The Cruel Prince (33 page)

N
ever have I walked through the front doors of Hollow Hall. Always before I have come skulking through the kitchens, dressed as a servant. Now I stand in front of the polished wood doors, lit by two lamps of trapped sprites who fly in desperate circles. They illuminate a carving of an enormous and sinister face. The knocker, a circle piercing its nose.

Cardan reaches for it, and because I have grown up in Faerie, I am not entirely surprised into a scream when the door's eyes open.

“My prince,” it says.

“My door,” he says in return, with a smile that conveys both affection and familiarity. It's bizarre to see his obnoxious charm used for something other than evil.

“Hail and welcome,” the door says, swinging open to reveal one of Balekin's faerie servants. He stares openmouthed at Cardan, missing prince of Faerie. “The other guests are through there,” the servant finally manages.

Cardan tucks my arm firmly through his before striding into the entryway, and I feel a rush of warmth as I match his step. I can't afford to be less than ruthlessly honest with myself. Against my better judgment, despite the fact that he is terrible, Cardan is also fun.

Maybe I should be glad of how little it will matter.

But for now, it's immensely unnerving. Cardan is dressed in a suit of Dain's clothes, stolen from the palace wardrobes and altered by a clever-fingered brownie that owed the Roach a gambling debt. He looks regal in different shades of cream—a coat over a vest and loose shirt, breeches and a neckcloth, with the same silver-tipped boots he wore to the coronation, a single sapphire shining from his left ear. He's
supposed
to look regal. I helped choose the clothes, helped make him this way, and yet the effect is not lost on me.

I am wearing a bottle-green gown with earrings in the shape of berries. In my pocket is Liriope's golden acorn, and at my hip is my father's sword. Against my skin, I have a collection of knives. It doesn't feel like enough.

As we cross the floor, everyone turns to look. The lords and ladies of Faerie. Kings and queens of other Courts. The representative from the Queen of the Undersea. Balekin. My family. Oak, standing with Oriana and Madoc. I look over at Lord Roiben, his white hair making him easy to find in the crowd, but he does not acknowledge that we have ever met. His face remains unreadable, a mask.

I am going to have to trust that he will keep his part of the bargain, but I mislike this kind of calculation. I grew up thinking of strategy as finding weaknesses and exploiting them. That I understand. But making people like you, making people want to take your part and be on your side—that I am far less skilled at.

My gaze goes from a table of refreshments to the elaborate gowns to a goblin king crunching on a bone. Then my eyes settle on the Blood Crown of the High King. It rests on a ledge above us, a pillow beneath it. There, it glows with a sinister light.

At the sight, I imagine all my plans coming apart. The thought of stealing it, in front of everyone, daunts me. And yet, having to search Hollow Hall for it would have been daunting, too.

I see Balekin move from speaking with a woman I don't recognize. She's wearing a gown of woven seaweed and a collar of pearls. Her black hair is tied to a crown festooned with more pearls, appearing like webbing above her head. It takes me a moment to puzzle out who she must be—Queen Orlagh, Nicasia's mother. Balekin leaves her and crosses the room toward us with purpose.

Cardan catches sight of Balekin and steers us in the direction of the wine. Bottles and carafes of it—pale green, yellow as gold, the dark purple-red of my heart's own blood. They are redolent of roses, of dandelions, of crushed herbs and currants. The smell alone nearly makes my head spin.

“Little brother,” Balekin says to Cardan. He is dressed head to toe in black and silver, the velvet of his doublet so thickly embroidered with patterns of crowns and birds that it looks as heavy as armor. He wears a silver circlet on his brow, matching his eyes. It's not
the
crown, but it is
a
crown. “I've sought high and low for you.”

“Doubtless so.” Cardan smiles like the villain I've always believed him to be. “I turned out to be useful after all. What a terrible surprise.”

Prince Balekin smiles back as though their smiles could duel without the rest of them even being involved. I am sure he wishes he could rail at Cardan, could beat him into doing what he wants, but since the rest of their family died at swordpoint, Balekin must have learned his lesson about needing a willing participant in a coronation.

For the moment, Cardan's presence is enough to reassure people that Balekin will soon be the High King. If Balekin calls for guards or grabs him, that illusion will dissipate.

“And you,” Balekin says, turning his gaze to me, viciousness lighting his eyes. “What have you to do with this? Leave us.”

“Jude,” Madoc says, striding up to stand beside Prince Balekin, who immediately seems to realize I might have
something
to do with this after all.

Madoc looks displeased but not alarmed. I am sure he is thinking me a fool who expects to get a pat on the head for finding the missing prince and cursing himself for not making it more clear that he wanted Cardan brought to
him
and
not
to Balekin. I give him my best blithe smile, like a girl who thinks she has solved everyone's problems.

How frustrating it must be to come so close to your goal, to have Oak and the crown in one place, to have the lords and ladies of Faerie assembled. And then your first wife's bastard throws a spanner in the works by handing the one person most likely to put the crown on Oak's head to your rival.

I note the evaluating look he's giving Cardan, however. He's replanning.

He rests a heavy hand on my shoulder. “You found him.” He turns to Balekin. “I hope you're intending to reward my daughter. I am sure it took no small amount of persuasion to bring him here.”

