His tent is made of some heavy cloth, painted in silver and green. A few knights sit nearby around a cheerful fire. None of them are in armor—just heavy leather tunics and boots. One is fussing with a contraption to suspend a kettle over the fire and boil water. The human boy I saw with Severin at the coronation, the redhead who caught me staring, is talking with one of the knights in a low voice. A moment later, they both laugh. No one pays me any notice.
I march up to the fire. “Your pardon,” I say, wondering if even that is too polite for a royal messenger. Still, I have no choice but to barrel on. “I have a message for the Alderking’s son. The new High King wishes to come to an arrangement with him.”
“Oh, really?” The human surprises me by speaking first.
“Yes, mortal,” I say, like the hypocrite I am. But come on, that’s absolutely how one of Balekin’s servants would talk to him.
He rolls his eyes and says something to one of the other knights as he stands. It takes me a moment to realize I am looking at Lord Severin. Hair the color of autumn leaves and moss-green eyes and horns curving from behind his brow to just above his ears. I am surprised at the thought of his sitting with the rest of his retinue before a fire, but I recover quickly enough to remember to bow.
“I must speak with you alone,” I say.
“Oh?” he queries. I do not respond, and his brows rise. “Of course,” he says. “This way.”
“You should fix her,” the human boy calls after us. “Seriously, glamoured human servants are creepy.”
Severin doesn’t answer him.
I trail behind him into the tent. None of the others follow, although, when we get inside, there are some women in gowns sitting on cushions and a piper playing a little tune. A female knight sits beside them, her sword across her lap. The blade is beautiful enough to catch my eye.
Severin leads me to a low table surrounded by tufted stools and piled with refreshments—a silver carafe of water with a horn handle, a platter of grapes and apricots, and a dish of little honeyed pastries. He gestures for me to sit, and when I do, he settles himself on another stool.
“Eat whatever you wish,” he says, making it seem like an offer rather than a command.
“I want to ask you to witness a coronation ceremony,” I say, ignoring the food. “But Balekin’s not the one who’s going to be crowned.”
He doesn’t look immensely surprised, just slightly more suspicious. “So you’re not his messenger?”
“I am the next High King’s messenger,” I say, taking Cardan’s ring from my pocket as proof that I have some connection to the royal family, that I am not just making up this story from whole cloth. “Balekin isn’t going to be the next High King.”
“I see.” His affect is impassive, but his gaze is drawn to the ring.
“And I can promise you that your Court will be recognized as sovereign, if you help us. No threat of conquest from the new High King. Instead, we offer you an alliance.” Fear crawls up my throat, and I almost can’t say the last words. If he won’t help me, there’s some chance he’ll betray me to Balekin. If that happens, things get a lot more difficult.
I can control a lot, but I cannot control this.
Severin’s face is unreadable. “I am not going to insult you by asking whom you represent. There is only one possibility, the young Prince Cardan, of whom I hear many things. But I am not the ideal candidate to help you, for the very reasons your offer is so tempting. My Court is afforded little consequence. And more, I am the son of a traitor, so my honor is unlikely to be given weight.”
“You’re going to Balekin’s banquet already. All I need from you is aid at the critical moment.” He’s tempted, he admitted as much. Maybe he just needs some more convincing. “Whatever you’ve heard about Prince Cardan, he will make a better king than his brother.”
At least there I am not lying.
Severin glances toward the edge of the tent, as though wondering who can overhear me. “I will help you so long as I am not the only one. I say this as much for your sake as for mine.” With that, he stands. “I wish you and the prince well. If you need me, I will do what I can.”
I get up off the stool and bow again. “You are most generous.”
As I leave his camp, my mind whirls. On one hand, I did it. I managed to speak with one of the rulers of Faerie without making a fool of myself. I even kind of persuaded him to go along with my plan. But I still need another monarch, a more influential one, to agree.
There is one place I have been avoiding. The largest camp belongs to Roiben of the Court of Termites. Notoriously bloodthirsty, he won both of his crowns in battle, so he has no reason to object to Balekin’s blood-soaked coup. Still, Roiben seems to feel much the way Annet of the Court of Moths does, that Balekin is of little consequence without a crown.
