The Wicked King (The Folk of the Air 2)

For a moment, I don’t speak. “You’re poisoned,” I say finally. “You know that, right?”

He doesn’t startle. “Ah,” he says. “Balekin.”

I say nothing, just set him down before the fire in my rooms, his back against my couch. He looks odd there, his beautiful clothes a contrast to the plain rug, his face pale with a hectic flush in his cheeks.

He reaches up and presses my hand to his face. “It’s funny, isn’t it, how I mocked you for your mortality when you’re certain to outlive me.”

“You’re not going to die,” I insist.

“Oh, how many times have I wished that you couldn’t lie? Never more than now.”

He lolls to one side, and I grab one of the pitchers of water and pour a glass full. I bring it to his lips. “Cardan? Get down as much as you can.”

He doesn’t reply and seems about to fall asleep. “No.” I pat his cheek with increasing force until it’s more of a smack. “You’ve got to stay awake.”

His eyes open. His voice is muzzy. “I’ll just sleep for a little while.”

“Unless you want to wind up like Severin of Fairfold, encased in glass for centuries while mortals line up to take pictures with his body, you’re going to stay awake.”

He shifts into a more upright sitting position. “Fine,” he says. “Talk to me.”

“I saw your mother tonight,” I say. “All dressed up. The time I saw her before that was in the Tower of Forgetting.”

“And you’re wondering if I forgot her?” he says airily, and I am pleased that he’s paying enough attention to deliver one of his typical quips.

“Glad you’re up to mocking.”

“I hope it’s the last thing about me to go. So tell me about my mother.”

I try to think of something to say that isn’t entirely negative. I go for carefully neutral. “The first time I met her, I didn’t know who she was. She wanted to trade me some information for getting her out of the Tower. And she was afraid of you.”

“Good,” he says.

My eyebrows go up. “So how did she wind up a part of your Court?”

“I suppose I have some fondness for her yet,” he admits. I pour him some more water, and he drinks it more slowly than I’d like. I refill the glass as soon as I can.

“There are so many questions I wish I could ask my mom,” I admit.

“What would you ask?” The words slur together, but he gets them out.

“Why she married Madoc,” I say, pointing to the glass, which he obediently brings to his mouth. “Whether she loved him and why she left him and whether she was happy in the human world. Whether she actually murdered someone and hid her body in the burnt remains of Madoc’s original stronghold.”

He looks surprised. “I always forget that part of the story.”

I decide a subject change is in order. “Do you have questions like that for your father?”

“Why am I the way I am?” His tone makes it clear he’s proposing something I might suggest he ask, not really wondering about it. “There are no real answers, Jude. Why was I cruel to Folk? Why was I awful to you? Because I could be. Because I liked it. Because, for a moment, when I was at my worst, I felt powerful, and most of the time, I felt powerless, despite being a prince and the son of the High King of Faerie.”

“That’s an answer,” I say.

“Is it?” And then, after a moment. “You should go.”

“Why?” I ask, annoyed. For one, this is my room. For another, I am trying to keep him alive.

He looks at me solemnly. “Because I am going to retch.”

I grab for the bucket, and he takes it from me, his whole body convulsing with the force of vomiting. The contents of his stomach appear like matted leaves, and I shudder. I didn’t know wraithberry did that.

There’s a knock on the door, and I go to it. The Bomb is there, out of breath. I let her in, and she moves past me, straight to Cardan.

“Here,” she says, pulling out a little vial. “It’s clay. It may help draw out and contain the toxins.”

Cardan nods and takes it from her, swallowing the contents with a grimace. “It tastes like dirt.”

“It is dirt,” she informs him. “And there’s something else. Two things, really. Grimsen was already gone from his forge when we tried to capture him. We have to assume the worst—that he’s with Orlagh.

“Also, I was given this.” She takes a note from her pocket. “It’s from Balekin. Cannily phrased, but breaks down to this—he’s offering the antidote to you, Jude, if you will bring him the crown.”

“The crown?” Cardan opens his eyes, and I realize he must have closed them without my noticing.

“He wants you to take it to the gardens, near the roses,” the Bomb says.

“What happens if he doesn’t get the antidote?” I ask.

