by Holly Black
“Perhaps you could just give me what I want,” I say.
“What?” the Roach asks. “Let’s put our cards on the table, Jude. Your sisters and their friend are waiting with the horses. We need to be swift.”
My sisters? Both of them? And a friend—Heather? “You let them come?”
“They insisted, and since they were the ones who knew where you were, we had no choice.” The Roach is obviously frustrated with the whole situation. It’s risky to work with people who have no training. Risky to have the High King acting as your foot soldier. Risky to have the person you’re trying to extract—who might be a traitor—start backseat-driving your plan.
But that’s his problem, not mine. I walk over and take his light from him, using it to find my wineskin. “This is dosed with a sleeping draught. I was going to take this to some guards, steal a key, and free a prisoner. We were supposed to escape together.”
“Prisoner?” the Roach echoes warily.
“I saw the maps in Madoc’s war room,” I tell them. “I know the formation in which he means to sail against Elfhame, and I know the number of his ships. I know the soldiers in this encampment and which Courts are on his side. I know what Grimsen is making in his forge. If Cardan will promise me safe passage to Elfhame and to lift my exile once we’re there, I will give all that to you. Plus, you will have the prisoner delivered into your hands before he can be used against you.”
“If you’re telling the truth,” the Roach says. “And not leading us into a net of Madoc’s making.”
“I’m on my own side,” I tell him. “You of all people should understand that.”
The Roach gives Cardan a look. The High King is staring at me strangely, as though he wishes to say something and is holding himself back from it.
Finally, he clears his throat. “Since you’re mortal, Jude, I cannot hold you to your promises. But you can hold me to mine: I guarantee you safe passage. Come back to Elfhame with me, and I will give you the means to end your exile.”
“The means to end it?” I ask. If he thinks I don’t know better than to agree to that, he’s forgotten everything worth knowing about me.
“Come back to Elfhame, tell me what you would tell me, and your exile will end,” he says. “I promise.”
Triumph sweeps through me, followed by wariness. He tricked me once. Standing in front of him, recalling that I believed his offer of marriage was made in earnest, makes me feel small and scrubby and very, very mortal. I cannot allow myself to be tricked again.
I nod. “Madoc is keeping the Ghost prisoner. Grimsen has the key we need—”
The Roach interrupts me. “You want to free him? Let’s gut him like a haddock. Quicker and far more satisfying.”
“Madoc has his true name. He got it from Locke,” I tell them. “Whatever punishment the Ghost deserves, you can dole it out once he’s back in the Court of Shadows. But it’s not death.”
“Locke?” Cardan echoes, then sighs. “Yes, all right. What do we have to do?”
“I was planning to sneak into Grimsen’s forge and steal the key to the Ghost’s chains,” I say.
“I’ll help you,” says the Roach, then turns to Cardan. “But you, sire, will absolutely not. Wait for us with Vivienne and the others.”
“I am coming,” Cardan begins. “You cannot order me otherwise.”
The Roach shakes his head. “I can learn from Jude’s example, though. I can ask for a promise. If we’re spotted, if we’re set upon, promise to go back to Elfhame immediately. You must do everything in your power to get to safety, no matter what.”
Cardan glances toward me, as though for help. When I am silent, he frowns, annoyed with both of us. “Although I am wearing the cloak Mother Marrow made me, the one that will turn any blade, I still promise to run, tail between my legs. And since I have a tail, that should be amusing for everyone. Are you satisfied?”
The Roach grunts his approval, and we sneak from the tent. A wineskin full of poison sloshes softly at my hip as we slide through the shadows. Though it is late, a few soldiers move between tents, some gathered to drink or play dice and riddle games. A few sing along to a tune strummed on a lute by a goblin in leathers.
The Roach moves with perfect ease, slipping from shadow to shadow. Cardan moves behind him, more silently than I might have supposed. It gives me no pleasure to admit that he’s grown better at slyfooting than I am. I could pretend that it’s because the Folk have a natural ability, but I suspect that he also has practiced more than I have. I spread my learning too thin, although, to be fair, I’d like to know how much time he spent studying all the things he ought to know to be the ruler of Elfhame. No, those studies fell to me.
