The Cruel Prince (26 page)

Cardan's clothes are disarranged, from crawling under tables or being captured and tied, and his infamous tail is showing under the white lawn of his shirt. It is slim, nearly hairless, with a tuft of black fur at the tip. As I watch, the tail forms one wavering curve after another, snaking back and forth, betraying his cool face, telling its own story of uncertainty and fear.

I can see why he hides that thing away.

“We should kill him,” says the Ghost, slouching in the hallway, light brown hair blown across his forehead. “He's the only member of the royal family who can crown Balekin. Without Cardan, the throne will be forever lost, and we will have avenged Dain.”

Cardan draws a sharp breath and then lets it out slowly. “I'd prefer to live.”

“We don't work for Dain anymore,” the Roach reminds the Ghost, the nostrils of his long green knife of a nose flaring. “Dain's dead and beyond caring about thrones or crowns. We sell the prince back to Balekin for everything we can get and leave. Go among the low Courts or the free Folk. There's fun to be had, and gold. You could come along, Jude. If you want.”

The offer is tempting. Burn it all down. Run. Start over in a place where no one knows me except the Ghost and the Roach.

“I don't want Balekin's money.” The Ghost spits on the ground. “And other than that, the boy prince is useless to us. Too young, too weak. If not for Dain, then let's kill him for all of Faerie.”

“Too young, too weak, too mean,” I put in.

“Wait,” Cardan says. I have imagined him afraid many times, but the reality outstrips those imaginings. Seeing the quickening of his breath, the way he pulls against my careful knots, delights me. “Wait! I could tell you what I know, everything I know, anything about Balekin, anything you'd like. If you want gold and riches, I could get them for you. I know the way to Balekin's treasury. I have the ten keys to the ten locks of the palace. I could be useful.”

Only in my dreams has Cardan ever been like this. Begging. Miserable. Powerless.

“What did you know about your brother's plan?” the Ghost asks him, peeling himself off the wall. He limps over.

Cardan shakes his head. “Only that Balekin despised Dain. I despised him as well. He was despicable. I didn't know he'd managed to convince Madoc of that.”

“What do you mean, despicable?” I ask, indignant, even with the still-healing wound on my hand. Dain's death washed away the resentment I had for him.

Cardan gives me an indecipherable look. “Dain poisoned his own child, still in the womb. He worked on our father until he trusted no one but Dain. Ask them—surely Dain's spies know how he made Eldred believe that Elowyn was plotting against him, convinced him that Balekin was a fool. Dain orchestrated my being thrown out of the palace, so that I had to be taken in by my elder brother or go without any home at the Court. He even persuaded Eldred to step down after poisoning his wine so that he became tired and ill—the curse on the crown doesn't prevent that.”

“That can't be true.” I think of Liriope, of the letter, of how Balekin wanted proof of who got the poison. But Eldred couldn't have been poisoned with blusher mushroom.

“Ask your friends,” Cardan says, with a nod to the Roach and the Ghost. “It was one of them who administered the poison that killed the child and its mother.”

I shake my head, but the Ghost doesn't meet my gaze. “Why would Dain do that?”

“Because he'd fathered the child with Eldred's consort and was afraid Eldred would find out and choose another of us for his heir.” Cardan seems pleased with himself at having surprised me—surprised
us
, from the looks on the faces of the Roach and the Ghost. I do not like the way they watch him now, as though he might have value after all. “Even the King of Faerie doesn't like to think of his son taking his place in a lover's bed.”

It shouldn't shock me that the Court of Faerie is corrupt and kind of gross. I knew that, just as I knew Madoc could do gruesome things to people he cared about. Just as I knew Dain was never kind. He made me stab my own hand, clean through. He took me on for my usefulness, nothing more.

Faerie might be beautiful, but its beauty is like a golden stag's carcass, crawling with maggots beneath his hide, ready to burst.