Maybe he won’t want to see one of Balekin’s messengers, either. And, given the size of his encampment, I can’t even imagine the number of guardians I would have to pass in order to speak with him.
But possibly I could sneak in. After all, with so many of the Folk around, what is one person more or less?
I gather up a bundle of fallen branches, large enough to be a respectable contribution to a fire, and walk toward the Termite Camp with my head down. There are knights posted around the perimeter, but, indeed, they pay me little mind as I walk past.
I feel giddy with the success of my plan. When I was a child, sometimes Madoc would have to stop in the middle of a game of Nine Men’s Morris. The board would remain as it was, waiting for us to resume. All through the day and the night, I would imagine my moves and his countermoves until, when we sat down, we were no longer playing the original game. Most often what I failed to do was accurately anticipate his next moves. I had a great strategy for me, but not for the game I was in.
That’s how I feel now, walking into the camp. I am playing a game opposite Madoc, and while I can spin out plans and schemes, if I can’t accurately guess his, I am sunk.
I drop the kindling beside a fire. A blue-skinned woman with black teeth regards me for a moment and then goes back to her conversation with a goat-footed man. Dusting the bark from my clothes, I walk toward the largest tent. I keep my step light and my stride easy and even. When I find a patch of shadow, I use it to crawl under the edge of the cloth. For a moment, I lie there, half hidden on both sides and completely hidden on neither.
The inside of the main tent is lit with lanterns burning with green alchemical fire, tinting everything a sickly color. In every other way, however, the interior is lush. Carpets are layered, one over another. There are heavy wooden tables, chairs, and a bed piled with furs and brocade coverlets stitched with pomegranates.
But on the table, to my surprise, are paper cartons of food. The green-skinned pixie who was with Roiben at the coronation uses chopsticks to bring noodles to her mouth. He sits beside her, carefully breaking apart a fortune cookie.
“What does it say?” the girl asks. “How about ‘the trip you told your girlfriend would be fun ended in bloodshed, as usual.’”
“It says, ‘Your shoes will make you happy today,’” he tells her, voice dry, and passes the little slip across the table for her verification.
She glances down at his leather boots. He shrugs, a small smile touching his lips.
Then I’m dragged roughly out from my hiding place. I roll onto my back outside the tent to find a knight standing above me, her sword drawn. There is no one to blame but myself. I should have kept moving, should have found a way to hide myself inside the tent. I should not have stopped to listen to a conversation, no matter how surprising I found it.
“Get up,” the knight says. Dulcamara. Her face shows no recognition of me, however.
I stand, and she marches me into the tent, kicking me in the legs once we get there so I topple onto the rugs. I have cause to be thankful for their plushness. For a moment, I let myself lie there. She presses her boot against the small of my back as though I am some fell
ed prey.
“I caught a spy,” she announces. “Shall I snap its neck?”
I could roll over and grab her ankle. That would throw her off balance for long enough that I could get up. If I twisted her leg and ran, I might be able to get away. At worst, I’d be on my feet, able to grab a weapon and fight her.
But I came here to have an audience with Lord Roiben, and now I have one. I stay still and let Dulcamara underestimate me.
Lord Roiben has come around from the table and bends over me, white hair falling around his face. Silver eyes regard me pitilessly. “And whose Court are you a part of?”
“The High King’s,” I say. “The true High King, Eldred, who was felled by his son.”
“I am not sure I believe you.” He surprises me both with the mildness of the statement and with the assumption that I am lying. “Come, sit with us and eat. I would hear more of your tale. Dulcamara, you may leave us.”
“You’re going to feed it?” she asks sulkily.
He does not answer her, and after a moment of stony silence, she seems to remember herself. With a bow, she leaves.
I go to the table. The pixie regards me with her inkdrop-black eyes, like Tatterfell’s. I notice the extra joint in her fingers as she reaches for an eggroll. “Go ahead,” she says. “There’s plenty. I used most of the hot mustard packets, though.”