Cardan gives Madoc an odd look. I remember what he said about it bothering him that Madoc treated me so well when Eldred barely acknowledged him. But the way he's looking, I wonder if it's just weird to see us together, redcap general and human girl.

“I will give her anything she asks for and more,” Balekin promises extravagantly. I see Madoc frown, and I give him a quick smile, pouring two glasses of wine—one light and the other dark. I am careful with them, sly-fingered. I do not spill a drop.

Instead of handing one to Cardan, I offer them both up for Madoc to choose between. Smiling, he takes the one the color of heart's blood. I take the other.

“To the future of Faerie,” I say, tapping the globes together, making the glass ring like bells. We drink. Immediately, I feel the effects—a kind of floatiness, as though I am swimming through air. I don't want to even look at Cardan. He will laugh and laugh if he thinks I can't handle a few sips of wine.

Cardan pours his own glass and throws it back.

“Take the bottle,” Balekin says. “I am prepared to be very generous. Let us discuss what you'd like, whatever you'd like.”

“There's no hurry, is there?” Cardan asks lazily.

Balekin gives him the hard stare of someone barely holding himself back from violence. “I think everyone would like to see the matter settled.”

“Nonetheless,” Cardan says, taking the bottle of wine and drinking directly from the neck. “We have all night.”

“The power is in your hands,” Balekin tells him in a clipped way that leaves the “for now” heavily implied.

I see a muscle twitch in Cardan's jaw. I am sure Balekin is imagining how he will punish Cardan for any delay. It weighs down his every word.

Madoc, by contrast, is taking in the situation, evaluating, no doubt, what he can offer Cardan. When he smiles at me and takes another swig of his wine, it's a real smile. Toothy and relieved. I can see he's thinking that Cardan will be easier to manipulate than Balekin ever would have been.

I am suddenly certain that if we went into the other room, Balekin would find Madoc's sword buried in his chest.

“After dinner, I will tell you my terms,” Cardan says. “But until then, I am going to enjoy the party.”

“I do not have endless patience,” Balekin growls.

“Cultivate it,” Cardan says, and with a small bow, he navigates us away from Balekin and Madoc.

I leave my glass of wine near a platter of sparrow hearts, pierced through with long silver pins, and weave through the crowd with him.

Nicasia stops us with a long-fingered hand against Cardan's chest, her cerulean hair bright against her bronze gown.

“Where have you been?” Nicasia asks with a glance at our linked arms. She wrinkles her delicate nose, but panic underlines her words. She is feigning calm, like the rest of us.

I am sure that she thought Cardan had to be dead, or worse. There must be many things she wants to ask him, all of which she cannot do in front of me.

“Jude here made me her prisoner,” he says, and I have to fight down the urge to step heavily on his foot. “She ties very tight knots.”

Nicasia clearly doesn't know whether to laugh. I almost sympathize. I don't know, either.

“Good thing you finally managed to slip her bonds,” Nicasia decides on.

He raises both brows. “Did I?” he asks with a haughty condescension, as though she has shown herself to be less clever than he had hoped.

“Must you be like this, even now?” she asks, clearly deciding to throw caution to the wind. Her hand goes to his arm.

His face softens in a way that I am entirely unused to seeing. “Nica
sia,” he says, pulling himself free. “Stay away from me tonight. For your own sake.”

It stings a little, that he has that kindness in him. I don't want to see it.

She gives me a look, doubtlessly trying to decide why his pronouncement doesn't apply to me. But then Cardan is moving away from her, and I go with him. I see Taryn across the room, Locke beside her. Her eyes widen, taking in whom I am standing with. Something passes over her face, and it looks a lot like resentment.

She has Locke, but I am here with a
prince
.

That's not fair. I cannot know she is thinking that from just one look.

“Part one completed,” I say, looking away from her. Speaking to Cardan under my breath. “We got here, got in, and are not yet in chains.”

“Yes,” he says. “I believe the Roach called that ‘the easy bit.'”

The plan, as I've explained it to him, has five basic phases: (1) get in, (2) get everybody else in, (3) get the crown, (4) put the crown on Oak's head, and (5) get out.

I take my arm from his. “Don't go anywhere alone,” I remind Cardan.

He gives me the tight-lipped smile of someone who's being abandoned and nods once.

I head toward Oriana and Oak. On the other side of the room, I see Severin break off from a conversation and walk toward Prince Balekin. Sweat beads on my lip, under my arms. My muscles tense.

If Severin says the wrong thing, I am going to have to abandon all phases of the plan except for “get out.”

Oriana raises both brows as I approach, her hands going to Oak's thin shoulders. He reaches up his hands. I want to swing him up into my arms. I want to ask him if Vivi explained what's going to happen. I want to tell him everything's going to be fine. But Oriana grabs his fingers, pressing them between hers, settling the question of how many lies I could stomach.

“What is this?” Oriana asks me with a nod toward Cardan.

“What you asked,” I tell her, following her gaze. Somehow, Balekin has drawn Cardan into his conversation with Severin. Cardan laughs at something Balekin said, looking as comfortably arrogant as I've ever seen him. I am shocked by recognition—if you live your life always afraid, always with danger on your heels, it is not so difficult to pretend away more danger. I know that, but I didn't think, of all people, Cardan would, too. Balekin has his hand on Cardan's shoulder. I can just imagine his fingers digging into Cardan's neck. “It's not easy. I hope you understand there's going to be a price—”