I think of how he would hate to be trapped like this. How unfair it would be for me to keep him this way and call it love.
You already know how to end the curse.
“I do love you,” I whisper. “I will always love you.”
I tuck the golden bridle into my belt.
Two paths are before me, but only one leads to victory.
But I don’t want to win like this. Perhaps I will never live without fear, perhaps power will slip from my grasp, perhaps the pain of losing him will hurt more than I can bear.
And yet, if I love him, there’s only one choice.
I draw the borrowed sword at my back. Heartsworn, which can cut through anything. I asked Severin for the blade and carried it into battle, because no matter how I denied it, some part of me knew what I would choose.
The golden eyes of the serpent are steady, but there are surprised sounds from the assembled Folk. I hear Madoc’s roar.
This wasn’t supposed to be how things ended.
I close my eyes, but I cannot keep them that way. In one movement, I swing Heartsworn in a shining arc at the serpent’s head. The blade falls, cutting through scales, through flesh and bone. Then the serpent’s head is at my feet, golden eyes dulling.
Blood is everywhere. The body of the serpent gives a terrible coiling shudder, then goes limp. I sheath Heartsworn with trembling hands. I am shaking all over, shaking so hard that I fall to my knees in the blackened grass, in the carpet of blood.
I hear Lord Jarel shout something at me, but I can’t hear it.
I think I might be screaming.
The Folk are running toward me. I hear the clang of steel and the hiss of arrows soaring through the air. It seems to come from very far away.
All that is loud in my ears is the curse Valerian spoke before he died. May your hands always be stained with blood. May death be your only companion.
“You ought to have taken what we offered,” Lord Jarel says, swinging his spear down toward me. “Your reign will be very short, mortal queen.”
Then Grima Mog is there on her stag, taking the weight of his blade. Their weapons slam together, ringing with the force of the impact. “First I am going to kill you,” she tells him. “And then I am going to eat you.”
Two black arrows fly out of the trees, embedding themselves in Lord Jarel’s throat. He slides off his horse as a cry goes up from the Court of Teeth. I catch a flash of the Bomb’s white hair.
Grima Mog whirls away, battling three knights from the Court of Teeth. She must have known them once, must have commanded them, but she fights them just the same.
There are more cries all around me. And the sounds of battle ebbing.
From the shoreline, I hear a horn.
Out past the black rocks, the water is frothing. From the depths, merfolk and selkies rise, their shining scales catching the sunlight. Nicasia is rising with them, seated on the back of a shark.
“The Undersea honors its treaty with the land and with the queen,” she calls, her voice carrying across the field. “Lay down your arms.”
A moment later, the armies of the Undersea are rushing the shore.
Then Madoc is standing in front of me. His cheek and part of his forehead are painted in gore. There is a glee in his face, a terrible joy. Redcaps are born for this, for bloodshed and violence and murder. I think some part of him delights in being able to share this with me, even now. “Stand up.”
I have spent most of my life answering to his orders. I push myself to my feet, my hand going to the golden bridle at my belt, the one tied with his hair, the one I could have used to bind him and the one I can bind him with still. “I am not going to fight you.” My voice sounds so distant. “Though I would not delight to see the straps sink into your skin, neither would I mourn.”
“Enough blustering,” he says. “You’ve already won. Look.”
He takes me by the shoulders and turns me so that I can see where the great body of the serpent lies. A jolt of horror goes through me, and I try to wrench out of his grip. And then I notice the fighting has ebbed, the Folk are staring. From within the body of the creature emanates a glow.
And then, through that, Cardan steps out. Cardan, naked and covered in blood.
Alive.
Only out of his spilled blood can a great ruler rise.
And all around, people go to their knees. Grima Mog kneels. Lord Roiben kneels. Even those who moments before were intent on murder seem overcome. Nicasia looks on from the sea as all of Elfhame bows to the High King, restored and reborn.
“I will bend my head to you,” Madoc says to me under his breath. “And only you.”
Cardan takes a step forward, and little cracks appear from his footfalls. Fissures in the very earth. He speaks with a boom that echoes through everyone gathered there. “The curse is broken. The king is returned.”
He’s every bit as terrifying as any serpent.
I don’t care. I run into his arms.
CHAPTER 27
Cardan’s fingers dig into my back. He’s trembling, and whether it is from ebbing magic or horror, I am not sure. But he holds me as though I am the only solid thing in the world.
Soldiers approach, and Cardan lets go abruptly. His jaw sets. He waves away a knight who proffers his cloak, despite being clad only in blood.
“I haven’t worn anything in days,” the High King drawls, and if there is something brittle in his eyes, nearly everyone is too awed to notice. “I don’t see why I ought to start now.”
“Modesty?” I force out, playing along, surprised he can joke about the curse, or anything.
He gives me a dazzling, insouciant smile. The kind of smile you can hide behind. “Every part of me is a delight.”