With those resentful thoughts circling in my head, we approach the forge. It is quiet, its embers cold. No smoke comes from its metal chimneys.
“So you’ve seen this key?” the Roach asks, going to a window and wiping away the grime to try to peer through the pane.
“It’s crystal and hanging on the wall,” I say in return, seeing nothing through the cloudy glass. It’s too dark inside for my eyes. “And he’s begun a new sword for Madoc.”
“I wouldn’t mind ruining that before it’s put to my throat,” says Cardan.
“Look for the big one,” I say. “That’ll be it.”
The Roach gives me a frown. I can’t help not having a better description; the last time I saw it, it was barely more than a bar of metal.
“Really big,” I say.
Cardan snorts.
“And we ought to be careful,” I say, thinking of the jeweled spider, of Grimsen’s earrings that can give beauty or steal it. “There are bound to be traps.”
“We’ll go in and out fast,” says the Roach. “But I would feel a lot better if the both of you stayed out and let me be the one to go in.”
When neither of us reply, the goblin squats down to pick the lock on the door. After applying a bit of oil to the joints, they swing open silently.
I follow him inside. The moonlight reflects off the snow in such a way that even my poor, mortal eyes can see around the workshop. A jumble of items—some jeweled, some sharp, all piled up on one another. A collection of swords rests on a hat rack, one with a handle that is coiled like a snake. But there is no mistaking Madoc’s blade. It sits on a table, not yet sharpened or polished, its tang raw. Pale bone-like fragments of root rest beside it, waiting to be carved and fitted into a handle.
I lift the crystal key from the wall gingerly. Cardan stands by me, looking over the array of objects. The Roach crosses the floor toward the sword.
He’s halfway there when a sound like the chime of a clock rings out. High up the wall, two inset doors open, revealing a round hole. All I have time to do before a spray of darts shoots out is point and make a sound of warning.
Cardan steps in front of me, pulling his cloak up. The metal needles glance off the fabric, falling to the floor. For a moment, we stare at each other, wide-eyed. He looks as surprised as I am that he protected me.
Then, from the hole where the darts shot, comes a metal bird. Its beak opens and closes. “Thieves!” it cries. “Thieves! Thieves!”
Outside, I hear shouts.
Then I spot the Roach across the room. His skin has turned pale. He’s about to say something, his face anguished, when he slides to one knee. The darts must have struck him. I rush over. “What was he hit with?” Cardan calls.
“Deathsweet,” I say. Probably plucked from the same patch I found in the woods. “The Bomb can help him. She can make an antidote.”
I hope she can, at least. I hope there’s time.
With surprising ease, Cardan lifts the Roach in his arms. “Tell me this wasn’t your plan,” he pleads. “Tell me.”
“No,” I say. “Of course not. I swear it.”
“Come then,” he says. “My pocket is full of ragwort. We can fly.”
I shake my head.
“Jude,” he warns.
We don’t have time to a
rgue. “Vivi and Taryn are still waiting for me. They won’t know what’s happened. If I don’t go to them, they’ll be caught.”
I can tell he’s not sure if he should believe me, but all he does is shift the Roach so that he can untie his cloak with one hand. “Take this, and do not stop,” he orders, his expression fierce. Then he heads into the night, bearing the Roach in his arms.
I set out for the woods, neither running nor hiding, exactly, but moving swiftly, tying his cloak over my shoulders as I go. I glance back once and see the soldiers swarming around the forge—a few entering Madoc’s tent.
I said I was going straight to Vivi, but I lied. I head for the cave. There’s still time, I tell myself. The incident at the forge is an excellent distraction. If they’re looking for intruders there, they won’t be looking for me here with the Ghost.
My optimism seems borne out as I draw close. The guards aren’t at their posts. Letting out a sigh of relief, I rush inside.
