I actually arrived early, did the same security dance from the previous day, and slipped into an elevator with almost a half hour to spare. The executive offices of the Guildhouse sit one flight up from my old office. Like any top management office suite, the rarefied and static atmosphere allows corporate leadership to function in unnatural silence. At this level, the floors were circular, and I padded around the thickly carpeted curve of the hallway to the boardroom in the center. The Guildhouse décor amplifies the dull sensation with its vaulted stone ceilings and its sound-deadening ancient tapestries hung along the corridors. All contrived, of course. The building went up in the sixties, so the choice of stone was intended to evoke history and grandeur. So it was easy to hear the angry voices before I even reached the door. Despite being early, I had managed to arrive late for an argument.
On one side of the boardroom table, Gerin Cuthbern gripped his staff with a gnarled hand. As High Druid of the Bosnemeton, he automatically had a seat on the Guildhouse board. Pinpoints of white light flickered in his eyes, something I had seen occasionally and was always glad that they weren’t directed at me. Which, apparently, did not seem to prevent a tall elven woman from getting right up in his face.
“I will not stand for it, Gerin,” the woman said.
Nigel Martin stood at the far end of the room, a cell phone pressed to his ear. He seemed to be paying more attention to his caller than the argument, which I knew was unlikely. Nigel never missed a thing.
“The Guild does have rules. I’m sure the Consortium can appreciate that,” Gerin said. His voice dripped with reasonableness, which I’m sure was not the main topic of conversation.
Opposite them, Ryan macGoren lounged idly against the wall, with his arms crossed and a bemused expression on his face. I recognized him immediately from my research, the wavy blond hair, aquiline features, and rippling wings in full display. Danann fairies in general are not prone to modesty, and he was no exception. You could feel the air of privilege about him.
“Do not even think it. You know Alvud never anticipated this,” the elven woman said.
Not wanting to step into the argument, I sidled along the table and stood next to macGoren. He caught my eye and smirked. Without moving his body, the fairy slipped a languid hand out from the crook of his arm and offered it to me. “Ryan macGoren. Pleased to meet you finally.” He spoke in full voice, as if the argument wasn’t happening five feet away.
I shook his hand, wondering about the “finally” part of his hello. “Connor Grey.”
He shifted his attention back to the woman and smiled. “The grieving widow,” he stage-whispered.
Eorla Kruge—the Marchgrafin, if I remembered her Teutonic monarchial title correctly—certainly was a fine-looking woman. She wore her ebony hair in a silvered mesh, and her large, almond-shaped eyes held an intelligence that only the Old Ones have, eyes that have seen much in years human normals cannot even conceive. She wore a body-hugging dark green velvet business suit embroidered with silver and black leaves. Rings glittered on her hands, some plain bands of silver or gold, and others of emeralds and black sapphires. She resonated Power like a fuel cell. And she was pissed as hell.
“Eorla, you know the seat isn’t hereditary. The Guild is an elective body,” said Gerin.
The argument fell into place for me instantly. Eorla wanted to sit on the board. I couldn’t blame her. I had wanted to do the same. Usually, someone has to die before any real turnover happens. Of course, if she thought that like I did, I’m sure she wasn’t hoping it would be her husband.
“This is ridiculous, Gerin. You know you can’t have a Guild board without Teutonic representation. How is that going to appear?” Eorla said.
“It will appear as the charter intends. We elect someone. We have other members that can represent your interests for now,” he said.
She thrust her finger at him. “Who haven’t even shown up for this meeting, and that is beside the point. Alvud and I have worked years for fey unity, and part of that is showing the world the fey can work together. You can’t do that without an elf visibly active on the board.”
Gerin had not changed his expression since I walked in, like he was patiently waiting for Eorla simply to agree with him. “And where are the dwarf directors and the representative for the solitary fey, Eorla? Manus invited them. I find it interesting that your allies choose this time to embarrass the board. How is that unity, Eorla?”
She pulled her hand back as if to strike him, then caught herself. “Do not dare to mock me, Gerin. You know this board needs the leadership I can provide.”
Nigel closed his cell and strolled over. “I think we’ve covered this point several times now. Can we bring a more civil tone to the discussion?”
Eorla whirled on him. “Civil? Don’t think I didn’t hear every word Manus ap Eagan said to you. You tell him that ‘the elf bitch’ will be sitting at this table whether he likes it or not.”
Nigel put on his placating face, which I had seen work in more than one situation where he wanted to get his way. “The Guildmaster is not feeling well, Eorla. He spoke out of turn. I will speak to him about that, but right now we need to remember why we are here.”
Eorla wasn’t buying it. She drew herself up and threw back her head. “I know exactly why I am here, Nigel. If this vote goes through, I will bring Maeve into it.”
Nigel narrowed his eyes. “That’s a sharp and narrow bridge to walk, Eorla. Don’t depend on the High Queen to bow to your wishes again.”
Eorla moved a threatening step closer to him. “So that’s what this is about, is it? You and Gerin are angry that I persuaded Maeve to compromise at the Fey Summit last spring? I wasn’t the only voice against you, Nigel, and some of them were Danann.”
Here was the Guild dance of words and political revenge in full flower. As a member of the royal family, Eorla had high rank in the Teutonic Consortium. Last spring, the Seelie Court and the Consortium had held a Fey Summit to try to resolve their differences. On the surface it was about whether the fey should work together to figure out how to return to Faerie. In reality, it was military strategizing. Many Celtic fey—Nigel among them—wanted to increase the fairy warriors guarding the demilitarized zone outside the Consortium territory in Germany. Eorla brokered a deal with Maeve that if she didn’t send the warriors, she’d convince the Elven King to back off his expansion threats. The Seelie Court is packed with Danann fairies who agree with her. So far, it’s worked. The scuttlebutt is that Nigel didn’t think it was a good idea. But then, Nigel has never trusted the Consortium.
Nigel smiled at her. “And while Maeve compromised, a Consortium operative staged a terrorist attack not four miles from here. Despite her actions afterward, Maeve’s reputation was damaged among her own people. Do not think she will risk more for these compromises of yours.”
Eorla’s eyes shone as rage flowed off her in waves. If I hadn’t been in a room with some of the most powerful fey in Boston, I would have been looking for the exit. As it was, my head started ringing with all the ambient essence. My sensing ability even kicked in a little.
When she spoke, Eorla had dropped her voice to a cutting edge. “That is a dangerous lie, Nigel Martin. That terrorist was not a Consortium operative. If you tell that tale to smear my people, you will get more than you bargain for.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Is that a threat?”
She smiled at him. “I was counseling kings and queens long before you were even born, Nigel. I don’t need to threaten. You may have Maeve’s ear on occasion, but so do I. Do not forget that the treaty made at Tara is only a start. But I have something you don’t: Donor Elfenkonig’s ear, too. You may think this Guildhouse is not important enough for me to use that influence, but you would be wrong, Nigel.”