The Cruel Prince (32 page)

I can control a lot, but I cannot control this.

Severin's face is unreadable. “I am not going to insult you by asking whom you represent. There is only one possibility, the young Prince Cardan, of whom I hear many things. But I am not the ideal candidate to help you, for the very reasons your offer is so tempting. My Court is afforded little consequence. And more, I am the son of a traitor, so my honor is unlikely to be given weight.”

“You're going to Balekin's banquet already. All I need from you is aid at the critical moment.” He's tempted, he admitted as much. Maybe he just needs some more convincing. “Whatever you've heard about Prince Cardan, he will make a better king than his brother.”

At least there I am not lying.

Severin glances toward the edge of the tent, as though wondering who can overhear me. “I will help you so long as I am not the only one. I say this as much for your sake as for mine.” With that, he stands. “I wish you and the prince well. If you need me, I will do what I can.”

I get up off the stool and bow again. “You are most generous.”

As I leave his camp, my mind whirls. On one hand, I did it. I managed to speak with one of the rulers of Faerie without making a fool of myself. I even kind of persuaded him to go along with my plan. But I still need another monarch, a more influential one, to agree.

There is one place I have been avoiding. The largest camp belongs to Roiben of the Court of Termites. Notoriously bloodthirsty, he won both of his crowns in battle, so he has no reason to object to Balekin's blood-soaked coup. Still, Roiben seems to feel much the way Annet of the Court of Moths does, that Balekin is of little consequence without a crown.

Maybe he won't want to see one of Balekin's messengers, either. And, given the size of his encampment, I can't even imagine the number of guardians I would have to pass in order to speak with him.

But possibly I could sneak in. After all, with so many of the Folk around, what is one person more or less?

I gather up a bundle of fallen branches, large enough to be a respectable contribution to a fire, and walk toward the Termite Camp with my head down. There are knights posted around the perimeter, but, indeed, they pay me little mind as I walk past.

I feel giddy with the success of my plan. When I was a child, sometimes Madoc would have to stop in the middle of a game of Nine Men's Morris. The board would remain as it was, waiting for us to resume. All through the day and the night, I would imagine my moves and his countermoves until, when we sat down, we were no longer playing the original game. Most often what I failed to do was accurately anticipate his next moves. I had a great strategy for me, but not for the game I was in.

That's how I feel now, walking into the camp. I am playing a game opposite Madoc, and while I can spin out plans and schemes, if I can't accurately guess his, I am sunk.

I drop the kindling beside a fire. A blue-skinned woman with black teeth regards me for a moment and then goes back to her conversation with a goat-footed man. Dusting the bark from my clothes, I walk toward the largest tent. I keep my step light and my stride easy and even. When I find a patch of shadow, I use it to crawl under the edge of the cloth. For a moment, I lie there, half hidden on both sides and completely hidden on neither.

The inside of the main tent is lit with lanterns burning with green alchemical fire, tinting everything a sickly color. In every other way, however, the interior is lush. Carpets are layered, one over another. There are heavy wooden tables, chairs, and a bed piled with furs and brocade coverlets stitched with pomegranates.

But on the table, to my surprise, are paper cartons of food. The green-skinned pixie who was with Roiben at the coronation uses chopsticks to bring noodles to her mouth. He sits beside her, carefully breaking apart a fortune cookie.

“What does it say?” the girl asks. “How about ‘the trip you told your girlfriend would be fun ended in bloodshed, as usual.'”

“It says, ‘Your shoes will make you happy today,'” he tells her, voice dry, and passes the little slip across the table for her verification.

She glances down at his leather boots. He shrugs, a small smile touching his lips.

Then I'm dragged roughly out from my hiding place. I roll onto my back outside the tent to find a knight standing above me, her sword drawn. There is no one to blame but myself. I should have kept moving, should have found a way to hide myself inside the tent. I should not have stopped to listen to a conversation, no matter how surprising I found it.

“Get up,” the knight says. Dulcamara. Her face shows no recognition of me, however.

I stand, and she marches me into the tent, kicking me in the legs once we get there so I topple onto the rugs. I have cause to be thankful for their plushness. For a moment, I let myself lie there. She presses her boot against the small of my back as though I am some felled prey.

“I caught a spy,” she announces. “Shall I snap its neck?”