Roiben waits, watching me.
“Mortal food,” I say, in what I hope is a neutral way.
“We live alongside mortals, do we not?” he asks me.
“I think she more than lives beside them,” the pixie objects, looking at me.
“Your pardon,” he says, and waits. I realize they really expect me to eat something. I spear a dumpling with a single chopstick and stuff it into my mouth. “It’s good.”
The pixie resumes eating noodles.
Roiben gestures to her. “This is Kaye. I imagine you know who I am since you snuck into my camp. What name might you go by?”
I am unused to such scrupulous politeness being afforded to me—he’s doing me the courtesy of not asking for my true name. “Jude,” I say, because names have no power over mortals. “And I came to see you because I can put someone other than Balekin on the throne, but I need your help to do it.”
“Someone better than Balekin or just someone?” he asks.
I frown, not sure how to answer that. “Someone who didn’t murder most of his family onstage. Isn’t that automatically better?”
The pixie—Kaye—snorts.
Lord Roiben looks down at his hand, on the wooden table, then back at me. I cannot read his grim face. “Balekin is no diplomat, but perhaps he can learn. He’s obviously ambitious, and he pulled off a brutal coup. Not everyone has the stomach for that.”
“I almost didn’t have the stomach to watch it,” Kaye says.
“He only sort of pulled it off,” I remind them. “And I didn’t think you liked him very much, given what you said at the coronation.”
A corner of Roiben’s mouth turns up. It is a gesture in miniature, barely noticeable. “I don’t. I think he’s a coward to kill his sisters and father in what appeared to be a fit of pique. And he hid behind his military, letting his general finish off the High King’s chosen heir. That bespeaks weakness, the kind that will inevitably be exploited.”
A cold chill of premonition shivers up my back. “What I need is someone to witness a coronation, someone with enough power that the witnessing will matter. You. It will happen at Balekin’s feast, tomorrow eve. If you’ll just allow it to happen and give your oath to the new High King—”
“No offense,” Kaye says, “but what do you have to do with any of this? Why do you care who gets the throne?”
“Because this is where I live,” I say. “This is where I grew up. Even if I hate it half the time, it’s mine.”
Lord Roiben nods slowly. “And you are not going to tell me who this candidate is nor how you’re going to get a crown on his head?”
“I’d rather not,” I say.
“I could get Dulcamara to hurt you until you begged to be allowed to tell me your secrets.” He says this mildly, just another fact, but it reminds me of just how horrific his reputation is. No amount of takeout Chinese food or politeness ought to make me forget exactly who and what I am dealing with.
“Wouldn’t that make you as much of a coward as Balekin?” I ask, trying to project the same confidence I did in the Court of Shadows, the same confidence I did with Cardan. I can’t let him see that I’m scared or, at least, not how scared I am.
We study each other for a long moment, the pixie watching us both. Finally, Lord Roiben lets out a long breath. “Probably more of a coward. Very well, Jude, kingmaker. We will gamble with you. Put the crown on a head other than Balekin’s and I will help you keep it there.” He pauses. “But you will do something for me.”
I wait, tense.
He steeples his long fingers. “Someday, I will ask your king for a favor.”
“You want me to agree to something without even knowing what it is?” I blurt out.
His stoic face gives little away. “Now we understand each other exactly.”
I nod. What choice do I have? “Something of equal value,” I clarify. “And within our power.”
“This has been a most interesting meeting,” Lord Roiben says with a small, inscrutable smile.
As I stand to leave, Kaye winks an inkdrop eye at me. “Luck, mortal.”
With her words echoing after me, I leave the encampments and head back to Cardan.
The Ghost is up when we return. He had been out and brought back with him a handful of tiny apples, some dried venison, fresh butter, and several dozen more bottles of wine. He’s also brought down a few pieces of furniture I recognize from the palace—a silk-embroidered divan, satin cushions, a shimmering spider-silk throw, and a chalcedony set of tea things.
