He doesn’t look immensely surprised, just slightly more suspicious. “So you’re not his messenger?”

“I am the next High King’s messenger,” I say, taking Cardan’s ring from my pocket as proof that I have some connection to the royal family, that I am not just making up this story from whole cloth. “Balekin isn’t going to be the next High King.”

“I see.” His affect is impassive, but his gaze is drawn to the ring.

“And I can promise you that your Court will be recognized as sovereign, if you help us. No threat of conquest from the new High King. Instead, we offer you an alliance.” Fear crawls up my throat, and I almost can’t say the last words. If he won’t help me, there’s some chance he’ll betray me to Balekin. If that happens, things get a lot more difficult.

I can control a lot, but I cannot control this.

Severin’s face is unreadable. “I am not going to insult you by asking whom you represent. There is only one possibility, the young Prince Cardan, of whom I hear many things. But I am not the ideal candidate to help you, for the very reasons your offer is so tempting. My Court is afforded little consequence. And more, I am the son of a traitor, so my honor is unlikely to be given weight.”

“You’re going to Balekin’s banquet already. All I need from you is aid at the critical moment.” He’s tempted, he admitted as much. Maybe he just needs some more convincing. “Whatever you’ve heard about Prince Cardan, he will make a better king than his brother.”

At least there I am not lying.

Severin glances toward the edge of the tent, as though wondering who can overhear me. “I will help you so long as I am not the only one. I say this as much for your sake as for mine.” With that, he stands. “I wish you and the prince well. If you need me, I will do what I can.”

I get up off the stool and bow again. “You are most generous.”

As I leave his camp, my mind whirls. On one hand, I did it. I managed to speak with one of the rulers of Faerie without making a fool of myself. I even kind of persuaded him to go along with my plan. But I still need another monarch, a more influential one, to agree.

There is one place I have been avoiding. The largest camp belongs to Roiben of the Court of Termites. Notoriously bloodthirsty, he won both of his crowns in battle, so he has no reason to object to Balekin’s blood-soaked coup. Still, Roiben seems to feel much the way Annet of the Court of Moths does, that Balekin is of little consequence without a crown.

Maybe he won’t want to see one of Balekin’s messengers, either. And, given the size of his encampment, I can’t even imagine the number of guardians I would have to pass in order to speak with him.

But possibly I could sneak in. After all, with so many of the Folk around, what is one person more or less?

I gather up a bundle of fallen branches, large enough to be a respectable contribution to a fire, and walk toward the Termite Camp with my head down. There are knights posted around the perimeter, but, indeed, they pay me little mind as I walk past.

I feel giddy with the success of my plan. When I was a child, sometimes Madoc would have to stop in the middle of a game of Nine Men’s Morris. The board would remain as it was, waiting for us to resume. All through the day and the night, I would imagine my moves and his countermoves until, when we sat down, we were no longer playing the original game. Most often what I failed to do was accurately anticipate his next moves. I had a great strategy for me, but not for the game I was in.

That’s how I feel now, walking into the camp. I am playing a game opposite Madoc, and while I can spin out plans and schemes, if I can’t accurately guess his, I am sunk.

I drop the kindling beside a fire. A blue-skinned woman with black teeth regards me for a moment and then goes back to her conversation with a goat-footed man. Dusting the bark from my clothes, I walk toward the largest tent. I keep my step light and my stride easy and even. When I find a patch of shadow, I use it to crawl under the edge of the cloth. For a moment, I lie there, half hidden on both sides and completely hidden on neither.

The inside of the main tent is lit with lanterns burning with green alchemical fire, tinting everything a sickly color. In every other way, however, the interior is lush. Carpets are layered, one over another. There are heavy wooden tables, chairs, and a bed piled with furs and brocade coverlets stitched with pomegranates.

But on the table, to my surprise, are paper cartons of food. The green-skinned pixie who was with Roiben at the coronation uses chopsticks to bring noodles to her mouth. He sits beside her, carefully breaking apart a fortune cookie.

“What does it say?” the girl asks. “How about ‘the trip you told your girlfriend would be fun ended in bloodshed, as usual.’ ”

“It says, ‘Your shoes will make you happy today,’ ” he tells her, voice dry, and passes the little slip across the table for her verification.

She glances down at his leather boots. He shrugs, a small smile touching his lips.

Then I’m dragged roughly out from my hiding place. I roll onto my back outside the tent to find a knight standing above me, her sword drawn. There is no one to blame but myself. I should have kept moving, should have found a way to hide myself inside the tent. I should not have stopped to listen to a conversation, no matter how surprising I found it.

“Get up,” the knight says. Dulcamara. Her face shows no recognition of me, however.

I stand, and she marches me into the tent, kicking me in the legs once we get there so I topple onto the rugs. I have cause to be thankful for their plushness. For a moment, I let myself lie there. She presses her boot against the small of my back as though I am some felled prey.

“I caught a spy,” she announces. “Shall I snap its neck?”

I could roll over and grab her ankle. That would throw her off balance for long enough that I could get up. If I twisted her leg and ran, I might be able to get away. At worst, I’d be on my feet, able to grab a weapon and fight her.

But I came here to have an audience with Lord Roiben, and now I have one. I stay still and let Dulcamara underestimate me.

Lord Roiben has come around from the table and bends over me, white hair falling around his face. Silver eyes regard me pitilessly. “And whose Court are you a part of?”

“The High King’s,” I say. “The true High King, Eldred, who was felled by his son.”

“I am not sure I believe you.” He surprises me both with the mildness of the statement and with the assumption that I am lying. “Come, sit with us and eat. I would hear more of your tale. Dulcamara, you may leave us.”

“You’re going to feed it?” she asks sulkily.

He does not answer her, and after a moment of stony silence, she seems to remember herself. With a bow, she leaves.

I go to the table. The pixie regards me with her inkdrop-black eyes, like Tatterfell’s. I notice the extra joint in her fingers as she reaches for an eggroll. “Go ahead,” she says. “There’s plenty. I used most of the hot mustard packets, though.”

Roiben waits, watching me.

“Mortal food,” I say, in what I hope is a neutral way.

“We live alongside mortals, do we not?” he asks me.

“I think she more than lives beside them,” the pixie objects, looking at me.