The Queen of Nothing (The Folk of the Air #3)(57)

But I don’t think he plans to die that way today.

I think he plans to win.



It is nearly sunset when I am ready to walk onto the dais. I wear a gown of green and gold, and a circlet of gilded branches shines at my brow. My hair has been braided and shaped into something like two ram’s horns, and my mouth has been stained the color of berries in winter. The only thing about my attire that feels at all normal is the weight of Nightfell in a new, glamorous sheath.

Cardan, beside me, goes over final plans with the Bomb. He is dressed in a green so mossy dark that it is nearly the black of his curls.

I turn to Oak, standing with Taryn and Vivi and Heather. They will be in attendance but hidden in the same area where Taryn and I used to go to observe the revels without being seen.

“You don’t have to do this,” I tell Oak.

“I want to see my mother,” he says, voice firm. “And I want to see what happens.”

If he’s going to be High King someday, he has a right to know, but I wish he would choose a different way of finding out. Whatever happens today, I doubt there’s a way to avoid its being nightmarish for Oak.

“Here’s your ring back,” he says, fishing it out from his pocket and placing it in my palm. “I kept it safe like you said.”

“I appreciate that,” I tell him softly, slipping it onto my finger. The metal is warm from being so close to his body.

“We’ll leave before things get bad,” Taryn promises, but she wasn’t there during Prince Dain’s coronation. She doesn’t understand how quickly everything can change.

Vivi glances toward Heather. “And then we go back to the mortal world. We shouldn’t have stayed so long.” But I see the longing in her face, too. She has never wanted to stay in Faerie before, but it was easy to persuade her to stay a little longer.

“I know,” I say. Heather avoids both our eyes.

When they go, the Bomb comes to me and takes my hands in hers. “Whatever happens,” she tells me, “remember, I will be watching over you from the shadows.”

“I will never forget,” I say in return, thinking of the Roach, who sleeps on because of my father. Of the Ghost, who was his prisoner. Of me, who nearly bled out in the snow. I have a lot to avenge.

Then she goes, too, and it is Cardan and me, alone for a moment.

“Madoc says you will duel for love,” I say.

“Whose?” he asks, frowning.

There is no banquet too abundant for a starving man.

I shake my head.

“It’s you I love,” he says. “I spent much of my life guarding my heart. I guarded it so well that I could behave as though I didn’t have one at all. Even now, it is a shabby, worm-eaten, and scabrous thing. But it is yours.” He walks to the door to the royal chambers, as though to end the conversation. “You probably guessed as much,” he says. “But just in case you didn’t.”

He opens the door to prevent me from responding. Abruptly, we are no longer alone. Fand and the rest of our guard stand ready in the hall, with the Living Council waiting impatiently beside them.

I can’t believe he said that and then just walked out, leaving me reeling. I am going to strangle him.

“The traitor and his company have entered the brugh,” Randalin says. “Waiting on your pleasure.”

“How many?” Cardan asks.

“Twelve,” he says. “Madoc, Oriana, Grimsen, some of the Court of Teeth, and several of Madoc’s best generals.”

A small number and a mix of formidable warriors with courtiers. I can make no meaning of it, except the obvious. He intends both diplomacy and war.

As we walk through the halls, I glance over at Cardan. He gives me a preoccupied smile, as though his thoughts are on Madoc and the coming conflict.

You love him, too, I think. You’ve loved him since before you were a prisoner of the Undersea. You loved him when you agreed to marry him.

Once this is over, I will find the bravery to tell him.

And then we are ushered onto the dais, like players upon a stage about to begin a performance.

I look out at the rulers of Seelie and Unseelie Courts alike, at the Wild Folk who are sworn to us, at the courtiers and performers and servants. My gaze snags on Oak, half-hidden high up on a rocky formation. My twin gives me a reassuring grin. Lord Roiben stands off to one side, his demeanor forbidding. At the far end of the room, I see the crowd begin to part to allow Madoc and his company to come forward.

I flex my fingers, cold with nerves.

As he strides across the brugh, my father’s armor shines with fresh polish, but it is otherwise unremarkable—the armor of someone interested in the reliable rather than the new and impressive. The cloak that hangs from his shoulders is wool, embroidered with his moon sigil in silver and lined in red. Over it, the massive sword, slung so he can draw it in a single, fluid movement. And on his head, a familiar cap, stiff with dark, dried blood.

Looking at that cap, I know he has not come only to talk.

Behind him are Lady Nore and Lord Jarel from the Court of Teeth, with their leashed little Queen Suren by their side. And Madoc’s most trusted generals—Calidore, Brimstone, and Vavindra. But to either side of him are Grimsen and Oriana. Grimsen is dressed elaborately, in a jacket all of hinged pieces of gold. Oriana is as pale as ever, attired in a deep blue trimmed out in white fur, her only decoration a silver headpiece shining in her hair like ice.