He looks up from the divan where he is sitting, appearing both tense and exhausted. I think he’s grieving, but not in a human way. “Well? I believe I was promised gold.”
“What if I could promise you revenge?” I ask, conscious once again of the weight of debts already on my shoulders.
He trades a look with the Bomb. “So she really does have a scheme.”
The Bomb settles herself on a cushion. “A secret, which is far better than a scheme.”
I grab an apple, go to the table, and then hoist myself onto it. “We’re going to walk right into Balekin’s feast and steal his kingdom out from under him. How’s that for vengeance?”
Bold, that’s what I need to be. Like I own the place. Like I am the general’s daughter. Like I can really pull this off.
The corner of the Ghost’s mouth turns up. He takes out four silver cups from the cupboard and sets them before me. “Drink?”
I shake my head, watching him pour. He returns to the divan but rests at the edge as though he’s going to have to jump up in a moment. He takes a big swallow of wine.
“You spoke of the murder of Dain’s unborn child,” I say.
The Ghost nods. “I saw your face when Cardan spoke of Liriope and when you understood my part in it.”
“It surprised me,” I say honestly. “I wanted to think Dain was different.”
Cardan snorts and takes the silver cup that was meant for me as well as his own.
“Murder is a cruel trade,” says the Ghost. “I believe Dain would have been as fair a High King as any prince of the Folk, but my father was mortal. He would not have considered Dain to be good. He would not have considered me good, either. You’d do well to decide how much you care for goodness before you go too far down the road of spycraft.”
He’s probably right, but there’s little time for me to consider it now. “You don’t understand,” I tell him. “Liriope’s child lived.”
He turns to the Bomb, clearly astonished. “That’s the secret?”
She nods, a little smug. “That’s the scheme.”
The Ghost gives her a long
look and then turns his gaze to me. “I don’t want to find a new position. I want to stay here and serve the next High King. So, yes, let’s steal the kingdom.”
“We don’t need to be good,” I tell the Ghost. “But let’s try to be fair. As fair as any prince of Faerie.”
The Ghost smiles.
“And maybe a little fairer,” I say with a look at Cardan.
The Ghost nods. “I’d like that.”
Then he goes to wake the Roach. I have to explain all over again. Once I get to the part about the banquet and what I think is going to happen, the Roach interrupts me so many times I can barely get a sentence out. After I’m done speaking, he removes a roll of vellum and a nibbed pen from one of the cabinets and notes down who ought to be where at what point for the plan to work.
“You’re replanning my plan,” I say.
“Just a little,” he says, licking the nib and beginning to write again. “Are you concerned over Madoc? He won’t like this.”
Of course I am concerned about Madoc. If I wasn’t, I wouldn’t be doing any of this. I would just hand him the living key to the kingdom.
“I know,” I say, gazing at the dregs of wine in the Ghost’s glass. The moment I walk into the feast with Cardan on my arm, Madoc will know I am running a game of my own. When he discovers that I am going to cheat him out of being regent, he’ll be furious.
And he’s at his most bloodthirsty when he’s furious.
“Do you have something appropriate to wear?” the Roach asks. At my surprised look, he throws up his hands. “You’re playing politics. You and Cardan need to be turned out in splendor for this banquet. Your new king will need everything to look right.”
We go over the plans again, and Cardan helps us map out Hollow Hall. I try not to be too conscious of his long fingers tracing over the paper, of the sick thrill I get when he looks at me.
At dawn, I drink three cups of tea and set out alone for the last person I must speak with before the banquet, my sister Vivienne.
I go back to my house—Madoc’s house, I remind myself, never really mine, never mine again after tonight—as the sun rises in a blaze of gold. I feel like a shadow as I climb the spiral stairs, as I pass through all the rooms I grew up in. In my bedroom, I pack a bag. Poison, knives, a gown, and jewels that I think the Roach will find to be properly extravagant. With reluctance, I leave behind the stuffed animals from my bed. I leave slippers and books and favorite baubles. I step out of my second life the same way I stepped out of my first, holding too few things and with great uncertainty about what will happen next.