The Cruel Prince (30 page)

It never occurred to me to wonder what it was like to be Valerian's friend. It sounds like it wasn't so different from being his enemy.

“So it doesn't matter that Valerian wanted to hurt me?” I ask. “So long as he wasn't going to kill me.”

“You have to admit, being alive is better,” Cardan returns, that faintly amused tone back in his voice.

I put both of my hands on the desk. “Just tell me why you hate me. Once and for all.”

His long fingers smooth over the wood of Dain's desk. “You really want honesty?”

“I am the one with the crossbow, not shooting you because you promised me answers. What do you think?”

“Very well.” He fixes me with a spiteful look. “I hate you because your father loves you even though you're a human brat born to his unfaithful wife, while mine never cared for me, though I am a prince of Faerie. I hate you because you don't have a brother who beats you. And I hate you because Locke used you and your sister to make Nicasia cry after he stole her from me. Besides which, after the tournament, Balekin never failed to throw you in my face as the mortal who could best me.”

I didn't think Balekin even knew who I was.

We stare at each other across the desk. Lounging in the chair, Cardan looks every bit the wicked prince. I wonder if he expects to be shot.

“Is that all?” I demand. “Because it's ridiculous. You can't be jealous of me. You don't have to live at the sufferance of the same person who murdered your parents. You don't have to stay angry because if you don't, there's a bottomless well of fear ready to open up under you.” I stop speaking abruptly, surprised at myself.

I said I wasn't going to be charmed, but I let him trick me into opening up to him.

As I think that, Cardan's smile turns into a more familiar sneer. “Oh, really? I don't know about being angry? I don't know about being afraid? You're not the one bargaining for your life.”

“That's really why you hate me?” I demand. “Only that? There's no better reason?”

For a moment, I think he's ignoring me, but then I realize he's not answering because he can't lie and he doesn't want to tell me the truth.

“Well?” I say, lifting the crossbow again, glad to have a reason to reassert my position as the person in charge. “Tell me!”

He leans in and closes his eyes. “Most of all, I hate you because I think of you. Often. It's disgusting, and I can't stop.”

I am shocked into silence.

“Maybe you should shoot me after all,” he says, covering his face with one long-fingered hand.

“You're playing me,” I say. I don't believe him. I won't fall for some silly trick, because he thinks I am some fool to lose my head over beauty; if I was, I couldn't last a single day in Faerie. I stand, ready to call his bluff.

Crossbows aren't great at close range, so I trade mine for a dagger.

He doesn't look up as I walk around the desk to him. I place the tip of the blade against the bottom of his chin, as I did the day before in the hall, and I tilt his face toward mine. He shifts his gaze with obvious reluctance.

The horror and shame on his face look entirely too real. Suddenly, I am not so sure what to believe.

I lean toward him, close enough for a kiss. His eyes widen. The look in his face is some commingling of panic and desire. It is a heady feeling, having power over someone. Over
Cardan
, who I never thought had any feelings at all.

“You really do want me,” I say, close enough to feel the warmth of his breath as it hitches. “And you
hate
it.” I change the angle of the knife, turning it so it's against his neck. He doesn't look nearly as alarmed by that as I might expect.

Not nearly as alarmed as when I bring my mouth to his.

I
don't have a lot of experience with kisses. There was Locke, and before him, no one. But kissing Locke never felt the way that kissing Cardan does, like taking a dare to run over knives, like an adrenaline strike of lightning, like the moment when you've swum too far out in the sea and there is no going back, only cold black water closing over your head.

Cardan's cruel mouth is surprisingly soft, and for a long moment after our lips touch, he's still as a statue. His eyes close, lashes brushing my cheek. I shudder, as you're supposed to when someone walks over your grave. Then his hands come up, gentle as they glide over my arms. If I didn't know better, I'd say his touch was reverent, but I do know better. His hands are moving slowly because he is trying to stop himself. He doesn't want this. He doesn't want to want this.

He tastes like sour wine.

