Forbid the Sea

by

Seanan McGuire

...you may as well

Forbid the sea for to obey the moon...

—William Shakespeare, The Winter's Tale

London, England, 1676

June

After ten years of ruling the streets of London in sole majesty, the only Cait Sidhe in Londinium and hence King of all that I surveyed, I had come to one indisputable conclusion: if boredom has a form, it looks like an empty alleyway where no laughing sisters wait to tease. It looks like a Kingdom of ash and silence, filled with the ghosts of those who have left you behind. In the Kingdom of the Bored, I was the only King, and I might hold that crown until I mercifully died.

It was a burden I had taken unto myself, and I remembered that cruel fact with every day that passed. Had I grabbed my sisters and run, rather than deciding that it was somehow my duty to save the Cait Sidhe of Londinium from prophesied doom, then I might even now be living a fat and happy housecat’s life with Jill and Colleen beside me. I would have been well-content with that life, I think, but I overreached myself to save my father’s people, and these empty streets were my punishment.

The Divided Courts had begun returning to Londinium at the turning of the year, apparently deciding that a decade lying fallow was enough to chase away any miasma left behind by the illness that had struck our fair city, killing human, changeling, and pureblood alike. If any of them wondered at the scarcity of Cait Sidhe, I was sure they thought it a gift from Oberon himself. The Court of Cats did not make the running of a stable Kingdom any easier, given our propensity for troublemaking and for appearing where we did not belong.

The old King and Queen of Londinium, Heydon and Lettice, had returned on Beltane, combining the holiday and their homecoming into an event of such glorious import for the Divided Courts that half a dozen mortals had to be ensorcelled into forgetting things they should never have witnessed. Half of my favorite bakeries were yet closed, trying to solve the mystery of who had stolen their flour and sugar supplies. I had crept into their kitchens in the night, leaving piles of coin next to their cold and empty ovens in a small effort to help them rebuild what the careless sons and daughters of Titania had stolen. That is the true difficulty of the line where Faerie meets the mortal world: so often, the stronger side treats unfairly with the weaker, and then cannot understand it when the weaker side grows restless and resentful.

The streets of London were my streets. Let the Divided Courts return; let them play their petty games and treat with mortals as if the world was not changing, as if the world would never change. It was none of my concern. As long as they did not trouble me, and as long as none tried to bring the Cait Sidhe back to London, then I would continue to mark them down as irrelevant, and I would continue to walk alone.

And perhaps if I persisted in telling myself such pretty lies, they would become truths, and I would no longer find myself sitting on windowsills, watching the entrances to their knowes, and hoping for a flash of fox-fur hair that would tell me that September Torquill had returned to Londinium.

I was sitting in such a position on a lovely evening, eyes half-closed and tail wrapped tight around my haunches, when a sudden bolt of what I can only call enlightenment struck me from out of the clear night sky. Why was I waiting here for her, a married woman who had left me behind—and yes, it was at my own request, but still, she had gone—when I had all the world before me? I stood, stretching as long and languid as any cat has ever stretched, and leapt from my windowsill, vanishing into the London night. It was time for my self-imposed stillness to end.

#

It was truly a shame that I had no idea where to go.

The streets of London were familiar and dull. None of the theaters offered anything that I had not already seen—nor could I allow myself more than one journey into their comforting arms a month. Other men might need to fear the charms of mistresses or wives. I feared the theater, which had always been my first and truest love, and which I had so thoroughly forsaken to become a King in exile. If I allowed myself to return to the stage, to hunt rats among the costumes and be theater’s cat among men…I still had a duty to perform, to honor my sister. I could be distracted for a time, but the theater would not be a temporary opium. It would be my downfall.

I wandered further, restless in the night, looking for some solution to my disquietude, and found myself in time treading the worn boards of the docks, where rough men pulled crates of silver-scaled fish from their holds and tossed them to the merchant carts in waiting. I sat on a piling and wrapped my tail tight around my legs, watching this endless dance of catch and commerce. The air smelled of good fish and fresh seaweed, scents that would turn dark and rotten by the morning, but which were still sweetly welcome now.

A sailor with dark seal’s eyes paused near the piling where I sat, looking at me with a smirk upon his lips. “Hello, King Cat,” he said. “Grown bored with your sycophants and come to see what honest working men are like?”

I miaowed. It seemed the polite response.

The sailor laughed. “Or perhaps you were just hoping that we would pay our proper taxes, and fatten your belly with herring. Wait here, King Cat, and I will make your royal dreams come true.”

I yawned, showing him my teeth. He laughed again and moved along.

Had I had any idea of where else to go, I would have gone there when the dark-eyed sailor walked away from me. A King of Cats does not wait for someone else’s pleasure. But I was at a loose end, and this promised to be mildly amusing, if only because I could scratch him upon his return. I began washing one paw, enjoying the rasp of tongue over fur, and waited to see what would come.

What came was the sailor, back again with a wooden plate heaped high with raw herring. The heads and spines had been removed, and the bulk of the scales had been scraped away, but the good flesh and delicate insides remained. With a flourish, the sailor placed his offering on the ground next to my piling.

“Never let it be said that old Russell didn’t know how to treat a King Cat when he saw one, eh? I hope that I can have passage in your fair city should I need it, Your Majesty.”

Answering him in words would have required a switch to my two-legged form—and while that would have been easy enough, the smell of the fish was so enticing as to leave me impatient for my dinner. I miaowed again, pressing my whiskers forward, before leaping down and beginning the pleasant process of gorging myself insensate on herring.

I have enjoyed fish in the finest restaurants of London, and breaded, battered, and sold off the back of a handcart. Yet I have enjoyed no finer fish than that offering, freely given, of raw and fresh-caught herring by the dockside. Should I live a thousand years, I will never forget that meal.

In all too short a time, it was done. I sat back on my haunches, licking first my chops and then my forepaws, to clear away any errant bits of herring-flesh. Then I rose, tail held high, and went trotting off into the throng of working sailors, looking for the man who had been kind enough to feed me.

I found him on the deck of a trader’s vessel, pulling up ropes. He looked surprised when I stropped against his ankles, molding my body to the shape of his boots in the time-honored feline way. Then he chuckled, leaning down to take the liberty of a rough pat to my side.

“I’m glad you enjoyed it, King Cat,” he said. “Now you’d best be getting off this boat, or you’ll be taking a trip to the seaside.”

I sat down on the deck, blinking at him. The seaside! I hadn’t been to see the ocean in…I couldn’t remember the last time I had been to see the ocean. It seemed like an acceptable departure from the unrelenting dullness of my days. I hopped onto an already-coiled length of rope, turning around twice to be sure of the surface, and then curled myself into a tight ball, tucking my tail over my nose to make my intent perfectly clear.

Russell laughed. “I see. Well, then, welcome aboard, King Cat. I hope you’ll enjoy the journey.”

