The Brightest Fell by Seanan McGuire
DAW Books presents the finest in urban fantasy from Seanan McGuire:
The October Daye Novels:
ROSEMARY AND RUE
A LOCAL HABITATION
AN ARTIFICIAL NIGHT
LATE ECLIPSES
ONE SALT SEA
ASHES OF HONOR
CHIMES AT MIDNIGHT
THE WINTER LONG
A RED-ROSE CHAIN
ONCE BROKEN FAITH
THE BRIGHTEST FELL
NIGHT AND SILENCE*
The InCryptid Novels:
DISCOUNT ARMAGEDDON
MIDNIGHT BLUE-LIGHT SPECIAL
HALF-OFF RAGNAROK
POCKET APOCALYPSE
CHAOS CHOREOGRAPHY
MAGIC FOR NOTHING
TRICKS FOR FREE*
SPARROW HILL ROAD
*Coming soon from DAW Books
Copyright © 2017 by Seanan McGuire.
All Rights Reserved.
Cover art by Chris McGrath.
Cover design by G-Force Design.
Interior dingbat created by Tara O’Shea.
Map by Priscilla Spencer.
DAW Book Collectors No. 1734.
Published by DAW Books, Inc.
375 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014
Ebook ISBN: 9780698183520
All characters and events in this book are fictitious.
Any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.
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For Julie.
You told me Toby wanted a novel.
I never knew how right you were.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS:
We’ve reached the point in the series where I am paying off debts I created five and six books ago. It feels like a miracle. Thank you all so much for trusting me to lead you down this twisting garden path into the woods, and for believing that I would be able to lead you out again. I will always do my best to be worthy of your faith in me.
No matter how many times I do this, it’s always a little daunting to sit back and realize how much work it is. My thanks go, forever, to the Machete Squad, for their tireless attempts to make my books better, and to the entire team at DAW, where they have become old hands at putting up with me. Thanks to everyone who’s hosted me while this book was being written, from one side of the country to the other and back again.
Thank you Vixy, for loving these people and this world as much as I do; Amy, for keeping me focused and moving forward; Brooke, for being herself in the face of infinite frogs; Shawn, for axolotls and X-Men; and the Crowells, for everything. Thanks to Margaret and Whitney, for spaghetti and sanity, and to Carrie, for the infinite greenness of salad.
Sheila Gilbert remains the best of all possible editors, Diana Fox remains the best of all possible agents, and Chris McGrath remains the best of all possible cover artists. While we’re on this track, my cats are the best of all possible cats. So are yours, if you have them. All hail the pit crew: Christopher Mangum, Tara O’Shea, and Kate Secor.
My soundtrack while writing The Brightest Fell consisted mostly of Hadestown, by Anais Mitchell, We Are Who We Are, by Vixy and Tony, the soundtrack of Waitress, endless live concert recordings of the Counting Crows, and all the Ludo a girl could hope to have (still waiting for a new album). Any errors in this book are entirely my own. The errors that aren’t here are the ones that all these people helped me fix.
Come on. We have so much deeper to go.
OCTOBER DAYE PRONUNCIATION GUIDE
THROUGH THE BRIGHTEST FELL
All pronunciations are given strictly phonetically. This only covers races explicitly named in the first eleven books, omitting Undersea races not appearing or mentioned in book eleven.
Aes Sidhe: eys shee. Plural is “Aes Sidhe.”
Afanc: ah-fank. Plural is “Afanc.”
Annwn: ah-noon. No plural exists.
Bannick: ban-nick. Plural is “Bannicks.”
Barghest: bar-guy-st. Plural is “Barghests.”
Blodynbryd: blow-din-brid. Plural is “Blodynbryds.”
Cait Sidhe: kay-th shee. Plural is “Cait Sidhe.”
Candela: can-dee-la. Plural is “Candela.”
Coblynau: cob-lee-now. Plural is “Coblynau.”
Cu Sidhe: coo shee. Plural is “Cu Sidhe.”
Daoine Sidhe: doon-ya shee. Plural is “Daoine Sidhe,” diminutive is “Daoine.”
Djinn: jin. Plural is “Djinn.”
Dóchas Sidhe: doe-sh-as shee. Plural is “Dóchas Sidhe.”
Ellyllon: el-lee-lawn. Plural is “Ellyllons.”
Folletti: foe-let-tea. Plural is “Folletti.”
Gean-Cannah: gee-ann can-na. Plural is “Gean-Cannah.”
Glastig: glass-tig. Plural is “Glastigs.”
Gwragen: guh-war-a-gen. Plural is “Gwragen.”
Hamadryad: ha-ma-dry-add. Plural is “Hamadryads.”
