The first trap goes unsprung. The decoy climbs out with my family while Oak and I duck down in the carriage. He grins at me at first, when we huddle down in the space between the cushioned benches, but the grin slips off his face a moment later, replaced by worry.
I take his hand and squeeze it. “Ready to climb through a window?”
That delights him anew. “From the carriage?”
“Yes,” I say, and wait for it to pull around. When it does, there’s a knock. I peek out and see the Bomb inside the estate. She winks at me, and then I lift up Oak and feed him, hooves first, through the carriage window and into her arms.
I climb after, inelegantly. My dress is ridiculously revealing, and my leg is still stiff, still hurting, when I fall onto Locke’s stone floor.
“Anything?” I ask, looking up at the Bomb.
She shakes her head, extending a hand to me. “That was always the long shot. My bet is on the maze.”
Oak frowns, and I rub his shoulders. “You don’t have to do this,” I tell him, although I am not sure what we’ll do if he says he won’t.
“I’m okay,” he says without looking into my eyes. “Where’s my mom?”
“I’ll find her for you, twigling,” says the Bomb, and puts her arm over his thin shoulder to lead him out. At the doorway, she looks back at me and fishes something out of her pocket. “You seem to have hurt yourself. Good thing I don’t just cook up explosives.”
With that, she tosses me something. I catch it without knowing what it is, and then turn it over in my hand. A pot of ointment. I look back up to thank her, but she’s already gone.
Unstoppering the little pot, I breathe in the scent of strong herbs. Still, once I spread it over my skin, my pain diminishes. The ointment cools the heat of what was probably imminent infection. The leg is still sore, but nothing as it was.
“My seneschal,” Cardan says, and I nearly drop the ointment. I tug down my dress, turning. “Are you ready to welcome Locke into your family?”
The last time we were in this house, in the maze of the gardens, his mouth was streaked with golden nevermore, and he watched me kiss Locke with a simmering intensity that I thought was hatred.
Now he studies me with a not-dissimilar look, and all I want to do is walk into his arms. I want to drown my worries in his embrace. I want him to say something totally unlike himself, about things being okay.
“Nice dress,” he says instead.
I know the Court must already think I am besotted with the High King to endure being crowned Queen of Mirth and still serve as his seneschal. Everyone must think, as Madoc does, that I am his creature. Even after he humiliated me, I came crawling back.
But what if I actually am becoming besotted with him?
Cardan is more knowledgeable than I am at love. He could use that against me, just as I asked him to use it against Nicasia. Perhaps he found a way to turn the tables after all.
Kill him, a part of me says, a part I remember from the night I took him captive. Kill him before he makes you love him.
“You shouldn’t be alone,” I say, because if the Undersea is going to strike, then we must not give it any easy targets. “Not tonight.”
Cardan grins. “I hadn’t planned on it.”
The offhand implication that he’s not alone most nights bothers me, and I hate that it does. “Good,” I say, swallowing that feeling, though it feels like swallowing bile. “But if you’re planning on taking someone to bed—or better yet, several someones—choose guards. And then have yourselves guarded by more guards.”
“A veritable orgy.” He seems delighted by the idea.
I keep thinking of the steady way he looked at me when we were both naked, before he pulled on his shirt and fastened those elegant cuffs. We should have called truce, he’d said, brushing back his ink-black hair impatiently. We should have called truce long before this.
But neither of us called it, not then, not after.
Jude, he’d said, running a hand up my calf, are you afraid of me?
I clear my throat, forcing the memories away. “I command you not to allow yourself to be alone from tonight’s sundown to tomorrow’s sunup.”
He draws back, as though bitten. He no longer expects me to deliver orders in this high-handed way, as though I don’t trust him.
The High King of Elfhame makes a shallow bow. “Your wish—no, strike that. Your command is my command,” he says.
I cannot look at him as he goes out. I am a coward. Maybe it’s the pain in my leg, maybe it’s worry over my brother, but a part of me wants to call after him, wants to apologize. Finally, when I am sure he’s gone, I head toward the party. A few steps and I am in the hallway.
Madoc leans against the wall. His arms are crossed over his chest, and he shakes his head at me. “It never made sense to me. Until now.”
