The Cruel Prince (The Folk of the Air #1)(72)

I must keep it together. I can’t lose it now, not where Cardan will see.

And not when a plan is starting to form in my mind. A plan requiring this last prince.

I glance back and see that he has stopped moving. He’s sitting on the ground, looking at his hand. Looking at his ring. “He despised me.” His voice sounds light, conversational. Like he’s forgotten where he is.

“Balekin?” I ask, thinking of what I saw at Hollow Hall.

“My father.” Cardan snorts. “I didn’t much know the others, my brothers and sisters. Isn’t that funny? Prince Dain—he didn’t want me in the palace, so he forced me out.”

I wait, not sure what to say. It’s disturbing to see him like this, behaving as though he might have emotions.

After a moment, he seems to come back to himself. His eyes focus on me, glittering in the dark. “And now they’re all dead. Thanks to Madoc. Our honorable general. They never should have trusted him. But your mother discovered that a long time ago, didn’t she?”

I narrow my eyes. “Crawl.”

The corner of his mouth lifts. “You first.”

We go from table to table, until finally we’re as close as we’re likely to get to the steps. Cardan pushes back the tablecloth and reaches out his hand toward me, in the gallant manner of someone helping up the person they’ve been trysting with. Maybe Cardan would say he was doing it for the benefit of onlookers, but we both know he’s mocking me. I stand without touching him.

The only thing that matters is getting out of the hall before the revel gets bloodier, before the wrong creature decides I am an amusing plaything, before Cardan is gutted by someone who doesn’t want any High Monarch in power.

I start toward the steps, but he stops me. “Not like that. Your father’s knights will recognize you.”

“I’m not the one they’re looking for,” I remind him.

He frowns, although his mask hides most of it. Still, I can see it in the turn of his mouth. “If they see your face, they may pay too much attention to whom you’re with.”

Annoyingly, he’s right. “If they knew me at all, they’d know I’d never be with you.” Which is ridiculous, since I am currently standing beside him, although it makes me feel better to say it. With a sigh, I take down my braids, rubbing my hands through my hair until it hangs wild in my face.

“You look …” he says, and then trails off, blinking a few times, not seeming able to finish. I am guessing the hair thing worked better than he had expected.

“Give me a second,” I say, and I plunge into the crowd. I don’t like risking this, but covering my face is safer than not. I spot a nixie in a black velvet mask eating a tiny sparrow’s heart off a long pin. Slyfooting up behind her, I cut the ribbons and catch the mask before it hits the floor. She turns, searching for where it fell, but I am already away. Soon she will abandon looking and eat another delicacy—or at least I hope she will. It is just a mask, after all.

When I return, Cardan is swilling down more wine, his gaze burning into me. I have no idea what he sees, what he’s even looking for. A thin rivulet of green liquid pours over his cheek. He reaches for the heavy silver pitcher as if to pour himself another cup.

“Come on,” I say, grabbing for his gloved hand with mine.

We’re to the steps out of the hall when three knights move to block our way. “Look elsewhere for your pleasure,” one informs us. “This is the way to the palace, and it is barred to common Folk.”

I feel Cardan stiffen beside me, because he’s an idiot and cares more about being called common than anyone’s safety, sadly even his own. I tug his arm. “We will do as we are bid,” I assure the knight, trying to move Cardan away before he does something we will both regret.

Cardan, however, will not be moved. “You are much mistaken in us.”

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.