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?”
“Of course,” she says, and bustles around the small space to gather up a sturdy blue dress, some hose, and boots. She goes out and comes back. After a few minutes, a servant arrives with steaming water in a bowl and places it on a table, along with a cloth. The water is scented with juniper.
“I will leave you to freshen up,” Oriana says, putting on a cloak. “Tonight we dine with the Court of Teeth.”
“I don’t mean to inconvenience you,” I say, awkward in the face of her kindness, knowing that it isn’t for me.
She smiles and touches my cheek. “You’re a good girl,” she says, making me flush with embarrassment.
I am never that.
Still, when she is gone, I am glad to be alone. I snoop around the tent but find no maps or battle plans. I eat a little cheese. I wash my face and pits and everywhere else I can reach, then rinse my mouth with a little peppermint oil and scrape my tongue.
Finally, I put on the new heavier, warmer clothes and rebraid my hair simply, into two tight plaits. I replace my velvet gloves with woolen ones—checking to make sure the stuffing at the tip of my finger looks convincing.
By the time I am done, Oriana has returned. She has brought with her several soldiers carrying a pallet of furs and blankets, which she has them arrange into a bed for me, curtained with a screen.
“I think this will do for now,” she says, looking at me for confirmation.
I swallow the urge to thank her. “Better than I could have asked.”
As the soldiers depart, I follow them through the tent flap. Outside, I orient myself by the sun as it is about to set and look over the sea of tents again. I am able to pick out factions. Madoc’s people, flying his sigil, the crescent moon turned like a bowl. Those from the Court of Teeth have their tents marked with a device that seems to suggest an ominous mountain range. And two or three other Courts, either smaller ones or ones that sent fewer soldiers. A whole host of other traitors, Grima Mog said.
I can’t help but think like the spy I was, cannot help but see that I am perfectly positioned to discover Madoc’s plan. I am in his camp, in his very tent. I could uncover everything.
But that’s absolute madness. How long before Oriana or Madoc realizes that I am Jude and not Taryn? I remember the vow Madoc made to me: And when I best you, I will make sure I do it as thoroughly as I would any opponent who has shown themselves to be my equal. It was a backhanded compliment, but it was also a straightforward threat. I know exactly what Madoc does to his enemies—he kills them and then washes his cap in their blood.
And what does it matter? I am in exile, pushed out.
But if I had Madoc’s plans, I could trade them for the end of my exile. Surely Cardan would agree to that, if I gave him the means to save Elfhame. Unless, of course, he thought I was lying.
Vivi would say I ought to stop worrying about kings and wars and worry instead about getting home. After my fight with Grima Mog, I could demand better jobs from Bryern. Vivi is right that if we gave up the pretense of living like other humans, we could have a much bigger place. And given the results of the inquest, Taryn probably can’t return to Faerie.
At least until Madoc takes over.
Maybe I should just let it happen.
But that brings me to the thing I cannot get past. Even though it’s ridiculous, I can’t stop the anger that rises in me, lighting a fire in my heart.
I am the Queen of Elfhame.
Even though I am the queen in exile, I am still the queen.
And that means Madoc isn’t just trying to take Cardan’s throne. He’s trying to take mine.