“When he becomes drunk, his subjects become tipsy without knowing why. When his blood falls, things grow. Why, High Queen Mab called Insmire, Insmoor, and Insweal from the sea. All the isles of Elfhame, formed in a single hour.”
My heart speeds faster the longer that Baphen talks. My lungs feel as though they cannot get enough air. Because none of this can be describing Cardan. He cannot be connected to the land so profoundly, cannot be able to do all that and yet be under my control.
I think of the blood on his coverlet—and beside it, the scattered white flowers.
When his blood falls, things grow.
“And so you see,” says Randalin, unaware that I am freaking out, “the High King’s every decision changes Elfhame and influences its inhabitants. During Eldred’s reign, when children were born, they were perforce brought before him to pledge themselves to the kingdom. But in the low Courts, some heirs were fostered in the mortal world, growing up outside of Eldred’s reach. Those changeling children returned to rule without making vows to the Blood Crown. At least one Court has made such a changeling its queen. And who knows how many wild Folk managed to avoid making vows.”
“We need to watch the Queen of the Undersea, too,” I say. “She’s got a plan and is going to move against us.”
“What’s this?” Madoc says, interested in the conversation for the first time.
“Impossible,” says Randalin. “How would you have heard such a thing?”
“Balekin has been meeting with her representatives,” I say.
Randalin snorts. “And I suppose you have that from the prince’s own lips?”
If I bit my tongue any harder, I’d bite clean through it. “I have it from more than one source. If their alliance was with Eldred, then it’s over.”
“The sea Folk have cold hearts,” Mikkel says, which sounds at first as though he’s agreeing with me, but the approving tone of his voice undermines it.
“Why doesn’t Baphen consult his star charts?” Randalin says placatingly. “If he finds a threat prophesied there, we shall discuss further.”
“I am telling you—” I insist, frustrated.
That is the moment that Fala jumps up on the table and begins to dance—interpretively, I think. Madoc grunts out a laugh. A bird alights on Nihuar’s shoulder, and they begin gossiping back and forth in low whispers and trills.
It is clear that none of them wants to believe me. How could I know something they do not, after all? I am too young, too green, too mortal. “Nicasia—” I begin again.
Madoc smiles. “Your little friend from school.”
I wish I could tell Madoc that the only reason he still sits on the Council is because of me. Despite his running Dain through with his own hand, he is still the Grand General. I could say that I want to keep him busy, that he’s a weapon better deployed by us than against us, that it’s easier for my spies to watch him when I know where he is, but a part of me knows he is still Grand General because I couldn’t bring myself to strip so much authority from my dad.
“There is still the matter of Grimsen,” says Mikkel, moving on as though I have not spoken. “The High King has welcomed the Alderking’s smith, maker of the Blood Crown. Now he dwells among us but does not yet labor for us.”
“We must make him welcome,” says Nihuar in a rare moment of sympathy between the Unseelie and Seelie factions. “The Master of Revels has made plans for the Hunter’s Moon. Perhaps he can add an entertainment for Grimsen’s benefit.”
“Depends on what Grimsen’s into, I guess,” I say, giving up on convincing them that Orlagh is going to move against us. I am on my own.
“Rooting in the dirt, mayhap,” Fala says. “Looking for trifles.”
“Truffles,” Randalin corrects automatically.
“Oh no,” says Fala, wrinkling his nose. “Not those.”
“I will endeavor to discover his preferred amusements.” Randalin makes a small note on a piece of paper. “I have also been told that a representative from the Court of Termites will be attending the Hunter’s Moon revel.”
I try not to let my surprise show. The Court of Termites, led by Lord Roiben, was helpful in getting Cardan onto the throne. And for their efforts I promised that when Lord Roiben asked me for a favor, I’d do it. But I have no idea what he might want, and now isn’t a good time for another complication.
Randalin clears his throat and turns, giving me a pointed look. “Convey our regrets to the High King that we were unable to advise him directly, and let him know we stand ready to come to his aid. If you fail to impress this upon him, we will find other means of doing so.”
I make a short bow and no reply to what is clearly a threat.
As I leave, Madoc falls into step alongside me.
“I understand you’ve spoken with your sister,” he says, thick eyebrows lowered in at least a mimicry of concern.
I shrug, reminding myself that he didn’t speak a word on my behalf today.
He gives me an impatient look. “Don’t tell me how busy you are with that boy king, though I imagine he takes some looking after.”
Somehow, in just a few words, he has turned me into a sullen daughter and himself into her long-suffering father.
I sigh, defeated. “I’ve spoken with Taryn.”