I could roll over and grab her ankle. That would throw her off balance for long enough that I could get up. If I twisted her leg and ran, I might be able to get away. At worst, I'd be on my feet, able to grab a weapon and fight her.

But I came here to have an audience with Lord Roiben, and now I have one. I stay still and let Dulcamara underestimate me.

Lord Roiben has come around from the table and bends over me, white hair falling around his face. Silver eyes regard me pitilessly. “And whose Court are you a part of?”

“The High King's,” I say. “The true High King, Eldred, who was felled by his son.”

“I am not sure I believe you.” He surprises me both with the mildness of the statement and with the assumption that I am lying. “Come, sit with us and eat. I would hear more of your tale. Dulcamara, you may leave us.”

“You're going to feed it?” she asks sulkily.

He does not answer her, and after a moment of stony silence, she seems to remember herself. With a bow, she leaves.

I go to the table. The pixie regards me with her inkdrop-black eyes, like Tatterfell's. I notice the extra joint in her fingers as she reaches for an eggroll. “Go ahead,” she says. “There's plenty. I used most of the hot mustard packets, though.”

Roiben waits, watching me.

“Mortal food,” I say, in what I hope is a neutral way.

“We live alongside mortals, do we not?” he asks me.

“I think
she
more than lives
beside
them,” the pixie objects, looking at me.

“Your pardon,” he says, and waits. I realize they really expect me to eat something. I spear a dumpling with a single chopstick and stuff it into my mouth. “It's good.”

The pixie resumes eating noodles.

Roiben gestures to her. “This is Kaye. I imagine you know who I am since you snuck into my camp. What name might you go by?”

I am unused to such scrupulous politeness being afforded to me—he's doing me the courtesy of not asking for my true name. “Jude,” I say, because names have no power over mortals. “And I came to see you because I can put someone other than Balekin on the throne, but I need your help to do it.”

“Someone better than Balekin or just someone?” he asks.

I frown, not sure how to answer that. “Someone who didn't murder most of his family onstage. Isn't that automatically better?”

The pixie—
Kaye
—snorts.

Lord Roiben looks down at his hand, on the wooden table, then back at me. I cannot read his grim face. “Balekin is no diplomat, but perhaps he can learn. He's obviously ambitious, and he pulled off a brutal coup. Not everyone has the stomach for that.”

“I almost didn't have the stomach to watch it,” Kaye says.

“He only sort of pulled it off,” I remind them. “And I didn't think you liked him very much, given what you said at the coronation.”

A corner of Roiben's mouth turns up. It is a gesture in miniature, barely noticeable. “I don't. I think he's a coward to kill his sisters and father in what appeared to be a fit of pique. And he hid behind his military, letting his general finish off the High King's chosen heir. That bespeaks weakness, the kind that will inevitably be exploited.”

A cold chill of premonition shivers up my back. “What I need is someone to witness a coronation, someone with enough power that the witnessing will matter. You. It will happen at Balekin's feast, tomorrow eve. If you'll just allow it to happen and give your oath to the new High King—”

“No offense,” Kaye says, “but what do you have to do with any of this? Why do you care who gets the throne?”

“Because this is where I live,” I say. “This is where I grew up. Even if I hate it half the time, it's mine.”

Lord Roiben nods slowly. “And you are not going to tell me who this candidate is nor how you're going to get a crown on his head?”

“I'd rather not,” I say.

“I could get Dulcamara to hurt you until you begged to be allowed to tell me your secrets.” He says this mildly, just another fact, but it reminds me of just how horrific his reputation is. No amount of takeout Chinese food or politeness ought to make me forget exactly who and what I am dealing with.

“Wouldn't that make you as much of a coward as Balekin?” I ask, trying to project the same confidence I did in the Court of Shadows, the same confidence I did with Cardan. I can't let him see that I'm scared or, at least, not
how
scared I am.

We study each other for a long moment, the pixie watching us both. Finally, Lord Roiben lets out a long breath. “Probably more of a coward. Very well, Jude, kingmaker. We will gamble with you. Put the crown on a head other than Balekin's and I will help you keep it there.” He pauses. “But you will do something for me.”

I wait, tense.

He steeples his long fingers. “Someday, I will ask your king for a favor.”

“You want me to agree to something without even knowing what it is?” I blurt out.

His stoic face gives little away. “Now we understand each other exactly.”

