The Cruel Prince (31 page)

She gives me a quick grin as she fills another globe and sets it gingerly in a basket by her feet. “The Ghost picked up some black bread and butter. We ate the sausages, and the wine's gone, but there might still be some cheese.”

I rummage through the cupboard, take out the food, and then eat it mechanically. I pour myself a cup of bracing and bitter fennel tea. It makes me feel a little steadier. I watch her make explosives for a while. As she works, she whistles a little, off-key. It's odd to hear; most of the Folk are musically gifted, but I like her tune better for being imperfect. It seems happier, easier, less haunting.

“Where will you go when all this is done?” I ask her.

She glances over at me, puzzled. “What makes you think I'm going anywhere?”

I frown at my nearly empty cup of tea. “Because Dain's gone. I mean, isn't that what the Ghost and the Roach are going to do? Aren't you going with them?”

The Bomb shrugs her narrow shoulders and points a bare toe at the basket of globes. “See all these?”

I nod.

“They don't travel well,” she says. “I'm going to stay here, with you. You've got a plan, right?”

I am too flummoxed to know what to say. I open my mouth and begin to stammer. She laughs. “Cardan said that you did. That if you were just making a trade, you would have done it already. And if you were going to betray us, you'd have done that by now, too.”

“But, um,” I say, and then lose my train of thought. Something about how he wasn't supposed to be paying that much attention. “What do the others think?”

She goes back to filling globes. “They didn't say, but none of us likes Balekin. If you've got a plan, well, good for you. But if you want us on your side, maybe you could be a little less cagey about it.”

I take a deep breath and decide that if I am really going to do this, I could use some help. “What do you think about stealing a crown? Right in front of the kings and queens of Faerie?”

Her grin curls up at the corners. “Just tell me what I get to blow up.”

Twenty minutes later, I light the stub of a candle and make my way to the room with the cots. As the Bomb said, Cardan is stretched out on one, looking sickeningly handsome. He's washed his face and taken off his jacket, which he has folded up under his head for a pillow. I poke him in the arm, and he comes awake instantly, raising his hand as though to ward me off.

“Shhhh,” I whisper. “Don't wake the others. I need to talk to you.”

“Go away. You told me you wouldn't kill me if I answered your questions, and I did.” He doesn't sound like the boy who kissed me, sick with desire, just hours ago. He sounds sleepy, arrogant, and annoyed.

“I am going to offer you something better than your life,” I say. “Now, come on.”

He stands, shouldering on his jacket, and then follows me into Dain's office. Once we're there, he leans against the doorjamb. His eyes are heavy-lidded, his hair messy from the bed. Just looking at him makes me feel hot with shame. “You sure you brought me here just to talk?”

It turns out that having kissed someone, the possibility of kissing hangs over everything, no matter how terrible an idea it was the first time. The memory of his mouth on mine shimmers in the air between us. “I brought you here to make a deal with you.”

His eyebrow goes up. “Intriguing.”

“What if you didn't have to go hide somewhere in the countryside? What if there were an alternative to Balekin's being on the throne?” That's clearly not what he was expecting me to say. For a moment, his insouciant swagger fails him.

“There is,” he says slowly. “
Me.
Except I would be a terrible king, and I would hate it. Besides, Balekin is unlikely to put the crown on my head. He and I have never gotten on particularly well.”

“I thought you lived in his house.” I cross my arms over my chest protectively, trying to push away the image of Balekin punishing Cardan. I can't have any sympathy now.

He tips his head back, looking at me through dark lashes. “Maybe living together is the reason we don't get on.”

“I don't like you, either,” I remind him.

“So you've said.” He gives me a lazy grin. “So if it's not me and it's not Balekin, then who?”

“My brother, Oak,” I tell him. “I'm not going to go into how, but he's of the right bloodline. Your bloodline. He can wear the crown.”

Cardan frowns. “You're sure?”

I nod. I don't like telling him this before I ask him to do what I need, but there's little he can do with the knowledge. I will never trade him to Balekin. There is no one to tell but Madoc, and he already knows.

“So Madoc will be regent,” Cardan says.

I shake my head. “That's why I need your help. I want you to crown Oak the High King, and then I'm going to send him to the mortal world. Let him have a chance to be a kid. Let him have a chance at being a good king someday.”

“Oak might make different choices than the ones you want him to,” Cardan says. “He might, for instance, prefer Madoc to you.”

“I have been a stolen child,” I tell him. “I grew up in a foreign land for a far lonelier and worse reason than this. Vivi will care for him. And if you agree to my plan, I'll get you everything you asked for and more. But I need something from you—an oath. I want you to swear yourself into my service.”