I stop. “What?”
“I was coming in to get Oak when I heard you speaking with the High King. Forgive me for eavesdropping.”
I can barely think through the thundering in my ears. “It’s not what you thin—”
“If it wasn’t, you wouldn’t know what I thought,” Madoc counters. “Very clever, daughter. No wonder you weren’t tempted by anything I offered you. I said I wouldn’t underestimate you, and yet I did. I underestimated you, and I underestimated both your ambition and your arrogance.”
“No,” I say. “You don’t understand—”
“Oh, I think I do,” he says, not waiting for me to explain about Oak’s not being ready for the throne, about my desire to avoid bloodshed, about how I don’t even know if I can hang on to what I have for longer than a year and a day. He’s too angry for any of that. “At last, I finally understand. Orlagh and the Undersea we will vanquish together. But when they are gone, it will be us staring across a chessboard at each other. And when I best you, I will make sure I do it as thoroughly as I would any opponent who has shown themselves to be my equal.”
Before I can think of what to say to that, he grabs hold of my arm, marching us together onto the green. “Come,” he says. “We have roles yet to play.”
Outside, blinking in the late-afternoon sun, Madoc leaves me to go speak with a few knights standing in a tight knot near an ornamental pool. He gives me a nod when he departs, the nod of someone acknowledging an opponent.
A shiver goes through me. When I confronted him in Hollow Hall after poisoning his cup, I thought I had made us enemies. But this is far worse. He knows I stand between him and the crown, and it matters little whether he loves or hates me—he will do whatever it takes to wrest that power from my hands.
With no other options, I head into the maze, toward the celebration at its center.
Three turns and it seems that the partygoers are farther away. Sounds grow muffled, and faint laughter comes from every direction. The boxwoods are high enough to be disorienting.
Seven turns and I am truly lost. I start back, only to find the maze has changed itself around. The paths are not where they were before.
Of course. It can’t just be a normal maze. No, it’s got to be out to get me.
I remember that among this foliage are the treefolk, waiting to keep Oak safe. Whether they’re the ones messing with me now, I do not know, but at least I can be sure something is listening when I speak.
“I will slice my way clean through you,” I say to the leafy walls. “Let’s start playing fair.”
Branches rustle behind me. When I turn, there’s a new path.
“This better be the way to the party,” I grumble, starting on it. I hope this doesn’t lead to the secret oubliette reserved for people who threaten the maze.
Another turn and I come to a stretch of little white flowers and a stone tower built in miniature. From inside, I hear a strange sound, half growl and half cry.
I draw Nightfell. Not many things weep in Faerie. And the weeping things that are more common here—like banshees—are very dangerous.
“Who’s in there?” I say. “Come out or I’m coming in.”
I am surprised to see Heather shuffle into view. Her ears have grown furred and long, like that of a cat. Her nose is differently shaped, and the stubs of whiskers are growing above her eyebrows and from the apples of her cheeks.
Worse, since I can’t see through it, it’s not a glamour. It’s a real spell of some kind, and I don’t think it’s done with her. As I watch, a light dusting of fur grows along her arms in a patterning not unlike a tortoiseshell cat.
“What—what happened?” I stammer.
She opens her mouth, but instead of an answer, a piteous yowling comes out.
Despite myself, I laugh. Not because it’s funny, but because I’m startled. Then I feel awful, especially when she hisses.
I squat down, wincing at the pulling of my stitches. “Don’t panic. I’m sorry. You just took me by surprise. This is why I warned you to keep that charm on you.”
She makes another hissing yowl.
“Yeah,” I say, sighing. “No one likes to hear ‘I told you so.’ Don’t worry. Whatever jerk thought this was going to be a fun prank is about to have a lot of regrets. Come on.”
She follows me, shivering. When I try to put an arm around her, she flinches away with another hiss. At least she remains upright. At least she is human enough to stay with me and not run off.
We plunge into the hedges, and this time the maze doesn’t mess with us. In three turns, we are standing among guests. A fountain splashes gently, the sound of it mixing with conversation.
I look around, searching for someone I know.
Taryn and Locke aren’t there. Most likely, they have gone to a bower, where they will make private vows to each other—their true faerie marriage, unwitnessed and mysterious. In a land where there are no lies, promises need not be public to be binding.