I closed my eyes, and was asleep before we left the dock.

#

How long the trip along the river took was something I did not know, nor seek to learn: I closed my eyes on the docks of London and awoke to the sound of seabirds circling high above the surging of the ceaseless tide. Opening my eyes, I rose and stretched until every muscle in my body felt newly wound and ready to face the challenges of the day ahead of me. Yes, day; mercifully, I had slept through the dawn, sunk so deeply in my dreaming that I did not even notice the moment when the sun ripped magic out of the world and wiped the slate clean once more.

My kindly sailor was gone, and with him his easy offerings of herring. I looked around the deck, taking note of the bustling men who had taken his place. None of them seemed to take notice of a single cat amongst the work of a trading boat. I marked half of them as fae and half as mortal, without a changeling among them. Changelings are oddly better at spotting the Cait Sidhe than their pureblood cousins. I think it comes of occupying a similar liminal space among the Divided Courts, not quite accepted, but too connected to be cast aside.

I leapt up onto the ship’s rail, strolling casually until I came to the gangplank connecting us to the shore. With a swish of my tail I jumped down, and returned to the land.

Technically, this was still my territory; the shore near to London has always been counted as part of Londinium, and had there been any King or Queen of Cats established this close to my domain, they would have challenged me by now, or at least sent word to beg me not to challenge them. I slipped into the shadows behind a large rock and stepped out in man’s array, adjusting the fall of my vest before running a hand through my hair, checking that the tips of my ears were properly rounded by the human illusion I had draped across my true face. It was a pity that we could not go among mortal men without concealing our natures—ah, but there are areas in which even a cat must admit that others have the better opinion, or at least the opinion that is less likely to get one killed. Humans were not so fond of the fae as once they were, in the days of my father’s father.

I lowered my hand and turned, studying the land around me from my new, higher vantage. This was a fisherman’s coast. There was a small village down the beach a ways, doubtless where the fishermen lived when they were not out to sea. I could find an inn there—where there are fishermen, there is always an inn—and find myself a meal that sat better on a man’s stomach than a plate of herring guts. It would be a holiday by the sea, and when I was done with the delights of this locality, I could return to London with a new appreciation of the city I called home.

“Yes, that will do nicely,” I murmured, as always enjoying the sound of my voice after a stretch of time spent without it. I strolled down the rocky shore toward the town, and no one called out for me to stop, nor bid to know my business. I was not so finely dressed as to be an anomaly, nor so shabby as to seem a beggar. A man attired just so, neither rich nor poor, but comfortably in-between, is like a cat in his own way: invisible whenever he wishes.

The edges of the village reached out to meet me, as villages always do: a pile of broken shingles here, a few stones stacked into a rough cairn by some enterprising child there, and the smell of fish guts and human bodies over all, sweaty and fleshy and undeniably mortal. I sniffed the air as I walked, sorting through the distinct aromas of the village air until I found the faint but definite scent of fish chowder and fresh-baked bread. The inn I had come seeking was close, then. Good. My stomach grumbled as I strolled along the unpaved “street,” deserving of the name only because it was sandwiched between low wooden houses, and not because anything had ever been done to it in the name of civic improvement. A good meal would lift my spirits, and make this beach holiday all the more enjoyable.

The inn was surprisingly unlabeled—or perhaps not so surprisingly, as I found it difficult to imagine that many strangers wandered through the town. The door was open, showing a common room occupied by two long tables and a bored-looking girl with a white cap tied down over her frizzy brown curls. She looked up when I stepped inside, and alarm flashed in her eyes.

“If you’re here about the taxes, sir, the master’s out, and he won’t be back until tomorrow night at best,” she said hurriedly. “I can fix you a bowl of stew, maybe call the mistress, but you’ll not be getting what you came here for.” Her accent was close enough to the tones of London town that I had no trouble understanding her—or perhaps it was just her panic rendering her message universal.

I frowned. This girl was barely better than a kitten. She should have no reason to fear so. Mortals have always treated more roughly with their children than I find myself entirely comfortable with. “Peace, girl,” I said, raising a hand, palm-out, to show that I was unarmed. “I would very much appreciate a bowl of stew, and a mug of whatever serves as your best ale, but I am not here about the taxes, nor do I care what you do or do not pay to the crown. I would not, however, look askance at an opportunity for bread, if those are rolls I smell baking…” I offered her my most engaging smile.

She blinked at me, not seeming engaged in the slightest. I allowed my smile to melt back into a puzzled frown.

“Come now, I’m not so fearsome as all of that,” I said. “I have been assured by quite a number of people that I am no monster, and I have eaten no babies in longer than I can remember. So does that win me permission to stop for a meal?”

She giggled before she could catch herself, one hand flying to her mouth to smother the offending sound. Still, she didn’t look quite as solemn when she lowered her hand and informed me, “If you’re not the tax man, you’ll have to pay for your food. I’m not allowed to go handing out free meals to every bureaucrat who wanders off a ship and comes sniffing about for ale.”

“A bureaucrat? Is that truly what I look like?” I looked down at myself, frowning. I clearly needed to spend more time among strangers, and less among my well-worn warren of familiar bakeries and sunny windowsills. I was starting to slip out of synch with human fashions, and that simply would not do. “Ah, well. Yes, I can pay for my meal, especially if it comes with that roll I was inquiring after. Indeed, as I am a bureaucrat and hence better paid than most sailors, you may even gouge me mercilessly, and be rewarded for your clever dealing with strangers. How does that sound?”

Her smile was one of the sweetest I had earned in years. “That sounds right fine, sir. You may sit anywhere you like, and I’ll have your food straight out to you.”

“Thank you,” I said, managing to say the words like they were commonplace, and not like they were precious treasures to be offered to any but my own kind. I settled at the table nearest the door, producing coins worth three meals in the finest of London’s restaurants from the purse sewn into my vest pocket. I placed them on the table where my serving girl would be unable to miss them.

She returned from the kitchen at the back of the inn after only a few minutes had passed, carrying a tray laden with stew, bread, and the expected wooden mug, sides still damp from a hasty wash. Her eyes widened when she saw the coins. The tray had barely hit the table before they vanished into the pocket of her apron, gone like they had never been there.

“If you want anything else, sir, my name’s Molly, and I’ll be here all night,” she said. “This buys you as many bowls of stew as you like. Have the whole town in, my mistress will still thank you for your custom.”

“I may ask for another bowl, but not until this one is sweet memory,” I assured her, and smiled. She took that as a dismissal, because she turned and scurried away, returning to the place she’d been holding when I first arrived. I watched her go, eyes narrowed. She did not look abused, for all that she was skittish; just another bonded servant, then, working off some family debt. It was an honorable way to resolve such things, and one of the few traditions shared between the human world, the Divided Court, and the Cait Sidhe. Such arrangements were rare within the Court of Cats, but not unheard of.