I feel sick from the smell of blood. It's on my dress, under my fingers, in my nose. How am I supposed to be worse than the Folk?

Sell the prince back to Balekin.
I turn the idea over in my mind. Balekin would be in my debt. He'd make me a member of the Court, just as I once wanted. He'd give me anything I asked for, any of the things Dain offered and more: land, knighthood, a love mark on my brow so all who looked upon me would be sick with desire, a sword that wove charms with every blow.

And yet none of those things seems all that valuable anymore. None of those are true power. True power isn't granted. True power can't be taken away.

I think of what it will be like to have Balekin for a High King, for the Circle of Grackles to devour all the other circles of influence. I think of his starveling servants, of his urging Cardan to kill one of them for training, of the way he ordered Cardan beaten while professing his love for their family.

No, I cannot see myself serving Balekin.

“Prince Cardan is
my
prisoner,” I remind them, pacing back and forth. I'm not good at much, and I've been good at being a spy for only a very short time. I am not ready to give that up. “I get to decide what happens to him.”

The Roach and the Ghost exchange glances.

“Unless we're going to fight,” I say, because they're not my friends, and I need to remember that. “But I have access to Madoc. I have access to Balekin. I'm our best shot at brokering a deal.”

“Jude,” Cardan cautions me from the chair, but I am beyond caution, especially from him.

There's a tense moment, but then the Roach cracks a grin. “No, girl, we're not fighting. If you've got a plan, then I'm glad of it. I'm not really much of a planner, unless it's how to prize out a gem from a nice setting. You stole the boy prince. This is your play, if you think you can make it.”

The Ghost frowns but doesn't contradict him.

What I must do is put the puzzle pieces together. Here's what doesn't make sense—why is Madoc backing Balekin? Balekin is cruel and volatile, two qualities not preferable in a monarch. Even if Madoc believes Balekin will give him the wars he wants, it seems as though he could have gotten those some other way.

I think of the letter I found on Balekin's desk, the one to Nicasia's mother:
I know the provenance of the blusher mushroom that you ask after.
Why, after all this time, would Balekin want proof that Dain orchestrated Liriope's murder? And if he had it, why hadn't he taken it to Eldred? Unless he
had
and Eldred hadn't believed him. Or cared. Or… unless the proof was for someone else.

“When was Liriope poisoned?” I ask.

“Seven years ago, in the month of storms,” the Ghost says with a twist in his mouth. “Dain told me that he'd been given a foresight about the child. Is this important or are you just curious?”

“What was the foresight?” I ask.

He shakes his head, as if he doesn't want the memory, but he answers. “If the boy was born, Prince Dain would never be king.”

What a typical faerie prophecy—one that gives you a warning about what you'll lose but never promises you anything. The boy is dead, but Prince Dain will never be king.

Let me not be that kind of fool, to base my strategies on riddles.

“So it's true,” the Roach says quietly. “You're the one who killed her.” The Ghost's frown deepens. It didn't occur to me until then that they might not know one another's assignments.

Both of them look uncomfortable. I wonder if the Roach would have done it. I wonder what it means that the Ghost did. When I look at him now, I don't know what I see.

“I'm going to go home,” I say. “I'll pretend I got lost at the coronation revel. I should be able to figure out what Cardan is worth to them. I'll come back tomorrow and run the particulars by you both and the Bomb, if she's here. Give me a day to see what I can do and your oath to make no decisions until then.”

“If the Bomb has better sense than we do, she's already gone to ground.” The Roach points to a cabinet. Wordlessly, the Ghost goes and gets out a bottle, placing it on the worn wooden table. “How do we know you won't betray us? Even if you think you're on our side now, you might get back to that stronghold of Madoc's and reconsider.”

I eye the Roach and the Ghost speculatively. “I'll have to leave Cardan in your care, which means trusting you. I promise not to betray you, and you promise that the prince will be here when I get back.”

