The Unkindest Tide (October Daye #13) - Seanan McGuire Page 0,143

ordinary and small enough to fit in her chair without seeming to fill the entire room. She was built to scale with the rest of us. It was comforting, and oddly unnerving at the same time. The way the Firstborn could diminish themselves on command would never fail to unsettle me.

“You’re not welcome here for the next seven years,” said Pete. “Once you set sail, that’s it: no visits, no Convocations, no nothing. It’s the least punishment I can justify for breaking my rules.”

“Rules matter,” said the Luidaeg. She shrugged. “I can’t say I’m thrilled to be exiled, but I also can’t say it’s not fair of you. Once I go, I won’t turn back.”

“Excuse me,” said Quentin, and only flinched a little as Pete’s attention fixed on him. “Are we all exiled, or only the Luidaeg?”

“Why?” asked Pete. “Were you thinking you want to become a regular visitor to my sandless shores?”

“No,” he said. “I just like to know what’s going on. And, you know. Um. Prince Windermere was looking for someone, and I don’t think he’s found her yet.”

“Sorry,” I said. “I haven’t exactly provided him with a stable knightly environment. It’s left him a little anxious about certain things.”

Pete, thankfully, looked amused. “I see. No, young squire, the rest of you aren’t exiled. Only my sister, who needs to grant me seven years of peace before she comes and disrupts everything again.”

Seven years was nothing to the Firstborn. They weren’t just immortal, they were centuries old, measuring their lives in the slow rise and fall of nations, religions, continents. This was more of a show punishment than anything else. I still thought the Luidaeg looked sad as she turned away from her sister, like she hated to have even this one narrow door on her remaining family closed, for however short a time.

“I appreciate the clarification,” said Quentin, and offered a shallow bow.

“Finish your business soon, Annie,” said Pete. “The tide’s about to turn.”

The Luidaeg nodded. I swallowed, hard. What I was going to do next . . .

Well. No one ever said that heroism would be easy. If it were, everyone would have done it.

TWENTY-TWO

THE DOOR TO THE Luidaeg’s temporary apartment closed with a soft click, quiet as a sigh. Poppy was sitting on the couch, dreamily twisting a length of ribbon through her fingers. She looked up, blinked, and frowned at the sight of us.

“Is there a wrongness here?” she asked.

“Not sure,” said the Luidaeg, cheerfully enough, although I suspected her overly bright tone was partially a reaction to the possibility that wrongness might be coming. She’d looked that way since I’d taken her elbow on the way out of Pete’s receiving room and asked if we could speak in private.

I guess when someone’s been alive for as long as the Luidaeg, they get a sense for when things aren’t entirely going their way. Even when they’re powerful enough that things go their way more frequently than not.

Tybalt and Quentin stayed by the door, not saying anything. They’d insisted on coming with us when we went to speak in private, and I’d been happy enough to have the moral support, even if neither of them entirely knew what I was about to do. The fact that they had my back was more than enough to put a little strength into my spine, keeping me upright as I waited for the Luidaeg to turn and focus on me.

When she did, I almost wished she hadn’t. Her eyes were a clear driftglass green, and tired. So very, almost infinitely tired.

“Well?” she asked. “Is something wrong?”

“Yes,” I said. My tongue felt thick and my throat felt tight. I didn’t want to do this to her. I didn’t want to stand here and make things harder, for either one of us. I didn’t want to look the sea witch in the eye and tell her that I didn’t want to serve her.

Sometimes heroism sucks.

“What you want to do to the Selkies, what you want me to do to the Selkies . . . it isn’t fair.”

Slowly, the Luidaeg blinked. Slowly, she stepped toward me, until we were almost nose-to-nose, until I could feel her breath against my skin. I stood my ground. It was the only thing I could think of that might keep this from getting even worse.

“What do you mean, ‘fair’?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper. “Is it fair that my children are dead? Is it fair that the night-haunts found them butchered on the