My interest in the girl now exhausted, I turned my attention to the stew. It was thicker than I had expected, with large chunks of fish, potato, and carrot floating in a salty vinegar broth. I raised a spoonful to my lips and sipped it, finding it quite pleasant, if lacking any complex spice. The thought made me snort with amusement even as it finished forming. I, who had been eating raw fish with gusto not a day before, wanted to criticize someone else’s choice of herbs?

No one entered the inn as I enjoyed my decent stew, watery ale, and surprisingly excellent bread. I was considering the virtues of requesting a second bowl—true, I was not actively hungry, but refusal of food that could be mine would not have been very feline of me—when a man stepped through the inn’s door, pausing to allow his eyes to adjust. I glanced his way, trying to mask the motion as idle curiosity, and not the act of a predator assessing the obstacles between himself and the door.

He was tall enough, my height or perhaps a little more, with a sailor’s build, all long muscles and strong, scarred hands. His shirt was broadcloth, his breeches linen, and both were quite clearly stolen off someone’s washing line, as neither of them fit him properly. The faint glitter of a human disguise clung to his skin like brine. He glanced around the room with something closely akin to panic, jumping when he saw me. I blinked. I have very rarely engendered the sort of terror that I saw in his face when he looked at me.

“You have mistaken me for someone, I think, and someone who has treated you poorly,” I said, pitching my voice so as to be heard but keeping it soothing, like I was speaking to a kitten. “I apologize for that, even as I ask that you stop looking at me like I am about to attack you. Attacking strangers has never been a hobby of mine, and I have no intention of starting now.”

“But you—you are—”

I sighed, sparing a quick glance toward Molly’s station. It was empty. She was on one of her periodic trips to the kitchen, no doubt, on whatever mysterious errands occupy the time of a serving girl when she has no serving to perform. I looked back to the stranger, and said quickly, “I am not your enemy, nor do I know who your enemies are, nor do I, at this moment, particularly care. My name is Rand. I am Cait Sidhe. You are welcome to dine with me, if only you will give your name and nature before you take your chair.” I realized too late that I had given him the wrong name. I had ceased to be Rand on the day I killed my father, becoming Tybalt, who was a King, and was expected to be stronger than a Prince could ever be.

But then, Kings rarely take holidays by the seaside. Perhaps I could be Rand again for a short time, with this stranger who would know no better, and what would be the harm? There was no one here for him to tell of my truancy.

“My name is Dylan,” he said, taking a step closer to me. “I…I’m a Selkie.” His accent was Cymric; he was from Cambria, then, or somewhere thereabouts. Far enough away that he would have no cause to guess that the name I had given him was a false one, or to question the kindness of a stranger.

“See? That was easy enough, and no one had to bleed for it.” I waved a hand at the bench on the other side of my table. “Sit. I have woefully overpaid for my luncheon, and we can have a bowl of stew set before you in moments, if you would like.”

“I would greatly appreciate that hospitality,” he said, settling onto his bench.

“Yes, that was hospitable of me, wasn’t it? Molly!” I raised my voice as I called the serving girl’s name. As expected, she popped into view seconds later, wiping her hands on her apron as she appeared from the back. She blinked a little when she saw Dylan sitting across from me. “Two more bowls of stew, if you would be so kind, and two rolls to accompany them. The bread is exquisite. You may find me staying on for dinner.”

“Yessir,” she said. Then, gathering her courage, she asked, “Will there be anything else?”

The ale had been substandard at best, but the men of Cambria that I had known had always liked to have a drink before them. I looked to Dylan. “Ale?” I asked.

“Water?” he replied.

“Ah, my friend, I see you have much to learn of our city ways. The water here would kill you as surely as look at you—and it might well look at you, depending on the depth of the local well.” I looked back to Molly. “Two more ales, my dear girl, and I thank you kindly for remembering what a dry business talk between men can be.”

“I’ll get it straightaway,” she said, and bobbed a curtsey before vanishing again into the kitchen.

“Charming girl,” I said, returning my attention to Dylan. “Now. What brings a Cambrian Selkie all the way down the coast to London’s shore?”

“London?” he said, looking surprised.

I blinked. “The city is only inland a short way from here. Surely you knew that when you chose to swim this way.”

“To be honest, I did not so much ‘choose’ to swim this way as ‘swam into a bad tide and found myself swept all along the coast of Albion.’” Dylan rubbed the back of his neck with one hand, looking sheepish. “It seems I have much to learn about the fine art of navigating the deep sea. I was honestly surprised when I failed to drown.”

“Ah,” I said, understanding dawning. “You have only recently received your skin. A Selkie stripling, then, come out to see the world for the first time.”

“Something of the like,” he admitted. “I was less careful than I might have been, in my excitement.”

“I cannot blame you,” I said. “I was born Cait Sidhe, and I will die Cait Sidhe, and I have always delighted in the many forms my body is capable of assuming for my pleasure. The idea of waiting for some undetermined event before I could wear fur and bask in warm sunlight, or worse, before I could use my fine-fingered hands to open doors and slice apples—you Selkies have an ill time of it.”

“It’s not so bad,” said Dylan, looking uncomfortable. “We’re born in one shape, and wear it until the day a skin comes to us, if a skin ever does.”

I frowned. “I am sorry; I have been too blunt, and have offended you. I see few of our kind these days, and my manners have apparently suffered from the lack. Please accept my most sincere apologies for your discomfort.”

To my surprise, Dylan laughed. “This day! It’s like a fairy tale.”

“I…what?” Molly returned with a tray containing our stew, rolls, and mugs of ale, setting it on the table between us with an admirable speed. I flicked a coin into the air. She snatched it, taking its meaning as meant, and vanished out of earshot once more. I resumed, saying, “All stories with us are like fairy tales, although most of those I’ve known have considered the term to be somehow pejorative. How is this day, more than any other day, akin to some pretty fiction meant for the ears of humans?”

“A seal-man is swept by an errant current to a far-off land, where he has a meal purchased for him by a cat in man’s clothing,” said Dylan, and grinned, a flash of white teeth against tan skin. “All we need is a dangerous quest and a princess in need of rescue, and we’ll become a tale told to entertain those humans of yours for generations.”

“I’ve rescued my share of princesses,” I said, images of Colleen, who I had saved, and Jill, who I had failed, dancing in my mind’s eye. My ale seemed suddenly far more attractive. I took a long drink and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand before I continued, “They can be quite charming, when they want to be, but they are troublesome creatures, on the whole, and I would rather not involve myself in their affairs. If you wish a princess to save, look to the Divided Courts, or return to your own Undersea.”

Dylan looked faintly alarmed at my suggestion. He shook his head. “I am not in the mood for a homecoming just yet, and it seems that it is my turn to trouble you with carelessly chosen words. You have my apologies.”

