The Cruel Prince (The Folk of the Air 1)

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.

The 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.