The Queen of Nothing Page 17

  As usual, I have little idea what to say to him. I am not sure if he’s criticizing me or speaking in utter sincerity. I dart away.

  Heather shakes her head when I get close. “Damn. That’s a dress.”

  “Oh good. I wanted to grab some drinks,” Vivi says. “Safe drinks. Jude, can you stay until I get back, or will you be dragged into diplomacy?”

  “I can wait,” I say, glad to have the chance to talk to Heather alone. The moment my sister walks away, I turn to her. “To what, exactly, did you agree?”

  “Why?” Heather asks. “You don’t think your sister would trick me, do you?”

  “Not intentionally,” I hedge. Faerie bargains have a deservedly bad reputation. They are very seldom straightforward things. Sure, they sound good. Like, you’re being promised you’ll live out the rest of your days in bliss, but then you have one really great night and die in the morning. Or you’re promised you’ll lose weight, and then someone comes along and chops off one of your legs. It’s not as though I think Vivi would do that to Heather, but with the lesson of my own exile in my head, I’d still like to hear the specifics.

  “She told me that Oak needed someone to stay with him in Elfhame while she went and got you. And made me this offer—when we were in Faerie, we could be together. When we went back, she’d make me forget Faerie and forget her, too.”

  I suck in a breath. Is that what Heather wants? Or did Vivi offer and Heather agree because it seemed better than continuing the way things were? “So when you go home…”

  “It’s over.” Despair flashes across her features. “There are things people shouldn’t get a taste for. I guess magic is like that.”

  “Heather, you don’t have to—”

  “I love Vee,” she says. “I think I made a mistake. The last time I was here, this place seemed like a beautifully shot horror movie, and I just wanted it all out of my head. But I don’t want to forget her.”

  “Can’t you just tell her that?” I ask, looking across the room toward my sister, who is on her way back. “Call it off.”

  Heather shakes her head. “I asked if she’d try to persuade me to change my mind. I think I was maybe doubting I’d be able to follow through with the breakup part. I guess I hoped she’d reassure me that she wanted me to change my mind. But Vee got very serious and said it could be part of the deal that no matter what I said later, she’d go through with it.”

  “She’s an idiot,” I blurt out.

  “I’m the stupid one,” Heather says. “If I hadn’t been so afraid—” She cuts herself off as Vivi comes up to us, three goblets balanced in her hands.

  “What’s going on?” my sister asks, handing me my drink. “You both look weird.”

  Neither Heather nor I answer.

  “Well?” Vivi demands.

  “Jude asked us to stay for another few days,” Heather says, surprising me enormously. “She needs our help.”

  Vivi looks at me accusingly.

  I open my mouth to protest, but I can’t deny any of it without exposing Heather. When Vivi used magic to make her forget what happened at Taryn’s wedding, I was furious with her. I couldn’t help but be aware of how she was one of the Folk and I was not. And right now, I can’t help but be aware of all the ways Heather is human.

  “Just a few more days,” I agree, sure that I am being a bad sister, but maybe also a good one.

  Across the room, Cardan raises a goblet. “Be welcome on the Isle of Insmire,” he says. “Seelie and Unseelie, Wild Folk and Shy Folk, I am glad to have you march under my banner, glad of your loyalty, grateful for your honor.” His gaze goes to me. “To you, I offer honey wine and the hospitality of my table. But to traitors and oath breakers, I offer my queen’s hospitality instead. The hospitality of knives.”

  There is a swell of noise, of joyful hissing and howls. Many eyes turn to me. I see Lady Asha, glowering in my direction.

  All of Faerie knows I am the one who killed Balekin. They know I even spent some time in exile for it. They know I am Madoc’s foster daughter. They do not doubt Cardan’s words.

  Well, he has certainly made them see me as more than just the mortal queen. Now they see me as the murderess queen. I am not sure how I feel about it, but seeing the intensity of interest in their gazes now, I cannot deny it’s effective.

  I raise my glass high and drink.

  And by the time the party ebbs, when I pass courtiers, they all bow to me. Every last one.

  I am exhausted as we leave the hall, but I keep my head up and my shoulders thrown back. I am determined not to let anyone know how tired I am.

  It is only when I am back in the royal rooms that I allow myself to slouch a little, sagging against the doorframe to the inner chamber.

  “You were very formidable tonight, my queen,” Cardan says, crossing the floor to me.

  “After that speech you made, it didn’t take much.” Despite my fatigue, I am hyperaware of his presence, of the heat of his skin and the way his slow, conspiratorial smile makes my stomach twist with stupid longing.

  “It cannot be anything other than the truth,” he says. “Or it never could have left my tongue.”

  I find my gaze drawn to his soft lips, the black of his eyes, the cliffs of his cheekbones.

  “You didn’t come to bed last night,” I whisper.

  It occurs to me abruptly that while I was unconscious, he would have spent his nights elsewhere. Perhaps not alone. It has been a long time since I was last at Court. I have no idea who is in his favor.

