I wake up groggy. I cried myself to sleep, and now my eyes are swollen
and red, my head pounding. The whole previous night feels like a feverish,
terrible nightmare. It doesn’t seem possible that I snuck into Balekin’s house and
stole one of his servants. It seems even less possible that she preferred to drown
than to live with the memories of Faerie. As I drink fennel tea and shrug on a
doublet, Gnarbone comes to my door.
“Your pardon,” he says with a short bow. “Jude must come immediately—”
Tatterfell waves him off. “She’s not fit to see anyone right at the moment.
I’ll send her down when she’s dressed.”
“Prince Dain awaits her downstairs in General Madoc’s parlor. He
commanded me to fetch her and not to mind whatever state of dishabille she was
in. He said to carry her if I had to.” Gnarbone seems repentant at having to say
that, but it’s clear that none of us can refuse the Crown Prince.
Cold dread coils in my stomach. How did I not think that he of all people,
with his spies, would find out what I’d done? I wipe my hands against my velvet
top. Despite his order, I pull on pants and boots before I go. No one stops me. I
am vulnerable enough; I will keep what dignity I can.
Prince Dain is standing near the window, behind Madoc’s desk. His back is
to me, and my gaze goes automatically to the sword hanging from his belt,
visible beneath his heavy wool cloak. He does not turn when I come in.
“I have done wrong,” I say. I am glad he stays where he is. It’s easier to
speak when he’s not looking at me. “And I will repent in whatever way—”
He turns, his face full of a wild rage that makes me suddenly see his
resemblance to Cardan. His hand comes down hard on Madoc’s desk, rocking
everything atop it. “Have I not taken you into my service and given you a great
boon? Did I not promise you a place in my Court? And yet—and yet, you use
what I have taught you to endanger my plans.My gaze goes to the floor. He has the power to do anything to me.
Anything. Not even Madoc could stop him—nor do I think he would try. And
not only have I disobeyed him, I have declared my loyalty to something
completely separate from him. I have helped a mortal girl. I have acted like a
mortal.
I bite my bottom lip to keep from begging for his forgiveness. I cannot
allow myself to speak.
“The boy wasn’t as badly hurt as he might have been, but with the right
knife—a longer knife—the strike would have been lethal. Do not think I don’t
know you were going for that worse strike.”
I look up, suddenly, too surprised to hide it. We look at each other for
several uncomfortable moments. I stare into the silvered gray of his eyes, taking
note of the way his brows furrow, forming deep, displeased lines. I note all this
to avoid thinking of how I almost gave away an even greater crime than the one
he’s discovered.
“Well?” he demands. “Had you no plan for being found out?”
“He tried to glamour me into jumping out of the tower,” I say.
“And so he knows you can’t be glamoured. Worse and worse.” He comes
around the desk toward me. “You are my creature, Jude Duarte. You will strike
only when I tell you to strike. Otherwise, stay your hand. Do you understand?”
“No,” I say automatically. What he’s asking is ridiculous. “Was I supposed
to just let him hurt me?”
If he knew all the things I’d really done, he would be even angrier than he
is.
He slams a dagger down on Madoc’s desk. “Pick it up,” he says, and I feel
the compulsion of a glamour. My fingers close on the hilt. A kind of haziness
comes over me. I both know and don’t know what I am doing.
“In a moment, I am going to ask you to put the blade through your hand.
When I ask you to do that, I want you to remember where your bones are, where
your veins are. I want you to stab through your hand doing the least damage
possible.” His voice is lulling, hypnotic, but my heart speeds anyway.
Against my will, I aim the sharp point of the knife. I press it lightly against
my skin. I am ready.
I hate him, but I am ready. I hate him, and I hate myself.
“Now,” he says, and the glamour releases me. I take a half step back. I am
in control of myself again, still holding the knife. He was about to make—
“Do not disappoint me,” Prince Dain says.
I realize all at once that I have not gotten a reprieve. He hasn’t released me
because he wants to spare me. He could glamour me again, but he won’t because he wants me to stab myself willingly. He wants me to prove my devotion, blood
and bone. I hesitate—of course I hesitate. This is absurd. This is awful. This isn’t
how people show loyalty. This is epic, epic bullshit.
“Jude?” he asks. I cannot tell if this is a test he expects me to pass or one he
wants me to fail. I think of Sophie at the bottom of the sea, her pockets full of
stones. I think of the satisfaction on Valerian’s face when he told me to jump
from the tower. I think of Cardan’s eyes, daring me to defy him.
I have tried to be better than them, and I have failed.
What could I become if I stopped worrying about death, about pain, about
anything? If I stopped trying to belong?
Instead of being afraid, I could become something to fear.
My eyes on him, I slam the knife into my hand. The pain is a wave that
rises higher and higher but never crashes. I make a sound low in my throat. I
may not deserve punishment for this, but I deserve punishment.
Dain’s expression is odd, blank. He takes a step back from me, as though I
am the one who did the shocking thing instead of merely doing what he ordered.
Then he clears his throat. “Do not reveal your skill with a blade,” he says. “Do
not reveal your mastery over glamour. Do not reveal all that you can do. Show
your power by appearing powerless. That is what I need from you.”
“Yes,” I gasp, and draw the blade out again. Blood runs over Madoc’s desk,
more than I expect. I feel suddenly dizzy.
“Wipe it up,” he says. His jaw is set. Whatever surprise he felt seems gone,
replaced by something else.
There is nothing to clean the desk with but the hem of my doublet.
“Now give me your hand.” Reluctantly, I hold it out to him, but all he does
is take it gently and wrap it in a green cloth from his pocket. I try to flex my
fingers and nearly pass out from pain. The fabric of the makeshift bandage is
already turning dark. “Once I am gone, go to the kitchens and put moss on it.”
I nod again. I am not sure I can translate my thoughts into speech. I am
afraid I am not going to be able to stand much...