Pureblood. Daoine Sidhe. Fallen. That wasn’t even half of her, but it was all she had left, and all she could take with her to the grave.
Quentin stopped beside me. “She looks like she’s sleeping.”
“I know.” Fae flesh doesn’t rot. She looked like she should wake up and demand to know where her glasses were. She wasn’t going to. Even if the process was eventually reversed and the other casualties of ALH brought back to life, Jan was gone forever. Thanks to Gordan, she wouldn’t even have the dubious immortality of the night- haunts. For the first time in centuries, a child of Faerie was genuinely lost.
Sylvester and Luna stood by the pyre, hands locked together. Luna nodded to me as we entered, one ear flattening in silent greeting. I curtsied deeply in reply, and then walked to the opposite side of the grove, standing in the shadow of the trees. Quentin followed. After a moment, Luna patted Sylvester on the arm and murmured something in his ear before walking over to join us.
“My Lady,” I said. Quentin bowed.
“Toby—Quentin,” she said, and offered a small, sad smile. “You’re well?”
“As well as can be expected,” I said.
“Good. We were worried.”
“I’m sorry. I’ll come visit soon.” She probably knew I was lying. I didn’t care.
“Good. And Toby . . . he’s not angry. You did the best you could. Both of you.” She smiled again and turned, walking back to her husband.
I suppressed a bitter smile as I watched her go. If ALH was us doing our best, I never wanted to see our worst. Quentin’s expression looked as conflicted as mine felt, and I was willing to bet that his thoughts were running along the same lines as my own.
Letting my eyes drift across the crowd, I froze, my stomach dropping as I saw a flash of silver-blonde hair attached to a willowy woman in a tattered green-and-brown dress. “Mom . . . ?”
“Toby, what—”
“Wait here,” I said, and started across the grove, yanking my dress up around my knees to keep myself from stumbling. Several people shot startled glances in my direction at my lack of decorum, but no one stopped me. It didn’t matter.
By the time I reached the place where I thought I’d seen my mother, she was gone.
Quentin came running up behind me, wide-eyed and bewildered as he said, “Why did you run off like that?”
“I thought I saw someone,” I said, closing my eyes and sighing. “Somebody I knew. Guess I was wrong.”
“Oh,” said Quentin, and quieted.
We were still standing there, silent, when a voice spoke behind me. “Please do not jump or scream or make any other exclamations of surprise. I am very tired.”
The voice was almost familiar: female and slightly flat, like it had been run through a synthesizer. But it was an adult voice, not a child’s. I turned. “Hello, April.”
“Hello.” April had changed in the last month, going from a teenager to someone that could have been Jan’s twin, if you ignored the blonde hair and too-perfect skin. When she grew up, she grew up fast. She was wearing a black dress made of some glittering material that I suspected was actually solid light. “I’m glad you’re here.”
Quentin was gaping. I understood the impulse.
“We couldn’t miss it,” I said. “I didn’t think we’d see you here.”
“Elliot has used my mother’s notes to establish a portable server unit. It only works for short periods, but it expands my range of motion considerably.”
“That’s good,” I said.
“April?” Quentin asked, wide-eyed.
“Yes,” she said, and smiled sadly. I looked at her expression, and realized she’d had a crush on him at ALH. Had; past tense. However strong it might have been, it was over now.
She’d outgrown him.
“It’s good to see you,” he said.
Elliot walked up behind her, leaning on his cane. He looked battered, but at least he was moving. “Toby,” he said.
“You made it,” I said.
“I had to.” We embraced. It was a short, awkward thing; I was being careful not to hurt him, and he didn’t seem to know how to balance his cane. Still, I think we both felt better by the time I pulled away. “It’s good to see you again.”
“It’s good to see you, too, Elliot.”
He looked toward Quentin, asking, “How are the Hippocampi doing?”
Quentin blushed as I looked at him, brows raised. “You took the Hippocampi?” I asked.
“They were a gift,” he mumbled.
“Cool.” I turned back to Elliot and April. “Is Alex . . . ?”
“He didn’t want to leave our lands,” April said. I was right about Terrie: when dawn came again, she’d turned back into Alex, and awoke. Every sunset brought on the same collapse. Somehow, I wasn’t surprised that he wasn’t feeling up to going out.
“I’m sorry,” Quentin said.
“We’re going to have to wait and see whether he recovers. Still, we thank you for all your help. None of us would be here without you.” April offered her hand, and I took it, squeezing. Her fingers felt faintly unreal. I knew better.
“Not a problem,” I said. April is too young and strange to share the standard prejudices about certain things—like saying thank you. Watching her grow into herself was going to be a lot of fun.
The arguments over succession in Tamed Lightning were venomous, but in the end, tradition won. April was Jan’s daughter and the knowe recognized her as such, and so—in the absence of another legal heir—the County was hers. There would be no dissolution and no war; just a bit more healthy chaos. Duchess Riordan would have to wait.
In a way, April’s assumption of her mother’s throne was the final, most bitter irony of all. She’d been a killer when she was too young and alien to understand what she did, and Faerie forgave her for her ignorance; Gordan led her astray, and for the justice of Faerie, that was enough. If she’d stayed ignorant, we might have called her a monster and killed her anyway, for our own protection . . . but she didn’t. Her mother’s death forced her to become a real person, and now that she understood her own crimes, she was fighting to undo them. By understanding her own guilt, she became innocent again.
Elliot started to say something, but stopped as Sylvester stepped to the center of the grove, clearing his throat. The murmur of the crowd faded, replaced by an expectant hush. Sylvester looked at us and faltered. Luna stepped forward, ready to catch him if he fell. He took her hand and cleared his throat again, steadier now. Sylvester never falls; he just teeters on the edge. I’ve never seen him refuse a helping hand. He’s one of the bravest men I know. He survives.
“In the beginning, we were given a promise,” he said. His voice was almost too soft to hear, and still loud enough to carry to every corner of the grove. I don’t know where he found the funeral rites; there have been no funerals in Faerie since the night- haunts were born. But part of me recognized his words—they were the right ones. He found the right words.
“We were told we would live forever,” he continued, looking straight at me. “That promise has been betrayed, and now Countess January ap Learianth, who lived among the mortals as January O’Leary, lies slain. She has crossed the line from which there is no coming back, and the promise we were given did not protect her.”
He turned and leaned over the pyre, kissing her forehead before looking over the crowd once more. “She was my sister’s daughter. She was my niece and the mother to my grandniece, and a thousand things to a thousand people, and she is gone. Mortality can strike even the immortal. Remember that, and keep the ones you love around you, and live each day as well as you can.” He glanced toward the edge of the crowd. I followed his gaze and saw Raysel standing there, arms folded, looking bored. Oh, Sylvester. It’s always the good ones that die.
“But there is hope.” He took a deep breath, and repeated, “There is hope. In a world where one promise can be broken, perhaps others can be kept. She may yet find peace . . . but she will find it without us.” He waved his
