Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.
“The High King Balekin is a friend to my lady’s Court,” Cardan says, silver-tongued in his silver fox mask. He wears an easy half smile. He’s speaking the language of privilege, speaking it with his drawling tone, with the looseness of his limbs, as though he thinks he owns everything he can see. Even drunk, he’s convincing. “You may have heard of Queen Gliten in the Northwest. Balekin sent a message about the missing prince. He is waiting for an answer.”
“I don’t suppose you have any proof of that?” one of the knights asks.
“Of course.” Cardan holds out a fisted hand and opens it to reveal a royal ring gleaming in the center of his palm. I have no idea when he took it off his finger, a neat bit of sleight of hand that I had no idea he could do, no less while inebriated. “I was given this token so you would know me.”
At the sight of the ring, they step back.
With an obnoxious, too-charming smile, Cardan grabs my arm and hauls me past them. Although I have to grit my teeth, I let him. We’re on the steps, and it’s because of him.
“What about the mortal?” one of the guards calls. Cardan turns.
“Oh, well, you aren’t entirely mistaken in me. I intended to keep some of the delights of the revel for myself,” he says, and they all smirk.
It is all I can do not to knock him to the ground, but there’s no dispute he’s clever with words. According to the baroque rules that govern fey tongues, everything he said was true enough, so long as you concentrate only on the words. Balekin is Madoc’s friend, and I am part of Madoc’s Court, if you squint a little. So I am the “lady.” And the knights probably have heard of Queen Gliten; she’s famous enough. I’m sure Balekin is waiting for an answer about the missing prince. He’s probably desperate for one. And no one can claim that Cardan’s ring isn’t meant to be a token by which he’s known.
As for what he wants to keep from the revel, it could be anything.
Cardan is clever, but it’s not a nice kind of cleverness. And it’s a little too close to my own propensity for lying to be comfortable. Still, we’re free. Behind us, what should have been a celebration of a new High King continues: the shrieking, the feasting, the whirling around in endless looping dances. I glance back once as we climb, taking in the sea of bodies and wings, inkdrop eyes and sharp teeth.
I shudder.
We climb the steps together. I let him keep his possessive grip on my arm, guiding me. I let him open the doors with his own keys. I let him do whatever he wants. And then, once we’re in the empty hall in the upper level of the palace, I turn and press the point of my knife directly underneath his chin.
“Jude?” he asks, up against the wall, pronouncing my name carefully, as though to avoid slurring. I am not sure I have ever heard him use my actual name before.
“Surprised?” I ask, a fierce grin starting on my face. The most important boy in Faerie and my enemy, finally in my power. It feels even better than I thought it would. “You shouldn’t be.”
I press the tip of the knife against his skin so he can feel the bite. His black eyes focus on me with new intensity. “Why?” he asks. Just that.
Seldom have I felt such a rush of triumph. I have to concentrate on keeping it from going to my head, stronger than wine. “Because your luck is terrible and mine is great. Do what I say and I’ll delay the pleasure of hurting you.”
“Planning to spill a little more royal blood tonight?” He sneers, moving as if to shrug off the knife. I move with him, keeping it against his throat. He keeps talking. “Feeling left out of the slaughter?”
“You’re drunk,” I say.
“Oh, indeed.” He leans his head back against the stone, closing his eyes. Nearby torchlight turns his black hair to bronze. “But do you really believe I am going to let you parade me in front of the general, as though I am some lowly—”