“They are unnecessary,” I said, waving them away as I tried to gather the tattered shreds of my good mood from the air around us. “So: you are a visitor in Londinium, although you did not mean to be, and you do not feel the urge to return to the Undersea with any speed. What, then, might a poor cat offer to you as a form of entertainment? Excepting princesses and the battling of fierce beasts, I am willing to indulge your desires.”

“Are you, then?” asked Dylan, with a lazy smile. In that moment, he looked sure of himself for the first time, a beautiful man sitting on a bench, drinking ale with another man who was—as I had been well-assured by my sisters and by the women of my father’s court, before that court became my own burden to carry—not unkind to the eyes. “What sort of desires do men indulge in London Town?”

It had been many years since anyone smiled at me in that way. It took me a moment to recognize his intent. Then I returned his smile, with twin stirrings in my chest and groin to punctuate the moment. “Whatever they like,” I said.

“I find that I like you,” he countered.

I just smiled.

#

The ship that had borne me to the seashore was not in evidence when I strolled up to the dock with Dylan beside me, and those ships that were at harbor were trading vessels all, not meant for the transport of passengers. It is amazing what a small quantity of true human coin, not fairy gold, will do to change a vessel’s meaning. I paid my fare, and Dylan’s, with the contents of a small pouch, asking nothing in return but the use of a small cabin and peace until we reached the docks of London.

The captain who took my payment leered at me in my gentleman’s clothes, and Dylan in his sailor’s attire, with an expression that said he knew exactly what I was paying for, and while my coin might spend as well as any other man’s, my soul was surely set to burn. I returned his leer with a polite smile, linking my arm through Dylan’s and leading him to the cabin set for our use.

The sailors would try to peer in at us, no doubt, some out of lustful intent, others because they hoped to see something we would pay to keep concealed. A quickly muttered spell solved both these potential problems, cloaking the inside of the cabin in an illusion of stillness, the impression of two men sleeping chastely on the pile of straw heaped in one corner. Anyone seeking ribald titillation from this cabin would be sorely disappointed.

The smell of pennyroyal and musk still hung in the air when the door closed behind us and Dylan’s hands were at the sides of my face, pulling me in for a kiss. He had had some practice at such things, and more recently than I: the saltwater taste of him was barely on my lips before I had to pull away, my head reeling, and steady myself against the rough wood walls. My Selkie companion blinked at me, cheeks reddening with surprise and no small measure of shame.

“Rand, I am so sorry,” he said. “I thought—”

“You thought correctly,” I hastened to tell him. A wave of my hand wiped my human disguise away, and I was stepping back into the reach of his hands, feeling free and wild and skittish as a kitten, all at the same time. “I was simply…I have been alone for a very long time, my friend, and while your touch is very welcome, I found it somewhat overwhelming. Let us try again, and see if I might last a little longer.”

He smiled, his own illusions dissolving into the smell of the sea. Then his hands were on me again, and his lips were close behind them, and I had no need to concern myself with anything but him, in this world or any other.

I had not been with another living soul in years, and Dylan was a skilled lover; we were still floating down the long road of the river when I collapsed into the hay beside him, both of us slick with sweat and well-content with our evening’s efforts. I rolled away, lying on my back and staring up at the ceiling as I tried to catch my breath. Dylan rolled after me, putting his head against my shoulder and looking up at me with his dark seal’s eyes.

“Are you well?” he asked.

“I am more than well,” I assured him. Words seemed insufficient for the message they were intended to convey, and so I put my arm around him as well. He took this as an invitation to move closer, finally resting his right hand against my chest.

Without his illusions to disguise them, I could see the webbing on his fingers, extending up to the first knuckle. I stroked the web between his thumb and forefinger. He shivered.

“Sensitive?” I asked.

“Yes.”

I frowned a little as a thought came to me. “I thought the seal-kin kept their skins always with them, to prevent slipping back into a mortal state. I apologize if I am overlooking something, but you seem more than perfectly naked to my eye.”

Dylan laughed, a sweet, rolling sound full of the rhythm of the open sea. “That is because the term ‘skin’ is both right and wrong at the same time. If we remove them, they look like sealskins, dead animal things of fur and hide. If we wear them, they can take whatever forms we need them to. See?” He held up his left hand, showing me the sinew bracelet wound tight around his wrist. “My skin is never far from me.”

“Still. It must be a tenuous way to live, tied to Faerie by such a thin and friable band.”

“We are all of us slaves to our nature.” Dylan sighed as he settled more closely against me, his body filling in the spaces between mine and the air, until there was nothing left but an unending expanse of flesh. “I have never been anything other than seal-kin, even before I could be called properly a Selkie. This was my only road to the open sea.”

I stroked his hair with one hand, a melancholy stealing over me as I considered how frightening it must be, to live knowing that Faerie would not have and hold you ever. “Faerie has not been fair to the Selkies,” I said at last.

“Perhaps we do not deserve fairness,” said Dylan.

“What do you mean by that?”

But he did not answer me, and in time I closed my eyes and slept, letting the river wash the final minutes of the long and pleasant day into the past.

#

It is a small but fortunate thing that while I will sometimes go from man to cat in my slumber—a nasty habit which Colleen was forever commanding me to overcome—I do not transform in the opposite direction. So it was that I woke to feel Dylan’s hands scooping me out of the hay, seeming to somehow encompass my entire body, and it was not until I flicked my tail in drowsy aggravation that I understood what had happened. I opened my eyes, squinting at him with as much disdain as I could summon so shortly upon awakening, and miaowed imperiously.

“Your fur is far nicer than mine is, my friend,” said Dylan, a smile upon his face. He knelt and set me back down in the straw before stretching languidly, giving me an excellent view of his still-unclothed form. I was briefly glad that my feline body did not process arousal in the same manner as my more human shape; the boat no longer rocked with the motion of the river. We were docked, and that meant that the sailors who had so kindly allowed us the rental of this cabin might be coming to serve our eviction notice at any moment. We did not have time for any of the pleasant distractions his body inspired in me.

Perhaps later. I stretched, and with the motion transformed back into a more explainable form—amusing as it would have been to watch Dylan try to explain my disappearance to the crew, I had no real desire to see him burnt for witchcraft. “My apologies,” I said. “Not everyone can have the good fortune to be born a cat.”

“Still, I am fond enough of the sea to be glad of my own nature,” he said, and handed me my breeches. “The ship only stopped its motion a few moments ago.”

“Then we are come to London, and you are in the best possible company for such an arrival.”

A frown chased itself across his face as he pulled his shirt on over his head. “I have no money and less idea of what one does in a city of this size.”