But the Ghost is no longer in chains. He’s not there at all. In his place is Madoc, outfitted in his full suit of armor.
“I’m afraid you’re too late,” he says. “Much too late.”
Then he draws his sword.
Fear steals my breath. Not only do I not have a weapon with the range of his sword, but it’s unimaginable to win in battle against the person who taught me nearly everything I know. And looking at him, I can tell he’s come to fight.
I draw the cloak more closely around me, inexpressibly glad for it. Without it, I would have no chance.
“When did you know it was me and not Taryn?” I ask.
“Later than I ought,” he says conversationally, taking a step toward me. “But I wasn’t looking, was I? No, it was a little thing. Your expression when you saw that map of the isles of Elfhame. Just that and every other thing you’d said and done went slant, and I saw they all belonged to you.”
I am grateful to know he didn’t guess from the start. Whatever he’s planned, he had to do it hastily, at least. “Where’s the Ghost?”
“Garrett,” he corrects, mocking me with part of the Ghost’s true name, the name the Ghost never told me, even when I might have used it to countermand the orders he’d received from Madoc. “Even if you live, you’ll never stop him in time.”
“Whom did you send him after?” My voice shakes a little, imagining Cardan escaping from Madoc’s camp only to be shot in his own palace as he was once almost shot in his own bed.
Madoc’s smile is all sharp teeth and satisfaction, as though I am being taught a lesson. “You’re still loyal to that puppet. Why, Jude? Wouldn’t it be better if he took an arrow through the heart in his own hall? You cannot believe he makes a better High King than I would.”
I look Madoc in the eye, and my mouth makes the words before I can snatch them back. “Maybe I believe that it’s time for Elfhame to be ruled by a queen.”
He laughs at that, a bark of surprise. “You think Cardan will just hand over his power? To you? Mortal child, surely you know better. He exiled you. He reviled you. He will never see you as anything but beneath him.”
It’s nothing I haven’t thought myself, yet his words still fall like blows.
“That boy is your weakness. But worry not,” Madoc continues. “His reign will be short.”
I take some satisfaction in the fact that Cardan was here, under his nose, and that he got away. But everything else is awful. The Ghost is gone. The Roach is poisoned. I’ve made mistakes. Even now, Vivi and Taryn and possibly Heather wait for me across the snow, growing more and more worried the closer dawn creeps to the horizon.
“Surrender, child,” Madoc says, looking as though he feels a little sorry for me. “It’s time to submit to your punishment.”
I take a step backward. My hand goes to my knife on instinct, but fighting him when he is in armor and his weapon has the superior reach is a bad idea.
He gives me an incredulous look. “Will you defy me to the last? When I get ahold of you, I am going to keep you in chains.”
“I never wanted to be your enemy,” I say. “But I didn’t want to be in your power, either.” With that, I take off through the snow. I do the one thing I told myself I would never do.
“Do not run from me!” he shouts, a horrible echo of his final words to my mother.
The memory of her death makes my legs go faster. Clouds of air gasp from my lungs. I hear him barreling after me, hear the grunt of his breaths.
As I run, my hopes of losing him in the woods diminish. No matter how I zig and zag, he doesn’t let up. My heart thunders in my chest, and I know that, above all things, I can’t lead him to my sisters.
It turns out I am far from done with making mistakes.
One breath, two breaths. I draw my knife. Three breaths. I turn.
Because he isn’t expecting it, he crashes toward me. I get under his guard, stabbing him in his side, striking where the plates of his armor meet. The metal still takes the better part of the blow, but I see him wince.
Cocking back his arm, he backhands me into the snow.
“You were always good,” he says, looking down at me. “Just never good enough.”
He’s right. I learned a lot about swordplay from him, from the Ghost, but I didn’t study it for the better part of an immortal life. And over most of the last year, I was busy learning to be a seneschal. The only reason I made it as long as I did in our last fight is that he was poisoned. The only reason I beat Grima Mog is that she didn’t expect me to be very good at all. Madoc has my measure.
