CHAPTER 22
The next two days are spent mostly in the war room, where I ask Grima Mog to join Cardan’s generals and those of the low Courts in creating battle plans. The Bomb remains, too, her face masked in black netting, and the rest of her hidden away in a cowled robe of deepest black. Members of the Living Council interject their concerns. Cardan and I hunch over the table as the Folk take turns sketching out maps of possible plans of attack and defense. Small carvings are moved around. Three messengers are sent to Nicasia, but no reply comes from the Undersea.
“Madoc wants the lords and ladies and rulers of the low Courts to see a show,” Grima Mog says. “Let me fight him. I would be honored to be your champion.”
“Challenge him to a game of tiddlywinks, and I will be your champion,” says Fala.
Cardan shakes his head. “No, let Madoc come and call for his parlay. Our knights will be in place. And inside the brugh, so will our archers. We will hear him out, and we will answer him. But we will entertain no games. If Madoc wishes to move against Elfhame, he must do so, and we must strike back with all the force we possess.” He looks at the floor, then up at me.
“If he thinks he can make you duel him, then he will make it very hard not to,” I say.
“Ask him to surrender his weapons at the gate,” says the Bomb. “And when he will not, I will shoot him from the shadows.”
“I would appear to be quite the coward,” Cardan says. “Not to even hear him out.”
With those words, my heart sinks. Because pride is exactly what Madoc hopes to manipulate.
“You would be alive, while your enemy lies dead,” says the Bomb. With her face covered, it’s impossible to read her expression. “And we would have answered dishonor with dishonor.”
“I hope you are not considering agreeing to a duel,” says Randalin. “Your father wouldn’t have entertained such an absurd thought for a moment.”
“Of course not,” Cardan says. “I am no swordsman, but moreover, I don’t like giving my enemies what they want. Madoc has come for a duel, and if for no other reason than that, he should not have one.”
“Once the parlay is over,” says Yorn, looking back at his plans, “we will meet on the field of battle. And we will show him the wages of being a traitor to Elfhame. We have a clear path to victory.”
A clear path, and yet I have a sense of great foreboding. Fala catches my eye, juggling pieces from the table—a knight, a sword, a crown.
Then a winged messenger rushes into the room. “They’ve been spotted,” he says. “Madoc’s boats are coming.”
A seabird arrives moments later, a call for parlay attached to its leg.
The new Grand General moves to the door, calling for his troops. “I will move my Folk into position. We have perhaps three hours.”
“And I will gather mine,” says the Bomb, turning toward Cardan and me. “On your signal, the archers will strike.”
Cardan slips his fingers into mine. “It’s hard to work against someone you love.” I wonder if he’s thinking of Balekin.
A part of me, despite knowing that Madoc is my enemy, is tempted to imagine talking him out of this. Vivi is here, so is Taryn, and even Oak. Oriana would wish for peace, would push for it if there was a path. Maybe we could persuade him to end the war before it begins. Maybe we could come to some kind of terms. I am the High Queen, after all. Couldn’t I give him a piece of land to rule over?
But I know it’s impossible. If I granted him a boon for being a traitor, I would be encouraging only greater treason. And, regardless, Madoc wouldn’t be appeased. He comes from a line of warriors. His mother birthed him in battle, and he plans to die with a sword in his hand.
But I don’t think he plans to die that way today.
I think he plans to win.