I am a child again, hiding under a table, with the revel spinning around
above me.
Pressing my hand to my heart, I feel the speeding thud of it. I cannot think.
I cannot think. I cannot think.
There is blood on my dress, little dots of it sinking into the blue sky.
I thought I could not be shocked by death, but—there was just so much of
it. An embarrassing, ridiculous excess. My mind keeps going back over Prince
Dain’s white ribs, the spray of blood from Elowyn’s throat, and the High King’s
denying Balekin over and over as he died. Over poor Taniot and Caelia and
Rhyia, who were forced to discover, each in turn, how the crown of Faerie
mattered more than their lives.
I think of Madoc, who had been at Dain’s right hand all these years. Faeries
might not be able to lie outright, but Madoc had lied with every laugh, every
clap on the back, every shared cup of wine. Madoc, who’d let us all get dressed
up and given me a beautiful sword to wear tonight, as though we were really
going to some fun party.
I knew what he was, I try to tell myself. I saw the blood crusted on his red
cap. If I let myself forget, then more fool me.
At least knights had led my family away before the killing started. At least
none of the others had to watch, although, unless they were very far away, they
could not have failed to hear the screams. At least Oak would not grow up as I
have, with death as my birthright.
I sit there until my heart slows again. I need to get out of the hill. This revel
is going to turn wilder, and with no new High Monarch on the throne, there is
little holding any of the revelers back from any entertainment they can devise.
It’s probably not the best time to be a mortal here.
I try to remember looking down on the layout of the throne room from above with the Ghost. I try to recall the entrances into the main part of the castle.
If I could find one of the guards and make them believe that I was part of
Madoc’s household, they might take me to the rest of my family. But I don’t
want to go. I don’t want to see Madoc, covered in blood, sitting beside Balekin. I
don’t want to pretend that what happened is anything other than horrific. I don’t
want to disguise my disgust.
There’s another way out. I can crawl under the tables to the steps and go up
them to the ledge near Madoc’s strategy room. I think from there I can climb
directly through and be in the part of the castle most likely to be deserted—and
the part with access to secret tunnels. From there, I can get out without worrying
about knights or guards or anyone else. Adrenaline makes my whole body sing
with the desire to move, but although what I have feels like a plan, it’s not one
yet. I can get out of the palace, but I have nowhere to go after that.
Figure it out later, instinct urges.
Okay, half a plan is good enough.
On my hands and knees, heedless of my dress, heedless of the way the
sheath of my sword drags against the packed-earth floor, heedless of the pain in
my hand, I crawl. Above me I hear music. I hear other things, too—the snap of
what might be bones, a whimper, a howl. I ignore all of it.
Then the tablecloth lifts, and as my eyes adjust to the brightness of the
candlelight, a masked figure grabs for my arm. There’s no easy way to draw my
sword, crouched as I am under a table, so I grab for the knife inside my bodice. I
am about...