He barks out the same surprised laugh he made when I threw my knife at the desk. “You want
me
to put
myself
in
your
power? Voluntarily?”

“You don't think I'm serious, but I am. I couldn't be more serious.” Inside my crossed arms, I pinch my own skin to prevent any twitches, any tells. I need to seem completely composed, completely confident. My heart is speeding. I feel the way I did when I was a child, playing chess with Madoc—I would see the winning moves ahead of me, forget to be cautious, and then be brought up short by a move of his I hadn't predicted. I remind myself to breathe, to concentrate.

“Our interests align,” he says. “What do you need my oath for?”

I take a deep breath. “I need to be sure you won't betray me. You're too dangerous with the crown in your hands. What if you put it on your brother's head after all? What if you want it for yourself?”

He seems to think that over. “I'll tell you exactly what I want—the estates where I live. I want them given to me with everything and everyone in them. Hollow Hall. I want it.”

I nod. “Done.”

“I want every last bottle in the royal cellars, no matter how old or rare.”

“They will be yours,” I say.

“I want the Roach to teach me how to steal,” he says.

Surprised, I don't answer for a moment. Is he joking? He doesn't seem to be. “Why?” I ask finally.

“It could come in useful,” he says. “Besides, I like him.”

“Fine,” I say incredulously. “I will find a way to work it out.”

“You really think you can promise all that?” He gives me a considering look.

“I can. I do. And I promise we will thwart Balekin. We will get the crown of Faerie,” I tell him heedlessly. How many promises can I make before I find myself accountable for them? A few more, I hope.

Cardan throws himself into Dain's chair. From behind the desk, he gazes at me coolly from that position of authority. Something in my gut twists, but I ignore it. I can do this. I can do this. I hold my breath.

“You can have my service for a year and a day,” he says.

“That's not long enough,” I insist. “I can't—”

He snorts. “I am sure that your brother will be crowned and gone by then. Or we will have lost, despite your promises, and it won't matter anyway. You won't get a better offer from me, especially not if you threaten me again.”

It buys me time, at least. I let out my breath. “Fine. We're agreed.”

Cardan crosses the room toward me, and I have no idea what he's going to do. If he kisses me, I am afraid I will be consumed by the hungry and humiliating urgency that I felt the first time. But when he kneels down in front of me, I am too surprised to formulate any thoughts at all. He takes my hand in his, long fingers cool as they curl around mine. “Very well,” he says impatiently, not sounding in the least like a vassal about to swear to his lady. “Jude Duarte, daughter of clay, I swear myself into your service. I will act as your hand. I will act as your shield. I will act in accordance with your will. Let it be so for one year and one day…
and not for one minute more
.”

“You've really improved the vow,” I say, although my voice comes out strained. Even as he said the words, I felt like somehow he got the upper hand. Somehow he's the one in control.

He stands in one fluid motion, letting go of me. “Now what?”

“Go back to bed,” I tell him. “I'll wake you in a little while and explain what we've got to do.”

“As you command,” Cardan says, mocking smile pulling at his mouth. Then he goes back to the room with the cots, presumably to flop down on one. I think about all the strangeness of his being here, sleeping in homespun sheets, wearing the same clothes for days on end, eating bread and cheese, and not complaining about any of it. It almost seems like he prefers a nest of spies and assassins to the splendor of his own bed.

T
he monarchs of the Seelie and Unseelie Courts, along with the wild unallied faeries who came for the coronation, had made camp on the easternmost corner of the island. They had pitched tents, some in motley, some in diaphanous silks. When I get close, I can see fires burning. Honey wine and spoiled meat perfume the air.

Cardan stands next to me, dressed in flat black, his dark hair combed away from a face scrubbed clean. He looks pale and tired, although I let him sleep as long as I dared.

I didn't wake up the Ghost or the Roach after Cardan swore his oath. Instead, I talked strategy with the Bomb for the better part of an hour. She is the one who got me the change of clothes for Cardan, the one who agreed he might come in useful. Which is how I came to be here, about to try to find a monarch willing to back a ruler other than Balekin. If my plan is going to succeed, I need someone at that feast who is on the side of a new king, preferably someone with the power to keep a dinner party from devolving into another slaughter if things go sideways.

If nothing else, I'll need lots of disruptions to be sure I can get Oak out of there. The Bomb's glass globes aren't going to be enough. What I'll have to offer in exchange, I am not entirely sure. I've spent all my own promises; now I will begin spending the crown's.