I can feel the moment he gives in and gives up, pulling me to him despite the threat of the knife. He kisses me hard, with a kind of devouring desperation, fingers digging into my hair. Our mouths slide together, teeth over lips over tongues. Desire hits me like a kick to the stomach. It's like fighting, except what we're fighting for is to crawl inside each other's skin.

That's the moment when terror seizes me. What kind of insane revenge is there in exulting in his revulsion? And worse, far worse,
I like this
. I like everything about kissing him—the familiar buzz of fear, the knowledge I am punishing him, the proof he wants me.

The knife in my hand is useless. I throw it at the desk, barely registering as the point sinks into the wood. He pulls back from me at the sound, startled. His mouth is pink, his eyes dark. He sees the knife and barks out a startled laugh.

Which is enough to make me stagger back. I want to mock him, to show up his weakness without revealing mine, but I don't trust my face not to show too much.

“Is that what you imagined?” I ask, and am relieved to find that my voice sounds harsh.

“No,” he says tonelessly.

“Tell me,” I say.

He shakes his head, somewhere chagrined. “Unless you're really going to stab me, I think I won't. And I might not tell you even if you were going to stab me.”

I get up on Dain's desk to put some distance between us. My skin feels too tight, and the room seems suddenly too small. He almost made me laugh there.

“I am going to make a proposal,” Cardan says. “I don't want to put the crown on Balekin's head just to lose mine. Ask whatever you want for yourself, for the Court of Shadows, but ask something for me. Get him to give me lands far from here. Tell him I will be gloriously irresponsible, far from his side. He never needs to think of me again. He can sire some brat to be his heir and pass the High Crown to it. Or perhaps it will slit his throat, a new family tradition. I care not.”

I am grudgingly impressed that he's managed to come up with a fairly decent bargain, despite having been tied to a chair for most of the night and probably quite drunk.

“Get up,” I tell him.

“So you're not worried I'm going to run for it?” he asks, stretching out his legs. His pointy boots gleam in the room, and I wonder if I should confiscate them since they're potential weapons. Then I remember how bad he is with a sword.

“After our kiss, I am such a fool over you that I can hardly contain myself,” I tell him with as much sarcasm as I can muster. “All I want to do is nice things that make you happy. Sure, I'll make whatever bargain you want, so long as you kiss me again. Go ahead and run. I definitely won't shoot you in the back.”

He blinks a few times. “Hearing you lie outright is a bit disconcerting.”

“Then let me tell you the truth. You're not going to run because you've got nowhere to go.”

I head to the door, flip the lock, and look out. The Bomb is lying on a cot in the sleeping room. The Roach raises his eyebrows at me. The Ghost is passed out in a chair, but he shakes himself awake when we come in. I feel flushed all over and hope I don't look it.

“You done interrogating the princeling?” the Roach asks.

I nod. “I think I know what I've got to do.”

The Ghost takes a long look at him. “So are we selling? Buying? Cleaning his guts off the ceiling?”

“I'm going to take a walk,” I say. “To get some air.”

The Roach sighs.

“I just need to put my thoughts in order,” I say. “And then I will explain everything.”

“Will you?” the Ghost wants to know, fixing me with a look. I wonder if he guesses how easily promises are coming to my lips. I am spending them like enchanted gold, doomed to turn back into dried leaves in tills all over town.

“I talked with Madoc, and he offered me whatever I wanted in exchange for Cardan. Gold, magic, glory,
anything
. The first part of this bargain is struck, and I haven't even admitted I know where the lost prince might be.”

The Ghost's lip curls at the mention of Madoc, but he's silent.

“So what's the holdup?” asks the Roach. “I like all those things.”

“I'm just working out the details,” I say. “And you need to tell me what you want. Exactly what you want—how much gold, what else. Write it down.”

The Roach grunts but doesn't seem inclined to contradict me. He signals with one clawed hand for Cardan to return to the table. The prince staggers, pushing off the wall to get there. I make sure all the sharp things are where I left them, and then I head for the door. When I look back, I see Cardan's hands are deftly splitting the deck of cards, but his glittering black eyes are on me.

