by Holly Black
“I suppose,” I say, though none of those things seemed particularly unusual. Balekin wanted the crown for himself, and the Living Council wanted Cardan to show up for meetings, which he seldom did.
“There was a prophecy given when I was born. Usually Baphen is uselessly vague, but in this case, he made it clear that should I rule, I would make a very poor king.” He pauses. “The destruction of the crown, the ruination of the throne—a lot of dramatic language.”
I recall Oriana said something about Cardan’s being ill-fated, and so did Madoc, but this is more than bad luck. It makes me think of the coming battle. It makes me think of my dream of the star charts and the spilled inkpot of blood.
Cardan turns back to me, gazing down at me as he did in my imaginings. “When you forced me into working for the Court of Shadows, I never thought of the things I could do—frightening people, charming people—as talents, no less ones that might be valuable. But you did. You showed me how to use them to be useful. I never minded being a minor villain, but it’s possible I might have grown into something else, a High King as monstrous as Dain. And if I did—if I fulfilled that prophecy—I ought to be stopped. And I believe that you would stop me.”
“Stop you?” I echo. “Sure. If you’re a huge jerk and a threat to Elfhame, I’ll pop your head right off.”
“Good.” His expression is wistful. “That’s one reason I didn’t want to believe you’d joined up with Madoc. The other is that I want you here by my side, as my queen.”
It’s a strange speech, and there’s little of love in it, but it doesn’t seem like a trick, either. And if it stings a little that he admires me primarily for my ruthlessness, well, I suppose there should be some comfort that he admires me at all. He wants me with him, and maybe he wants me in other ways, too. Desiring more than that from him is just greed.
He gives me a half smile. “But now that you’re High Queen and back in charge, I won’t be doing anything of consequence anyway. If I destroy the crown and ruin the throne, it will only be through neglect.”
That startles a laugh out of me. “So that’s your excuse for not doing any of the work? You must be draped in decadence at all times because if you aren’t kept busy, you might fulfill some half-baked prophecy?”
“Exactly.” He touches my arm, his smile fading. “Would you like me to inform the Council that you will see them another time? It will be a novelty to have me make your excuses.”
“No. I’m ready.” My head swims with everything we’ve talked about. My palm is smeared with gold. When I look at him, I see the remaining powder has been smudged over his cheekbone by the strike of my hand. I can’t stop staring at it, can’t stop thinking about the way he looked at me when he caught my fingers. That’s the only excuse I have for not noticing that he’s led me back to his rooms, which are, I suppose, also mine since we’re married.
“They’re here?” I say.
“I believe it was meant to be an ambush,” he informs me with a twist of his mouth. “As you know, they are very nosy and hate the idea of being kept out of anything important, including royal convalescing.”
What I am imagining is how terrible it would have been to be awakened by the entire Living Council when I was still rumpled and filthy and naked. I draw on that anger and hope it makes me seem imperious.
Inside, Fala the Grand Fool dozes on the floor beside the fire. The rest of the Council—Randalin with his ram horns, Baphen stroking his blue beard, sinister Mikkel from the Unseelie Court, and insectile Nihuar from the Seelie—are seated around the room, no doubt annoyed by the wait.
“Queen Seneschal,” Fala says, leaping to his feet and making an extravagant bow.
Randalin glowers. The others begin to rise. I feel tremendously awkward.
“No, please,” I say. “Remain as you are.”
The councilors and I have had a contentious relationship. As Cardan’s seneschal, I frequently denied them audiences with the High King. I think they suspected my chief qualification for the position was my ability to lie for him.
I doubt they believe I have any qualifications for my new position.
But before they can say so, I launch into a description of Madoc’s camp. Soon, I am re-creating the naval maps I saw and making lists of every faction fighting on his side. I explain what I saw in Grimsen’s forge; Cardan chimes in with a few items he recalls.
