The Brightest Fell (October Daye, #11)

by Seanan McGuire

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.

Come on. We have so much deeper to go.

LORD, WHAT FOOLS THESE MORTALS BE

This is the title of an introductory section that explains the world of the October Daye series. Most will be familiar to those who have read the previous books, but there is some new information here, particularly about the progenitors Oberon, Maeve, and Titania.

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.

That this big change happened so recently, a mere 500 years ago -- was a surprise to me.

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 Liar " is Amandine, Toby's mother.

Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell. —William Shakespeare, Macbeth

“You have a gift for doing the impossible,” she said airily. “The things they tell me you’ve done! You killed Blind Michael. You brought his stolen children home. You stopped Oleander de Merelands, after everything she’s done. You found the lost Princess in the Mists, and chased a pretender from the throne. They tell me you’re a hero now, my October, and who am I to question the word of what seems to be all of Faerie? Heroes undertake impossible quests. Heroes complete them. I want my child back. You stole yourself from me when you chose wrongly. The least you can do is return the daughter I lost before I had you.”

“Cinderella, dressed in yellow, went upstairs to kiss a fellow; made a mistake, kissed a snake, now they’re happily married with a dental practice outside Marin.”

But while Sylvester’s protection had always been built on a foundation of love, Simon’s looked like it was built on regret. Odds were good that not all of it was for me. Whatever his motives, he had been a very bad man for a very long time.

Hang on, I’m going to do something stupid.”

“Amandine’s line—your sister, your mother, yourself—is responsible for the loss of our King and Queens, and there are those who say that only Amandine’s line can set right what they made wrong.”

Your mother never wanted to be a hero. She hated what her mother’s actions and our father’s blood had lain upon her, hated the expectation that she would sacrifice herself for the sake of others. She wanted to be a rose in a walled garden, and not one growing wild by the side of some crumbling, half-forgotten well. So she refused. She could have ended this centuries ago, and she refused.” “You can’t blame Amy for the actions of her mother,” said Simon, stepping up beside me. “It’s not fair.”

I was a hero now, too. I hadn’t sought the position. It had been shoved on me one stolen child and broken promise at a time. That didn’t make it any less mine. The people around me—the people I cared about—were always going to be in danger.

Quentin scowled. “Oh, no,” he said. “Stop it.” I blinked. “Stop what?” “Stop thinking we’d be better off without you.” “I wasn’t!” “You were. I could see it in your eyes, and you’re wrong. We’re better with you, just like you’re better with us.

My sister, September, visited Mag Mell once. She said it was so beautiful it hurt her, and that she couldn’t imagine staying for more than a moment, because if she did, she would never be able to find it in her heart to leave.”

“Next time let’s go someplace new, where you haven’t already pissed everybody off,” said Quentin.

Most of all, though, I was angry at myself. So much of this mess was mine. I hadn’t been the one to make it, but I’d been the one to keep saying “later, later,” like anything ever really waited until later to become a problem. I could have gone looking for Mom, to try to make things right between us: I hadn’t. I could have made more of an effort to fix things with Sylvester: I hadn’t. I could have asked Acacia what she was doing about the Riders, or asked the Luidaeg to help me find Officer Thornton. I hadn’t. All my chickens were coming home to roost, and while I didn’t want them, I had earned them. I had earned them, every one.

August didn’t even know who he was, couldn’t know until we found a way to get her path home back from the Luidaeg.

When I had first returned from the pond, I would have sworn I was never going to have a home to call my own again. I would live somewhere, because everyone has to live somewhere, but that place wouldn’t be my home. There’s more to home than just walls that don’t fall down and a roof that doesn’t leak. There’s commitment, and comfort, and the knowledge that even if you have to leave today, you can come home tomorrow, because home will wait. Home waits. Somewhere between Quentin showing up on my doorstep with a message from Sylvester and today—somewhere in all the years and miles between us and that moment—I had found my own way home. He was a large part of what had helped to get me there. Quentin would have to leave eventually, going back to Toronto to finish learning how to be High King of the Westlands. That didn’t matter. He would always have a home in California, with me, because without him, I might not have been able to find my way.

it would just have distressed Simon, who didn’t seem to appreciate me beating his child to a pulp. Amateur.

“I didn’t want to be safe and loved and beautiful forever! I wanted to be a hero like Uncle Sylvester. I wanted to make Mama stop looking afraid every time someone talked about prophecy. She said she was glad all the seers were gone, because nobody should have to live in fear of the future. I wasn’t scared of the future. I wanted to hold it in my hands. I wanted people to treat my father with respect, and I wanted my mother to stop trying to hide, and if I could get there and back by the light of a candle, why shouldn’t I?”

I am still a Dryad, of a kind. There is no other word to describe me. “Dryad” contains the seed of me, if not the tree, and so Dryad I am, although I no longer know exactly what that means. My roots are silicon and titanium and electricity; my sap is light racing through a thousand bright channels, reaching, reaching, reaching for a sun made of information and power.

This and fololowing highlights are from the bonus novella, /Of Things Unknown/.

Faerie flesh—even changeling flesh—does not decay as human flesh does. It should. Fae digest mortal food, walk in the mortal world; mortal bacteria clings to their skins. They should rot like anything else. They don’t. I don’t know why.