“Perhaps she is bored and lazy and sick of fighting,” said Roiben. “I am.”
“You are too young.” Ruddles gnashed those sharp teeth. “And you take the fate of this court too lightly. I wonder if you would have us win at all.”
Once, after the Lady Nicnevin had whipped Roiben—he could no longer recall why—she had turned away, distracted by some new amusement, leaving Ruddles—her chamberlain, then—free to indulge in a moment’s mercy. He had dribbled a stream of water into Roiben’s mouth. He still remembered the sweet taste of it and the way it had hurt his throat to swallow.
“You think that I don’t have the stomach to be Lord of the Night Court.” Roiben leaned across the petrified wood table, bringing his face so close to Ruddles’s that he could have kissed him.
Dulcamara laughed, clapping her hands together as if anticipating a treat.
“You are correct,” said Ruddles, shaking his head. “I don’t think you have the stomach for it. Nor the head. Nor do I think you even truly want the title.”
“I have a belly that craves blood,” said Dulcamara, tossing her sleek black hair and stepping so that she was behind the chamberlain. Her hands went to his shoulders, her fingers resting lightly at his throat. “He need not hurt anyone himself. She never did.”
Ruddles went stiff and still, perhaps realizing how far he had overstepped himself.
Ellebere looked between the three of them as if judging where his best alliance might be made. Roiben had no illusions that any one of them was in the least part loyal beyond the oath that bound them. With one lethal word Roiben could prove he had both the stomach and the head. That might cultivate something like loyalty.
“Perhaps I am no fit King,” Roiben said instead, sinking back into the chair and relaxing his clenched hands. “But Silarial was once my Queen, and while there is breath in my body, I will never let her rule over me or mine again.”
Dulcamara pouted exaggeratedly. “Your mercy,” she said, “is my mischance, my King.”
Ruddles’s eyes closed with relief too profound to hide.
Long ago, when Roiben was newly come to the Unseelie Court, he had sat in the small cell-like chamber in which he was kept, and he had longed for his own death. His body had been worn with ill-use and struggle, his wounds had dried in long garnet crusts, and he’d been so tired from fighting Nicnevin’s commands that remembering he could die had filled him with a sudden and surprising hope.
If he were really merciful, he would have let Dulcamara kill his chamberlain.
Ruddles was right; they had little chance of winning the war. But Roiben could do what he did best, what he had done in Nicnevin’s service: endure. Endure long enough to kill Silarial. So that she could never again send one of her knights to be tortured as a symbol of peace, nor contrive countless deaths, nor glory in the appearance of innocence. And when he thought of the Lady of the Bright Court, he could almost feel a small sliver of ice burrow its way inside him, numbing him to what would come. He didn’t need to win the war, he just needed to die slowly enough to take her with him.
And if all the Unseelie Court died along with them, so be it.
Corny knocked on the back door of Kaye’s grandmother’s house and smiled through the glass window. He hadn’t had much sleep, but he was flushed and giddy with knowledge. The tiny hob he’d captured had talked all night, telling Corny anything that might make him more likely to let it go. He’d uncaged it at dawn, but true knowledge seemed closer to him now than it ever had before.
“Come in,” Kaye’s grandmother called from inside the kitchen.
He turned the cold metal knob. The kitchen was cluttered with old cooking supplies; dozens of pots were stacked in piles, cast iron with rusted steel. Kaye’s grandmother couldn’t bear to throw things away.
“What kind of trouble did the two of you get into last night?” The old woman loaded two plates into the dishwasher.
Corny looked blank for a moment, then forced a frown. “Last night. Right. Well, I left early.”
“What kind of gentleman leaves a girl alone like that, Cornelius? She’s been sick all morning and her door’s locked.”
The microwave beeped.
“We’re supposed to go to New York tonight.”
Kaye’s grandmother opened the microwave. “Well, I don’t think she’s going to be up to it. Here, take her this. See if she can keep something down.”
Corny took the mug and bounded up the stairs. Tea sloshed as he went, leaving a trail of steaming droplets behind him. In the hall outside Kaye’s door, he stopped and listened for a moment. Hearing nothing, he knocked on the door.
There was no response.
“Kaye, it’s me,” he said. “Hey, Kaye, come on and open the door.” Corny knocked again. “Kaye!”
He heard shuffling and a click, then the door swung open. He took an involuntary step backward.
He’d seen her faerie form before, but he hadn’t been prepared to see it here. The grasshopper green of her skin looked especially strange when contrasted with a white T-shirt and faded pink underwear. Her shiny black eyes were rimmed with red, and the room beyond her smelled sour.
She lay back on the mattress, bundling the comforter around her and smothering her face against the pillow. He could see only the tangled green of her hair and the overly long fingers that pulled the fabric against her chest as though it were a stuffed toy. She seemed like a cat resting, more alert than it looked.
Corny came and sat down on the floor near her, leaning back on a satiny tag-sale pillow.
“Must have been a great night,” he whispered, experimentally, and her ink black eyes did flicker open for a second. She made a sound like a snort.
“Come on. It’s the ass crack of noon. Time to get up.”
Lutie swooped down from the top of the bookshelves, the suddenness startling Corny. The faery alighted on his knee, her laughter so high that the sound reminded him of chimes. He resisted the urge to recoil.
“Roiben’s chamberlain, Ruddles himself, along with a bogan and a puck, carried her back. Imagine a bogan gently tucking a pixie into bed!”
Kaye groaned. “I don’t think he was that gentle. Now, can everyone be quiet? I’m trying to sleep.”
“Your grandma sent up this tea. You want it? If not, I’ll drink it.”
Kaye flipped over onto her back with a groan. “Give it to me.”
He handed over the mug as she shifted into a sitting position. One of her cellophane-like wings rubbed against the wall, sending a shower of powder down onto the sheets.
“Doesn’t that hurt?”
She looked over her shoulder and shrugged. Her long fingers turned the tea cup, warming her hands against it.
“I take it we’re not going to make it to your mother’s show.”
She looked up at him and he was surprised to see that her eyes were wet.
“I don’t know,” she said. “How am I supposed to know? I don’t know much about anything.”
“Okay, okay. What the hell happened?”
“I told Roiben I loved him. Really loudly. In front of a huge audience.”
“So, what did he say?”
“It was this thing called a declaration. They said—I don’t know why I even listened—that if I didn’t do it someone would beat me to it.”