The numbers are on Elfhame’s side. And whether or not I can draw on the power of the land, I know that Cardan can. Of course, there’s still the matter of the sword.
“A duel?” Mikkel says. “Perhaps he mistakes the High King for someone more bloodthirsty. You, perhaps?”
From him, that’s not exactly an insult.
“Well, Jude did get herself tangled up with Grima Mog.” Randalin has never much liked me, and I don’t think recent events have improved his feelings at all. “Leave it to you to spend your exile recruiting infamous butchers.”
“So did you murder Balekin?” Nihuar asks me, clearly able to put off her curiosity no longer.
“Yes,” I say. “After he poisoned the High King.”
“Poisoned?” she echoes in astonishment, looking at Cardan.
He shrugs, lounging in a chair, looking bored as ever. “You can hardly expect me to mention every little thing.”
Randalin rises to the bait, looking puffed up with annoyance. “Your Majesty, we were led to believe that her exile was justified. And that if you wished to marry, you would consult—”
“Perhaps at least one of you could have told us—” Baphen says, talking over Randalin.
This was what they really wanted to discuss, I suppose. Whether there was any way they could prevent what’s already occurred and invalidate my elevation to High Queen.
Cardan puts up a hand. “No, no, enough. It’s all too tedious to explain. I declare this meeting at an end.” His fingers make a flicking gesture toward the door. “Leave us. I tire of the lot of you.”
I have a long way to go before I can manage that level of shameless arrogance.
It works, however. They grumble but rise and go out. Fala blows me a kiss as he departs.
For a moment, we are alone.
Then there is a sharp rap on the secret door to the High King’s chamber. Before either of us can get up, the Bomb pushes her way through, striding into the room with a tray of tea things. Her white hair has been pulled up into a topknot, and if she is tired or grieving, none of it shows on her face.
“Long live Jude,” she says with a wink, setting down the tray on a table with a clatter of the pots and saucers and whatnot. “No thanks to me.”
I grin. “Good thing you’re a lousy shot.”
She holds up a packet of herbs. “A poultice. To draw any fever from the blood and help the patient heal faster. Unfortunately, it won’t draw the sting from your tongue.” She takes some bandages from her coat and turns to Cardan. “You should go.”
“This is my room,” he points out, affronted. “And that’s my wife.”
“So you keep telling everyone,” the Bomb says. “But I am going to take out her stitches, and I don’t think you want to watch that.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe he’d like to hear me scream.”
“I would,” Cardan says, standing. “And perhaps one day I will.” On the way out, his hand goes to my hair. A light touch, barely there, and then gone.
Taking out stitches is slow and painful. My sister does beautiful needlework, and it seems that she embroidered my stomach and side, leaving the Bomb with an endless stretch of tiny stitches that need to be individually snipped, the threads teased out of the skin, and then salve applied.
“Ow!” I say for what seems like the millionth time. “Do these really need to come out?”
The Bomb gives a long-suffering sigh. “They should have been removed days ago.”
I bite my tongue against another howl of pain. When I can speak again, I try to distract myself by asking, “Cardan said you’
re hopeful about the Roach.”
Bent over me, she smells of cordite and bitter herbs. Her expression is wry. “I’m always hopeful when it comes to him.”
There is a soft tap on the door. The Bomb looks at me expectantly.
“Come in?” I call, lowering my dress to cover the mess of my stomach.
A messenger with small moth wings and a nervous expression enters the room, granting me a temporary reprieve from being poked. She sinks into a bow, looking a bit like she’s going to faint. Maybe it’s the small pile of blood-covered thread.
I consider explaining, but that’s supposed to be beneath the dignity of a queen, and it would only embarrass us both. Instead, I give her what I hope is an encouraging smile. “Yes?”
“Your Highness,” she says. “Lady Asha wishes to see you. She has sent me to bring you directly to the chamber where she languishes.”
The Bomb snorts. “Languishes,” she mouths.
