Cardan turns toward the thief with an impatient frown.
“My lyre was strung with the hair of beautiful mortals who died tragically young,” sputters the grass-haired faerie. “It took me decades to assemble and was not easy to maintain. The mortal voices sung mournfully when I played. It could have made even yourself cry, begging your pardon.”
Cardan makes an impatient gesture. “If you are done with bragging, what is the meat of this matter? I have not asked you about your instrument, but his.”
The grass-haired faerie seems to blush, his skin turning a darker green—which I suppose is not actually the color of his flesh but of his blood. “He borrowed it of an eve,” he says, pointing toward the deer-boy. “After that, be became obsessed and would not rest until he’d destroyed it. I only took his lyre in recompense, for though it is inferior, I must play something.”
“You ought to punish them both,” says Locke. “For bringing such a trivial concern before the High King.”
“Well?” Cardan turns back to the boy who first claimed his lyre was stolen. “Shall I render my judgment?”
“Not yet, I beg of you,” says the deer-boy, his ears twitching with nerves. “When I played his lyre, the voices of those who had died and whose hair made the strings spoke to me. They were the true owners of the lyre. And when I destroyed it, I was saving them. They were trapped, you see.”
Cardan flops onto his throne, tipping back his head in frustration, knocking his crown askew. “Enough,” he says. “You are both thieves, and neither of you particularly skilled ones.”
“But you don’t understand the torment, the screaming—” Then the deer-boy presses a hand over his mouth, recalling himself in the presence of the High King.
“Have you never heard that virtue is its own reward?” Cardan says pleasantly. “That’s because there’s no other reward in it.”
The boy scuffs his hoof on the floor.
“You stole a lyre and your lyre was stolen in turn,” Cardan says softly. “There’s some justice in that.” He turns to the grass-haired musician. “And you took matters into your own hands, so I can only assume they were arranged to your satisfaction. But both of you have irritated me. Give me that instrument.”
Both look displeased, but the grass-haired musician comes forward and surrenders the lyre to a guard.
“Each of you will have a chance to play it, and whosoever plays most sweetly, you will have it. For art is more than virtue or vice.”
I make my careful way up the steps as the deer-boy begins his playing. I didn’t expect Cardan to care enough to hear out the musicians, and I can’t decide if his judgment is brilliant or if he is just a jerk. I worry that once again I am reading what I want to be true into his actions.
The music is haunting, thrumming across my skin and down to my bones.
“Your Majesty,” I say. “You sent for me?”
“Ah, yes.” His raven’s-wing hair falls over one eye. “So are we at war?”
For a moment, I think he is talking about us. “No,” I say. “At least not until the next full moon.”
“You can’t fight the sea,” Locke says philosophically.
Cardan gives a little laugh. “You can fight anything. Winning, though, that’s something else again. Isn’t that right, Jude?”
“Jude is a real winner,” Locke says with a grin. Then he looks out at the players and claps his hands. “Enough. Switch.”
When Cardan doesn’t contradict his Master of Revels, the deer-boy reluctantly turns over the lyre to the grass-haired faerie. A fresh wash of music rushes through the hill, a wild tune to speed my heart.
“You were just going,” I tell Locke.
He grins. “I find I am very comfortable here,” Locke says. “Surely there’s nothing you have to say to the king that is so very personal or private.”
“It’s a shame you’ll never find out. Go. Now.” I think about Randalin’s advice, his reminder that I have power. Maybe I do, but I am still unable to get rid of a Master of Revels for a half hour, no less a Grand General who is also, more or less, my father.
“Leave,” Cardan tells Locke. “I didn’t summon her here for your pleasure.”
“You are most ungenerous. If you truly cared for me, you would have,” Locke says as he hops down from the dais.
“Take Taryn home,” I call after him. If it wasn’t for her, I would punch him right in the face.
“He likes you this way, I think,” Cardan says. “Flush-cheeked and furious.”
“I don’t care what he likes,” I spit out.
“You seem to not care quite a lot.” His voice is dry, and when I look at him, I cannot read his face.
“Why am I here?” I ask.
He kicks his legs off the side of the throne and stands. “You,” he points to the deer-boy. “Today you are fortunate. Take the lyre. See that neither of you draw my notice again.” As the deer-boy bows and the grass-haired faerie begins to sulk, Cardan turns to me. “Come.”