Cardan looks relieved at the idea that there will be a delay, whatever happens next. Or perhaps he's just relieved by the presence of the bottle.

“You could be a kingmaker,” the Ghost says. “That's seductive. You could make Balekin even more deeply indebted to your father.”

“He's not my father,” I say sharply. “And if I decide that I want to throw in with Madoc, well then, so long as you get paid, it won't matter, will it?”

“I guess not,” the Ghost says grudgingly. “But if you come back here with Madoc or anyone else, we'll kill Cardan. And then we'll kill you. Understood?”

I nod. If it wasn't for Prince Dain's geas, they might have compelled me. Of course, whether Prince Dain's geas lasted past his death, I do not know and am afraid to find out.

“And if you take more than the day you asked for to get back, we'll kill him and cut our losses,” the Ghost continues. “Prisoners are like damson plums. The longer you keep them, the less valuable they become. Eventually, they spoil. One day and one night. Don't be late.”

Cardan flinches and tries to catch my eye, but I ignore him.

“I'll agree to that,” I say, because I am no fool. None of us is feeling all that trusting at the moment. “So long as you swear Cardan will be here and hale when I return tomorrow, alone.”

And because they're not fools, either, they swear it.

I
don't know what I expect to find when I get home. It's a long walk through the woods, longer because I give the encampments of the Folk here for the coronation a wide berth. My dress is dirty and tattered at the hem, my feet are sore and cold. When I arrive, Madoc's estate looks the way it always does, familiar as my own step.

I think of all the other dresses hanging in my closet, waiting to be worn, the slippers waiting to be danced in. I think of the future I thought I was going to have and the one yawning in front of me like a chasm.

In the hall, I see that there are more knights here than I am used to, coming in and out of Madoc's parlor. Servants rush back and forth, bringing tankards and inkpots and maps. Few spare me a look.

There's a cry from across the hall. Vivienne. She and Oriana are in the parlor. Vivi runs toward me, throws her arms around me.

“I was going to kill him,” she says. “I was going to kill him if his stupid plan got you hurt.”

I realize I have not moved. I bring one hand up to touch her hair, let my fingers slip to her shoulder. “I'm fine,” I say. “I just got swept up in the crowd. I'm fine. Everything's fine.”

Everything is, of course, not at all fine. But no one tries to contradict me. “Where are the others?”

“Oak is in bed,” Oriana says. “And Taryn is outside Madoc's study. She'll be along in a moment.”

Vivi's expression shifts at that, although I am not sure how to read it.

I go up the stairs to my room, where I wash the paint off my face and the mud off my feet. Vivi follows me, perches on a stool. Her cat eyes are bright gold in the sunlight streaming in from my balcony. She doesn't speak as I take a comb to my hair, raking through the tangles. I dress myself in dark colors, in a deep blue tunic with a high collar and tight sleeves, in shiny black boots, with new gloves to cover my hands. I strap Nightfell onto a heavier belt and surreptitiously put the ring with the royal seal into my pocket.

It feels so surreal to be in my room, with my stuffed animals and my books and my collection of poisons. With Cardan's copy of
Alice's Adventures in Wonderland
and
Through the Looking Glass
sitting on my bedside table. A new wave of panic passes over me. I'm supposed to figure out how to turn the capture of the missing prince of Faerie to my advantage. Here, in my childhood home, I want to laugh at my daring. Just who do I think I am?

“What happened to your throat?” Vivi asks, frowning at me. “And what's wrong with your left hand?”

I forgot how carefully I had concealed those injuries. “They're not important, not with everything that happened. Why did he do it?”

“You mean, why did Madoc help Balekin?” she says, lowering her voice. “I don't know. Politics. He doesn't care about murder. He doesn't care that it's his fault Princess Rhyia is dead. He doesn't care, Jude. He's never cared. That's what makes him a monster.”