  But if there is someone else, his thoughts appear far from her. “I’m here now,” he says, as though he thinks it’s possible he misunderstands me.

  It’s okay to want something that’s going to hurt, I remind myself. I move toward him, so we are close enough to touch.

  He takes my hand in his, fingers lacing together, and bends toward me.

  There is plenty of time for me to pull away from the kiss, but I don’t. I want him to kiss me. My weariness evaporates as his lips press against mine. Over and over, one kiss sliding into the next.

  “You looked like a knight in a story tonight,” he says softly against my neck. “Possibly a filthy story.”

  I kick him in the leg, and he kisses me again, harder.

  We stagger against the wall, and I pull his body to mine. My fingers glide up under his shirt, tracing up his spine to the wings of his shoulder blades.

  His tail lashes back and forth, the furred end stroking over the back of my calf.

  He shudders and presses more tightly against me, deepening the kiss. His fingers push back my hair, damp with sweat. My whole body is tense with desire, straining toward him. I feel feverish. Every kiss seems to make my thoughts more drugged, my skin more flushed. His mouth is against my neck, his tongue on my skin. His hand moves to my hips, lifting me.

  I feel overheated and out of control.

  That thought cuts through everything else, and I freeze.

  He releases me immediately, letting me down and then stepping back as though scalded. “We need not—” he begins, but that’s even worse. I don’t want him to guess how vulnerable I feel.

  “No, just give me a second,” I say, then bite my lip. His eyes are very dark, pupils dilated. He’s so beautiful, so perfectly, horribly, inhumanly beautiful that I can barely breathe. “I’ll be right back.”

  I flee to the wardrobe. I can still feel the drum of my thundering pulse all through my body.

  When I was a kid, sex was a mystery, some bizarre thing people did to make babies when they got married. Once, a friend and I placed dolls in a hat and shook the hat around to indicate that they were doing it.

  That changed in Faerie, of course. The Folk come naked to revels, may couple for entertainment, especially as evenings wear on. But though I understand what sex is now and how it’s accomplished, I didn’t anticipate how much it would feel like losing myself. When Cardan’s hands are on me, I am betrayed into pleasure. And he can tell. He’s practiced in the a
rts of love. He can draw whatever response he wants from me. I hate that, and yet I want it, all at once.

  But maybe I don’t have to be the only one made to feel things.

  I strip off my dress, kick off my shoes. I even take down my hair, letting it fall over my shoulders. In the mirror, I catch sight of my curves—the muscles of my arms and chest, honed by swordplay; the heaviness of my pale breasts; and the swell of my hips. Naked, there is no disguise for my mortality.

  Naked, I return to the bedroom.

  Cardan is standing by the bed. When he turns, he looks so astonished that I almost laugh. I have seldom seen him unsure of himself, even when drunk, even when wounded; it is rare to see him overset. A wild heat leaps into his eyes, an expression not unlike fear. I feel a rush of power, heady as wine.

  Now this is a game I don’t mind playing.

  “Come here,” he says, voice rough. I do, crossing the floor obediently.

  I might be inexperienced in love, but I know a lot about provocation. I slide to my knees in front of him. “Is this what you imagined I’d be like, back in your rooms at Hollow Hall, when you thought of me and hated it? Is this how you pictured my eventual surrender?”

  He looks absolutely mortified, but there’s no disguising the flush of his cheeks, the shine of his eyes. “Yes,” he says, sounding like the word was dragged out of him, his voice rough with desire.

  “Then what did I do?” I ask, my voice low.

  I reach out to press my hand against his thigh.

  His gaze shimmers with a sharp spike of heat. There’s a wariness in his face, though, and I realize he believes I might be asking him all this because I’m angry. Because I want to see him humiliated. But he keeps speaking anyway. “I imagined you telling me to do with you whatever I liked.”

  “Really?” I ask, and the surprised laugh in my voice makes him meet my gaze.

  “Along with some begging on your part. A little light groveling.” He gives me an embarrassed smile. “My fantasies were rife with overweening ambition.”

  On my knees, it is a small thing to lie back on the cold stone. I reach up my hands, like a supplicant. “You may do with me whatever you like,” I say. “Please oh please. All I want is you.”

  He sucks in a breath and gets down so we’re both on the floor and he’s on his hands and knees, making a cage of his body. He presses his mouth to the pulse point of my wrist, racing in time with my heart. “Mock me all you like. Whatever I imagined then, now it is I who would beg and grovel for a kind word from your lips.” His eyes are black with desire. “By you, I am forever undone.”

  It seems impossible that he’s saying those words and that they’re true. But when he leans down and kisses me again, that thought blurs into sensation. He arches against me, shuddering. I begin to undo the buttons of his doublet. He tosses his shirt after it.

  “I’m not mocking,” I whisper against his skin.