Vivi rushes over to me, taking Heather’s hands. Her fingers have curled under in a paw-like manner.
“What’s happened?” Oriana demands.
“Heather?” Oak wants to know. She looks at him with eyes that match my sister’s. I wonder if that was the heart of the jest. A cat for a cat-eyed girl.
“Do something,” Vivi says to Oriana.
“I am no deft hand at enchantments,” she says. “Undoing curses was never my specialty.”
“Who did this? They can undo it.” My voice has a growl to it that makes me sound like Madoc. Vivi looks up with a strange expression on her face.
“Jude,” Oriana cautions, but Heather points with her knuckles.
Standing by a trio of flute-playing fauns is a boy with cat ears. I stride across the maze toward him. One hand goes to the hilt of my sword; all the frustration I feel over everything I cannot control bends toward fixing this one thing.
My other hand knocks the goblet of green wine out of his grip. The liquid pools on the clover before sinking into the earth under our feet.
“What is this?” he demands.
“You put a curse on that girl over there,” I tell him. “Fix her immediately.”
“She admired my ears,” the boy says. “I was only giving her what she desired. A party favor.”
“That’s what I am going to say after I gut you and use your entrails as streamers,” I tell him. “I was only giving him what he wanted. After all, if he didn’t want to be eviscerated, he would have honored my very reasonable request.”
With furious looks at everyone, he stomps across the grass and speaks a few words. The enchantment begins to dissipate. Heather weeps anew, though, as her humanity returns. Huge sobbing gasps shake her.
“I want to go,” she says finally in a quavering, wet voice. “I want to go home right now and never come back.”
Vivi should have prepared her better, should have made sure she always wore a charm—or better yet, two. She should never have let Heather wander off alone.
I fear that, in some measure, this is my fault. Taryn and I hid from Vivi the worst of what it was to be human in Faerie. I think Vivi believed that because her sisters were fine, Heather would be, too. But we were never fine.
“It’s going to be okay,” Vivi is saying, rubbing Heather’s back in soothing circles. “You’re okay. Just a little weirdness. Later, you’re going to think it was funny.”
“She’s not going to think it was funny,” I say, and Vivi flashes me an angry look.
The sobbing continues. Finally, Vivi puts her finger under Heather’s chin, raising her face to look fully into it.
“You’re okay,” Vivi says again, and I can hear the glamour in her voice. The magic makes Heather’s whole body relax. “You don’t remember the last half hour. You’ve been having a lovely time at the wedding, but then took a spill. You were crying because you bruised your knee. Isn’t that silly?”
Heather looks around, embarrassed, and then wipes her eyes. “I feel a little ridiculous,” she says with a laugh. “I guess I was just surprised.”
“Vivi,” I hiss.
“I know what you’re going to say,” Vivi tells me under her breath. “But it’s just this one time. And before you ask, I’ve never done it before. But she doesn’t need to remember all of that.”
“Of course she does,” I say. “Or she won’t be careful next time.”
I am so angry that I can barely speak, but I need to make Vivi understand. I need to make her realize that even terrible memories are better than weird gaps or the hollowness of your feelings not making sense.
But before I can begin, the Ghost is at my shoulder. Vulciber, beside him. They are both in uniform.
“Come with us,” the Ghost says, uncharacteristically blunt.
“What is it?” I ask them, my voice sharp. I am still thinking about Vivi and Heather.
The Ghost is as grim as I’ve ever seen him. “The Undersea made its move.”
I look around for Oak, but he is where I left him moments before, with Oriana, watching Heather insist that she’s fine. A small frown creases the space between his brows, but he seems otherwise utterly safe from everything but bad influence.
Cardan stands on the other side of the green, near where Taryn and Locke have just come back from swearing their vows. Taryn looks shy, with roses in her cheeks. Folk rush over to kiss her—goblins and grigs, Court ladies and hags. The sky is bright overhead, the wind sweet and full of flowers.
“The Tower of Forgetting. Vulciber insists you ought to see it,” the Bomb says. I didn’t even notice her walking up. She’s all in black, her hair pulled into a tight bun. “Jude?”