“You may tell her that I will see her as soon as I am able,” I say with as much grandeur as I can muster.
Although it’s clearly not the answer her mistress wanted me to give, the messenger can do little to challenge it. She hesitates a moment, then seems to realize it herself. Abashed, she departs with another bow.
“You’re the High Queen of Elfhame. Act like it,” the Bomb says, fixing me with a serious expression. “You shouldn’t let anyone command you. Not even me.”
“I told her no!” I protest.
She begins to pick out another stitch, not particularly gently. “Lady Asha doesn’t get to be put next on your schedule just for asking. And she shouldn’t make the queen come to her. Especially when you were hurt. She’s lying in bed recuperating from the trauma of watching while you fell from the ceiling.”
“Ouch,” I say, not sure if I am reacting to the tug against my flesh, her completely justified scolding, or her scathing assessment of Lady Asha.
Once the Bomb is finished with me, I ignore her excellent counsel and head toward Lady Asha’s chamber. It’s not that I disagree with any of her advice. But I would like to say something to Cardan’s mother, and now seems like an excellent time to do so.
As I head through the hall, I am stopped by Val Moren, who places his walking stick in my path. The eyes of the last High King’s mortal seneschal are lit with malice.
“How does it feel to rise to such dizzying heights?” he asks. “Afraid you’ll take another tumble?”
I scowl at him. “I bet you’d like to know how it feels.”
“Unfriendly, my queen,” he says with a grunt. “Ought not you be kind to the least of your subjects?”
“You want kindness?” I used to be afraid of him, of his dire warnings and wild eyes, but I am not afraid of him now. “All those years, you could have helped me and my sister. You could have taught us how to survive here as mortals. But you left us to figure it out on our own, even though we’re the same.”
He peers at me through narrowed eyes. “The same?” he demands. “Do you think a seed planted in goblin soil grows to be the same plant as it would have in the mortal world? No, little seed. I do not know what you are, but we are not the same. I came here fully grown.”
And with that, he walks on, leaving me scowling after him.
I find Lady Asha in a canopied bed, her head propped up on pillows. Her horns don’t look as though they make it easy for her to find a comfortable position, but I guess when they’re your horns, you’re used to them.
Two courtiers, one in a gown and the other in trousers and a coat with an opening for delicate wings in the back, sit in chairs beside her. One reads from a collection of gossipy sonnets. The servant girl who brought me Lady Asha’s message lights candles, and the scents of sage, clove, and lavender permeate the air.
When I come in, the courtiers remain seated far longer than they ought, and when they rise to make their bows, they do so with pointed lethargy. Lady Asha stays abed, gazing at me with a slight smile, as though we both know a distasteful secret.
I think of my own mother, as I have not in a long time. I recall the way she threw back her head when she laughed. How she let us stay up late during the summer, chasing one another through the backyard in the moonlight, my hands sticky with melted Popsicle, the stink of Dad’s forge heavy in the air. I recall waking in the afternoon, cartoons playing in the living room and mosquito bites blooming on my skin. I think of the way she would bring me in from the car when I fell asleep on long drives. I think of the drowsy, warm feeling of being carried through the air.
Who would I be without any of that?
“Don’t worry about getting up,” I tell Lady Asha. She looks surprised, and then offended, by the implication that she owes me the courtesies of my new position. The courtier in the coat has a gleam in his eye that makes me think he is going to go and tell absolutely everyone what he’s witnessed. I doubt very much that the story will flatter me.
“We will speak later,” Lady Asha says to her friends, a frigid tone in her voice. They seem to take being dismissed in stride. With another bow—this one made carefully to both of us—they depart, barely waiting until the door shuts to begin whispering to each other.
“Your visit must be a kindness,” Cardan’s mother says. “With you so recently returned to us. And so recently coming into a throne.”
I force myself not to smile. The inability to lie makes for some interesting sentences.
“Come,” she says. “Sit a moment with me.”