Also, against Grima Mog, I was wielding a much longer knife.
“I don’t suppose you’re willing to make this more sportsmanlike?” I say, rolling to my feet. “Maybe you could fight with one hand behind your back, to even the odds.”
He grins, circling me.
Then he swings, leaving me only to block. I feel the effort all down my arm. It’s obvious what he’s doing, but it’s still devastatingly effective. He’s wearing me down, making me block and dodge again and again, while never letting me close enough to strike him. By keeping me focused on defense, he’s exhausting me.
Despair starts to creep in. I could turn and run again, but I’d be in the same situation as before, running without anywhere to run to. As I meet his blows with my pathetic dagger, I realize how few choices I have and how they will continue to shrink.
It’s not long before I falter. His sword slices against the cloak covering my shoulder. Mother Marrow’s fabric is unscathed.
He pauses in surprise, and I strike for his hand. It’s a cheat move. But I draw blood, and he roars.
Grabbing the cloak, he winds it around his hand, hauling me toward him. The ties choke me, then rip free. His sword sinks into my side, into my stomach.
I look up at him for a moment, eyes wide.
He seems as surprised as I feel.
Somehow, despite knowing better, part of me still believed he would pull a killing blow.
Madoc, who was my father ever since he murdered my father. Madoc, who taught me how to swing a sword to actually hit someone and not just their blade. Madoc, who sat me on his knee and read to me and told me he loved me.
I fall to my knees. My legs have collapsed under me. His blade comes free, slick with my blood. My leg is wet with it. I am bleeding out.
I know what happens next. He’s going to deliver the final blow. Lopping off my head. Stabbing through my heart. The strike that’s a kindness, really. After all, who wants to die slowly when you can die fast?
Me.
I don’t want to die fast. I don’t want to die at all.
He raises his sword, hesitates. My animal instincts kick in, pushing me to my feet. My vision swims a little, but adrenaline is on my side.
“Jude,” Madoc says, and for the first time that I can recall, there’s fear in his voice. Fear I don’t understand.
Then three black arrows fly past me across the icy field. Two whiz over him, and the other strikes him in the shoulde
r of his sword arm. He howls, switches hands, and looks for his attacker. For a moment, I am forgotten.
Another arrow comes out of the darkness. This one hits him square in the chest. It strikes through his armor. Not deeply enough to kill him, but it’s got to hurt.
From behind a tree, Vivi steps into view. Beside her is Taryn, wearing Nightfell on her hip. And with them, another person, who turns out not to be Heather at all.
Grima Mog, sword drawn, sits astride a ragwort pony.
I force myself to move. Step after step, each one making my side scream with pain.
“Dad,” Vivi says. “Stay where you are. If you try to stop her, I’ve got plenty more arrows, and I’ve been waiting half my life to put you in the ground.”
“You?” Madoc sneers. “The only way you’d be the end of me is by accident.” He reaches down to snap the shaft sticking out of his chest. “Have a care. My army is just over the hill.”
“Go get them, then,” Vivi says, sounding half hysterical. “Get your whole damn army.”
Madoc looks in my direction. I must be quite a sight, blood-soaked, hand on my side. He hesitates again. “She’s not going to make it. Let me—”
Three more arrows fly toward him in answer. None of them hit, not a great sign for Vivi’s marksmanship. I just hope that he believes her missing is intentional.
A bout of dizziness overcomes me. I sag to one knee.
“Jude.” My sister’s voice comes from close by. Not Vivi. Taryn. She’s got Nightfell drawn, holding the sword in one hand and reaching toward me with the other. “Jude, you have to stand up. Stay with me.”
I must have looked as though I was going to faint. “I’m here,” I say, reaching for her hand, letting her support my weight. I stagger forward.
“Ah, Madoc,” comes Grima Mog’s tart voice. “Your child challenged me just a week back. Now I know who she really wanted to kill.”
“Grima Mog,” Madoc says, dipping his head slightly, indicating respect. “However you have come to be here, this is nothing to do with you.”