Hippocampus: hip-po-cam-pus. Plural is “Hippocampi.”
Kelpie: kel-pee. Plural is “Kelpies.”
Kitsune: kit-soo-nay. Plural is “Kitsune.”
Lamia: lay-me-a. Plural is “Lamia.”
The Luidaeg: the lou-sha-k. No plural exists.
Manticore: man-tee-core. Plural is “Manticores.”
Naiad: nigh-add. Plural is “Naiads.”
Nixie: nix-ee. Plural is “Nixen.”
Peri: pear-ee. Plural is “Peri.”
Piskie: piss-key. Plural is “Piskies.’
Puca: puh-ca. Plural is “Pucas.”
Roane: row-n. Plural is “Roane.”
Satyr: say-tur. Plural is “Satyrs.”
Selkie: sell-key. Plural is “Selkies.”
Shyi Shuai: shh-yee shh-why. Plural is “Shyi Shuai.”
Silene: sigh-lean. Plural is “Silene.”
Tuatha de Dannan: tootha day danan. Plural is “Tuatha de Dannan,” diminutive is “Tuatha.”
Tylwyth Teg: till-with teeg. Plural is “Tylwyth Teg,” diminutive is “Tylwyth.”
Urisk: you-risk. Plural is “Urisk.”
LORD, WHAT FOOLS THESE MORTALS BE . . .
THE WORLDS
The Faerie and human worlds have always existed side by side, sometimes aware of one another, sometimes not. Ruled by their King, Oberon, and his two Queens, Titania and Maeve, the fae fought to protect themselves when necessary, finally fading entirely into myths and legends when, five hundred years ago, the Three vanished and left their descendants to fend for themselves.
Humanity forgot. The fae did not. And some overlap between the worlds continued, wreathed in lies and illusions to keep the humans from understanding what was happening. Most of the purebloods remain in the Summerlands, last and nearest of the accessible realms of Faerie. The deeper realms, from Annwn to Avalon, were sealed by Oberon before his disappearance, and have proven as yet impossible to reopen. Without them, heroes and monsters who might never have met are forced to share space with not only the human world, but with each other. It’s a volatile mix, and one that seems destined to lead to tragedy.
In
THE PEOPLE
The children of the Three take many forms, borrowing aspects from their parents and shaping them into something completely new. From the ethereal to the monstrous, they are all born of Faerie, and they are kin, even as they stand against their own relations.
Greatest and most terrible among the remaining children of Faerie are the Firstborn, the immediate descendants of the Three, from whom the rest of Faerie descends. Their powers are as varied as their faces, and make them virtually unstoppable in the absence of their parents. Most are dead or missing, but those who remain—the Luidaeg, better known as the sea witch; Eira Rosynhwyr, who some claim was the inspiration for Snow White; even their youngest sister, the Liar, who wanders alone, rattling at unseen doors—are terrifying to any who would stand against them.
The purebloods, for the most part, treat themselves as rulers of their constrained world, clinging to a system of crowns and titles, refusing to entertain any possibility of modernization. The Daoine Sidhe control most of the higher positions, including the High Crown of North America, currently held by the Sollys family. The Duchy of Shadowed Hills in the Kingdom in the Mists is also held by a Daoine Sidhe, Duke Sylvester Torquill, a former hero of the realm.
Under the purebloods are the mixed-bloods, whose fae parents descend from different Firstborn: their magic is sometimes unpredictable, and can refuse to follow the supposedly immutable rules. They might rebel if not for the fact that they aren’t at the bottom of the pecking order. That role is reserved for the changelings.
Changelings—the children born when fae and humans reproduce—spend their lives balanced between the two sides of their heritage, helping their fae parents to understand the challenges presented by the constant changing march of human technology. Without them, Faerie would doubtless have been discovered centuries ago. Sadly, this truth does nothing to elevate their status among the purebloods, who treat them as nuisances and servants, hating the taint of mortality in their blood. It’s a hard line to walk, and it should be no surprise that many changelings will eventually flee to the human world, concealing their true natures as they play at fitting in among people who would hate them if they only knew.
October Daye is one of those changelings, the first to be knighted in over a century. She has lived in both the fae and mortal worlds, and now, with the ground shifting under her feet, she is trying to hold onto her heritage, even as the rules are rewritten all around her.
THE STORY SO FAR . . .
Eighteen years ago, October “Toby” Daye was performing a service for her liege lord, Duke Torquill, when his brother Simon enchanted her and transformed her into a koi fish, leaving her for dead in Golden Gate Park’s Japanese Tea Garden. She would be lost to the world for fourteen years, finally rising from the water when his spell was worn away by sunlight and time. She returned to find everything she thought she had gone: her human fiancé had married another woman, her daughter had grown up without her. She was starting over.