The Bomb puts the back of her hand against Cardan’s cheek. “He’s the High King of Elfhame—he has the strength of the land to draw on. But he’s very weak already. And I don’t think he knows how to do it. Your Majesty?”

He looks at her with benevolent incomprehension. “Whatever do you mean? I just took a mouthful of the land at your behest.”

I think about what she’s saying, about what I know of the High King’s powers.

Surely you have noticed that since his reign began, the isles are different. Storms come in faster. Colors are a bit more vivid, smells are sharper.

But all of that was done without trying. I am certain he didn’t notice the land altering itself to better suit him.

Look at them all, your subjects, he’d said to me at a revel months ago. A shame not a one knows who their true ruler is.

If Cardan doesn’t believe himself to be the true High King of Elfhame, if he doesn’t allow himself to access his own power, it will be my fault. If wraithberry kills him, it will be because of me.

“I’ll get that antidote,” I say.

Cardan lifts the crown from his head and looks at it for a moment, as though somehow he cannot fathom how it came into his hand. “This can’t pass to Oak if you lose it. Although I admit the succession gets tricky if I die.”

“I already told you,” I say. “You’re not going to die. And I am not going to take that crown.” I go in the back and change around the contents of my pockets. I tie on a cloak with a deep hood and a new mask. I am so furious that my hands shake. Wraithberry, which I was once invulnerable to, thanks to careful mithridatism. If I had been able to keep up the doses, I could have perhaps tricked Balekin as I once tricked Madoc. But after my imprisonment in the Undersea, I have one less advantage and far higher stakes. I have lost my immunity. I am as vulnerable to poison as Cardan.

“You’ll stay with him?” I ask the Bomb, and she nods.

“No,” says Cardan. “She goes with you.”

I shake my head. “The Bomb knows about potions. She knows about magic. She can make sure you don’t get worse.”

He ignores me and takes her hand. “Liliver, as your king, I command you,” he says with great dignity for someone sitting on the floor beside the bucket he’s retched in. “Go with Jude.”

I turn to the Bomb, but I see in her face that she won’t disobey him—she’s made her oath and even given him her name. He’s her king.

“Damn you,” I whisper to one or maybe both of them.

I vow that I will get the antidote swiftly, but that doesn’t make it any easier for me to leave when I know the wraithberry could yet stop his heart. His searing gaze follows us out the door, blown pupils and crown still in his hand.

Balekin is in the garden as he promised, near a blooming tree of silver-blue roses. When I get there, I note figures not too distant from where we stand, other courtiers going for midnight strolls. It means he cannot attack me, but neither can I attack him.

At least not without others knowing about it.

“You are a great disappointment,” he says.

It’s such a shock that I actually laugh. “You mean because I wasn’t glamoured. Yes, I can see how that would be very sad for you.”

He glowers, but he doesn’t even have Vulciber beside him now to threaten me with. Perhaps being an Ambassador to the Undersea makes him believe he’s untouchable.

All I can think about is that he poisoned Cardan, he tormented me, he pushed Orlagh to raid the land. I am shaking with anger, but trying to bite back that fury so I can get through what must be done.

“Did you bring me the crown?” he asks.

“I’ve got it nearby,” I lie. “But before I hand it over, I want to see the antidote.”

He pulls a vial from his coat, nearly the twin of the one he gave me, which I take out of my pocket. “They would have executed me if they’d found me with this poison,” I say, shaking it. “That’s what you intended, wasn’t it?”

“Someone may execute you yet,” he says.

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” I say, taking the stopper out of the bottle. “I am going to take the poison, and then you’re going to give me the antidote. If it works on me, then I’ll bring out the crown and trade it to you for the bottle. If not, then I guess I’ll die, but the crown will be lost forever. Whether Cardan lives or dies, that crown is hidden well enough to be lost for decades.”

“Grimsen can forge me another,” Balekin says.

“If that’s true, then what are we here for?”

Balekin grimaces, and I consider the possibility that the little smith isn’t with Orlagh after all. Maybe he’s disappeared after doing his best to set us at one another’s throats. Maybe there’s no crown but this one.

“You stole that crown from me,” he says.

“True enough,” I admit. “And I’ll hand it over to you, but not for nothing.”