I know the Bomb would say that this is another instance where I am letting her tell me what to do, but it seems petty to object to such minor high-handedness.
“When I brought you from the Tower of Forgetting to my den of spies,” I say, in case she needs reminding of why she should worry about making me angry, “you said you wanted to be away from the High King, your son. But you two seem to have made up. You must be so pleased.”
She makes a pout. “Cardan was not an easy child to love, and he’s only grown worse with time. He would scream to be held, and then once picked up he would bite and kick his way out of my arms. He would find a game and obsess over it until it was conquered, then burn all the pieces. Once you’re no longer a challenge, he will despise you.”
I stare at her. “And you’re giving me this warning out of the kindness of your heart?”
She smiles. “I am giving you this warning because it doesn’t matter. You’re already doomed, Queen of Elfhame. You already love him. You already loved him when you questioned me about him instead of your own mother. And you will still love him, mortal girl, long after his feelings evaporate like morning dew.”
I can’t help thinking of Cardan’s silence when I asked if he liked that I was afraid. A part of him will always delight in cruelty. Even if he has changed, he could change again.
I hate being a fool. I hate the idea of my emotions getting the better of me, of making me weak. But my fear of being a fool turned me into one. I should have guessed the answer to Cardan’s riddle long before I did. Even if I didn’t understand it was a riddle, it was still a loophole to exploit. But I was so shamed by falling for his trick that I stopped looking for ways around it. And even after I discovered one, I made no plan to use it.
Maybe it isn’t the worst thing to want to be loved, even if you’re not. Even if it hurts. Maybe being human isn’t always being weak.
Maybe it was the shame that was the problem.
But it’s not as though my own fears are the only reason I was in exile for so long. “Is that why you intercepted the letters he sent? To protect me? Or was it because you’re afraid that he won’t tire of me? Because, my lady, I will always be a challenge.”
I admit, it’s a guess about her and the letters. But not many people would have the access and power to stop a message from the High King. No ambassador from a foreign kingdom. Probably not a member of the Living Council. And I don’t think Lady Asha likes me very much.
She regards me mildly. “Many things become lost. Or dest
royed.”
Given that she can’t lie, that’s practically a confession.
“I see,” I say, standing. “In that case, I will take your advice in exactly the spirit with which you gave it.” As I look back at her from the door, I say what I believe she will least like to hear. “And next time, I will expect your curtsy.”
I am halfway down the hall when a pixie knight rushes up to me, her armor polished to a shine that reflects her cerulean skin. “Your Majesty, you must come quickly,” she says, putting her hand to her heart.
“Fand?” When we were at the palace school, we both dreamed of knighthood. It seems that one of us achieved it.
She looks at me as though surprised at being remembered, although it wasn’t very long ago. I suppose she, too, believes I have ascended to dizzying and perhaps memory-altering heights.
“Sir Fand,” I correct myself, and she smiles. I grin back at her. Although we were not friends, we were friendly—and for me, in the High Court, that was a rarity. “Why do I have to come quickly?”
Her expression goes grave again. “A battalion from the Undersea is in the throne room.”
“Ah,” I say, and let her escort me through the halls. Some Folk bow as I pass. Others quite pointedly do not. Not sure how to behave, I ignore both.
“You ought to have your own guard,” Sir Fand says, keeping pace just behind me.
Everyone seems very fond of telling me how I should do this job. But, at least in this case, my silence is apparently enough of an answer for her to fall silent.
When we get to the brugh, it is mostly empty. Randalin is wringing his wizened hands as he studies the soldiers of the Undersea—selkies and the pale-skinned Folk that make me think of those they called drowned ones. Nicasia stands in front of them, in armor of iridescent scales, her hair dressed with shark teeth, clasping Cardan’s hands in hers. Her eyes are red-rimmed and swollen, as though she’s been weeping. His dark head is bent toward hers, and I am reminded that they were once lovers.
