He opens the door to prevent me from responding. Abruptly, we are no longer alone. Fand and the rest of our guard stand ready in the hall, with the Living Council waiting impatiently beside them.

I can’t believe he said that and then just walked out, leaving me reeling. I am going to strangle him.

“The traitor and his company have entered the brugh,” Randalin says. “Waiting on your pleasure.”

“How many?” Cardan asks.

“Twelve,” he says. “Madoc, Oriana, Grimsen, some of the Court of Teeth, and several of Madoc’s best generals.”

A small number and a mix of formidable warriors with courtiers. I can make no meaning of it, except the obvious. He intends both diplomacy and war.

As we walk through the halls, I glance over at Cardan. He gives me a preoccupied smile, as though his thoughts are on Madoc and the coming conflict.

You love him, too, I think. You’ve loved him since before you were a prisoner of the Undersea. You loved him when you agreed to marry him.

Once this is over, I will find the bravery to tell him.

And then we are ushered onto the dais, like players upon a stage about to begin a performance.

I look out at the rulers of Seelie and Unseelie Courts alike, at the Wild Folk who are sworn to us, at the courtiers and performers and servants. My gaze snags on Oak, half-hidden high up on a rocky formation. My twin gives me a reassuring grin. Lord Roiben stands off to one side, his demeanor forbidding. At the far end of the room, I see the crowd begin to part to allow Madoc and his company to come forward.

I flex my fingers, cold with nerves.

As he strides across the brugh, my father’s armor shines with fresh polish, but it is otherwise unremarkable—the armor of someone interested in the reliable rather than the new and impressive. The cloak that hangs from his shoulders is wool, embroidered with his moon sigil in silver and lined in red. Over it, the massive sword, slung so he can draw it in a single, fluid movement. And on his head, a familiar cap, stiff with dark, dried blood.

Looking at that cap, I know he has not come only to talk.

Behind him are Lady Nore and Lord Jarel from the Court of Teeth, with their leashed little Queen Suren by their side. And Madoc’s most trusted generals—Calidore, Brimstone, and Vavindra. But to either side of him are Grimsen and Oriana. Grimsen is dressed elaborately, in a jacket all of hinged pieces of gold. Oriana is as pale as ever, attired in a deep blue trimmed out in white fur, her only decoration a silver headpiece shining in her hair like ice.

“Lord Madoc,” Cardan says. “Traitor to the throne, murderer of my brother, what brings you here? Have you come to throw yourself on the mercy of the crown? Perhaps you hope the Queen of Elfhame will show leniency.”

Madoc barks out a laugh, his gaze going to me. “Daughter, every time I think you cannot rise any higher, you prove me wrong,” he says. “And I a fool to wonder if you were even still alive.”

“I am alive,” I say. “No thanks to you.”

I have some satisfaction in seeing the complete bafflement on Oriana’s face and then the shock that replaces it as she comes to see that my presence at the High King’s side is no elaborate joke. I am somehow wed to Cardan.

“This is your last chance to surrender,” I say. “Bend the knee, Father.”

He laughs again, shaking his head. “I have never surrendered in my life. In all the years I have battled, never have I given that to anyone. And I will not give it to you.”

“Then you will be remembered as a traitor, and when they make songs about you, those songs will forget all your valiant deeds in favor of this despicable one.”

“Ah, Jude,” he says. “Do you think I care about songs?”

“You have come to parlay, and you will not surrender,” Cardan says. “So speak. I cannot believe you brought so many troops to sit idle.”

Madoc puts his hand up onto the hilt of his sword. “I have come to challenge you for your crown.”

Cardan laughs. “This is the Blood Crown, forged for Mab, first of the Greenbriar line. You can’t wear it.”

“Forged by Grimsen,” says Madoc. “Here at my side. He will find a way for me to make it mine once I win. So will you hear my challenge?”

No, I want to say. Stop talking. But this is the purpose of parlay. I can hardly call a halt to it without a reason.

“You have come all this way,” says Cardan. “And called so many Folk here to witness. How could I not?”

“When Queen Mab died,” Madoc says, drawing the sword from his back. It gleams with reflected candlelight. “The palace was built on her barrow. And while her remains are gone, her power lives on in the rocks and earth there. This sword was cooled in that earth, the hilt set with her stones. Grimsen says it can shake the firmament of the isles.”

Cardan glances toward the shadows, where the archers are positioned. “You were my guest until you drew your very fancy sword. Put it down and be my guest again.”

“Put it down?” says Madoc. “Very well.” He slams it into the floor of the brugh. A thunderous sound rocks the palace, a tremor that seems to go through the ground beneath us. The Folk scream. Grimsen cackles, clearly delighted with his own work.

A crack forms on the floor, starting where the blade punctured the ground, the fissure widening as it moves toward the dais, splitting the stone. A moment before it reaches the throne, I realize what’s about to happen and cover my mouth. Then the ancient throne of Elfhame cracks down the middle, its flowering branches turned into splinters, its seat obliterated. Sap leaks from the rupture like blood from a wound.

“I have come here to give that blade to you,” Madoc says over the screams.

Cardan looks at the destruction of the throne in horror. “Why?”

“If you should lose the contest I propose, it will be yours to wield against me. We will have a proper duel, but your sword will be the better by far. And if you win, it will be yours by right anyway, as will my surrender.”

Despite himself, Cardan looks intrigued. Dread gnaws at my gut.

“High King Cardan, son of Eldred, great-grandson of Mab. You who were born under an ill-favored star, whose mother left you to eat the crumbs off the royal table as though you were one of its hounds, you who are given to luxury and ease, whose father despised you, whose wife keeps you under her control—can you inspire any loyalty in your people?”

“Cardan—” I begin, then bite my tongue. Madoc has trapped me. If I speak and Cardan heeds me, it will seem to prove my father right.

“I am under no one’s control,” Cardan says. “And your treason began with planning my father’s death, so you can hardly care about his good opinion. Go back to your desolate mountains. The Folk here are my sworn subjects, and your insults are dull.”

Madoc smiles. “Yes, but do your sworn subjects love you? My army is loyal, High King Cardan, because I’ve earned their loyalty. Have you earned one single thing that you have? I have fought with those who follow me and bled with them. I have given my life to Elfhame. Were I High King, I would give all those who followed me dominion over the world. Had I the Blood Crown on my head instead of this cap, I would bring victories undreamed. Let them choose between us, and whomsoever they choose, let him have the rule of Elfhame. Let him have the crown. If Elfhame loves you, I will yield. But how can anyone choose to be your subject if you never give them the opportunity to make any other choice? Let that be the manner of the contest between us. The hearts and minds of the Court. If you are too much the coward to duel me with blades, let that be our duel.”