The Queen of Nothing (The Folk of the Air #3)(78)

“Modesty?” I force out, playing along, surprised he can joke about the curse, or anything.

He gives me a dazzling, insouciant smile. The kind of smile you can hide behind. “Every part of me is a delight.”

My chest hurts, looking at him. I feel like I can’t breathe. Though he is in front of me, the pain of losing him hasn’t faded.

“Your Majesty,” Grima Mog says, addressing me. “Do I have leave to chain your father?”

I hesitate, thinking of the moment when I confronted him with the golden bridle. You’ve already won.

“Yes,” Cardan says. “Chain him.”

A carriage is brought, wheels wobbling over the rocks. Grima Mog shouts orders. Two generals clasp manacles around Madoc’s wrists and ankles, the heavy chains clanking with even the slightest movement. Archers keep arrows trained on him as they lead him away.

His army is surrendering, taking oaths of submission. I hear the whir of wings, the clank of armor, and cries from the wounded. Redcaps freshen the pigment of their hats. A few Folk feast on the dead. There’s smoke in the air, mingling with the scents of the sea and of blood and moss. The aftermath of even a brief battle is all dwindling adrenaline, bandages, and feting the victors.

The revel will have already begun back at the palace and will last far longer than the fighting.

Inside the carriage, Cardan slumps. I stare at him, at the blood drying in tide lines over his body and crusting in his curls like tiny garnets. I force myself to look out the window instead.

“How long have I—” He hesitates.

“Not even three days,” I tell him. “Barely any time at all.” I do not mention how long it has seemed.

Nor do I say how he might have been trapped as a serpent for all time, bridled and bound. Or dead.

He could be dead.

Then the carriage draws up, and we are chivied out. Servants have brought an enormous velvet cloak for Cardan, and this time he accepts it, wrapping it around his shoulders as we make our way through the chilly underground halls.

“You will want to bathe perhaps,” Randalin says, an understandable sentiment.

“I want to see the throne,” says Cardan.

No one is inclined to gainsay him.

The brugh is full of turned-over tables and rotting fruit. A crack runs through the ground to the split throne, with its wilted flowers. Cardan spreads his hands, and the earth heals along the seam, rock and stone bubbling up to fill it back in. Then he twists his fingers, and the divided throne grows anew, blooming with briars, sprouting into two separate thrones where there was once only one.

“Do you like it?” he asks me, which seems a little like asking if someone enjoys the crown of stars they conjured from the sky.

“Impressive,” I choke out.

Seemingly satisfied, he finally allows Randalin to guide us to the royal chambers, which are full of servants, generals, and most of the Living Council. A bath is drawn for the High King. A carafe of wine is brought, along with an ornate goblet studded with cabochons. Fala sings a song about the king of snakes, and Cardan seems both charmed and horrified by all of it.

Unwilling to strip off my armor in front of all these Folk and sticky with blood, I slip out and go to my old rooms.

But when I get there, I find Heather. She stands up from the couch, holding an enormous tome. The pink of her hair is faded, but everything else about her looks vibrant. “Congratulations, if that’s not too weird of a thing to say. I don’t know how to talk about fights, but I hear you won.”

“We won,” I confirm, and smile.

She tugs at a double strand of very poorly strung rowan berries around her neck. “Vee made me this. For the after-party.” Heather seems to notice what I am wearing for the first time. “That’s not your blood—”

“No,” I say. “I’m fine. Just gross.”

She nods slowly.

“And Cardan,” I say. “He’s fine, too.”

The tome tumbles out of her hand and onto the couch. “He’s not a big snake anymore?”

“No,” I say. “But I think I might be hyperventilating. That’s what you call it, right? Breathing too fast. Dizzy.”

“Nobody in this place knows anything about human medicine, do they?” She walks over and starts working on my armor. “Let’s get this off you, and see if that helps.”

“Talk to me,” I say. “Tell me another fairy tale. Tell me something.”

“Okay,” she says, trying to figure out how to undo the armor. “I took your advice and talked to Vee. Finally. I told her that I didn’t want my memories to be taken away and that I was sorry I let her make the promise.”

“Was she glad?” I help Heather with one of the clasps.

“We had a huge fight. Screaming fight,” she says. “With a lot of crying, too.”

“Oh,” I say.

“Do you remember the fairy tale with the snake who has the helicopter parents and marries the princess?”

“Helicopter?” I echo. I did fall asleep at the end, so maybe I missed that part.

“When the boy’s snakeskin is burned, the princess had to earn him back by going on a quest. Well, I told Vee she has to go on a quest. She has to meet me all over again and do it right this time. Tell me the truth from the start. And convince me to love her.”