadn’t been eating or sleeping properly for days, if not weeks.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “It’s nice to hear a little honesty around here. I don’t think we’ve met, although you do look familiar.”

“This is my first major diplomatic event.” Connor had recovered from his coughing fit and was tugging on my elbow, trying to get my attention. I couldn’t think of a way to stop the introduction without being rude, so I barreled on, saying, “That was Countess April O’Leary of Tamed Lightning. I’m Countess October Daye, from Goldengreen. You can call me Toby. This is my escort—”

“Connor O’Dell,” said the stranger. Connor let go of my elbow. “We’ve met. But you . . . you’re Amandine’s daughter, aren’t you? The one who killed Blind Michael.”

Sometimes I think I’ll never live either of those things down. “That’s me.”

The stranger nodded. “They say you’re a hero.”

“They say a lot of things.” I looked at him blandly. “I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name.”

“Patrick.” He smiled. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

I shot Connor an apologetic glance. Well, that explained why he’d been trying to get my attention. “Patrick Lorden?”

“The very same.”

“You’re married to the Duchess of Saltmist, aren’t you?” Leave it to me to strike up an informal conversation with one of the people we were gathered to pacify.

“That would be me.” Patrick didn’t sound offended. That was something. “Dianda’s yelling at the Queen, and I’m staying as far away as I can. My wife can be . . . forceful . . . when she gets going. Hello, Connor. Cute date.”

“Your Grace,” said Connor. He sounded mortified. I guess this wasn’t how he’d pictured introducing his girlfriend to his liege.

“Forgive me for saying so, Your Grace, but you seem more relaxed than I expected,” I said carefully. “I’d heard there were some issues.”

“By ‘issues,’ you mean the kidnapping and threatened murder of my sons?” His smile held neither warmth nor humor. “My current calm is a facade, I assure you, but as I can’t do anything to help Dianda negotiate their return, I’m staying out of the way.”

“That’s very reasonable of you,” I said. “If something happened to my daughter, I’d be a lot less capable of being sensible.” And a lot more powerless—but in the end, that wouldn’t matter. If something happened to Gillian, I’d rip the world down to save her, even if she spat in my face when I did. That’s what parenthood means.

Patrick tilted his head. “You’re a parent?”

I used to be, I thought. Aloud, I said, “Yes. Her name is Gillian. She recently turned eighteen.”

Something in my voice must have told him not to push the point. Patrick nodded instead, and said, “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

“Likewise.” Silence fell between the three of us, no one quite sure what to say or how to say it. I tried to cover my awkwardness by raising my glass for another drink, and stopped cold.

The candles were throwing hundreds of tiny, flickering shadows across the surface of my wine . . . everywhere but one small section at the rim of the glass, where the reflection of the room was crisp and perfectly clear. Everything but that one spot was distorted, like . . . like . . .

Like the loophole in a personal invisibility spell.

“Patrick?” I said casually, tilting my glass to get a better fix on the reflection. Now that I was really looking, I could make out the outline of a human-sized person on the balcony behind me, raising something that was either a gun or a small crossbow. The loophole wasn’t quite good enough to let me make out any details, like what kind of weapon was being aimed in our direction. If it was a gun, there was no way to guess whether the bullets would be iron. If it was a crossbow, it was probably loaded with elf-shot. Not a call I wanted to make from the other side of a ballroom.

“Yes?”

“I realize we’ve just met, and you’re probably going to think I’m insane, but I need you to do exactly what I say, okay? Don’t look surprised, don’t yell, just nod if you understand.”

I glanced to the side long enough to see Patrick’s nod. His shoulders were suddenly tense. I hoped our shooter wouldn’t notice. I was happier with them trying to line up “the perfect shot” than I was with the idea of an early shot that might get lucky.

“Good. I’m going to hand Connor my glass, and then I’m going to tackle you. Don’t fight me, don’t try to pull away. Connor, when I move, hit the floor. Don’t turn, just dive.”

“Toby, what—”

“Trust me.” I plastered a smile across my face as I turned to press my glass into Connor’s free hand. Then I launched myself into Patrick, knocking us both to the floor.

I heard, rather than saw, Connor following us down. He dropped the wineglasses as he fell, and they shattered when they hit the marble, sending glass shards flying in all directions. There was another, far more ominous sound at the same time: the zing of an arrow passing over my head. Someone screamed, and the ballroom dissolved into chaos.

People scattered, putting distance between themselves and us as quickly as they could. I ignored them, holding Patrick down and counting to ten. When no further shots were fired, I pushed myself back to my feet, letting Patrick and Connor get up on their own while I turned back to the balcony.

It was empty.

“Root and branch,” I snarled.

“Toby?”

“Alert the guards. That was an assassination attempt.” I stalked over to the arrow, crouching next to it.

It was only a few feet from where we’d been standing, the arrowhead buried in the marble floor at a depth many mortal bullets couldn’t have managed. Fae munitions may be old-fashioned, but they’re frighteningly effective. The shaft was polished, black-stained mistletoe—the generic option for elf-shot. The stain might been a clue if it had been any other color, since most noble houses keep a limited range of wood dyes on hand, but black is an assassin’s color, and there’s no noble house that doesn’t occasionally feel the need for one of those. It wasn’t going to do me any good at all.

I reached for the arrow, and stopped as the Luidaeg’s shell suddenly burned cold, telling me that touching the wood with my bare hands wasn’t the best idea. “Anybody got a shirt I can borrow?”

“Here,” said Patrick, shrugging out of his leather vest and offering it to me. I nodded the thanks that Faerie etiquette wouldn’t let me offer aloud before leaning over and carefully wrapping the vest around the arrow’s shaft.

“You may want to step back,” I said. “This thing could be rigged to explode.” On that cheery note, I gripped the arrow with both hands, and pulled.

The arrow came loose immediately—not what I’d been expecting from something that traveled with enough force to bury itself in solid stone. I staggered backward, barely managing to keep from toppling over. Once I was sure I was stable, I raised the arrow to my nose and sniffed, looking for any lingering traces of magic. The wood smelled acrid; it was a bottled spell, and, unfortunately, it was a familiar one.

“Elf-shot,” I said, disgusted.

Connor was suddenly behind me, the air crackling with the salty scent of his magic as it gathered in response to the potential threat. “Are you all right?”

I stood, giving him a reassuring nod before turning to Patrick. I shifted the position of the vest so as to expose as much of the arrow as possible without actually touching the thing. “This is fletched with owl feathers,” I said. “Does it match any design you recognize?”

“No.” He was pale but standing, and he looked like he was staying reasonably calm; that was good. The last