At first, I’m not sure I heard him right. I almost ask whom he’s talking about, because I can’t quite believe he’s admitting that high and mighty Cardan is affected by anything. “Like a splinter?” I say.
“Of iron. No one else bothers him quite the way that you do.” He picks up a towel and wets it, then kneels down beside me and carefully wipes my face. I suck in a breath when the cold cloth touches the sensitive part of my eye, but he is far gentler than I would have been to myself. His face is solemn and focused on what he’s doing. He doesn’t seem to notice my studying him, his long face and sharp chin, his curling red-brown hair, the way his eyelashes catch the light.
Then he does notice. He’s looking at me, and I’m looking back at him, and it’s the strangest thing, because I thought Locke would never notice anyone like me. He is noticing, though. He’s smiling like he did that night at the Court, as though we shared a secret. He’s smiling as if we’re sharing another one.
“Keep it up,” he says.
I wonder at those words. Can he really mean them?
As I make my way back to the tournament and my sisters, I can’t stop thinking of Cardan’s shocked face, nor can I stop considering Locke’s smile. I am not altogether sure which is more thrilling and which more dangerous.
The rest of the Summer Tournament goes by in a blur. Swordsfolk go toe-to-toe against one another in single combat, fighting for the honor of impressing the High King and his Court. Ogres and foxkin, goblins and gwyllions, all engaged in the deadly dance of battle.
After a few rounds, Vivi wants us to push through the crowd and buy more fruit skewers. I keep trying to catch Taryn’s eye, but she won’t allow it. I want to know if she’s angry. I want to ask what Locke said to her when they were standing together, although that might be the exact sort of question she would forbid.
But the conversation with Locke couldn’t have been the humiliating kind, the kind she tries to pretend away, could it? Not when he practically told me he delighted in Cardan’s being brought low. Which makes me think of the other question I can’t ask Taryn.
Not that I’d be the first to green gown her. Faeries can’t lie. Cardan couldn’t have said it if he didn’t believe it to be true—but why would he think that?
Vivi knocks her skewer against mine, bringing me out of my reverie. “To our clever Jude, who made the Folk remember why they stay in their barrows and hills, for fear of mortal ferocity.”
A tall man with the floppy ears of a rabbit and a mane of walnut-brown hair turns to give Vivi a dirty look. She grins at him. I shake my head, pleased by her toast, even if it’s wild exaggeration. Even if I impressed no one but her.
“Would that Jude was just a bit less clever,” Taryn says under her breath.
I turn to her, but she has moved away.
When we get back to the arena, Princess Rhyia is readying herself for her bout. She holds a thin sword, very much like a long pin, and stabs at the empty air in preparation for an opponent. Her two lovers call out encouragements.
Cardan reemerges in the royal box, wearing loose white linen and a flower crown all of roses. He ignores the High King and Prince Dain and flops down in a chair beside Prince Balekin, with whom he exchanges a few sharp words that I dearly wish I were close enough to hear. Princess Caelia has arrived for her sister’s bout and applauds wildly when Rhyia walks out onto the clover.
Madoc never returns.
I ride home alone. Vivi heads off with Rhyia after she wins her bout—they are going hunting in the nearby woods. Taryn agrees to accompany them, but I am too weary and too sore and too on edge.
In the kitchens of Madoc’s house, I toast cheese over a fire and spread it on bread. Sitting on the stoop with that and a mug of tea, I watch the sun go down as I eat my lunch.
The cook, a trow named Wattle, ignores me and continues magicking the parsnips to chop themselves.
When I am done, I brush crumbs from my cheeks and head for my room.
Gnarbone, a servant with long ears and a tail that drags on the ground, stops in the hall when he sees me. He’s carrying a tray of thimble-size acorn cups and a silvery decanter of what smells like blackberry wine in his large, clawed hands. His livery is pulled tight across his chest, and pieces of fur stick out of the gaps.
“Oh, you are at home,” he says, a growl in his voice that makes him seem menacing no matter how benign the words he speaks. Despite myself, I can’t help thinking of the guard who bit off the tip of my finger. Gnarbone’s teeth could snap off my whole hand.
I nod.
“The prince is asking for you downstairs.”
Cardan, here? My heartbeat speeds. I can’t think. “Where?”
Gnarbone looks surprised by my reaction. “In Madoc’s study. I was just bringing him this—”
I grab the tray out of his hands and head down the stairs, intent on getting rid of Cardan as quickly as I can, any way that I can. The last thing I need is for Madoc to overhear my being disrespectful and decide I’ll never belong at the Court. He is a servant of the Greenbriar line, sworn as surely as anyone. He would not like my being at odds with even the least of the princes.
I fly down the stairs and kick open the door to Madoc’s study. The knob crashes into a bookshelf as I stride into the room, plunking down the tray with enough force to make the cups dance.
Prince Dain has several books lying open on the library table in front of him. Golden curls fall over his eyes, and the collar of his pale blue doublet is open, showing a heavy silver torque at his throat. I halt, aware of the colossal mistake I have made.
He raises both eyebrows. “Jude. I didn’t expect you to be in such a rush.”
I sink into a low bow and hope he will think me only clumsy. Fear gnaws at me, sharp and sudden. Could Cardan have sent him? Is he here to punish me for my insolence? I can think of no other reason that honored and honorable Prince Dain, soon to be the ruler of Faerie, would ask for me.
“Uh,” I say, panic tripping my tongue. With relief, I remember the tray and indicate the decanter. “Here. This is for you, my lord.”
He picks up an acorn and pours a little of the thick black liquid into the cup. “Will you drink with me?”
I shake my head, feeling completely out of my depth. “It will go straight to my head.”
That makes him laugh. “Well then, keep me company a time.”
“Of course.” That, I cannot possibly refuse. Alighting on an arm of one of the green leather chairs, I feel my heart thud dully. “May I get you anything else?” I ask, not sure how to proceed.
He lifts his acorn cup, as if in salute. “I have refreshment enough. What I require is conversation. Perhaps you can tell me what made you storm in here. Who did you think I was?”
“No one,” I say quickly. My thumb rubs over my ring finger, over the smooth skin of the missing tip.
He sits up straighter, as though I am suddenly much more interesting. “I thought maybe one of my brothers was bothering you.”
I shake my head. “Nothing like that.”