I turn back to my spies. “I don’t understand.”
“We will explain on the way,” Vulciber says. “Are you ready?”
“Just a second.” I should congratulate Taryn before I leave. Kiss her cheeks and say something nice, and then she’ll know I was here, even if I had to go. But as I look toward her, evaluating how swiftly I can do that, my gaze catches on her earrings.
Dangling from her lobes are a moon and a star. The same ones I bargained for from Grimsen. The ones I lost in the wood. She wasn’t wearing them when we got in the carriage, so she must have got them…
Beside her, Locke is smiling his fox smile, and when he walks, he has a slight limp.
For a moment, I just stare, my mind refusing to acknowledge what I’m seeing. Locke. It was Locke with the riders, Locke and his friends on the night before he was to be married. A bachelor party of sorts. I guess he decided to pay me back for threatening him. That, or perhaps he knew he could never stay faithful and decided to go after me before I came back for him.
I take one last look at them and realize I can do nothing now.
“Pass the news about the Undersea on to the Grand General,” I tell the Bomb. “And make sure—”
“I’ll watch over your brother,” she reassures me. “And the High King.”
Turning my back on the wedding, I follow Vulciber and the Ghost. Yellow horses with long manes are nearby, already saddled and bridled. We swing up onto them and ride to the prison.
From the outside, the only evidence that something might be wrong is the waves striking higher than I’ve ever seen them. Water has pooled on the uneven flagstones.
Inside, I see the bodies. Knights, lying pale and still. The few on their backs have water filling their mouths as though their lips were the edges of cups. Others lie on their sides. All their eyes have been replaced with pearls.
Drowned on dry land.
I rush down the stairs, terrified for Cardan’s mother. She is there, though, alive, blinking out at me from the gloom. For a moment, I just stand in front of her cell, hand on my chest in relief.
Then I draw Nightfell and cut straight down between bar and lock. Sparks fly, and the door opens. Asha looks at me suspiciously.
“Go,” I say. “Forget our bargains. Forget everything. Get out of here.”
“Why are you doing this?” she asks me.
“For Cardan,” I say. I leave unsaid the second part: Because his mother is still alive and mine is not, because even if he hates you, at least he should get a chance to tell you about it.
With one baffled look back at me, she begins to ascend.
I need to know if Balekin is still imprisoned, if he’s still alive. I head lower, picking my way through the gloom with one hand against the wall and the other holding my blade.
The Ghost calls my name, probably because of Asha’s abrupt arrival in front of him, but I am intent on my purpose. My feet grow swifter and more sure on the spiral steps.
I find Balekin’s cell is empty, the bars bent and broken, his opulent rugs wet and covered in sand.
Orlagh took Balekin. Stole a prince of Faerie from right under my nose.
I curse my own shortsightedness. I knew they were meeting, knew they were scheming together, but I was sure, because of Nicasia, that Orlagh truly wanted Cardan to be the bridegroom of the sea. It didn’t occur to me that Orlagh would act before hearing an answer. And I didn’t think that when she threatened to take blood, she meant Balekin.
Balekin. It would be difficult to get the crown of Faerie on his head without Oak putting it there. But should Cardan ever abdicate, that would mean a period of instability, another coronation, another chance for Balekin to rule.
I think of Oak, who is not ready for any of this. I think of Cardan, who must be persuaded to pledge himself to me again, especially now.
I am still swearing when I hear a wave strike the rocks, hard enough to reverberate through the Tower. The Ghost shouts my name again, from closer by than I expect.
I turn as he steps into view on the other side of the room. Beside him are three of the sea Folk, watching me with pale eyes. It takes me a moment to put the image together, to realize the Ghost is not restrained nor even menaced. To realize this is a betrayal.
My face goes hot. I want to feel angry, but instead I feel a roaring in my head that overwhelms everything else.
The sea crashes against the shore again, slamming into the side of the Tower. I am glad Nightfell is already in my hand.
“Why?” I ask, hearing Nicasia’s words pounding in my ears like the surf: Someone you trust has already betrayed you.
“I served Prince Dain,” the Ghost says. “Not you.”
I begin to speak, when there is a rustle behind me. Then pain in the back of my skull and nothing more.