I nod. What choice do I have? “Something of equal value,” I clarify. “And within our power.”

“This has been a most interesting meeting,” Lord Roiben says with a small, inscrutable smile.

As I stand to leave, Kaye winks an inkdrop eye at me. “Luck, mortal.”

With her words echoing after me, I leave the encampments and head back to Cardan.

T
he Ghost is up when we return. He had been out and brought back with him a handful of tiny apples, some dried venison, fresh butter, and several dozen more bottles of wine. He's also brought down a few pieces of furniture I recognize from the palace—a silk-embroidered divan, satin cushions, a shimmering spider-silk throw, and a chalcedony set of tea things.

He looks up from the divan where he is sitting, appearing both tense and exhausted. I think he's grieving, but not in a human way. “Well? I believe I was promised gold.”

“What if I could promise you revenge?” I ask, conscious once again of the weight of debts already on my shoulders.

He trades a look with the Bomb. “So she really does have a scheme.”

The Bomb settles herself on a cushion. “A secret, which is far better than a scheme.”

I grab an apple, go to the table, and then hoist myself onto it. “We're going to walk right into Balekin's feast and steal his kingdom out from under him. How's that for vengeance?”

Bold, that's what I need to be. Like I own the place. Like I am the general's daughter. Like I can really pull this off.

The corner of the Ghost's mouth turns up. He takes out four silver cups from the cupboard and sets them before me. “Drink?”

I shake my head, watching him pour. He returns to the divan but rests at the edge as though he's going to have to jump up in a moment. He takes a big swallow of wine.

“You spoke of the murder of Dain's unborn child,” I say.

The Ghost nods. “I saw your face when Cardan spoke of Liriope and when you understood my part in it.”

“It surprised me,” I say honestly. “I wanted to think Dain was different.”

Cardan snorts and takes the silver cup that was meant for me as well as his own.

“Murder is a cruel trade,” says the Ghost. “I believe Dain would have been as fair a High King as any prince of the Folk, but my father was mortal. He would not have considered Dain to be good. He would not have considered me good, either. You'd do well to decide how much you care for goodness before you go too far down the road of spycraft.”

He's probably right, but there's little time for me to consider it now. “You don't understand,” I tell him. “Liriope's child lived.”

He turns to the Bomb, clearly astonished. “
That's
the secret?”

She nods, a little smug. “That's the scheme.”

The Ghost gives her a long look and then turns his gaze to me. “I don't want to find a new position. I want to stay here and serve the next High King. So, yes, let's steal the kingdom.”

“We don't need to be good,” I tell the Ghost. “But let's try to be fair. As fair as any prince of Faerie.”

The Ghost smiles.

“And maybe a little fairer,” I say with a look at Cardan.

The Ghost nods. “I'd like that.”

Then he goes to wake the Roach. I have to explain all over again. Once I get to the part about the banquet and what I think is going to happen, the Roach interrupts me so many times I can barely get a sentence out. After I'm done speaking, he removes a roll of vellum and a nibbed pen from one of the cabinets and notes down who ought to be where at what point for the plan to work.

“You're replanning my plan,” I say.

“Just a little,” he says, licking the nib and beginning to write again. “Are you concerned over Madoc? He won't like this.”

Of course I am concerned about Madoc. If I wasn't, I wouldn't be doing any of this. I would just hand him the living key to the kingdom.

“I know,” I say, gazing at the dregs of wine in the Ghost's glass. The moment I walk into the feast with Cardan on my arm, Madoc will know I am running a game of my own. When he discovers that I am going to cheat him out of being regent, he'll be furious.

And he's at his most bloodthirsty when he's furious.

“Do you have something appropriate to wear?” the Roach asks. At my surprised look, he throws up his hands. “You're playing politics. You and Cardan need to be turned out in splendor for this banquet. Your new king will need everything to look right.”

We go over the plans again, and Cardan helps us map out Hollow Hall. I try not to be too conscious of his long fingers tracing over the paper, of the sick thrill I get when he looks at me.

At dawn, I drink three cups of tea and set out alone for the last person I must speak with before the banquet, my sister Vivienne.