“Ah, but you see, you need neither of those things, for you have the finest guide that any man has ever been privileged to enjoy,” I said. “Room and board will both be handled, so long as you remain in my company.” I was aware that my offer would have seemed odd to a human man—improper, even, as if I were cajoling sex through the offer of square meals and a warm bed. Thankfully, Faerie has ever held to stricter forms of hospitality, even if the Court of Cats has never been particularly famed for our charity to strangers.

Dylan smiled. I smiled back, pulling magic out of the air and draping myself in a human mask before I stood and stepped into my breeches.

“You are too kind to me,” he said.

“You have yet to taste my cooking,” I replied.

“I have a surprisingly strong stomach,” he said, and picked himself up from the straw, stretching again. This time, I wore a man’s shape, and not a cat’s; I could not stop myself from reacting to the sight of him. Faerie has few nudity taboos—how could it, with shapeshifters around every corner?—but sometimes, one must choose discretion over embarrassment. I turned my face away.

“Your stomach may find itself challenged by my table, but I will allow you to discover that for yourself,” I said. My voice seemed as squeaky as a kitten’s to my own ears.

Dylan, who had less practice with how I was meant to sound, blessedly appeared not to notice. “You can turn around now,” he said, with no small measure of amusement. “I’m quite decent.”

“Believe me, your decency is not my concern,” I said, turning once more to face him. He was wearing breeches now, thank Maeve, or I would have been red as a kitten. “Only my failure to mortify myself before the men who crew this ship. I think primarily of your reputation, you see. As a man newly come to London, it would be best to get your feet firmly on the ground before triggering a scandal.”

“Ah, I see. I am fortunate to have such a protector of my virtue.”

“Indeed you are, my friend,” I said, and stepped into my shoes, dismissing the spell that cloaked the cabin in the illusion of our sleeping forms.

Not a moment too soon. The door swung open without so much as a knock, revealing three sailors leering into the small room with obviously prurient interest. I stepped quickly to block Dylan from their view. As a Selkie he was nearly human in appearance, and yet “nearly” can be quite a gulf to cross, especially when men are seeking something to exploit.

“Are we at dock, gentlemen?” I asked, in my most regal tone. “I had expected a bell, or perhaps the sound of knuckles on a closed door, to alert us.”

“Captain didn’t say anything about a bell,” said one of the sailors, apparently too stupid to recognize danger when it was standing in front of him. “We’re docked. He sent us to tell you get off his ship before he thinks better of transporting you.”

I decided against asking what he could do to us now that we were safely docked in London. It’s never a good idea to challenge the imaginations of men. “Well, then. My thanks, good sirs. My companion and I will exit the ship promptly.”

“There’s the matter of payment—” began another of the sailors, only to stop as I was suddenly standing nose-to-nose with him. He paled.

Cait Sidhe do not move faster than the eye can follow: it simply seems that way when one is not accustomed to watching us closely. I smiled at the sailor from my new vantage, showing teeth that were apparently human, but were still perhaps a touch too white for comfort. “You may tell your captain that I do not require a receipt for our passage, although I am greatly appreciative of the offer. We will see ourselves to shore. Thank you again for your concern.”

“Come on.” One of the other sailors put a hand on his shipmate’s shoulder, tugging him backward. The second sailor went willingly enough, his eyes never leaving mine. I smiled at the pair of them, still showing as many teeth as I could without allowing the expression to slide into a snarl. “You gentlemen have a fine time.”

“We shall,” I said.

The third sailor followed after the first two, slamming the cabin door for emphasis. I turned back to Dylan, unsurprised to find him safely draped in the semblance of a human skin.

“I believe our welcome has worn thin here,” I said, and offered him my hands. “Would you care to exit this ship and leave them a tale to tell at the bars tonight?”

Dylan blinked once before he nodded and slid his hands into mine. “What do I need to do?”

“First,” I began, “take a deep breath…”

#

It had been a long time since I’d carried anyone else through the Shadow Roads: too long. I was meant to be King of the Cats of London, and here I was shaking like a stripling after the small task of carrying one Selkie man from a ship’s cabin down into the heart of my Court.

Dylan had fared better than I, surprisingly. Selkies are made to hold their breaths in cold places, and while the never-ending dark of the Shadow Roads is not quite the same as the deep sea, they must have shared some similarities. We had barely tumbled back into the gloomy comfort of the Court of Cats when he was standing easy on his own two feet, looking with interest at the wood-paneled walls around us.

“What is this place?” he asked. “Could we have come here at any time? What means of passage was that?”

“You’re worse than a kitten,” I groaned, leaning against one of those very walls as I waited for the shaking in my knees to stop. “As to where we are, this is the Court of Cats, the lost place where only the Cait Sidhe may walk—the Cait Sidhe, and those we claim as our guests. Feel blessed. Many we care for deeply will never see these halls.”

“Really?” Dylan turned to face me, bemusement writ large across his face. “Forgive me, then, Rand, but…why am I here? An evening’s tumble is a pleasant thing, but not so pleasant as to warrant this great an honor.”

“You see it for the honor that it is: on basis of that alone, you belong here.” My knees were still unworthy of the task of supporting me. I decided to remain where I was for a little longer. “As to the reason why, the Cait Sidhe left Londinium ten years gone, and I am all that remains. I am lonely, and in such a state, an evening’s tumble is more than enough to purchase temporary passage. Go where you will, but remember that you cannot leave without my aid, and take care not to become lost. Even I am unsure of where every hallway leads, and it might take me no small amount of time to find you.”

Dylan blinked. Then, slowly, he nodded. “Loneliness and need can drive any man to take steps he might not otherwise have taken. But you have left my second question unanswered, and my third. Could we have come here at any time?”

“Yes, and no,” I said. “We traveled by the Shadow Roads. They are…difficult…for me to transverse while carrying a passenger. I needed us to be close to home before I could bring you here without endangering us both.” I was not sure I could have made the passage safely by myself. There was no reason to tell him that. Not yet.

“Ah,” he said. “Well, then, this is both a great honor and a great kindness, as I am fond of having a place to sleep, and even more fond of not being endangered without cause.”

“Excellent,” I said, and offered him my hand. “Come with me.”

Dylan raised his eyebrows but slid his hand into mine, permitting me to lead him out of the hallway and through a series of chambers until we reached one that had been intended as some minor noble’s bedchamber, once upon a time, before circumstances led to the place becoming lost and winding up in the Court of Cats, where all lost things go. It was well-appointed still, with a large wardrobe against one stony wall and a large, canopied bed at the middle of the floor, rich with pillows, blankets, and other enticements toward sleep.

The room’s single window showed a meadow at twilight. It always showed a meadow at twilight. More than once I had considered climbing through the window and embarking on whatever grand adventure lay beyond it, but alas. I was a man, and a cat, and a King, and I could not afford such lengthy fancies as a quest.

