The Wicked King (The Folk of the Air #2)(77)

Taryn smiles a little at that, and Lord Roiben turns toward me. “You will excuse Jude and me?” he asks Taryn. “We have something pressing to discuss.”

“Of course,” she says, and Roiben escorts me away, toward one of the darker corners of the hall.

“Is she well?” I ask. “Kaye?”

“She will live,” he says tersely. “Where is your High King?”

I scan the hall again, my gaze going to the dais and the empty throne. “I don’t know, but he will be here. He spoke to me only last evening of his regret over your losses and his desire to speak with you.”

“We both know who was behind this attack,” Roiben says. “Prince Balekin blames me for throwing my weight and influence behind you and your princeling when you got him a crown.”

I nod, glad of his calm.

“You made me a promise,” he says. “Now it is time to determine if a mortal is truly as good as her word.”

“I will fix things,” I vow. “I will find a way to fix things.”

Lord Roiben’s face is calm, but his silver eyes are not, and I am forced to remember that he murdered his way to his own throne. “I will speak to your High King, but if he cannot give me satisfaction, then I must call in my debt.”

And with that, he departs in a swish of his long cloak.

Courtiers cover the floor, executing intricate steps—a circle dance that turns in on itself, splits into three and re-forms. I see Locke and Taryn out there, together, dancing. Taryn knows all the steps.

I will have to do something about Locke eventually, but not tonight, I tell myself.

Madoc sweeps into the room, Oriana on his arm. He is dressed in black, and she in white. They look like chess pieces on opposite sides of the board. Behind them come Mikkel and Randalin. A quick scan of the room and I spot Baphen speaking with a horned woman it takes me a moment to recognize, and when I do, it comes with a jolt.

Lady Asha. Cardan’s mother.

I knew she was a courtier before, saw it in the crystal globe on Eldred’s desk, but now it is as though I am seeing her for the first time. She wears a high-skirted gown, so that her ankles show along with little shoes cunningly made to resemble leaves. Her whole gown is in shades of autumn, leaves and blossoms of more cloth stitched over the length of it. The tips of her horns have been painted with copper, and she wears a copper circlet, which is not a crown but is reminiscent of one.

Cardan said nothing to me about her, and yet somehow they must have effected a reconciliation. He must have pardoned her. As another courtier leads her out to the dance, I am uncomfortably aware that she is likely to acquire both power and influence quickly—and that she will do nothing good with either.

“Where is the High King?” Nihuar asks. I didn’t notice the Seelie representative until she was beside me, and I startle.

“How ought I to know?” I demand. “I wasn’t even allowed inside the palace until today.”

It is at that moment that Cardan finally enters the room. Ahead of him are two knights of his personal guard, who step away from him once they’ve escorted him safely to the brugh.

A moment later, Cardan falls. He sprawls across the floor in all his fantastic robes of state, then begins to laugh. He laughs and laughs as though this is the most amazing trick he’s ever performed.

He’s obviously drunk. Very, very drunk.

My heart falls. When I look over at Nihuar, she is expressionless. Even Locke, staring over from the dance floor, looks discomfited.

Meanwhile, Cardan snatches a lute from the hands of an amazed goblin musician and leaps up onto a long banquet table.

Strumming the strings, he begins a song so vulgar that the entire Court stops their dancing to listen and titter. Then, as one, they join in the madness. The courtiers of Faerie are not shy. They begin to dance again, now to the High King’s song.

I didn’t even know he could play.

When the song is over, he falls off the table. Landing awkwardly on his side, his crown tilts forward so it’s hanging over one of his eyes. His guards rush over to help him up off the floor, but he waves them away. “How is that for an introduction?” he demands of Lord Roiben, although they have in fact met before. “I am no dull monarch.”

I look over at Balekin, who is wearing a satisfied smirk. Lord Roiben’s face is like stone, unreadable. My gaze goes to Madoc, who watches Cardan with disgust as he fixes his crown.

And yet, grimly, Roiben goes through the motions of what he’s come here to do. “Your Majesty, I have come to ask you to allow me vengeance for my people. We were attacked and now we wish to respond.” I have seen many people unable to humble themselves, but Lord Roiben does it with great grace.

And yet, with a look at Cardan, I know it won’t matter.

“They say you’re a specialist in bloodshed. I suppose you want to show off your skills.” Cardan wags a finger in Roiben’s direction.

The Unseelie king grimaces at that. A part of him must want to show off immediately, but he makes no comment.

“Yet that you must forgo,” Cardan says. “I’m afraid you’ve come a long way for nothing. At least there’s wine.”

Lord Roiben turns his silvery gaze on me, and there’s a threat in them.

This is not going at all the way I hoped.

Cardan waves his hand toward a table of refreshments. The skins of the fruit curl back from the flesh, and a few globes burst, spilling out seeds and startling nearby courtiers. “I’ve been practicing a skill of my own,” he says with a laugh.