“Madoc can't really want Balekin to rule Elfhame,” I say. Balekin would influence how Faerie interacts with the mortal world for centuries, how much blood is shed, and whose. All of Faerie will be like Hollow Hall.

That's when I hear Taryn's voice float up the stairwell. “Locke has been in with Madoc for ages. He doesn't know anything about where Cardan is hiding.”

Vivi goes still, watching my face. “Jude—” she says. Her voice is mostly breath.

“Madoc's probably just trying to frighten him,” Oriana says. “You know he's not keen on arranging a marriage in the middle of all this turmoil.”

Before Vivi can say anything else, before she can stop me, I've gone to the top of the stairs.

I recall the words Locke said to me after I'd fought in the tournament and pissed off Cardan:
You're like a story that hasn't happened yet. I want to see what you will do. I want to be part of the unfolding of the tale
. When he said that he wanted to see what I would do, did he mean to find out what would happen if he broke my heart?

If I can't find a good enough story, I make one.

Cardan's words when I asked if he thought I didn't deserve Locke echo in my head.
Oh no
, he'd said with a smirk.
You're perfect for each other.
And at the coronation:
Time to change partners. Oh, did I steal your line?

He knew. How he must have laughed. How they all must have laughed.

“So I suppose I know who your lover is now,” I call to my twin sister.

Taryn looks up and blanches. I descend the stairs slowly, carefully.

I wonder if, when Locke and his friends laughed, she laughed with them.

All the odd looks, the tension in her voice when I talked about Locke, her concern about what he and I were doing in the stables, what we'd done at his house—all of it makes sudden, awful sense. I feel the sharp stab of betrayal.

I draw Nightfell.

“I challenge you,” I tell Taryn. “To a duel. For my honor, which was grievously betrayed.”

Taryn's eyes widen. “I wanted to tell you,” she says. “There were so many times I started to say something, but I just couldn't. Locke said if I could endure, it would be a test of love.”

I remember his words from the revel:
Do you love me enough to give me up? Isn't that a test of love?

I guess she passed the test, and I failed.

“So he proposed to you,” I say. “While the royal family got butchered. That's so romantic.”

Oriana gives a little gasp, probably afraid that Madoc would hear me, that he'd object to my characterization. Taryn looks a little pale, too. I suppose since none of them actually saw it, they could have been told nearly anything. One doesn't have to lie to deceive.

My hand tightens on the hilt of Nightfell. “What did Cardan say that made you cry the day after we came back from the mortal world?” I remember my hands buried in his velvet doublet, his back hitting the tree when I shoved him. And then later, how she denied it had anything to do with me. How she wouldn't tell me what it did have to do with.

For a long moment, she doesn't answer. By her expression, I know she doesn't want to tell me the truth.

“It was about this, wasn't it? He knew. They all knew.” I think of Nicasia sitting at Locke's dining table, seeming for a moment to take me into her confidence.
He ruins things. That's what he likes. To ruin things.

I thought she'd been talking about Cardan.

“He said it was because of me that he kicked dirt onto your food,” Taryn says, voice soft. “Locke tricked them into thinking it was you who stole him away from Nicasia. So it was you they were punishing. Cardan said you were suffering in my place and that if you knew why, you'd back down, but I couldn't tell you.”

For a long moment, I do nothing but take in her words. Then I throw my sword down between us. It clangs on the floor. “Pick it up,” I tell her.

Taryn shakes her head. “I don't want to fight you.”

“You sure about that?” I stand in front of her, in her face, annoyingly close. I can feel how much she itches to take my shoulders and shove. It must have galled her that I kissed Locke, that I slept in his bed. “I think maybe you do. I think you'd love to hit me. And I know I want to hit you.”

There's a sword hung high on the wall over the hearth, beneath a silken banner with Madoc's turned-moon crest. I climb onto a nearby chair, step up onto the mantel, and lift it from its hook. It will do.

I hop down and walk toward her, pointing steel at her heart.

