“We can’t carry them with us.”

“Why not?”

Sylvester looked at me blandly. “Do you really want to wander the knowe with a poisoned knife when my daughter’s telling people you’re trying to kill me?”

Sometimes it’s impossible to argue with him. “No,” I admitted, “but that doesn’t make me happy about being unarmed.”

“Unarmed?” He laughed. “Toby, the day you’re unarmed, I’m giving you the Duchy.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Yeah, but it’s accurate,” said Connor. I wrinkled my nose at him, and he smiled. It was a small smile. It still made me feel better about how he was taking things, and how badly he might have been hurt in Oleander’s attack. If he was being snotty, he was going to be okay.

Sylvester stopped, opening a small door. I looked at him curiously. He motioned for Connor and me to go through. When Sylvester gives a direct order, it’s best to follow.

The room on the other side of the door was large but seemed small, since it was jammed past capacity with swords, spears, and other instruments for making people die. I stopped, staring. Connor did the same. Sylvester knocked him into me as he came through the door, nearly sending us both sprawling.

“We’re in the armory?” I said. “You just said I shouldn’t be armed!”

“No: I said you shouldn’t carry Oleander’s knives. I didn’t say anything about being unarmed.” Sylvester turned to select a sword from the wall. It was a delicate thing, with a hard, gleaming edge that promised sharpness. A trail of brambles and wild roses was etched near the hilt—the sort of ornamental touch Faerie has never been able to resist. The purebloods would carve pretty pictures in the sky if they could find a ladder long enough. “This should do. Not too heavy, but you have enough muscle in your shoulders that I don’t want to give you something too light, either.”

“I don’t know how to use a sword,” I protested.

Connor snorted, taking down a bow for himself. “If you can use it to break something, you’ll figure it out.” I shot him a look. He grinned.

“You did well enough with Blind Michael, and it’s time you learned,” Sylvester said implacably, pressing the hilt into my hand. “Hang on. I’ll find you a scabbard.”

I studied the sword, feeling the weight of it as Sylvester moved away. I’ve watched people fight with swords for most of my life, but I never got past the “swing it like a baseball bat and hope for the best” stage. Etienne gave me lessons. Three of them. Then he said I was a menace and refused to teach me anything more for fear that I’d slice his head off. Still, if Sylvester said it was my sword, it was my sword.

Sylvester returned, offering a scabbard and belt. “This should do until we can get something fitted to your hips,” he said.

“I’ll refrain from taking offense,” I said dryly, and held out my hand.

Etienne opened the armory door.

The four of us stared at each other. I had time to say, “Etienne, this isn’t—” before he rushed forward, knocking the sword out of my hand and driving me to the floor. For once, I landed on my ass rather than either my abused back or shoulders. That was the only positive side of the fall. The armory floor was hard as hell, especially when I was being slammed into it by two hundred pounds of testosterone-charged Tuatha de Dannan. As often as men slam me into things, you’d think I’d get laid more.

The impact knocked the air out of my lungs. Etienne yanked my head back, slamming it against the floor, and I winced, although not too hard. I was too busy trying to figure out when the knife wound up in his hand. Connor was trying to pull him off me, but wasn’t having much luck—Etienne outweighed him by a good thirty pounds, and a whole lot of angry.

“How dare you attack our liege?” Etienne snarled. Wisely, I refrained from trying to defend myself. It wasn’t like I had enough air to talk, anyway. “I trusted you! I believed you when you said you were trying to help! How dare you?”

Mildly, Sylvester said, “Please don’t kill her. She’d be difficult to replace.”

Etienne looked over his shoulder. That was the opening I needed. Balling my right hand into a fist, I punched him in the jaw. It’s not easy to swing a good punch when you’re flat on your back and fighting to breathe, but it was enough to throw him off-balance. Using both hands, I shoved him away and scrambled to my feet. Connor immediately grabbed his arms, pinning them behind his back.

Etienne glared. I glared back. “Your Grace, she was holding a sword on you!”

“No, she was simply holding a sword. It was nowhere near me. I should know, as I was the one who handed it to her. It would’ve been rude of her to drop it. Toby, please stop punching Etienne in the head. It’s not helping.”

“He started it,” I said.

“That’s nice. It’s finished now.” Sylvester bent to retrieve my sword from the floor. “Is either of you hurt?”

“She hit me!” said Etienne.

“You body-slammed me,” I countered.

“You were holding a sword on the Duke!”

“He gave it to me!”

“Do I need to send you to your rooms?” Sylvester stepped between us. “Etienne, Toby wasn’t attacking me. We’re here because I’d rather we weren’t wandering around without weapons when Oleander de Merelands is loose in the knowe. Toby, Etienne was trying to defend me. Please refrain from treating his head like a punching bag. Connor, you may release my knight now.”

“Gotcha,” I said.

“Yes, sir,” Connor said, and let go of Etienne.

Etienne was too busy staring at Sylvester to move. “Oleander?”

“Yes. October was right.” Sylvester sighed. “Rayseline is working with her.”

“Truly? But we watched her. She gave no sign.” Etienne looked almost painfully amazed. The Tuatha don’t deal well with the idea of treachery; that’s why the Daoine Sidhe rule most of Faerie, while the Tuatha support the throne. They’re not sneaky enough to stage a coup.

“Yeah, Raysel,” I said, rubbing my sore hip with one hand. “Next time you knock me over, make sure I land on something soft. Like your head.”

“Toby—” Sylvester said, in a cautioning tone.