Apounding on the door drives me to find one of Cardan’s dressing gowns and pull it awkwardly over the shirt I slept in.
Before I get there, it opens, and Randalin barges in. “My lady,” he says, and there is a brittle, accusatory tone in his voice. “We have much to discuss.”
I pull the robe more tightly around me. The councilor must have known Cardan wouldn’t be with me to come in like this, but I won’t give him the satisfaction of asking about Cardan’s whereabouts.
I can’t help recalling the Bomb’s words: You’re the High Queen of Elfhame. Act like it.
It is difficult, though, not to be shamed by being nearly undressed, with bed hair and bad breath. It’s hard to project dignity right at the moment. “What do we possibly have to talk about?” I manage, my voice as chilly as I can make it.
The Bomb would probably say I should throw him out on his ear.
The hob draws himself up, looking swollen with his own self-importance. He fixes me with his stern goat eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. His ram horns are waxed to a high gloss. He goes over to the low couch and takes a seat.
I head to the door, opening it to find two knights I don’t know. Not Cardan’s full guard, of course. They would be with him. No, those who stand in front of the door are likely to be the least favored of his guard and ill-equipped to stop a member of the Living Council in high dudgeon. Across the hall, however, I spot Fand. When she sees me, she comes alert.
“Do you have another message for me?” I ask.
Fand shakes her head.
I turn to the royal guard. “Who let the councilor in here without my permission?” I demand. Alarm lights their eyes, and one begins to sputter an answer.
“I told them not to allow it,” Fand interrupts. “You need someone to protect your person—and your door. Let me be your knight. You know me. You know I’m capable. I’ve been waiting here, hoping—”
I recall my own longing for a place in the royal household, to be chosen as part of the personal guard of one of the princesses. And I also understand why she wouldn’t have been likely to be picked before. She’s young and—all evidence suggests—outspoken.
“Yes,” I say. “I would like that. Fand, consider yourself the first of my guard.” Never having had my own guard before, I find myself a little bit at a loss with what to do with her now.
“By oak and ash, thorn and rowan, I vow that I will serve you loyally until my death,” she says, which seems rash. “Now, would you like me to escort the councilor out of your apartments?”
“That won’t be necessary.” I shake my head, although imagining it gives me some real satisfaction, and I am not sure I entirely keep the smile off my face at the thought. “Please send a messenger to my old rooms and see if Tatterfell can bring some of my things. In the meantime, I would speak with Randalin.”
Fand frowns past me at the councilor. “Yes, Your Majesty,” she says, bringing her fist to her heart.
With the hope of new clothing in the future, at least, I go back inside. I perch myself on the arm of the opposite sofa and regard the councilor more contemplatively. He ambushed me here to throw me off in some way. “Very well,” I say with that in mind. “Speak.”
“Low Court rulers have begun arriving. They claim to have come to bear witness to your father’s challenge and to provide the High King with aid, but that is not the whole measure of why they are here.” He sounds bitter. “They come to scent weakness.”
I frown. “They are sworn to the crown. Their loyalty is tied to Cardan whether they want it to be or not.”
“Nonetheless,” Randalin goes on, “with the Undersea unable to send their forces, we are more dependent on them than ever. We would not wish the low Courts to bestow their loyalty only grudgingly. And when Madoc arrives—in mere days—he will seek to exploit any doubts. You create those doubts.”
Ah. Now I know what this is about.
He goes on. “There has never been a mortal Queen of Elfhame. And there should not be one now.”
“Do you really expect me to give up such enormous power on your say-so?” I ask.
“You were a good seneschal,” Randalin says, surprising me. “You care about Elfhame. That’s why I implore you to relinquish your title.”
It’s at that moment that the door swings open.
“We did not send for you, and we do not need you!” Randalin begins, clearly intending to give some servant—probably Fand—the tongue-lashing he wishes he could bestow on my person. Then he blanches and lurches to his feet.
The High King stands in the doorway. His eyebrows rise, and a malicious smile pulls at the corners of his mouth. “Many think that, but few are bold enough to say it to my face.”
Grima Mog is behind him. The redcap is bearing a gently steaming tureen. The scent of it wafts over to me, making my stomach growl.
Randalin sputters. “Your Majesty! Great shame is mine. My incautious comments were never intended for you. I thought that you—” He stops himself and starts again. “I was foolish. If you desire my punishment—”
Cardan interrupts. “Why don’t you tell me what you were discussing? I have no doubt you’d prefer Jude’s levelheaded answers to my nonsense, but it amuses me to hear about matters of state nonetheless.”
“I was only urging her to consider the war that her father is bringing. Everyone must make sacrifices.” Randalin glances toward Grima Mog, who sets down her tureen on a nearby table, then at Cardan again.
I could warn Randalin that he ought to be afraid of the way that Cardan is looking at him.
Cardan turns to me, and some of the heat of his anger is still in his eyes. “Jude, would you give me and the councilor a moment alone? I have a few things I would like to urge him to consider. And Grima Mog has brought you soup.”
“I don’t need anyone to help me tell Randalin that this is my home and my land and that I am going nowhere and relinquishing nothing.”
“And yet,” Cardan says, clamping his hand on the back of the councilor’s throat, “there are still some things I would say to him.”
Randalin allows Cardan to hustle him into one of the other royal parlors. Cardan’s voice goes low enough for me to not make out the words, but the silky menace of his tone is unmistakable.
“Come eat,” Grima Mog says, ladling some soup into a bowl. “It will help you heal.”
Mushrooms float along the top, and when I push the spoon through, a few tubers float around, along with what might be meat. “What’s in this, exactly?”
The redcap snorts. “Did you know you left your knife in my alleyway? I took it upon myself to return it. I figured it was neighborly.” She gives me a sly grin. “But you weren’t home. Only your lovely twin, who has very fine manners and who invited me in for tea and cake and told me so many interesting things. You should have told me more. Perhaps we could have come to an arrangement sooner.”
“Perhaps,” I say. “But the soup—”
“My palate is discerning, but I have a wide range of tastes. Don’t be so finicky,” she tells me. “Drink up. You need to borrow a little strength.”
I take a sip and try not to think too much about what I’m eating. It’s a thin broth, well-seasoned and seemingly harmless. I tip up the bowl, drinking it all down. It tastes good and hot and makes me feel much better than I have since I woke in Elfhame. I find myself poking at the bottom for the solid bits. If there’s something terrible in it, I am better off not knowing.
While I am still searching for dregs, the door opens again, and Tatterfell comes in, carrying a mound of gowns. Fand and two additional knights follow with more of my garments. Behind them is Heather, in flip-flops, carrying a pile of jewelry.
“Taryn told me that if I came over, I’d get a glimpse of the royal chambers.” Then, coming closer, Heather lowers her voice. “I’m glad you’re okay. Vee wants us to leave before your dad gets here, so we’re going soon. But we weren’t going to leave while you were in a coma.”
“Going is a good idea,” I say. “I’m surprised you came.”