Chapter Sixteen
Zyr
The Wild Hunt was Robin’s most likely suggestion. The ritual had been used in judgement well before it was used as sport. Monarchs had fallen to it in the past. But they needed to know so much more.
In Robin’s absence, Zyr pored over his volumes on the topic, only to find the same broad strokes and none of the smaller details.
A Wild Hunt was called. (How?)
The chosen prey was transformed into stags. (Again, how? Such magics called for enormous power.)
The Hunt was dedicated to Faerie. (But no specifics on the words used in that dedication.)
The one who called the Hunt, the sluagh, and other unseelie rode in pursuit. (This, at least, needed no further explanation.)
Faerie decided whether the prey escaped or fell to the hunters. (Thus, he understood, it was rarely used in uprisings. One could never be sure of Faerie’s favor.)
If the hunters succeeded, there was a feast. (Simple enough.)
There were exhaustive descriptions of the feasts. Down to lists of attendees and the ingredients used in preparing the prey for the table. If Zyr wanted to know whether a human-turned-stag tasted good in a preparation of rosemary, thyme, and salt, he had all the information he needed.
If only the chroniclers had been half so interested in the Hunt itself.
Were they only trying to kill a human or a normal fae, Zyr might have been willing to mix in a few other rituals and hope for the best. Faerie had crowned Solstice Kings and allowed the sacrifice outside of the Solstice.
The world was more than hungry; it was famished. It would forgive inexact efforts.
But the Monarchs were another matter. They had a stronger tie to Faerie than anyone, including the changelings and the Solstice Kings. The ritual of the Hunt should be strong enough to kill them, but Faerie was unlikely to allow their capture.
Unless, perhaps, the dedication was properly done. If the Hunt were called as a judgement, and Faerie’s own dwindling as the issue…
A pretty thought. And a useless one, without the details he needed.
He was still chasing the problem in circles when he felt a tug from the wards, warning of a visitor’s arrival. It wouldn’t be Robin, not this day. (Time was easier to track when counting down to the human’s return.) There was someone else though, one he was meant to expect.
Who?
He stared blankly at the book for too long before remembering his meeting with the selkie and the pooka. Hyacinth, yes. That would make sense. Especially as the visitor passed through his outermost wards, those keyed to the House, with ease.
Well, he had asked to see him. Zyr put the book aside, resolving not to invite the sidhe into the library. Hyacinth might make a point of how little he cared about politics, but he did call the Monarchs “cousins.” Zyr not disliking the man didn’t mean he trusted him. Not in this.
Hyacinth stood on his doorstep, dressed with unusual reserve.
A black suit over a black shirt, the absent colors seeming to bleed into his wings.
The jeweled adornments that usually sparkled in his feathers were missing, glittering diamond cufflinks his only decoration.
Behind him, Orrim was similarly attired, and the pooka’s ears were pressed flat against his head in clear agitation.
Perhaps most unsettling was the lack of Orrim’s irreverent smile.
Next to him was a human, one that Zyr had never seen before.
His own all-black attire was similar to Hyacinth’s, down to the perfect tailoring.
Pale to Hyacinth’s dark, though almost as tall, he had fine features and a lanky, deer-like build.
He looked about Robin’s age, though not nearly so sharp or fetching.
He huddled behind Hyacinth, hands shoved deep in his pockets, expression grim.
This, Zyr was certain, would not be a pleasant meeting.
“Hyacinth,” Zyr said, keeping the hostility from his voice, if not the wariness. “You’re welcome here.”
“Zyr. Got news for you.” Hyacinth’s voice held the obnoxious tug of sidhe magic, making it impossible not to focus on him. “Might have to do with your missing books. Might not.”
“Let’s talk inside,” Orrim added, tail lashing. “The clouds have ears.”
“Not in my allotment, they don’t.” Zyr stepped from the doorway, inclining his head toward his living area. “You have a human with you.”
“Leo.” Hyacinth gestured between them with a wing. “My little brother.”