“Sweet Titania…” Dylan pulled his hand from mine and walked slowly around the room, looking at his surroundings with evident awe. I leaned against the doorframe as I watched him, enjoying the way his regard made something old and familiar seem new again. Perhaps that was the true virtue of company: by his amazement, he reminded me that there was virtue in being amazed. “And you say this was lost?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

I shrugged. “Fire, feud, ill-fated death, it matters not to me. The Court gathers only what is safe—I need fear no foul humors—and I put it to use when I find it. Some things disappear after a time, when they are found again. To be honest, I am not sure of the mechanism by which my Court functions, nor do I truly wish to know. Sometimes it’s better to say ‘this is magic’ and let a thing be what it wants to be, rather than trying to define its inner workings.”

“There are no Cait Sidhe in my part of Cambria,” he said, sitting down on the edge of the bed. “The climate does not suit them, perhaps, or they may simply dislike the company of Selkies.”

“You do tend to be a dampish lot,” I said, raising an eyebrow.

“True.” Dylan laughed before sobering, looking at me gravely. “I was told that should I ever meet a member of the Cait Sidhe, I would find them to be selfish, barbarous, beautiful, and cruel.”

The words stung. I had heard them spoken many times by the members of the Divided Courts, and yet… “Do you find that they were correct?” I asked, with forced levity.

“About one thing, at least.” He held out his hands to me. I walked across the room, led by the same sense of heedless adventure that had suffused my evening. He gripped my wrists, pulling me closer to him, and murmured, “You are beautiful.”

We made good use of the bed that day, and by the time sleep claimed us once more, I was sure of one thing above all else: hospitality was not without its virtues.

#

There was no discussion of what would come after that first day and night of hedonistic enjoyment: we simply fell into the pattern which came naturally. When hunger woke me I rose, and Dylan rose with me, accompanying me to one of my favorite dining houses, a modest single room which was often frequented by actors from the local companies. When our meal was done he returned with me to the Court of Cats, and I showed him such wonders as I could find, pausing only to steal another kiss from his seemingly endless treasury. We were still relative strangers then, knowing next to nothing about one another, and that only made the kisses sweeter, for it lent them a quality of urgency that cannot be duplicated in this world. Soon enough, we would learn everything there was to know about one another. All mysteries would die, and our kisses, while they might remain sweeter than any wine, would lose that quality of the unexamined.

One night bled into the next as I introduced Dylan to my city, walking him through every inch of it as if I were offering a courting present too large to be wrapped—and perhaps, in my way, that was precisely what I was doing. This was a summer fancy and I knew it, but no Cait Sidhe, ever, has been casual with such things. We saw the theaters and the slums, the docks and the museums, and Dylan was delighted by every inch of it.

He had been with me near a month before he asked the question I had been dreading. We were sitting in one of the Court’s many parlors, warmed by the nearby fireplace, when he turned to me and said, “Rand, I have been wondering…why are there no other Cait Sidhe in Londinium? You told me they had gone. You have never told me why.”

Our time of unexamined kisses was coming to an end. I was sad, but relieved at the same time; my vacation from myself had lasted longer than I had ever expected, and endings are inevitable. “There was a great danger to the city, and to the fae who dwelt here. The Divided Courts agreed to leave for a time, for their own safety. The King of Cats who ruled here when the danger arose was more stubborn. He said that he would not be moved.”

Dylan frowned. “But he was moved.”

“Yes, but not of his own volition,” I said. “He was moved from his throne by his son, a stripling Prince of Cats who had no desire in him to rule, but desired only the safety of his father’s people.” How young I had been in those days, how young and how carefree! I would have paid anything to roll back the clock…but then, I would only have been shifting the inevitable. Of my father’s three sons, I had been the last to stand and challenge him. No matter what else became of me, it was always going to be my hand at his throat, his blood on my lips. Always.

Dylan’s frown deepened before smoothing slowly away, replaced by realization. “I am sorry, Rand,” he said. “I did not know.”

“To be fair, you could not have known,” I replied. “I was enjoying a time without the pressures of kingship—for all that I am a king without subjects, still I must hold my Court and keep the shadows open against the day when my people will return.”

“Your father…”

“I killed him.” The words were so simple, so baldly said, that they took my breath away. I gulped, trying to still the small quiver that was hatching behind my breastbone. I had moved quickly in the hours after Father’s life ended by my hand, dismantling the Court and sending all his subjects away before their lives could be forfeit to the coming shadow. Colleen had been the last to go, but she had known better than to make me remember what I had done. In the ten years since that night, I had never spoken of it aloud.

I had killed my father. I had taken him into the shadows, into the cold place that was ours to tend and flee from, and I had left him there forever, alone in the dark.

Dylan’s hand was on my shoulder, warming me and pulling me back into the present, where I was King, and my father was just one more name on the long rank of the fallen. I shivered again, leaning into him.

“He was not a good King, I think, and he treated us cruelly, but I did not want to kill him,” I said, my eyes on the fire. “Please do not think that of me. I never wanted to hurt anyone. I did what I did for the sake of my sister, and my people, and this city.”

“I believe you,” said Dylan. “Sometimes the things we have to do are not the things that we would wish for ourselves, were the world kinder and less filled with dangers.”

I sighed then, long and low and somehow healing, as if the darkness of a decade were flowing out of me and back into the shadows where it belonged. Turning, I offered him the sliver of a smile and said, “I do not know how long you intend to stay in London Town, but you are welcome here for so long as you wish. You are…healing. I have sat too long alone in silent rooms, not saying the things which should long since have been said.”

“I don’t know how long I will be staying, but you have my word that for so long as I am here, I am glad to be beside you.” Dylan’s hand remained on my shoulder, a warm, comforting weight. “You are very right about one thing, Rand: you have been too long alone. Perhaps we should do what we can to fix that.”

My smile grew into more than a sliver. When I leaned toward him he was already there, leaning in to meet me. The kiss we shared beside that fireplace was more knowing than the ones we had shared only an hour ago, and if it was any less sweet for the change, I was unable to tell the difference. In that moment, on that lazy afternoon, I was at peace.

I should have known that this world would never have allowed such a fragile state to last.

#

Two more weeks slipped away from us. Immortality does not make a person immune to time; if anything, it makes it easier to believe that time is somehow meaningless, that every hour, once spent, will be replaced with a dozen more. The world doesn’t work that way. Perhaps it did once, but that was in Faerie, and Faerie, as we all know too well, is another country.

Evening had claimed the streets a scant hour before, and light still clung to the edges of the sky, illuminating the movement of London’s human populace. Dylan and I walked not quite arm-in-arm, but close enough together to clearly be traveling companions. He was laughing at something I had said, some fumbling addition to my endless efforts to seem witty. The precise witticism has long since faded to ash, along with the men and women who shared the street with us that night, but ah. I remember that he laughed.