I go back to my house—Madoc's house, I remind myself, never really mine, never mine again after tonight—as the sun rises in a blaze of gold. I feel like a shadow as I climb the spiral stairs, as I pass through all the rooms I grew up in. In my bedroom, I pack a bag. Poison, knives, a gown, and jewels that I think the Roach will find to be properly extravagant. With reluctance, I leave behind the stuffed animals from my bed. I leave slippers and books and favorite baubles. I step out of my second life the same way I stepped out of my first, holding too few things and with great uncertainty about what will happen next.

Then I go to Vivi's door. I rap softly. After a few moments, she sleepily lets me inside.

“Oh good,” she mumbles, yawning. “You're packed.” Then she catches sight of my face and shakes her head. “Please don't tell me you're not coming.”

“Something happened,” I say, resting my bag on the ground. I keep my voice low. There is no real reason to hide that I am here, but hiding has become habit. “Just hear me out.”

“You disappeared,” she says. “I've been waiting and waiting for you, trying to act like things were fine in front of Dad. You made me worry.”

“I know,” I say.

She looks at me like she's considering giving me a swift smack. “I was afraid you were
dead
.”

“I'm not even a little bit dead,” I say, taking her arm and pulling her close so I can speak in a whisper. “But I have to tell you something I know you're not going to like: I have been working as a spy for Prince Dain. He put me under a geas so I couldn't have said anything before his death.”

Her delicately pointed eyebrows rise. “Spying? What does that entail?”

“Sneaking around and getting information. Killing people. And before you say anything else, I was good at it.”

“O
kay
,” she says. She knew something was up with me, but from her face, I can tell that in a million years she wouldn't have guessed this.

I go on. “And I discovered that Madoc is going to make a political move, one that involves Oak.” I explain once more about Liriope and Oriana and Dain. By this point, I have told this story enough that it's easy to hit only the necessary parts, to run through the information quickly and convincingly. “Madoc is going to make Oak king and himself regent. I don't know if that was always his plan, but I am sure it's his plan now.”

“And that's why you're not coming to the human world with me?”

“I want you to take Oak instead,” I tell her. “Keep him away from all this until he gets a little older, old enough not to need a regent. I'll stay here and make sure he has something to come back to.”

Vivi puts her hands on her hips, a gesture that reminds me of our mother. “And how exactly are you going to do that?”

“Leave that part to me,” I say, wishing that Vivi didn't know me quite as well as she does. To distract her, I explain about Balekin's banquet, about how the Court of Shadows is going to help me get the crown. I am going to need her to prep Oak for the coronation. “Whoever controls the king, controls the kingdom,” I say. “If Madoc is regent, you know that Faerie will always be at war.”

“So let me get this straight: You want me to take Oak away from Faerie, away from everyone he knows, and teach him how to be a good king?” She laughs mirthlessly. “Our mother once stole a faerie child away—me. You know what happened. How will this be any different? How will you keep Madoc and Balekin from hunting Oak to the ends of the earth?”

“Someone can be sent to guard him, to guard all of you—but, as for the rest, I have a plan. Madoc won't follow.” With Vivi, I feel forever doomed to be the little sister, foolish and about to topple over onto my face.

“Maybe I don't want to play nursemaid,” Vivi says. “Maybe I will lose him in a parking garage or forget him at school. Maybe I would teach him awful tricks. Maybe he would blame me for all this.”

“Give me another solution. You really think this is what I want?” I know I sound like I am pleading with her, but I can't help it.

For a tense moment, we look at each other. Then she sits down hard in a chair and lets her head fall back against the cushion. “How am I going to explain this to Heather?”

“I think Oak is the least shocking part of what you have to tell her,” I say. “And it's just for a few years. You're immortal. Which, by the way, is one of the more shocking things you have to tell her.”

She gives me a glare fit to singe hair. “Make me a promise that this is going to save Oak's life.”

“I promise,” I tell her.

“And make me another promise that it's not going to cost you yours.”

I nod. “It won't.”

“Liar,” she says. “You're a dirty liar and I hate it and I hate this.”

“Yeah,” I say. “I know.”

At least she didn't say she hated me, too.

I am on my way out of the house when Taryn opens her bedroom door. She's dressed in a skirt the color of ivy, with stitching picking out a pattern of falling leaves.

My breath catches. I wasn't planning to see her.

We regard each other for a long moment. She takes in that there's a bag over my shoulder and that I'm in the same clothes I wore when we fought.

Then she closes her door again, leaving me to my fate.