I take a deep breath. Once I stand in front of the lords and ladies of Faerie and declare my intent to go against Balekin, there's no going back, no crawling under the coverlets in my bed, no running away. If I do this, I am bound to Faerie until Oak sits on the throne.

We have tonight and half of tomorrow before the feast, before I must go to Hollow Hall, before my plans either come together or come entirely apart.

There's only one way to keep Faerie ready for Oak—I have to stay. I have to use what I've learned from Madoc and the Court of Shadows to manipulate and murder my way into keeping the throne ready for him. I said ten years, but perhaps seven will be enough. That's not so long. Seven years of drinking poison, of never sleeping, of living on high alert. Seven more years, and then maybe Faerie will be a safer, better land. And I will have earned my place in it.

The great game, Locke had called it when he accused me of playing it. I wasn't then, but I am now. And maybe I learned something from Locke. He made me into a story, and now I am going to make a story out of someone else.

“So I am to sit here and feed you information,” Cardan says, leaning against a hickory tree. “And you're to go charm royalty? That seems entirely backward.”

I fix him with a look. “I can be charming. I charmed you, didn't I?”

He rolls his eyes. “Do not expect others to share my depraved tastes.”

“I am going to command you,” I tell him. “Okay?”

A muscle jumps in his jaw. I am sure it is no small thing for a prince of Faerie to accept being controlled, especially by me, but he nods.

I speak the words. “I command you to stay here and wait until I am ready to leave this forest, there is imminent danger, or a full day has passed. While you wait, I command you to make no sound or signal to draw any others to you. If there is imminent danger or a day has passed without my return, I command you to return to the Court of Shadows, concealing yourself as well as you are able until you are there.”

“That is not too poorly done,” he tells me, managing to retain his haughty, regal air somehow.

It's annoying.

“Okay,” I say. “Tell me what you can about Queen Annet.”

What I know is this: She left the coronation ceremony before any of the other lords or ladies. That means she hates either the idea of Balekin or the idea of any High Monarch. I just have to figure out which.

“The Court of Moths is sprawling and very traditionally Unseelie. She's practical-minded and direct, and she values raw power over other things. I also heard she eats her lovers when she tires of them.” He raises his eyebrows.

Despite myself, I smile. It's bizarre to be in this with Cardan, of all people. And weirder still for him to talk with me this way, as he might to Nicasia or Locke.

“So why did she walk out of the coronation?” I ask. “It sounds like she and Balekin would be perfect for each other.”

“She has no heirs,” he says. “And despairs of ever bearing one. I think she would not have liked to see the wasteful slaughter of an entire line. Moreover, I don't think she would be impressed that Balekin killed them all and still left the dais without a crown.”

“Okay,” I say, sucking in a breath.

He grabs hold of my wrist. I am shocked by the sensation of his skin warm against mine. “Take care,” he says, and then smiles. “It would be very dull to have to sit here for an entire day just because you went and got yourself killed.”

“My last thoughts would be of your boredom,” I tell him, and head off toward Queen Annet's Unseelie encampment.

No fires burn, and the tents are of a rough greenish fabric the color of swamp. The sentries out in front are a troll and a goblin. The troll is wearing armor painted over in some dark color that seems too close to dried blood for comfort.

“Um, hello,” I say, which I realize I need to work on. “I'm a messenger. I need to see the queen.”

The troll peers down at me, obviously surprised to find a human before him.

“And who dares send such a delicious messenger to our Court?” I think he might actually be flattering me, although it's hard to tell.

“The High King Balekin,” I lie. I figure using his name is the fastest way to get in.

That makes him smile, although not in a friendly way. “What is a king without a crown? That's a riddle, but one to which we all know the answer: no king at all.”

The other sentry laughs. “We will not let you pass, little morsel. Run back to your master and tell him that Queen Annet does not recognize him, though she appreciates his sense of spectacle. She will not dine with him no matter how many times he asks or what delectable bribes he sends along with his messages.”

“This isn't what you think,” I say.

“Very well, tarry with us awhile. I bet your bones would crunch sweetly.” The troll is all sharp teeth and mild threat. I know he doesn't mean it; if he meant it, he would have said something else entirely and just gobbled me up.

Still, I back off. There are guest obligations on everyone who came for the coronation, but guest obligations among the Folk are baroque enough that I am never sure if they protect me or not.

Prince Cardan is waiting for me in the clearing, lying on his back, as though he's been counting stars.

He looks a question at me, and I shake my head before I slump down in the grass.

“I didn't even get to talk to her,” I say.

He turns toward me, the moonlight highlighting the planes of his face, the sharpness of his cheekbones, and the points of his ears. “Then you did something wrong.”