I walk to the Lake of Masks and sit on one of the black rocks over the water. The setting sun has lit the sky on fire, set the tops of the trees ablaze.

For a long time, I just sit there, watching the waves lap at the shoreline. I take deep breaths waiting for my mind to settle, for my head to clear. Overhead, I hear the trilling of birds calling to one another as they roost for the night and see glowing lights kindle in hollow knotholes as sprites come awake.

Balekin cannot become the High King, not if there's anything I can do about it. He loves cruelty and hates mortals. He would be a terrible ruler. For now, there are rules dictating our interactions with the human world—those rules could change. What if bargains were no longer needed to steal mortals away? What if anyone could be taken, at any time? It used to be like that; it still is in some places. The High King could make both worlds far worse than they are, could favor the Unseelie Courts, could sow discord and terror for a thousand years.

So, instead, what if I turn Cardan over to Madoc?

He would put Oak on the throne and then rule as a tyrannical and brutal regent. He would make war on the Courts that resisted swearing to the throne. He would raise Oak in enough bloodshed that he would turn into someone like Madoc, or perhaps someone more secretly cruel, like Dain. But he would be better than Balekin. And he would make a fair bargain with me and with the Court of Shadows, if only for my sake. And I—what would I do?

I could go with Vivi, I suppose.

Or I could bargain to be a knight. I could stay and help protect Oak, help insulate him from Madoc's influence. Of course, I would have little power to do that.

What would happen if I cut Madoc out of the picture? That would mean no gold for the Court of Shadows, no bargains with anyone. It would mean getting the crown somehow and putting it on Oak's head. And then what? Madoc would still become regent. I couldn't stop him. Oak would still listen to him. Oak would still become his puppet, still be in danger.

Unless—unless somehow Oak could be crowned and spirited away from Faerie. Be the High King in exile. Once Oak was grown and ready, he could return, aided by the power of the Greenbriar crown. Madoc might still be able to assert some authority over Faerie until Oak got back, but he wouldn't be able to make Oak as bloodthirsty, as inclined toward war. He wouldn't have the absolute authority that he'd have as a regent with the High King beside him. And since Oak would have been reared in the human world, when he came back to Faerie, hopefully he'd be at least somewhat sympathetic to the place where he was raised and the people he met there.

Ten years. If we could keep Oak out of Faerie for ten years, he could grow into the person he's going to be.

Of course, by then, he might have to fight to get his throne back. Someone—probably Madoc, possibly Balekin, maybe even one of the other minor kings or queens—could squat there like a spider, consolidating power.

I squint at the black water. If only there were a way to keep the throne unoccupied for long enough that Oak becomes his own person, without Madoc making war, without any regent at all.

I stand up, having made my decision. For good or ill, I know what I am going to do. I have my plan. Madoc would not approve of this strategy. It's not the kind he likes, where there are multiple ways to win. It's the kind where there's only one way, and it's kind of a long shot.

As I stand, I catch my own reflection in the water. I look again and realize that it can't be me. The Lake of Masks never shows you your own face. I creep closer. The full moon is bright in the sky, bright enough to show me my mother looking back at me. She's younger than I remember her. And she's laughing, calling over someone I cannot see.

Through time, she points at me. When she speaks, I can read her lips.
Look! A human girl.
She appears delighted.

Then Madoc's reflection joins hers, his hand going around her waist. He looks no younger then, but there is an openness in his face that I have never seen. He waves to me.

I am a stranger to them.

Run!
I want to shout. But, of course, that's the one thing I don't need to tell her to do.

The Bomb looks up when I enter. She's sitting at the wooden table, measuring out a grayish powder. Beside her are several spun glass globes, corked shut. Her magnificent white hair is tied up with what looks like a piece of dirty string. A smear of grime streaks over her nose.

“The rest of them are in the back,” she says. “With the princeling, getting some sleep.”

I sit down at the table with a sigh. I'd been tensed up to explain myself, and now all that energy has nowhere to go. “Is there anything around to eat?”