Ah. That explained some. Zyr had pictured Hyacinth’s human brother as a sticky-fingered ten-year-old. Perhaps, when Hyacinth had first mentioned him, that imagining had been correct. Now he was a man, with a wounded expression and barely-checked terror in his blue eyes.
“I’ve nothing against humans,” Zyr said, in an attempt to ease that fear.
“Hyacinth says you have something against everyone.” Frightened or no, the little brother met Zyr’s gaze, jaw set.
“Nothing additional against humans, then. Respect my things, and you’ll come to no harm here.”
It did nothing to ease the man’s fear, but he nodded, sticking close to Hyacinth as the sidhe threw himself into the chair he always occupied on his visits.
It wasn’t the first time Zyr had witnessed that particular, seemingly careless, gesture.
But it remained a puzzle. The sidhe’s wings stayed in view the whole time.
To manage that, he would have to juggle a complex tangle of magic and illusion, all in an effort to appear to be unconcerned.
Orrim usually added to the show by draping himself over the couch, but this time, he stood at Hyacinth’s elbow, tail still twitching.
Leo seemed unsure of where to set himself, and finally stood behind the chair.
“Where’s your human?” Orrim asked, golden-eyed cat’s gaze roving the room. “You didn’t stash him on our account, did you?”
“Zyr wouldn’t,” Hyacinth replied, though his expression was hard. “We’re old friends, after all.”
“We’re acquaintances. And you’re supposed to be here about a book, not my house guests.”
“I’m an excellent multitasker.” The expected smile was there, but slim and razor sharp. This wasn’t Hyacinth as Zyr knew him. “This affects Robin as well. We’ll talk when he joins us.”
“Robin is back in his world,” Zyr answered, relieved that he was away from whatever this was. “He’s pursuing some research here but only occasionally.”
Orrim and Hyacinth shared a speaking look. Eventually Orrim nodded, just barely, and Hyacinth’s smile lost its threatening edge.
“You’ll pass it along, though,” Hyacinth said, as if the words were fact.
“Why are you so interested in the Summer King’s brother?” Zyr asked, making no such assurance. “And how did you hear he had visited me?”
Hyacinth shrugged, his wings adding drama to the simple gesture. “The reclusive unseelie dragon takes in a human? People talk. And people like to talk to me.”
Again, there was something off in Hyacinth’s silken voice, something beyond the hooks of a sidhe’s power.
“Why are you here?”
“Because I owe you. Owed you for ages, and you’ve never mentioned it. Never called in my tab.”
Over half a century back, a much younger Hyacinth had shown up at Zyr’s door, his eyes dark and his arms full of books.
Old pulp novels. Well-worn storybooks. A Qur’an.
His father’s books, Hyacinth had explained.
The man dead, and his things ear-marked by Hyacinth's mother for destruction. He’d asked if Zyr was interested in them.
What he hadn’t said was “protect these for me.” But he hadn’t needed to. And Zyr, moved to sympathy by the reverent way the sidhe held those simple tokens, had said that yes, he’d add them to his collection. Not “I’ll keep them safe for you.” But that, too, had been understood.
“Explain,” Zyr said. The electricity in the air eased with the simple invitation. Hyacinth, despite his disconcerting mood, wasn’t the threat.
“My mother was killed yesterday.” Hyacinth sounded neither grieved nor joyous. “We don’t know who’s responsible. Well, we know who held the blade. But not who hired them.”
Winter’s rise, that was ill news. Zyr had never cared for Zenar, who took humans as pets and infantilized her people. But she’d had no interest in Zyr or his collection, never groused about his right to his allotment. She’d been safe to ignore.
But without her, the House fell to Kesk and Veroni, and they were an entirely different sort. The Monarchs’ heirs, and for all that the title was symbolic, their leadership of Faerie’s most unpleasant seelie faction was not.
“Did you know Zenar well?” Orrim asked, expression blank.
“No.”
“Books weren’t her passion. Humanity was.” Hyacinth’s smile was perfect. His blue-green eyes burned. “So much so she kept a mortal-blooded child.”
