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The new High King of Faerie lounges on his throne, his crown resting at an insouciant angle, his long, villainously scarlet cloak pinned at his shoulders and sweeping the floor. An earring shines from the peak of one pointed ear. Heavy rings glitter along his knuckles. His most ostentatious decoration, however, is his soft, sullen mouth. It makes him look every bit the jerk that he is.
And despite having put Cardan on the throne through my own machinations, despite scheming to keep him there, I cannot help being unnerved by how comfortable he looks.
His gift is to take a compliment and turn it into an insult, a jab that hurts more for the temptation to take it at face value.
Luckily, I’m there to whisper my counsel in his ear, as any seneschal might. The difference is that he must listen to me. And if he whispers back a few horrific insults, well, at least he’s forced to whisper.
He gives me a look of such condescension that it makes my cheeks heat. The look lingers. His mouth twists, curving.
Maybe it helps that her feet resemble human ones. Although, to be fair, they are turned backward.
There is only now. There is only tomorrow and tonight and now and soon and never.
I think of his horror at his own desire when I brought my mouth to his, the dagger in my hand, edge against his skin. The toe-curling, corrosive pleasure of that kiss. It felt as though I was punishing him—punishing him and myself at the same time.
The last High King’s seneschal was mortal, as I am, fond of somewhat unreliable prophecy, and widely considered to be mad.
“Val Moren’s a poet. Rules are different for poets.”
It feels dangerous to rest my gaze on him for too long, as though he is so thoroughly debauched that it might be contagious.
The disturbing thing about Cardan is how well he plays the fool to disguise his own cleverness.
“And then what?” I ask. “Cardan is unlikely to make out with you if your mom floods the place.”
“Where—Do you really sleep here? Perhaps you ought to set fire to your rooms as well.”
I have said that he has the power to deliver a compliment and make it hurt. So, too, can he say something that ought to be insulting and deliver it in such a way that it feels like being truly seen.
“Kiss me again,” he says, drunk and foolish. “Kiss me until I am sick of it.” I feel those words, feel them like a kick to the stomach. He sees my expression and laughs, a sound full of mockery. I can’t tell which of us he’s laughing at. He hates you. Even if he wants you, he hates you. Maybe he hates you the more for it. After a moment, his eyes flutter closed. His voice falls to a whisper, as though he’s talking to himself. “If you’re the sickness, I suppose you can’t also be the cure.”
I am used to Cardan’s beauty, but not to any vulnerability. It feels uncomfortable to see him without his fanciful clothes, without his acid tongue and malicious gaze for armor.
“The High King is tied to the land and to his subjects. A king is a living symbol, a beating heart, a star upon which Elfhame’s future is written.”
It was a romantic misunderstanding.” Her eyebrows go up. “The High King is very bad at romance,” I say.
But I do remember being with Locke, feeling special and chosen and pretty. Now, thinking about it, I just feel dumb.
Cardan gives me a look up through his lashes that I find hard to interpret and then rises, too. He takes my hand. “Nothing is sweeter,” he says, kissing the back of it, “but that which is scarce.”
Although I cannot see age in lines on his face, I can see it in his eyes.
“Oh, I will give you the finest advice anyone’s ever given you. But you will not heed it.”
“I hate you,” I whisper before he can speak. He tilts my face to his. “Say it again,” he says as the imps comb my hair and place the ugly, stinking crown on my head. His voice is low. The words are for me alone. I pull out of his grip, but not before I see his expression. He looks as he did when he was forced to answer my questions, when he admitted his desire for me. He looks as though he’s confessing.
He doesn’t kiss me as though he’s angry; his kiss is soft, yearning.
He shucks his cuffed white shirt over his head in a single elegant gesture, revealing bare skin and scars.
“To the triumph of goodness, just not before we get ours.”
“You think I performed a trick because Cardan likes me better than you,” I say. “But you shot at him with a crossbow bolt. Of course he likes me better.”
Fear is terrible, but the combination of hope and fear is worse.
“I have thought and thought since you were gone, and there is something I wish to say.” Cardan’s face is serious, almost grave, in a way that he seldom allows himself to be. “When my father sent me away, at first I tried to prove that I was nothing like he thought me. But when that didn’t work, I tried to be exactly what he believed I was instead. If he thought I was bad, I would be worse. If he thought I was cruel, I would be horrifying. I would live down to his every expectation. If I couldn’t have his favor, then I would have his wrath. “Balekin did not know what to do with me. He made me
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“I’m not giving you an order. I’m suggesting that if you tried to glamour Jude, we could find out the truth.” Cardan sighs and walks toward me. I know this is necessary. I know that he doesn’t intend to hurt me. I know he can’t glamour me. And yet I draw back automatically. “Jude?” he asks. “Go ahead,” I say. I hear the glamour enter his voice, heady and seductive and more powerful than I expected. “Crawl to me,” he says with a grin. Embarrassment pinks my cheeks. I stay where I am, looking at all their faces. “Satisfied?”
“The three of you have one solution to every problem. Murder. No key fits every lock.” Cardan gives us all a stern look, holding up a long-fingered hand with my stolen ruby ring still on one finger. “Someone tries to betray the High King, murder. Someone gives you a harsh look, murder. Someone disrespects you, murder. Someone ruins your laundry, murder.
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And then, after a moment, “You should go.” “Why?” I ask, annoyed. For one, this is my room. For another, I am trying to keep him alive. He looks at me solemnly. “Because I am going to retch.”
“Marry me,” he says. “Become the Queen of Elfhame.”
“Revenge is sweet, but ice cream is sweeter.”
