The Queen of Nothing (The Folk of the Air #3)(52)

I frown. “They are sworn to the crown. Their loyalty is tied to Cardan whether they want it to be or not.”

“Nonetheless,” Randalin goes on, “with the Undersea unable to send their forces, we are more dependent on them than ever. We would not wish the low Courts to bestow their loyalty only grudgingly. And when Madoc arrives—in mere days—he will seek to exploit any doubts. You create those doubts.”

Ah. Now I know what this is about.

He goes on. “There has never been a mortal Queen of Elfhame. And there should not be one now.”

“Do you really expect me to give up such enormous power on your say-so?” I ask.

“You were a good seneschal,” Randalin says, surprising me. “You care about Elfhame. That’s why I implore you to relinquish your title.”

It’s at that moment that the door swings open.

“We did not send for you, and we do not need you!” Randalin begins, clearly intending to give some servant—probably Fand—the tongue-lashing he wishes he could bestow on my person. Then he blanches and lurches to his feet.

The High King stands in the doorway. His eyebrows rise, and a malicious smile pulls at the corners of his mouth. “Many think that, but few are bold enough to say it to my face.”

Grima Mog is behind him. The redcap is bearing a gently steaming tureen. The scent of it wafts over to me, making my stomach growl.

Randalin sputters. “Your Majesty! Great shame is mine. My incautious comments were never intended for you. I thought that you—” He stops himself and starts again. “I was foolish. If you desire my punishment—”

Cardan interrupts. “Why don’t you tell me what you were discussing? I have no doubt you’d prefer Jude’s levelheaded answers to my nonsense, but it amuses me to hear about matters of state nonetheless.”

“I was only urging her to consider the war that her father is bringing. Everyone must make sacrifices.” Randalin glances toward Grima Mog, who sets down her tureen on a nearby table, then at Cardan again.

I could warn Randalin that he ought to be afraid of the way that Cardan is looking at him.

Cardan turns to me, and some of the heat of his anger is still in his eyes. “Jude, would you give me and the councilor a moment alone? I have a few things I would like to urge him to consider. And Grima Mog has brought you soup.”

“I don’t need anyone to help me tell Randalin that this is my home and my land and that I am going nowhere and relinquishing nothing.”

“And yet,” Cardan says, clamping his hand on the back of the councilor’s throat, “there are still some things I would say to him.”

Randalin allows Cardan to hustle him into one of the other royal parlors. Cardan’s voice goes low enough for me to not make out the words, but the silky menace of his tone is unmistakable.

“Come eat,” Grima Mog says, ladling some soup into a bowl. “It will help you heal.”

Mushrooms float along the top, and when I push the spoon through, a few tubers float around, along with what might be meat. “What’s in this, exactly?”

The redcap snorts. “Did you know you left your knife in my alleyway? I took it upon myself to return it. I figured it was neighborly.” She gives me a sly grin. “But you weren’t home. Only your lovely twin, who has very fine manners and who invited me in for tea and cake and told me so many interesting things. You should have told me more. Perhaps we could have come to an arrangement sooner.”

“Perhaps,” I say. “But the soup—”

“My palate is discerning, but I have a wide range of tastes. Don’t be so finicky,” she tells me. “Drink up. You need to borrow a little strength.”

I take a sip and try not to think too much about what I’m eating. It’s a thin broth, well-seasoned and seemingly harmless. I tip up the bowl, drinking it all down. It tastes good and hot and makes me feel much better than I have since I woke in Elfhame. I find myself poking at the bottom for the solid bits. If there’s something terrible in it, I am better off not knowing.

While I am still searching for dregs, the door opens again, and Tatterfell comes in, carrying a mound of gowns. Fand and two additional knights follow with more of my garments. Behind them is Heather, in flip-flops, carrying a pile of jewelry.

“Taryn told me that if I came over, I’d get a glimpse of the royal chambers.” Then, coming closer, Heather lowers her voice. “I’m glad you’re okay. Vee wants us to leave before your dad gets here, so we’re going soon. But we weren’t going to leave while you were in a coma.”

“Going is a good idea,” I say. “I’m surprised you came.”

“Your sister offered me a bargain,” she says, a little regretfully. “And I took it.”

Before she can tell me more, Randalin rushes toward the door, nearly running into Heather in his haste. He blinks at her in astonishment, clearly not prepared for the presence of a second mortal. Then he departs, avoiding even a glance in my direction.

“Big horns,” Heather mouths, looking after him. “Little dude.”

Cardan leans against the doorframe, looking very satisfied with himself. “There’s a ball tonight to welcome guests from some of my Courts. Heather, I hope you and Vivienne will come. The last time you were here, we were poor hosts. But there are many delights we could show you.”