His laughter faded when three men stepped from the shadows of an alley and moved to bar our way. Their countenances were ringed with the faint glimmer of the human masks they wore and their vests were decorated with knots of white and blue brocade—the colors of the Kingdom of Londinium. Dylan fell silent, confusion plain. I stepped in front of him, feeling the hair on the back of my neck rise as I stiffened in protective caution.

“Good evening, good sirs,” I said, making every effort to keep my voice buttery smooth and mocking at the same time. That was what they would expect of me, the last Cait Sidhe in London, and I have always been an actor. I would not disappoint them. “Have we trespassed where we were meant not to go? Only accept my profoundest of apologies, and we will carry on our way.”

“This is none of yours, beast,” snapped the man at the middle of their line—which could be, I saw, easily read as a rough formation, military men unable to abandon their training even when stealth might have served them better. “We are here for the Cambrian. Only let us take him, and you may carry on your way.”

“Beast I may be, but a King as well, and you will address me as such, or pay the price of your disrespect,” I said, straightening, allowing the smoothness to slip from my voice. “I am Tybalt, King of the Court of Fogbound Cats, and this man walks these streets under my protection.”

The three men looked uneasy—as well they might. The politics of the Cait Sidhe might lack the smoothness of the Divided Courts, but we make up for the lack with the sharpness of our claws. “Perhaps I misspoke, milord,” said the man in the middle. “I meant to say only that King Heydon of Londinium has requested the company of your…friend…from Cambria, having become aware of both said gentleman’s presence and his failure to present himself appropriately at the court.”

“He has been presented at a court,” I said stiffly. “He has been presented at the Court of Cats every day for these last several months, and the Court of Cats has found his company quite pleasant enough to allow his stay to be extended.”

“Rand.” Dylan, who had been silent up to that point, closed his hand on my elbow as he stepped up to stand beside me. He looked resigned, as if this were a moment he had been awaiting for some time—maybe since before I found him in that little no-name village on the coast. “If these gentlemen have gone to the trouble of coming to fetch me, the least I can do is let myself be fetched. I can meet you in front of the bakery come morning.”

“No,” I said, as calmly as I could. I folded my fingers over his, shooting a look at the men who had come from the King. “If you are to visit the King, then I am to accompany you, for what kind of host would I be if I allowed you to wander off without me? You could be hurt.”

The men from the King’s Court frowned at me, united in irritation. Dylan simply sighed.

“I suppose I should have expected nothing less of you,” he said. “You have always been too good for me.” The tenor of his voice changed, becoming less familiar and more jovial as he continued, “Well, gentlemen? We are at your disposal.”

“Good,” said the man at the center. “Come with me.” He turned to walk back down the alley. His companions stayed where they were, watching us, clearly waiting for us to follow.

So we followed them. If Dylan was set on going to see the King, what else could I have done?

#

The King’s Court of Londinium was old and fine and filled with riches. I had not seen it since before the fire, and as we walked I scanned the walls, looking for signs of the devastation I knew had happened here. There were none. The King’s staff was too well-trained to allow anything as plebian as a soot stain or a scorch to remain in halls that would be walked by their precious nobility. The men who had brought us here released their human illusions as we walked, filling the hallway with the silage of their respective magics.

I remained close to Dylan, trying to suppress the urge to growl as I released my own human disguise. The last time I had walked these halls I had been a Prince of Cats, still unblooded and unchallenged. Now I was a King in my own right, and I felt no more comfortable than I had ever done. If anything, I felt more like an intruder. This was not my world. This was never meant to be my place in Faerie, and I did not want to be here.

But Dylan…

He walked like a man going to his own execution, chin up and shoulders back, but feet betraying his unhappiness. Selkies are never particularly graceful upon the land. As we walked that long, empty hallway, Dylan seemed continually on the verge of tripping over his own shoes, keeping up a steadily plodding pace that worried me more than I had the words to express.

Then we reached the closed double doors to the throne room, and the men who had escorted us fanned out to open them, revealing the opulent receiving chamber beyond. King Heydon was there, seated upon his throne with Queen Lettice at his side. Four figures stood before them, three women and one man, all wearing the gray traveler’s cloaks used by Selkies who wandered on official business of the Undersea, considered untouchable by any who enjoyed possession of their fingers.

“Your Majesties, King and Queen of Londinium, we have brought you the man from Cambria,” announced the leader of the men who had brought us to this place. The doors were not even closed. I shot him a poisonous glare, which he ignored in favor of regarding his lieges. “We have brought also the new King of the Court of Fogbound Cats, in whose company the fugitive was found.”

“Wait—what?” My head whipped around, eyes widening as I stared at Dylan. “Fugitive?”

He didn’t meet my eyes. Instead, he stepped forward, bowing low, and said, “I am Bradwr of Cambria, and I am grateful for the hospitality of your Court, Your Majesties.”

King Heydon inclined his head slightly, eyes flicking from Dylan to me. “Rand. It is a pleasure to see you in these halls. We worried that you had been lost in the fires.”

“My name is Tybalt, sir,” I said stiffly, confusion and dismay swirling around me like cruel winds. “I am the King of Fogbound Cats, and we are hence equal by Oberon’s own edict. This man is a guest in my Court, and has been since his arrival in Londinium. Why, pray, were we intercepted in the street by your guards and dragged back here like common criminals?”

“King, are you? I suppose that would make you a patricide as well? Not—” King Heydon held up his hand as if to ward off an objection which I had not made, “—that I would judge you. Oberon was very clear as to the exceptions in his Law, and Cait Sidhe fights of succession are among them. I simply hope you will be a more reasonable and understanding ruler than your father was. He never learned the value of following the herd.”

“We are cats,” I snapped. “We do not follow ‘herds.’”

“Be that as it may, your friend Bradwr is of deep interest to us. He is a criminal, you see, and our friends from Cambria have been seeking him since he vanished from their shores.” King Heydon indicated the four in Selkie’s gray. “Imagine my surprise when I heard that he had not only been seen in mortal London, but that he was in the company of a Cait Sidhe, when everyone knows that there are no Cait Sidhe remaining in this city.”

“There is me,” I said. “I was here when you were not. I will be here after you are gone.”

“Is that a threat?” asked Queen Lettice. Her voice was soft and venomous.

I stiffened. One does not grow up a Prince of Cats without learning to recognize danger where one sees it. “No, Your Majesty,” I said. “It was merely a comment on the enduring nature of cats.”

“Be more careful with your comments, cat,” she said. “You might find them more dangerous than intended.”

“I will keep that in mind,” I said. “But still, my point remains. Dylan—Bradwr—has been a guest of my court. I could no more let him come here alone than I could send my hand without my body.”

“Oh, that could be managed easily enough,” said the King. “I will let the Cambrian delegates explain their quarrel with the man. If you would be so kind?”

