The Cruel Prince (The Folk of the Air #1)(101)

“Surrender,” he tells me, sword pointed toward my throat. “It was well tried. I will forgive you, Jude, and we will go back into the banquet. You will persuade Cardan to do what I need him to. All will be as it should be.”

I spit blood on the stone tiles.

His sword arm trembles a little.

“You surrender,” I say.

He laughs, as though I have told a particularly rich joke. Then he stops, grimacing.

“I imagine you’re not feeling quite yourself,” I tell him.

His sword sags a little, and he looks at me in sudden comprehension. “What have you done?”

“I poisoned you. Don’t worry. It was a small enough dose. You’ll live.”

“The cups of wine,” he says. “But how did you know which one I would choose?”

“I didn’t,” I tell him, thinking that he’ll be at least a little pleased by the answer, despite himself. It is the kind of strategy he likes best. “I poisoned them both.”

“You will be very sorry,” he says. The tremble is in his legs now. I know. I feel the echo of it in my own. But by now, I am used to drinking poison.

I look deep into his eyes as I sheathe my sword. “Father, I am what you made me. I’ve become your daughter after all.”

Madoc lifts his blade again, as though he’s going to rush at me one final time. But then it falls from his hand, and he falls, too, sprawling on the stone floor.

When the Ghost and the Roach come in, a few tense minutes later, they find me sitting beside him, too tired to even think of moving his body.

Wordlessly, the Roach hands me a handkerchief, and I start to wipe the blood from my nose.

“On to phase three,” the Ghost says.





When I rejoin the feast, everyone is taking their place at the long table. I walk straight to Balekin and curtsy.

“My lord,” I say, pitching my voice low. “Madoc asked me to tell you that he is delayed and to begin without him. He wishes you not to worry, but some of Dain’s spies are here. He will send you word when he’s caught or killed them.”

Balekin regards me with slightly pursed lips and narrowed eyes. He takes in whatever traces of blood I couldn’t wash from my nostrils and my teeth, whatever sweat I couldn’t wipe away. Madoc slumbers in Cardan’s old room, and by my calculations, we have at least an hour before he wakes. It feels as though if Balekin looked carefully, he could see that on my face, too.

“You have been more helpful than I would have guessed,” Balekin says, resting a hand lightly on my shoulder. He seems to have forgotten how furious he was when I first came in with Cardan and expects me to forget it, too. “Continue and you will find yourself rewarded. Would you like to live as one of us? Would you like to be one of us?”

Could the High King of Faerie really give me that? Could he make me something other than human, something other than mortal?

I think of Valerian’s words when he tried to glamour me into jumping out of the tower. Being born mortal is like being born already dead.

He sees the look on my face and smiles, sure that he has ferreted out the secret desire of my heart.

And, indeed, as I walk to my seat, I am troubled. I should feel triumphant, but, instead, I feel sick. Outmaneuvering Madoc wasn’t nearly as satisfying as I wanted it to be, especially since I was able to do it because he never thought of me as someone who would betray him. Perhaps years from now, my faith in this plan will prove justified, but until then I will have to live with this acid in the pit of my stomach.

The future of Faerie depends on my playing a long game and playing it perfectly.

I spot Vivi, sitting between Nicasia and Lord Severin, and I give her a quick smile. She gives me a grim one in return.

Lord Roiben looks at me askance. Beside him, the green pixie whispers something in his ear, and he shakes his head. At the other end of the table, Locke kisses Taryn’s hand. Queen Orlagh looks over at me curiously. There are only three mortals here—Taryn, me, and the redhead with Severin—and from the way she regards us, Orlagh is imagining mice presiding over a convocation of cats.

Above hangs a chandelier made from thin sheets of mica. Tiny glowing faeries are trapped inside for the purpose of adding a warm glow to the room. Occasionally, they fly, making shadows dance.

“Jude,” Locke says, touching my arm, startling me. His fox eyes crinkle in amusement. “I admit, I am a little jealous to see Cardan parading you around on his arm.”

I take a step back. “I don’t have time for this.”

“I liked you, you know,” he says. “I like you still.”

For a moment, I wonder what would happen if I hauled off and punched him.

“Go away, Locke,” I tell him.

His smile returns. “The thing I like best is how you never do what I imagine you will. For instance, I didn’t think you’d duel over me.”

“I didn’t.” I pull away from him and head to the table, a little unsteady on my feet.

“There you are,” Cardan says as I take my place beside him. “How has the night been going for you? Mine has been full of dull conversations about how my head is going to find itself on a spike.”

My hands shake as I take my place. I tell myself that it’s just the poison. My mouth is dry. I find myself without the wit for verbal sparring. Servants set down dishes—roasted goose shining with currant glaze, oysters and stewed ramps, acorn cakes and whole fish stuffed with rose hips. Wine is poured, dark green with pieces of gold floating in it. I watch them sink to the bottom of the glass, shining sediment.