The Cruel Prince (The Folk of the Air #1)(36)

I try to convince myself that Prince Dain is only doing the smart thing, the necessary thing, in binding me. But it makes my skin crawl.

For a moment, I am unsure of my decision to serve him.

“Oh,” Dain says as I am about to leave. “One more thing. Do you know what mithridatism is?”

I shake my head, not sure I am interested in anything he has to say right now.

“Look into it.” He smiles. “That’s not a command, only a suggestion.”

I follow the Roach through the palace, keeping back from him a few steps so it doesn’t seem like we’re together. We pass a general Madoc knows, and I make sure to keep my head bowed. I don’t think he would look closely enough to recognize me, but I cannot be sure.

“Where are we going?” I whisper after several minutes of walking through the halls.

“Just a little farther,” he says gruffly, opening a cupboard and climbing inside. His eyes reflect orange, like a bear’s. “Well, come on, get in and close the door.”

“I can’t see in the dark,” I remind him, because that is one of the many things the Folk never remember about us.

He grunts.

I get in, folding myself up tightly so that no part of me touches him, and then I close the cabinet door behind me. I hear the slide of wood and feel the rush of cold, damp air. The scent of wet stone fills the space.

His hand on my arm is careful, but I can feel his claws. I let him pull me forward, allow him to press my head so I know when to duck. When I straighten out, I am on a narrow platform above what appears to be the palace’s wine cellars.

My eyes are still adjusting, but from what I can see, there is a network of passageways worming below the palace. I wonder how many people know about them. I smile at the thought of having a secret about this place. Me, of all people.

I wonder if Madoc knows.

I bet Cardan doesn’t.

I grin, wider than before.

“Enough gawping?” the Roach asks. “I can wait.”

“Are you ready to tell me anything?” I ask him. “Like, where we’re going or what’s going to happen when we get there?”

“Figure it out,” he says, the growl in his voice. “Go on.”

“You said we were going to meet the others,” I tell him, starting with what I know, trying to keep up and avoid stumbling on the uneven ground. “And Prince Dain made me promise not to reveal any hidden locations, so obviously we’re going to your lair. But that doesn’t tell me what we’re going to do when we get there.”

“Maybe we’re going to show you secret handshakes,” the Roach says. He’s doing something I can’t quite see, but a moment later, I hear a click—as though a lock was tripped or a trap disarmed. A gentle shove against the small of my back and I am heading down a new, even more dimly lit tunnel.

I know when we come to a door because I walk straight into it, much to the Roach’s amusement. “You really can’t see,” he says.

I rub my forehead. “I told you I couldn’t!”

“Yes, but you’re the liar,” he reminds me. “I’m not supposed to believe anything you say.”

“Why would I lie about something like that?” I demand, still annoyed.

He lets my question hang in the air. The answer is obvious—so I could retrace my steps. So he might accidentally show me something he wouldn’t show someone else. So that he would be incautious.

I really need to stop asking stupid questions.

And maybe he really needs to be less paranoid, since Dain put a geas on me so I can’t tell anyone no matter what.

The Roach opens the door, and light floods the hallway, causing me to throw my arm up in front of my face. Blinking, I look into the secret lair of Prince Dain’s spies. It’s packed earth on all four sides, with walls that curve inward and a rounded ceiling. A large table dominates the room, and sitting at it are two faeries I’ve never met—both of them gazing at me unhappily.

“Welcome,” says the Roach, “to the Court of Shadows.”





The two other members of Dain’s spy troupe also have code names. There’s the lean, handsome faerie that looks at least part human, who winks and tells me to call him the Ghost. He has sandy-colored hair, which is normal for a mortal but is unusual for a faerie, and ears that come to very subtle points.

The other is a tiny, delicate girl, her skin the dappled brown of a doe, her hair a cloud of white around her head, and a miniature pair of blue-gray butterfly wings on her back. She’s got at least some pixie in her, if not some imp.

I recognize her now from the High King’s full moon revel. She’s the one who stole a belt from an ogre, weapons and pouches attached.

“I’m the Bomb,” she says. “I like blowing things up.”

I nod. It’s the kind of blunt thing I don’t expect faeries to say, but I am used to being around Court faeries with their baroque etiquette. I am not used to the solitary fey. I am at a loss as to how to speak with them. “So is it just the three of you?”

“Four now,” says the Roach. “We make sure Prince Dain stays alive and well informed about the doings of the Court. We steal, sneak, and deceive to secure his coronation. And when he is king, we will steal, sneak, and deceive to make sure he stays on the throne.”