  When he looks down at me, his face is troubled.

  “We have lived in our armor for so long, you and I. And now I am not sure if either of us knows how to remove it.”

  “Is this another riddle?” I ask. “And if I answer it, will you go back to kissing me?”

  “If that’s what you want.” His voice sounds rough, unsteady. He moves so that he is lying at my side.

  “I told you what I wanted,” I say in challenge. “For you to do with me whatever—”

  “No,” he interrupts. “What you want.”

  I move so that I am straddling his body. Looking down at him, I study the planes of his chest, the voluptuous black curls damp against his brow, his slightly parted lips, the furred length of his tail.

  “I want—” I say, but I am too shy to say the words.

  I kiss him instead. Kiss him until he understands.

  He shucks off his pants, watching me as though waiting for me to change my mind. I feel the soft brush of his tail against my ankle, winding around my calf. Then I fumble my way into what I think is the right position. Gasp as our bodies slide together. He holds me steady through the sharp, bright spark of pain. I bite his palm. Everything is fast and hot, and I am kind of in control and out of control at the same time.

  His face is wholly unguarded.

  When we’re finished, he kisses me, sweet and raw.

  “I missed you,” I whisper against his skin and feel dizzy with the intimacy of the admission, feel more naked than when he could see every inch of me. “In the mortal world, when I thought you were my enemy, I still missed you.”

  “My sweet nemesis, how glad I am that you returned.” He pulls my body against his, cradling my head against his chest. We are still lying on the floor, although a perfectly good bed is right next to us.

  I think of his riddle. How do people like us take off our armor?

  One piece at a time.

  The next two days are spent mostly in the war room, where I ask Grima Mog to join Cardan’s generals and those of the low Courts in creating battle plans. The Bomb remains, too, her face masked in black netting, and the rest of her hidden away in a cowled robe of deepest black. Members of the Living Council interject their concerns. Cardan and I hunch over the table as the Folk take turns sketching out maps of possible plans of attack and defense. Small carvings are moved around. Three messengers are sent to Nicasia, but no reply comes from the Undersea.

  “Madoc wants the lords and ladies and rulers of the low Courts to see a show,” Grima Mog says. “Let me fight him. I would be honored to be your champion.”

  “Challenge him to a game of tiddlywinks, and I will be your champion,” says Fala.

  Cardan shakes his head. “No, let Madoc come and call for his parlay. Our knights will be in place. And inside the brugh, so will our archers. We will hear him out, and we will answer him. But we will entertain no games. If Madoc wishes to move against Elfhame, he must do so, and we must strike back with all the force we possess.” He looks at the floor, then up at me.

  “If he thinks he can make you duel him, then he will make it very hard not to,” I say.

  “Ask him to surrender his weapons at the gate,” says the Bomb. “And when he will not, I will shoot him from the shadows.”

  “I would appear to be quite the coward,” Cardan says. “Not to even hear him out.”

  With those words, my heart sinks. Because pride is exactly what Madoc hopes to manipulate.

  “You would be alive, while your enemy lies dead,” says the Bomb. With her face covered, it’s impossible to read her expression. “And we would have answered dishonor with dishonor.”

  “I hope you are not considering agreeing to a duel,” says Randalin. “Your father wouldn’t have entertained such an absurd thought for a moment.”

  “Of course not,” Cardan says. “I am no swordsman, but moreover, I don’t like giving my enemies what they want. Madoc has come for a duel, and if for no other reason than that, he should not have one.”

  “Once the parlay is over,” says Yorn, looking back at his plans, “we will meet on the field of battle. And we will show him the wages of being a traitor to Elfhame. We have a clear path to victory.”

  A clear path, and yet I have a sense of great foreboding. Fala catches my eye, juggling pieces from the table—a knight, a sword, a crown.

  Then a winged messenger rushes into the room. “They’ve been spotted,” he says. “Madoc’s boats are coming.”

  A seabird arrives moments later, a call for parlay attached to its leg.

  The new Grand General moves to the door, calling for his troops. “I will move my Folk into position. We have perhaps three hours.”

  “And I will gather mine,” says the Bomb, turning toward Cardan and me. “On your signal, the archers will strike.”

  Cardan slips his fingers into mine. “It’s hard to work against someone you love.” I wonder if he’s thinking of Balekin.

  A part of me, despite knowing that Madoc is my enemy, is tempted to imagine talking him out of this. Vivi is here, so is Taryn, and even
Oak. Oriana would wish for peace, would push for it if there was a path. Maybe we could persuade him to end the war before it begins. Maybe we could come to some kind of terms. I am the High Queen, after all. Couldn’t I give him a piece of land to rule over?

  But I know it’s impossible. If I granted him a boon for being a traitor, I would be encouraging only greater treason. And, regardless, Madoc wouldn’t be appeased. He comes from a line of warriors. His mother birthed him in battle, and he plans to die with a sword in his hand.

  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.