“I don’t question Madoc’s plans,” she says neutrally. “Nor should you.”

I forgot how it felt to be bossed around by Oriana, always treated as though my curiosity would immediately create some scandal for our family. It’s especially galling to be treated this way now, when her husband stole half an army from the High King and is planning a coup against him.

Grima Mog’s words echo in my mind. The Court of Teeth have thrown in their lot with the old Grand General—your father—and a whole host of other traitors. I have it on good authority that your High King is to be dethroned before the next full moon.

That seems a lot more pressing now.

But since I am supposed to be Taryn, I don’t respond. After a moment, she looks repentant. “The important thing is for you to rest. I am sure being dragged out here is a lot to take in on top of losing Locke.”

“Yes,” I say. “It is a lot. I think I do want to rest awhile, if that’s all right.”

Oriana reaches over and smooths my hair back from my brow, a fond gesture that I am sure she wouldn’t have made if she knew it was me, Jude, that she was touching. Taryn admires Oriana, and they’re close in a way that she and I are not—for many reasons, not the least of which is that I helped hide Oak in the mortal world, away from the crown. Since then, Oriana has been both grateful and resentful. But in Taryn, I think, Oriana sees someone she understands. And maybe Taryn is like Oriana, although the murder of Locke has called that and everything else I thought I knew about my twin sister into question.

I close my eyes. Although I mean to puzzle through how to get away, instead I sleep.

The next time I wake, I am in a carriage, and we are on the move. Madoc and Oriana sit on the opposite bench. The curtains are drawn, but I hear the sounds of a traveling camp, of mounts and soldiers. I hear the distinctive growl of goblins calling to one another.

I look over at the redcap who raised me, my father and the murderer of my father. I take in the whiskers from a few days of not shaving. His familiar, inhuman face. He looks exhausted.

“Finally up?” he says with a smile that shows too many teeth. I am uncomfortably reminded of Grima Mog.

I try to smile back as I straighten. I don’t know whether something in the soup knocked me out or the deathsweet Madoc made me inhale isn’t out of my system, but I don’t remember being loaded into the carriage. “How long was I asleep?”

Madoc makes a negligent gesture. “The High King’s trumped-up inquest is three days past.”

I feel fuzzy-headed, afraid I will say the wrong thing and be discovered. At least my easy slide into unconsciousness must have made me seem to be my sister. Before I became a captive of the Undersea, I’d trained my body to be immune to poisons. But now I am exactly as vulnerable as Taryn.

If I keep my wits about me, I can get away without either of them knowing. I consider what part of Madoc’s conversation Taryn would focus on. Probably the matter of Locke. I take a deep breath. “I told them I hadn’t done it. Even glamoured, I insisted.”

Madoc doesn’t look as though he sees through my disguise, but he does look as though he thinks I am being an idiot. “I doubt that boy king ever intended to let you walk out of the Palace of Elfhame alive. He fought hard to keep you.”

“Cardan?” That doesn’t sound like him.

“Half my knights never made it out,” he informs me grimly. “We got in easily enough, but the brugh itself closed around us. Doorways cracked and shrank. Vines and roots and leaves obstructed our way, closed like vises on our necks, crushed and strangled us.”

I stare at him for a long moment. “And the High King caused that?” I can’t believe it of Cardan, whom I left in his chambers, as though he was the one in need of protecting.

“His guard were neither poorly trained nor poorly chosen, and he knows his power. I am glad to have tested him before going against him in earnest.”

“Are you sure it’s wise to go against him at all, then?” I ask carefully. It is perhaps not exactly what Taryn would say, but it’s not exactly what I would say, either.

“Wisdom is for the meek,” he returns. “And it seldom helps them as much as they believe it will. After all, as wise as you are, you still married Locke. Of course, perhaps you are wiser than even that—perhaps you’re so wise you made yourself a widow, too.”

Oriana puts her hand on his knee, a cautioning gesture.

He gives a great laugh. “What? I made no secret of how little I liked the boy. You can hardly expect me to mourn him.”

I wonder if he would laugh so hard if he knew Taryn had actually done it. Who am I kidding? He would probably laugh even harder. He would probably laugh himself sick.

Eventually, the carriage stops, and Madoc jumps down, calling to his soldiers. I slide out and look around, at first disoriented by the unfamiliar landscape and then by the sight of the army before me.

Snow covers the ground, and huge bonfires dot it, along with a maze of tents. Some are made of animal skins. Others are elaborate affairs of painted canvas and wool and silk. But what is most astonishing is how big the camp is, full of soldiers armed and ready to move against the High King. Behind the encampment, a little to the west, is a mountain girded in a thick green pelt of fir trees. And beside it, another tiny outpost—a single tent and a few soldiers.

I feel very far away from the mortal world.

“Where are we?” I ask Oriana, who steps out of the carriage behind me, carrying a cloak to place over my shoulders.

“Near the Court of Teeth,” she says. “It’s mostly trolls and huldra up this far north.”

The Court of Teeth is the Unseelie Court that held the Roach and the Bomb prisoner, and who exiled Grima Mog. The absolute last place I want to be—and with no clear path to escape.

“Come,” Oriana says. “Let’s get you settled.”

She leads me through the camp, past a group of trolls skinning a moose, past elves and goblins singing war songs, past a tailor repairing a pile of hide armor before a fire. In the distance, I hear the clang of steel, raised voices, and animal sounds. The air is thick with smoke, and the ground is muddy from trampling boots and snowmelt. Disoriented, I focus on not losing Oriana in the throng. Finally, we come to a large but practical-looking tent, with a pair of sturdy wooden chairs in front, both covered in sheepskin.

My gaze is drawn to an elaborate pavilion nearby. It sits off the ground on golden clawed feet, looking for all the world as though it could scuttle off if its owner gave the command. As I stare, Grimsen steps out. Grimsen the Smith, who created the Blood Crown and many more artifacts of Faerie yet hungers for greater and greater fame. He’s arrayed so finely that he might be a prince himself. When he sees me, he gives me a sly look. I avert my eyes.

The inside of Madoc and Oriana’s tent reminds me uncomfortably of home. A corner of it works as a makeshift kitchen, where dried herbs hang in garlands beside dried sausages and butter and cheese.

“You can have a bath,” Oriana says, indicating a copper tub in another corner, half-filled with snow. “We place a metal bar on the fire, then plunge it into the melt, and everything heats up swiftly enough.”

I shake my head, thinking of how I need to continue to hide my hands. At least in this cold, it will be no surprise for me to keep my gloves on. “I just want to wash my face. And maybe put on some warmer clothes?”