Quickly, Toby found herself in a web of mysteries and contradictions, monsters and complications. Through her efforts, the false Queen of the Mists was dethroned and Arden Windermere was elevated; the Kingdom of Silences was returned to the Davies family; even the position of changelings in the Mists was improved.
Of course, it isn’t over yet. And who knows what’s going to go wrong next?
The Luidaeg, probably. But she’s not telling.
CONTENTS
DAW Books presents the finest in urban fantasy from Seanan McGuire
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
October Daye Pronunciation Guide
Lord, What Fools These Mortals Be... The Worlds
The People
The Story So Far...
Map of the Kingdoms of the Westlands
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
Bonus Novella: Of Thinng Unknown ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
ONE
October 9th, 2013
Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell.
—William Shakespeare, Macbeth.
THE FETCH IS ONE of the most feared and least understood figures in Faerie. Their appearance heralds the approach of inescapable death: once the Fetch shows up, there’s nothing that can be done. The mechanism that summons them has never been found, and they’ve always been rare, with only five conclusively identified in the last century. They appear for the supposedly significant—kings and queens, heroes and villains—and they wear the faces of the people they have come to escort into whatever awaits the fae beyond the borders of death. They are temporary, transitory, and terrifying.
My Fetch, who voluntarily goes by “May Daye,” because nothing says “I am a serious and terrible death omen” like having a pun for a name, showed up more than three years ago. She was supposed to foretell my impending doom. Instead, all she managed to foretell was me getting a new roommate. Life can be funny that way.
At the moment, doom might have been a nice change. May was standing on the stage of The Mint, San Francisco’s finest karaoke bar, enthusiastically bellowing her way through an off-key rendition of Melissa Etheridge’s “Come to My Window.” Her live-in girlfriend, Jazz, was sitting at one of the tables closest to the stage, chin propped in her hands, gazing at May with love and adoration all out of proportion to the quality of my Fetch’s singing.
May has the face I wore when she appeared. We don’t look much alike anymore, but when she first showed up at my apartment door to tell me I was going to die, we were identical. She has my memories up to the point of her creation: years upon years of parental issues, crushing insecurity, abandonment, and criminal activities. And right now, none of that mattered half as much as the fact that she also had my absolute inability to carry a tune.
“Why are we having my bachelorette party at a karaoke bar again?” I asked, speaking around the mouth of the beer bottle I was trying to keep constantly against my lips. If I was drinking, I wasn’t singing. If I wasn’t singing, all these people might still be my friends in the morning.
Of course, with as much as most of them had already had to drink, they probably wouldn’t notice if I did sing. Or if I decided to sneak out of the bar, go home, change into my sweatpants, and watch old movies on the couch until I passed out. Which would have been my preference for how my bachelorette party was going to go, if I absolutely had to have one. I didn’t think they were required. May had disagreed wi
What I hadn’t expected was for most of my traitorous, backstabbing friends to take her side. Stacy—one of my closest friends since childhood—had actually laughed in my face when I demanded to know why she was doing this to me.
“Being your friend is like trying to get up close and personal with a natural disaster,” she’d said. “Sure, we have some good times, but we spend half of them covered in blood. We just want to spend an evening making you as uncomfortable as you keep making the rest of us.”
Not to be outdone, her eldest daughter, Cassandra, had blithely added, “Besides, we don’t think even you can turn a karaoke party into a bloodbath.”
All of my friends are evil.
As my Fetch and hence the closest thing I had to a sister, May had declared herself to be in charge of the whole affair. That was how we’d wound up reserving most of the tables at The Mint for an all-night celebration of the fact that I was getting married. Even though we didn’t have a date, a plan, or a seating chart, we were having a bachelorette party. Lucky, lucky me.
My name is October Daye. I am a changeling; I am a knight; I am a hero of the realm; and if I never have to hear Stacy sing Journey songs again, it will be too soon.
Danny, who was looming beside me at the bar, nudged me with his shoulder. “It ain’t so bad,” he rumbled, in a voice deep enough to sound like it had bubbled up from the bowels of the earth. It was in proportion to the rest of him: he’s a Bridge Troll. When not wearing an illusion to make himself look human, he’s more than seven feet tall, with skin like granite and hands that can punch through walls. Take the rest of him into account, and his voice is kind of dainty.
At the moment, he looked like any other wall of a mortal man, wearing a brightly colored Hawaiian shirt that somehow wasn’t any more garish than the décor. His hand dwarfed the cocktail glass he was holding. Its contents were an impressively virulent shade of pink.