The tallest of the four Selkies stepped forward, an ashen-haired woman with mottled spots on the side of her face where her seal’s coloring had bled through. She must have worn her skin for centuries, to have melded her forms that completely. “Bradwr is a traitor and a thief,” she said calmly. “He has taken that which does not belong to him, and in so doing has broken the most basic rules of our society. We are here to demand its return, and to show him the sea’s justice.”

“I took nothing that was not intended to be mine,” said Dylan—no, Bradwr, I had to start thinking of him by what appeared to be his proper name. I was confused, but I couldn’t find it in myself to be angry. After all, he hadn’t heard the name “Tybalt” in conjunction with me until this evening. “My father said—”

“Your father made many promises he was not equipped to keep,” said the Selkie woman. “You did not observe the proper traditions. You did not make the proper promises. You are in the wrong, Bradwr, and no matter how much it pains me to say this, you must make restitution. You must return what you have stolen, and admit that you deserve what follows.”

“And if I will not?” asked Bradwr.

“If you will not, we will have to return to King Murtagh and tell him that the Land Courts have chosen to shelter those who transgress against the Undersea,” said the woman. “There will be war, and it will be laid at your feet, as you will have been its sole cause.”

“If I may, milady,” said King Heydon. The Selkies turned to look at him. He smiled. “I do not dispute your right to declare war over this crime. But I do beg that you leave my people out of it. Londinium is not involved; we do not shelter or protect this criminal. If you must go to war, then raise your swords against the Court of Cats, for they alone have challenged you.”

Bradwr glanced at me, startled. I looked back at him, but said nothing. What was there to say?

I had just become the first King of Cats ever to declare an accidental war.

The silence that fell over the throne room was heavy and oppressive. I forced myself to straighten and smile as I said, “Well, this should prove enjoyable. What, then, is the crime my dear friend Bradwr committed? It must be grave indeed, if you are willing to risk your lives against the Court of Cats.”

“He stole a skin,” said the Selkie woman.

“It was mine,” said Bradwr.

“It was not,” she said.

I frowned deeply. “Wait. You are here, threatening war, because a seal-kin child yearned to be a part of Faerie? Shouldn’t that be celebrated, and not punished?”

“There are rules,” said the woman. “We follow them because we must; because they were laid down by our First, and we do not challenge her. Among them is the passing of skins. The skin which Bradwr wears was intended for another. He shames his father’s memory and endangers us all with every day that he wears it.”

“So you would ask him to what, forsake his fae nature in order to obey a rule?”

She nodded.

I scowled. “Then you are a fool, and he the clever thief. Come.” I grabbed his wrist, pulling him with me as I turned and stormed for the door. The King’s guards stared, too surprised to know how they were intended to respond.

“Let them go,” called King Heydon. “You have a day, cat. Then, you return the thief to us, or I tell the Undersea that I will aid them in their war.”

I snarled but did not try to answer him. Instead, I pulled Bradwr into the shadows behind the throne room door, and we were gone.

#

“Rand—”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I stopped my pacing long enough to shoot Bradwr a pleading look. “Please. I just want to understand. You know I would have helped you.”

“Yes, and that’s why I said nothing.” He sighed, sitting on the edge of the bed as he watched me pace. “My crime was mine alone to bear, and any punishment that followed should be mine as well. I cannot let you go to war for me. The armies of the Undersea will crush you.”

“Let them!” I flung my hands into the air. “Let them come. They will never find their way into the shadows.”

“So we’re to hide here? Like rats in a hole? Rand, you know as well as I that neither of us would be happy. You would come to hate me, and still you would be at war. There would be no escape.”

“So what would you have me do, Dylan—Bradwr.” I frowned. “Why did you lie to me about your name?”

“I wanted to be someone other than I was. ‘Dylan’ means ‘tide.’ I thought it was good to mark my own personal turning.” Bradwr chuckled bleakly. “I should ask you the same thing, you know. What is your name?”

“I am honestly unsure,” I said. “Succession among Cait Sidhe is…different than it is among the Divided Courts. When my father died, I became King. When I became King, I was no longer a Prince. Hence the change in what I was to be called. But I was Rand for much longer than I have been Tybalt; it will be some time before that harder man eclipses the man I was when I was happiest.”

“Then I am glad to have met Rand, and to have been his friend,” said Bradwr. “I must now appeal to the harder of those two souls. Tybalt, please. Let me leave you. You do not deserve to suffer for my crimes.”

“No,” I said.

He frowned. “Will you keep me prisoner, then? Will you hold me here as a pampered pet, with no regard for my own desires?”

I winced. “No,” I said again, weakly this time. “But what you ask of me…”

“I can talk to them. I can perform the rituals I refused the first time.” Bradwr stood. “Let me have this chance. I beg of you, for both of us, let me go.”

I took his hands as I looked at him, searching his eyes for some indication of falsehood. But ah, that was where I failed: he had lied to me every day since first we met, if only in the things he refused to say. I should have known that he was still a liar.

“For one hour only,” I said.

Bradwr nodded. “Agreed.”

#

I sat at the doorway to the King’s knowe, my booted feet crossing at the ankles, watching the moon move across the sky. Bradwr’s hour was almost up. Soon, he would return to me, or I would enter the hall and demand to know why not.

The door opened. I stood, turning, and faced the Selkie woman with the dark spots on her face. She held a folded sealskin in her hands, and she looked at me gravely.

“He asked me to give you a message,” she said.

I frowned. “What do you mean?”

“My son, Bradwr, asked me to give you a message,” she said—and for the first time I realized that the coldness in her drowning-dark eyes was not cruelty, it was grief. I looked to the skin in her hands and then back up to her face, and while my heart did not break, there is none who would disagree when I say that it cracked, just a little. “He said to tell you he knew what he was doing when he returned to us, and that he accepted the cost of what he had done, but that he would not repay your kindness with the cruelty of staying by your side. He said to tell you he did not mean to hurt you, and that it was a poor repayment of his debts.”

“You’re lying,” I whispered.

She shook her head. “He said those things. He said ‘tell Rand that I am so sorry, and tell Tybalt this was how things had to be.’ He said you would understand.”

“Where is he?” I asked, my voice distorting as my teeth grew long and sharp, and the muscles of my throat grew tight.

The Selkie woman did not seem to be afraid. She looked at me, and said, “By now? Gone with the morning tide, flowing out to the sea. They’ll find his body in a fisherman’s net, and he will never see the shores of Cambria again. Do not speak to me of grief, cat-king, for I have drowned my son this day. Be glad that you will never have to face that same decision.”

“I said I would protect him.”

“And instead he has protected you.” She sighed, looking down at the skin in her hands. “Thank you for being a friend to my son. There will be no war.”

Then she turned and walked back instead, leaving me outside, and alone.

#

I have not been to the sea since Bradwr died.

There is nothing there for me to find.

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