Hyacinth did show his mortal heritage. Where sidhe were onyx or alabaster, his skin was deep olive, a few shades darker than Robin’s. His features, while appealing, were less perfectly cut than common for his kind.
Still. “You’re fae. Sidhe. Regardless of your paternity.”
“I’m fae. But I’m my father’s son.” And there was the blade of a smile again, less subtle this time. “You should be glad of that. I wouldn’t be here, otherwise.”
“True enough,” Zyr allowed. That particular sore spot, even he could see. “Why are you carrying this news to me? Surely a messenger would have come to tell me that our House had new leaders soon enough.”
“Kesk and Veroni. They’ll be taking their oaths in eight days. Then Linden House will be theirs.”
“I’m aware.” Indeed, Zyr’s thoughts churned with that awareness, for all his words were flat.
“You’re not. They’ll come for you.”
Before Zyr could form a protest, Orrim held up a hand. “It’s worse than you think. Worse than grumbling about uncouth death aligned or silly humans. They want the unseelie allotments. Not only in Linden, but all of Faerie. They want a Faerie free of humans.”
From Leo’s flinch, he was aware of what that meant, for all that Kesk was as much his blood as Hyacinth.
“Restricting the veil,” Zyr said. He’d heard the rumblings. “It’s a terrible idea. Dangerous.”
Is Faerie actually dying? Robin had asked him. And it was.
“No,” said Hyacinth. “Not restricting. Destroying.”
“Impossible. The magic is too old.” And maybe Zyr said it to comfort himself.
“They don’t agree. And they got real excited on that front around the time you said your books went missing.”
His books.
A low, persistent sound interrupted Hyacinth’s words. It took Zyr a moment to realize he was the one growling, while the air crackled with power.
“Things are going to go bad fast. In Linden, then the rest of Faerie,” Hyacinth said. “They’ll take every inch the Monarchs allow and demand more.”
“The Monarchs aren’t fond of impertinence." Old enemies and new. Zyr felt sick.
“And Kesk and Veroni aren’t fond of being told no.” Orrim moved closer to Leo, who seemed to take comfort even from so ridiculous a presence.
“They’re not fond of anything,” Leo said, with a vein of petulance more suited to him than fear.
“And so you keep your brother close?” Zyr asked, looking at Hyacinth. “What of the other one?”
“Lysander’s a Gate. And they practically raised him.” The casual words didn’t match Hyacinth’s tone, which was as flat as Zyr’s.
“They wouldn’t let us go near him,” Leo said, then fell silent at a quelling look from Hyacinth.
“He’s a Gate,” Hyacinth said again. For himself, maybe. “They’ll be oathsworn to protect him. He’ll be alright.”
Zyr stared at the black-feathered man for a long beat, weighing his words and finding none adequate. He had been expecting the world to come crashing down. He hadn’t expected it to happen quite like this.
“What do you suggest I do with this information?” he finally asked.
“Whatever you can. They want your possessions, Zyr. Your hoard, not only your allotment. And they don’t like your friends.
Unseelie bonding humans. Solstice rites.
Mortals killing fae. These are insults to their order.
They’re not saying ‘death aligned’ anymore.
They’re not saying ‘unseelie,’ either. They’re saying ‘fallen.’”
Fallen. Even the Monarchs had pretended to believe in redemption, even if that redemption had to be earned with blood and surrender.
“I appreciate the warning,” he said at last.
Hyacinth got to his feet, still graceful and seemingly at ease, with the other two half a step behind. “Act quick, dragon. And remember that I paid my debt, unasked.”
An odd thing to say. “Paid or sought one in turn?”
“Depends on how the coin lands, I guess. Good luck finding your books, Zyr. If I were you, I’d be figuring out which of Kesk and Veroni's allies could have gotten in.”
A sickening thought, his books in the hands of someone who wished to destroy the veil. Especially as one of those books had discussed exactly that. Surely, though, no one would be rash enough to actually try it.
But he wasn’t sure. Not at all.