The Queen of Nothing (The Folk of the Air #3)(45)

“Yes,” I say. “After he poisoned the High King.”

“Poisoned?” she echoes in astonishment, looking at Cardan.

He shrugs, lounging in a chair, looking bored as ever. “You can hardly expect me to mention every little thing.”

Randalin rises to the bait, looking puffed up with annoyance. “Your Majesty, we were led to believe that her exile was justified. And that if you wished to marry, you would consult—”

“Perhaps at least one of you could have told us—” Baphen says, talking over Randalin.

This was what they really wanted to discuss, I suppose. Whether there was any way they could prevent what’s already occurred and invalidate my elevation to High Queen.

Cardan puts up a hand. “No, no, enough. It’s all too tedious to explain. I declare this meeting at an end.” His fingers make a flicking gesture toward the door. “Leave us. I tire of the lot of you.”

I have a long way to go before I can manage that level of shameless arrogance.

It works, however. They grumble but rise and go out. Fala blows me a kiss as he departs.

For a moment, we are alone.

Then there is a sharp rap on the secret door to the High King’s chamber. Before either of us can get up, the Bomb pushes her way through, striding into the room with a tray of tea things. Her white hair has been pulled up into a topknot, and if she is tired or grieving, none of it shows on her face.

“Long live Jude,” she says with a wink, setting down the tray on a table with a clatter of the pots and saucers and whatnot. “No thanks to me.”

I grin. “Good thing you’re a lousy shot.”

She holds up a packet of herbs. “A poultice. To draw any fever from the blood and help the patient heal faster. Unfortunately, it won’t draw the sting from your tongue.” She takes some bandages from her coat and turns to Cardan. “You should go.”

“This is my room,” he points out, affronted. “And that’s my wife.”

“So you keep telling everyone,” the Bomb says. “But I am going to take out her stitches, and I don’t think you want to watch that.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe he’d like to hear me scream.”

“I would,” Cardan says, standing. “And perhaps one day I will.” On the way out, his hand goes to my hair. A light touch, barely there, and then gone.





Taking out stitches is slow and painful. My sister does beautiful needlework, and it seems that she embroidered my stomach and side, leaving the Bomb with an endless stretch of tiny stitches that need to be individually snipped, the threads teased out of the skin, and then salve applied.

“Ow!” I say for what seems like the millionth time. “Do these really need to come out?”

The Bomb gives a long-suffering sigh. “They should have been removed days ago.”

I bite my tongue against another howl of pain. When I can speak again, I try to distract myself by asking, “Cardan said you’re hopeful about the Roach.”

Bent over me, she smells of cordite and bitter herbs. Her expression is wry. “I’m always hopeful when it comes to him.”

There is a soft tap on the door. The Bomb looks at me expectantly.

“Come in?” I call, lowering my dress to cover the mess of my stomach.

A messenger with small moth wings and a nervous expression enters the room, granting me a temporary reprieve from being poked. She sinks into a bow, looking a bit like she’s going to faint. Maybe it’s the small pile of blood-covered thread.

I consider explaining, but that’s supposed to be beneath the dignity of a queen, and it would only embarrass us both. Instead, I give her what I hope is an encouraging smile. “Yes?”

“Your Highness,” she says. “Lady Asha wishes to see you. She has sent me to bring you directly to the chamber where she languishes.”

The Bomb snorts. “Languishes,” she mouths.

“You may tell her that I will see her as soon as I am able,” I say with as much grandeur as I can muster.

Although it’s clearly not the answer her mistress wanted me to give, the messenger can do little to challenge it. She hesitates a moment, then seems to realize it herself. Abashed, she departs with another bow.

“You’re the High Queen of Elfhame. Act like it,” the Bomb says, fixing me with a serious expression. “You shouldn’t let anyone command you. Not even me.”

“I told her no!” I protest.

She begins to pick out another stitch, not particularly gently. “Lady Asha doesn’t get to be put next on your schedule just for asking. And she shouldn’t make the queen come to her. Especially when you were hurt. She’s lying in bed recuperating from the trauma of watching while you fell from the ceiling.”

“Ouch,” I say, not sure if I am reacting to the tug against my flesh, her completely justified scolding, or her scathing assessment of Lady Asha.



Once the Bomb is finished with me, I ignore her excellent counsel and head toward Lady Asha’s chamber. It’s not that I disagree with any of her advice. But I would like to say something to Cardan’s mother, and now seems like an excellent time to do so.

As I head through the hall, I am stopped by Val Moren, who places his walking stick in my path. The eyes of the last High King’s mortal seneschal are lit with malice.