I want to snap at him, but he's right. I messed up. I need to be more formal, more sure that it is my right to be allowed in front of a monarch, as though I am used to it. I practiced everything I would
say
to her but not how I would
get
to her. That part seemed easy. Now I can see that it won't be.

I lie back beside him and look up at the stars. If I had time, I could make a chart and trace my luck in them. “Fine. If you were me, whom would you apply to?”

“Lord Roiben and the Alderking's son, Severin.” His face is close to mine.

I frown at him. “But they're not part of the High Court. They haven't sworn to the crown.”

“Exactly,” Cardan says, reaching out a finger to trace the shape of my ear. The curve, I realize. I shudder, eyes closing against the hot spike of shame. He keeps talking, but he seems to realize what he's been doing and snatches his hand away. Now we're both ashamed. “They have less to lose and more to gain throwing in with a plan that some might call treason. Severin reportedly favors a mortal knight and has a mortal lover, so he'll speak with you. And his father was in exile, so recognition of his Court itself would be something.

“As for Lord Roiben, the stories make him seem like some figure in a tragedy. A Seelie knight, tortured for decades as a servant in the Unseelie Court he came to rule. I don't know what you offer someone like that, but he has a big enough Court that if you got him to back Oak, even Balekin would be nervous. Other than that, I know he has a consort he favors, though she is of low rank. Try not to annoy her.”

I remember Cardan drunkenly talking us past the guards on the way out of the coronation. He knows these people, knows their customs. No matter how high-handed he sounds giving advice or how much he bothers me, I would be a fool not to listen. I push myself to my feet, hoping there aren't hectic spots of red coloring my cheeks. Cardan sits up, too, looking as though he's about to speak.

“I know,” I say, starting toward the camp. “Don't bore you by dying.”

I decide to try my luck with the Alderking's son, Severin, first. His camp is small, as is his domain—a stretch of woods just outside Roiben's Court of Termites and neither Seelie nor Unseelie in nature.

His tent is made of some heavy cloth, painted in silver and green. A few knights sit nearby around a cheerful fire. None of them are in armor—just heavy leather tunics and boots. One is fussing with a contraption to suspend a kettle over the fire and boil water. The human boy I saw with Severin at the coronation, the redhead who caught me staring, is talking with one of the knights in a low voice. A moment later, they both laugh. No one pays me any notice.

I march up to the fire. “Your pardon,” I say, wondering if even that is too polite for a royal messenger. Still, I have no choice but to barrel on. “I have a message for the Alderking's son. The new High King wishes to come to an arrangement with him.”

“Oh, really?” The human surprises me by speaking first.

“Yes, mortal,” I say, like the hypocrite I am. But come on, that's absolutely how one of Balekin's servants would talk to him.

He rolls his eyes and says something to one of the other knights as he stands. It takes me a moment to realize I am looking at Lord Severin. Hair the color of autumn leaves and moss-green eyes and horns curving from behind his brow to just above his ears. I am surprised at the thought of his sitting with the rest of his retinue before a fire, but I recover quickly enough to remember to bow.

“I must speak with you alone,” I say.

“Oh?” he queries. I do not respond, and his brows rise. “Of course,” he says. “This way.”

“You should fix her,” the human boy calls after us. “Seriously, glamoured human servants are
creepy
.”

Severin doesn't answer him.

I trail behind him into the tent. None of the others follow, although, when we get inside, there are some women in gowns sitting on cushions and a piper playing a little tune. A female knight sits beside them, her sword across her lap. The blade is beautiful enough to catch my eye.

Severin leads me to a low table surrounded by tufted stools and piled with refreshments—a silver carafe of water with a horn handle, a platter of grapes and apricots, and a dish of little honeyed pastries. He gestures for me to sit, and when I do, he settles himself on another stool.

“Eat whatever you wish,” he says, making it seem like an offer rather than a command.

“I want to ask you to witness a coronation ceremony,” I say, ignoring the food. “But Balekin's not the one who's going to be crowned.”

He doesn't look immensely surprised, just slightly more suspicious. “So you're
not
his messenger?”

“I am the next High King's messenger,” I say, taking Cardan's ring from my pocket as proof that I have some connection to the royal family, that I am not just making up this story from whole cloth. “Balekin isn't going to be the next High King.”

“I see.” His affect is impassive, but his gaze is drawn to the ring.

“And I can promise you that your Court will be recognized as sovereign, if you help us. No threat of conquest from the new High King. Instead, we offer you an alliance.” Fear crawls up my throat, and I almost can't say the last words. If he won't help me, there's some chance he'll betray me to Balekin. If that happens, things get a lot more difficult.