Page 105

Since I can’t figure out a way to communicate any of that, I shrug and gesture toward my lips.

He frowns, frustrated.

The cells are largely empty. When I lived in the Citadel, they were teeming with those who had displeased Lord Jarel and Lady Nore— bards who chose ballads that offended, presumptuous courtiers, servants who made errors large and small. But now, as understaffed as the castle is, there is only one other prisoner.

Madoc sits on a wooden bench, leaning against the stone wall, far from the bars, which stink of iron. His leg is bandaged in two places, hastily and poorly, as though he was the one who did it. There is a cloth over one of his eyes, a little blood seeping through the fabric. His green skin looks too pale in the flickering lamplight, and he’s shivering. He’s probably been uncomfortably cold for weeks.

Hyacinthe unlocks a cell beside the general’s and ushers me inside. I enter, careful not to let my skin touch the iron bars.

“I will get you out of here,” he whispers to me as I slip by him. “When things are prepared, you will be given a key. Meet me in the alcove across from the great hall. I have a horse.”

I look a question at him.

He sighs. “Yes, that creature. Damsel Fly. Despite her pretty name, she’s fast and sure-footed.”

And then he closes the door. I am grateful he didn’t bother to search me, didn’t discover the bridle banded around my waist, beneath my servant’s uniform. I am not certain what he would do with it.

I head for a bench, a sudden feeling of light-headedness making me worry that I will fall before I get there. Though I am not still bleeding, I lost a lot of blood.

Hyacinthe’s gaze flickers toward Madoc, and he looks pained. “Are you well, sir?”

“Well enough,” the redcap says. “What happened here? She looks like she took a big bite out of someone.”

I am surprised to find that makes me laugh. The sound comes out all wrong.

“Her tongue,” Hyacinthe says, and Madoc nods as though he’s seen that sort of thing before.

Although I knew Hyacinthe had been part of Madoc’s army, I forgot that meant they might know each other. It is strange to hear them speaking like comrades, especially with one of them the jailer and the other in a cage.

As he departs, the redcap glances in my direction.

“Little queen,” Madoc says with a crooked smile. Despite not sharing blood with Oak, the mischief in his expression is familiar. “All grown up and come to devour your maker. I can’t say as I blame you.”

I am fairly sure he’s missing an eye. I remember the old general from the endless meetings and parties where I sat in the dirt or was tugged on a leash. I remember the calm of his manner and the hot wine he gave me, as well as the gleam of his teeth whenever there was blood.

Like now, when I spit on the ground rather than swallow what’s in my mouth.

Hyacinthe says something else to Madoc, and I put my head down on my arms, sprawling over the bench. Another bout of dizziness hits me, and I close my eyes, expecting it to pass. Expecting to be able to sit up. But instead, I am pulled down into darkness.

When I come back to consciousness, it is to the sound of Oak’s voice. “She’s breathing steadily.”

By the time I am able to focus, though, it is Madoc who is speaking, his voice a deep rumble. “You might be better served if she didn’t wake. What happens when she discovers how you’ve deceived her? When she realizes her role in your plan?”

I try not to move, try not to let a twitch of muscle or a tightening of my body give away that I am conscious and listening.

Oak’s voice is full of resignation. “She will have to decide how much she hates me.”

“Kill her while you can,” says the old general, softly. He sounds regretful but also resigned.

“That’s your answer to everything,” Oak says.

“And yours is to throw yourself into the mouth of the lion and hope it doesn’t like your savor.”

Oak says nothing for a long moment. I think about the way he took an arrow while grinning reassuringly, how he gulped down poison. How, back in Elfhame, he apparently draws out assassins by being an excellent target. Madoc’s not wrong that Oak throws himself at things. In fact, I am not sure if Madoc realizes the extent of his rightness.

“I despair of you,” says the redcap finally. “You have no instinct to take power, even when it is offering you its very throat to tear out.”

“Enough,” says Oak, as if this isn’t the first time they’ve gone through this argument. “This—all of it—is your fault. Why couldn’t you just have the patience to stay in exile? To resign yourself to your fate?”