And how could anyone not want proof that feeling was real?
Would Elfhame choose Cardan to rule over them? I look out on the crowd. On Queen Annet, who might value Madoc’s experience and brutality. On Lord Roiben, given to violence. On the Alderking, Severin of Fairfold, who was exiled by Eldred and might not wish to follow Eldred’s son.
Cardan takes the crown from his head.
The crowd gasps.
“What are you doing?” I whisper. But he doesn’t even glance at me. It’s the crown he’s looking at.
The sword remains stuck deep in the ground. The brugh is quiet.
“A king is not his throne nor his crown,” he says. “You are right that neither loyalty nor love should be compelled. But rule of Elfhame ought not be won or lost in a wager, either, as though it were a week’s pay or a wineskin. I am the High King, and I do not forfeit that title to you, not for a sword or a show or my pride. It is worth more than any of those things.” Cardan looks at me and smiles. “Besides which, two rulers stand before you. And even had you cut me down, one would remain.”
My shoulders sag with relief, and I fix Madoc with a look of triumph. I see doubt in his face for the first time, the fear that he’s calculated wrong.
But Cardan is not done speaking. “You want the very thing you rail against—the Blood Crown. You want my subjects bound to you as assuredly as they are now bound to me. You want it so much that risking the Blood Crown is the price you put on Queen Orlagh’s head.” Then he smiles. “When I was born, there was a prophecy that were I to rule, I would be the destruction of the crown and the ruination of the throne.”
Madoc’s gaze shifts from Cardan to me and then back to Cardan again. He’s thinking through his options. They’re not good, but he does still have a very big sword. My hand goes automatically to the hilt of Nightfell.
Cardan extends one long-fingered hand toward the throne of Elfhame and the great crack running along the ground. “Behold, half that has come to pass.” He laughs. “I never considered it was meant to be interpreted literally. And I never considered I would desire its fulfillment.”
I do not like where this is going.
“Queen Mab created this crown to keep her descendants in power,” Cardan says. “But vows should never be to a crown. They should be to a ruler. And they should be of your own free will. I am your king, and beside me stands my queen. But it is your choice whether or not to follow us. Your will shall be your own.”
And with his bare hands, he cracks the Blood Crown in two. It breaks like a child’s toy, as though in his hands it was never made of metal at all, brittle as a wishbone.
I think that I gasp, but it is possible that I scream. Many voices rise in something that is horror and joy commingled.
Madoc looks appalled. He came for that crown, and now it is nothing but a cracked piece of slag. But it is Grimsen’s face my gaze stops on. He is shaking his head violently back and forth. No no no no.
“Folk of Elfhame, will you accept me as your High King?” Cardan calls out.
They’re the ritual words of the coronation. I remember something like them said by Eldred in this very hall. And one by one, all around the brugh, I see the Folk bow their heads. The movement ripples like an exultant wave.
They have chosen him. They are giving him their fealty. We have won.
I look over at Cardan and see that his eyes have gone completely black.
“Nononononono!” Grimsen cries. “My work. My beautiful work. It was supposed to last forever.”
On the throne, the remaining flowers turn the same inky black as Cardan’s eyes. Then the black bleeds down his face. He turns to me, opening his mouth, but his jaw is changing. His whole body is changing—elongating and ululating.
And I recall abruptly that Grimsen has cursed everything he has ever made.
When she came to me to forge the Blood Crown, she entrusted me with a great honor. And I cursed it to protect it for all time.
I want mywork to endure just as Queen Mab wanted her line to endure.
The monstrous thing seems to have swallowed up everything of Cardan. His mouth opens wide and then jaw-crackingly wide as long fangs sprout. Scales shroud his skin. Dread has rooted me in place.
Screams fill the air. Some of the Court begin to run toward the doors. I draw Nightfell. The guard stare at Cardan in horror, weapons in their hands. I see Grima Mog racing toward the dais.
In the place where the High King was, there is a massive serpent, covered in black scales and curved fangs. A golden sheen runs down the coils of the enormous body. I look into his black eyes, hoping to see recognition there, but they are cold and empty.
“It will poison the land,” cries the smith. “No true love’s kiss will stop it. No riddle will fix it. Only death.”
“The King of Elfhame is no more,” says Madoc, grabbing for the hilt of his massive sword, intent on seizing victory from what had been almost certain defeat. “I mean to slay the serpent and take the throne.”
“You forget yourself,” I shout, my voice carrying across the brugh. The Folk stop running. The rulers of the low Courts stare up at me, along with the Council and the Folk of Elfhame. This is nothing like being Cardan’s seneschal. This is nothing like ruling beside him. This is horrible. They will never listen to me.
The serpent’s tongue flicks out, tasting the air. I am trembling, but I refuse to let the fear I feel show. “Elfhame has a queen, and she is before you. Guards, seize Madoc. Seize everyone in his party. They have broken the High Court’s hospitality most grievously. I want them imprisoned. I want them dead.”
Madoc laughs. “Do you, Jude? The crown is gone. Why should they obey you when they could just as easily follow me?”
“Because I am the Queen of Elfhame, the true queen, chosen by the king and the land.” My voice cracks on that last part. “And you are nothing but a traitor.”
Do I sound convincing? I don’t know. Probably not.
Randalin steps up beside me. “You heard her,” he barks, surprising me. “Take them.”
And that, more than anything I said, seems to bring the knights back to their task. They move to surround Madoc’s company, swords drawn.
Then the serpent moves faster than I could have expected. It slides from the dais into the crowd, scattering the Folk who run from it in fear. It looks as though it has become larger already. The golden sheen on its scales is more pronounced. And in the wake of its path, the earth cracks and crumbles, as though some essential part of it is being drawn out.
The knights fall back, and Madoc draws his massive sword from the earth. The serpent slides toward him.
“Mother!” Oak screams, and takes off across the brugh toward her. Vivi attempts to grab him. Heather calls his name, but Oak’s hooves are already pelting across the floor. Oriana turns in horror as he hurtles toward her and into the path of the snake.
Oak stops short, reading the warning in her body language. But all he does is draw a child’s sword from a hilt at his side. The sword I insisted he learn through all those lazy afternoons in the mortal world. Holding it high, he puts himself between his mother and the serpent.
This is my fault. All my fault.