The Queen of Nothing (The Folk of the Air 3)

Tonight it seems impossible that I was ever anyone other than this dutiful child.

When I go to sleep, it is with a bitterness in my throat, one I haven’t felt in a long time, one that comes from not being able to affect the things that matter, even though they are happening right in front of me.

I wake on the cot, loaded with blankets and furs. I drink strong tea near the fire, walking around to loosen my limbs. To my relief, Madoc has already gone.

Today, I tell myself, today I must find a way out of here.

I’d noticed horses when we made our way through the camp. I could probably steal one. But I am an indifferent rider, and without a map, I could quickly become lost. Those are probably kept all together in a war tent. Perhaps I could invent a reason to visit my father.

“Do you think Madoc would like some tea?” I ask Oriana hopefully.

“If so, he can send a servant to prepare it,” she tells me kindly. “But there are many useful tasks to occupy your time. We Court ladies gather and stitch banners, if you’re feeling up to it.”

Nothing will give away my identity faster than my needlecraft. To call it poor is flattery.

“I don’t think I’m ready to answer questions about Locke,” I warn.

She nods sympathetically. Gossip passes the time at such gatherings, and it’s not unreasonable to think a dead husband would provoke talk.

“You may take a little basket and go foraging,” she suggests. “Just be careful to stay to the woods and away from the camp. If you see sentries, show them Madoc’s sigil.”

I try to contain my eagerness. “I can do that.”

As I draw on a borrowed cloak, she puts a hand on my arm.

“I heard you speaking with Grimsen last night,” Oriana says. “You must be careful of him.” I recall her many cautions over the years at revels. She made us promise not to dance, not to eat anything, not to do anything that could result in embarrassment for Madoc. It’s not that she doesn’t have her reasons, either. Before she was Madoc’s wife, she was High King Eldred’s lover and saw another of his lovers—and her dear friend—poisoned. But it’s still annoying.

“I will. I’ll be careful,” I say.

Oriana looks into my eyes. “Grimsen wants many things. If you are too kind, he may decide he wants you, too. He could desire you for your loveliness as one covets a rare jewel. Or he could desire you just to see if Madoc would give you up.”

“I understand,” I say, trying to seem like someone she doesn’t need to worry over.

She lets go of me with a wan smile, seeming to believe we understand each other.

Outside, I head toward the woods with my little basket. Once I hit the tree line, I stop, overwhelmed with the relief of no longer playing a role. For a moment, here, I can relax. I take some steadying breaths and consider my options. Again and again, I come back to Grimsen. Despite Oriana’s warning, he’s my best bet to find a way out of here. With all his magic trinkets, maybe he’s got a pair of metal wings to fly me home or a magical sled pulled by obsidian lions. Even if not, at least he doesn’t know Taryn well enough to doubt that I’m her.

And if he wants something that I don’t want to give him, well, he has a bad habit of leaving knives just lying about.

I hike through the woods to higher ground. From there, I can see the camp and all its pavilions. I spot the makeshift forge, set back from everything else, smoke rising in great quantities from its three chimneys. I spot an area of the camp where a large, round tent is a hub of activity. Maybe that’s where Madoc is and where the maps are.

And I spot something else. When I first took stock of the camp, I noticed a small outpost at the base of the mountain, far from the other tents. But from here I can see there’s also a cave. Two guards stand as sentries by the entrance.

Odd, that. It seems inconveniently far from everything else. But depending on what’s in there, maybe that’s the point. It’s far enough to muffle even the loudest of screams.

With a shudder, I head down toward the forge.

I get a few looks from goblins and grigs and sharp-toothed members of the Folk with powdery wings as I cut through the outer edge of the camp. I hear a little hiss as I pass, and one of the ogres licks his lips in what is not at all a come-on. No one stops me, though.

The door to Grimsen’s forge is propped open, and I see the smith inside, shirtless, his wiry, hairy form bent over the blade he’s hammering. The forge is scorchingly hot, the air thick with heat, stinking of creosote. Around him are an array of weapons and trinkets that are far more than what they seem: little metal boats, brooches, silver heels for boots, a key that looks as though it was carved from crystal.

I think of the offer Grimsen wanted me to convey to Cardan before he decided greater glory lay in betrayal: I will make him armor of ice to shatter every blade that strikes it and that will make his heart too cold to feel pity. Tell him I will make him three swords that, when used in the same battle, will fight with the might of thirty soldiers.

I hate to think of all that in Madoc’s hands.

Steeling myself, I knock on the doorframe.

Grimsen spots me and puts down his hammer. “The girl with the earrings,” he says.

“You invited me to come,” I remind him. “I hope this isn’t too soon, but I was so curious. Can I ask what you’re making, or is it a secret?”

That seems to please him. He indicates with a smile the enormous bar of metal he’s working on. “I am crafting a sword to crack the firmament of the isles. What do you think of that, mortal girl?”

On one hand, Grimsen has forged some of the greatest weapons ever made. But can Madoc’s plan truly be to cut through the armies of Elfhame? I think of Cardan, causing the sea to boil, storms to come, and trees to wither. Cardan, who has the sworn loyalty of dozens of low Court rulers and the command of all their armies. Can any one sword be great enough to stand against that, even if it is the greatest blade Grimsen has ever forged?

“Madoc must be grateful to have you on his side,” I say neutrally. “And to have such a weapon promised to him.”

“Hmph,” he says, fixing me with a beady eye. “He ought to be, but is he? You’d have to ask him yourself, since he makes no mention of gratitude. And if they happen to make songs about me, well, is he interested in hearing them? No. No time for songs, he says. I wonder if he’d feel differently if there were songs about him.”

Apparently, it wasn’t encouraging his bragging that got him to talk, but stoking his resentment.

“If he becomes the next High King, there will be plenty of songs about him,” I say, pressing the point.

A cloud passes over Grimsen’s face, his mouth moving into a slight expression of disgust.

“But you, who has been a master smith through Mab’s reign and all those who followed, your story must be more interesting than his—better fodder for ballads.” I fear I am laying it on too thick, but he brightens.

“Ah, Mab,” he says, reminiscing. “When she came to me to forge the Blood Crown, she entrusted me with a great honor. And I cursed it to protect it for all time.”

I smile encouragingly. I know this part. “The murder of the wearer causes death for the person responsible.”