“I'm out of practice,” she says.

“I'm not.” I close the distance between us. “But you'll have the better sword, and you can strike the first blow. That's fair and more than fair.”

Taryn looks at me for a long moment, then picks up Nightfell. She steps back several paces and draws.

Across the room, Oriana springs to her feet with a gasp. She doesn't come toward us, though. She doesn't stop us.

There are so many broken things that I don't know how to fix. But I know how to fight.

“Don't be idiots!” Vivi shouts from the balcony. I cannot give her much of my attention. I am too focused on Taryn as she moves across the floor. Madoc taught us both, and he taught us well.

She swings.

I block her blow, our swords slamming together. The metal rings out, echoing through the room like a bell. “Was it fun to deceive me? Did you like the feeling of having something over me? Did you like that he was flirting and kissing me and all the while promising you would be his wife?”

“No!” She parries my first series of blows with some effort, but her muscles remember technique. She bares her teeth. “I hated it, but I'm not like you. I want to belong here. Defying them makes everything worse. You never asked me before you went against Prince Cardan—maybe he started it because of me, but you kept it going. You didn't care what it brought down on either of our heads. I had to show Locke I was different.”

A few of the servants have gathered to watch.

I ignore them, ignore the soreness in my arms from digging a grave only a night before, ignore the sting of the wound through my palm. My blade slices Taryn's skirt, cutting nearly to her skin. Her eyes go wide, and she stumbles back.

We trade a series of fast blows. She's breathing harder, not used to being pushed like this, but not backing down, either.

I beat my blade against hers, not giving her time to do more than defend herself. “So this was
revenge
?” We used to spar when we were younger, with practice sticks. And since then we've engaged in hair pulling, shouting matches, and ignoring each other—but we've never fought like this, never with live steel.

“Taryn! Jude!” Vivi yells, starting toward the spiral stair. “Stop or I will stop you.”

“You hate the Folk.” Taryn's eyes flash as she spins her sword in an elegant strike. “You never cared about Locke. He was just another thing to take from Cardan.”

That staggers me enough that she's able to get under my guard. Her blade just kisses my side before I whirl away, out of her reach.

She goes on. “You think I'm weak.”

“You
are
weak,” I tell her. “You're weak and pathetic and I—”

“I'm a mirror,” she shouts. “I'm the mirror you don't want to look at.”

I swing toward Taryn again, putting my whole weight into the strike. I am so angry, angry at so many things. I hate that I was stupid. I hate that I was tricked. Fury roars in my head, loud enough to drown out my every other thought.

I swing my sword toward her side in a shining arc.

“I said stop,” Vivi shouts, glamour shimmering in her voice like a net. “Now,
stop
!”

Taryn seems to deflate, relaxing her arms, letting Nightfell hang limply from suddenly loose fingers. She has a vague smile on her face, as though she's listening to distant music. I try to check my swing, but it's too late. Instead, I let the sword go. Momentum sends it sailing across the room to slam into a bookshelf and knock a ram's skull to the ground. Momentum sends me sprawling on the floor.

I turn to Vivi, aghast. “You had no right.” The words tumble out of my mouth, ahead of the more important ones—I could have sliced Taryn in half.

She looks as astonished as I am. “Are you wearing a charm? I saw you change your clothes, and you didn't have one.”

Dain's geas. It outlasted his death.

My knees feel raw. My hand is throbbing. My side stings where Nightfell grazed my skin. I am furious she stopped the fight. I am furious she tried to use magic on us. I push myself to my feet. My breath comes hard. There's sweat on my brow, and my limbs are shaking.

Hands grab me from behind. Three more servants pitch in, getting between us and grabbing my arms. Two have Taryn, dragging her away from me. Vivi blows in Taryn's face, and she comes to sputtering awareness.

That's when I see Madoc outside his parlor, lieutenants and knights crowded around him. And Locke.