My chest hurts, looking at him. I feel like I can’t breathe. Though he is in front of me, the pain of losing him hasn’t faded.
“Your Majesty,” Grima Mog says, addressing me. “Do I have leave to chain your father?”
I hesitate, thinking of the moment when I confronted him with the golden bridle. You’ve already won.
“Yes,” Cardan says. “Chain him.”
A carriage is brought, wheels wobbling over the rocks. Grima Mog shouts orders. Two generals clasp manacles around Madoc’s wrists and ankles, the heavy chains clanking with even the slightest movement. Archers keep arrows trained on him as they lead him away.
His army is surrendering, taking oaths of submission. I hear the whir of wings, the clank of armor, and cries from the wounded. Redcaps freshen the pigment of their hats. A few Folk feast on the dead. There’s smoke in the air, mingling with the scents of the sea and of blood and moss. The aftermath of even a brief battle is all dwindling adrenaline, bandages, and feting the victors.
The revel will have already begun back at the palace and will last far longer than the fighting.
Inside the carriage, Cardan slumps. I stare at him, at the blood drying in tide lines over his body and crusting in his curls like tiny garnets. I force myself to look out the window instead.
“How long have I—” He hesitates.
“Not even three days,” I tell him. “Barely any time at all.” I do not mention how long it has seemed.
Nor do I say how he might have been trapped as a serpent for all time, bridled and bound. Or dead.
He could be dead.
Then the carriage draws up, and we are chivied out. Servants have brought an enormous velvet cloak for Cardan, and this time he accepts it, wrapping it around his shoulders as we make our way through the chilly underground halls.
“You will want to bathe perhaps,” Randalin says, an understandable sentiment.
“I want to see the throne,” says Cardan.
No one is inclined to gainsay him.
The brugh is full of turned-over tables and rotting fruit. A crack runs through the ground to the split throne, with its wilted flowers. Cardan spreads his hands, and the earth heals along the seam, rock and stone bubbling up to fill it back in. Then he twists his fingers, and the divided throne grows anew, blooming with briars, sprouting into two separate thrones where there was once only one.
“Do you like it?” he asks me, which seems a little like asking if someone enjoys the crown of stars they conjured from the sky.
“Impressive,” I choke out.
Seemingly satisfied, he finally allows Randalin to guide us to the royal chambers, which are full of servants, generals, and most of the Living Council. A bath is drawn for the High King. A carafe of wine is brought, along with an ornate goblet studded with cabochons. Fala sings a song about the king of snakes, and Cardan seems both charmed and horrified by all of it.
Unwilling to strip off my armor in front of all these Folk and sticky with blood, I slip out and go to my old rooms.
But when I get there, I find Heather. She stands up from the couch, holding an enormous tome. The pink of her hair is faded, but everything else about her looks vibrant. “Congratulations, if that’s not too weird of a thing to say. I don’t know how to talk about fights, but I hear you won.”
“We won,” I confirm, and smile.
She tugs at a double strand of very poorly strung rowan berries around her neck. “Vee made me this. For the after-party.” Heather seems to notice what I am wearing for the first time. “That’s not your blood—”
“No,” I say. “I’m fine. Just gross.”
She nods slowly.
“And Cardan,” I say. “He’s fine, too.”
The tome tumbles out of her hand and onto the couch. “He’s not a big snake anymore?”
“No,” I say. “But I think I might be hyperventilating. That’s what you call it, right? Breathing too fast. Dizzy.”
“Nobody in this place knows anything about human medicine, do they?” She walks over and starts working on my armor. “Let’s get this off you, and see if that helps.”
“Talk to me,” I say. “Tell me another fairy tale. Tell me something.”
“Okay,” she says, trying to figure out how to undo the armor. “I took your advice and talked to Vee. Finally. I told her that I didn’t want my memories to be taken away and that I was sorry I let her make the promise.”
“Was she glad?” I help Heather with one of the clasps.
“We had a huge fight. Screaming fight,” she says. “With a lot of crying, too.”
“Oh,” I say.
“Do you remember the fairy tale with the snake who has the helicopter parents and marries the princess?”
“Helicopter?” I echo. I did fall asleep at the end, so maybe I missed that part.
“When the boy’s snakeskin is burned, the princess had to earn him back by going on a quest. Well, I told Vee she has to go on a quest. She has to meet me all over again and do it right this time. Tell me the truth from the start. And convince me to love her.”
“Damn.” The last of my armor comes off, clanking to the floor, and I realize that her talking has distracted me enough for my breathing to return to normal. “That is some serious fairy-tale business. A quest.”
Heather reaches out her hand to take mine. “If she succeeds, all my memories come back. But if not, then tonight’s the last time I am going to see you.”
“I hope you drink the cellars dry at the revel,” I say to her, pulling her into a tight embrace. “But more than that, I hope Vee is good enough to win your hand again.”