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I.
Cardan sucked at the cut; the taste of blood underneath his tongue. The older boy’s teeth were sharp, and they had caught on the thin skin of his knuckles. The blood on his fist, and the mud on his pants were the only evidence he was in a fight at all. Inflicting bodily harm to a member of the royal family was treason- even to an unlucky, unloved prince.
His mother taught him that.
Alone, he sat in the tangled, ancient roots of a tree in the Milkwood, and nursed his own tiny hurts. He watched with black eyes as The Folk celebrated Beltane. They gorged themselves on decadence and debauchery more thoroughly than any other day of the year. Flowers bloomed, choking the night air with their perfume. Birdsong and screams accompanied the endless stream of notes conjured by musicians from their calloused fingertips. Balekin’s Circle of Grackles had been clogging the halls of his home for weeks in preparation for this night. His brother had forced him to serve wine and smear nevermore under the tongues of his guests, all while avoiding the grasping hands of those who wished to see his tail- the evidence of his Greenbriar blood.
“You’re Prince Cardan, right?”
Startled, he turned his to see a cat-eyed girl dressed in red, a crown of roses placed atop her head. She appeared to be his age, but he did not recognize her, or her accent.
“Yes,” he answered, wary. Strangers have seldom done him kindness. He turned back around to face the revel.
She moved then to stand in front of him, and with the carelessness of all children-fey or mortal-she asked, “Why aren’t you sitting over there, then?” She pointed towards the dais.
Cardan’s eyes cut to the High King at the head of the table with Prince Dain at his elbow, to the rest of the royal family- the consorts and the children- all adorned in spider-silk with gold on their ears and throats, laughing with the Greenbriar sigil above their heads.
And here he was, in the dirt with the taste of blood in his mouth.
He supposed she must be from the lower courts, as there is no one in the High Court who did not already know that answer.
“Because my father despises me.”
The girl looked down at him in surprise.
He stood. He did not like to be looked down upon. They were near the same height. She did not flinch at his proximity.
“What did you do?”
He thought of the mortal, the way he had convulsed as blood leaked out onto the grass, his wet gasps. Dain’s smirk.
Cardan did not look at the girl when he answered her question. He thought of his mother, locked away in the dark.
“Be born.”
A stilted silence stretched between them. Something deep in the Milkwood howled.
After a moment, he asked, “Are you bothering me for a reason?”
The girl didn’t appear offended by his tone. “Yes. Madoc told me to avoid you.”
“The Grand General?”
He spots him in the crowd-it would be hard not to see the terrifying Redcap- he sat with Mikkel of the Living Council, he gestured at something with his clawed hand.
“He says he’s my father, but he’s not. I hate him.” The confession spilled forth, the candor of youth. She would sound petulant if not for the hardness in her eyes as she glared at Madoc. He knew who she was suddenly. Balekin had told the story at one of his debauches. The mortals who fooled the fearsome Madoc. The rumors whispered over two worlds. The bloody reunion of husband and wife. Balekin had cackled at his own minor role in the tragedy.
“I hate my father too.”
He shouldn’t say it. If his brother overheard he would get smacked, even though he knows Balekin hates Eldred even more.
The girl looked at him then with the smallest of smiles curled up at her lips.
II.
With a sly grin and a tug on his wrist Vivi had encouraged him to skip their lessons. Instead of star charts and enchantments they climbed the slanted branches of the Crooked Forest. They would race to the top, risking scraped palms and gouged eyes, and then dare each other to jump.They would pluck the fruits that hung fat and ripe, still warm from the sun, fruits that left their fingers sticky and mouths numb.
Other times they would sneak away to the beach. They would sit in the sand, the waves lapping at their bare feet. Vivi told him about the mortal world, about the stomach in your throat feeling of being on a roller coaster, the vibrant violence of cartoons.
Cardan described his brother’s debauches. The bets placed on humans glamoured to fight, the pervasive stench of their sweat and fear, the courtiers in their jewels and velvet's lying stoned and drooling on the cold floors of Hollow Hall.
She didn’t tell him of the nightmares of her dead parents, the squirming guilt she felt every time she looked at her sisters. He didn’t speak of the fresh lashes on his back, of his brother’s cruelty.
They weren’t careful. Their truancy was discovered.
Balekin did not beat him, but told him he refuses to have an idiot for a brother, and he will command tutors to come to Hollow Hall instead. Cardan, who coveted his time away from the house the way a Redcap coveted war, swore that was not necessary.
Madoc was stern, then livid in the face of her contempt for him. She knew first hand how terrifying he could be, but when she looked at him she only saw someone playing at being a father- miscast and unbelievable, and all she wanted was for it to be over so she could go home. Madoc negotiated, then commanded, but to deny him was a thrill, so she stopped going altogether.
III.
Cardan had invited Nicasia on the hunting excursion with Vivi and Rhyia.
They had risen early and ridden out from Hollow Hall together, meeting the other two on the edge of the Milkwood. He was hungover, and his skill in archery only slightly better than his skill with a sword. Not that it mattered, if Rhyia was there, all the kills of the day would inevitably be hers. He spent most of the time admiring Nicaisa, and how pretty she looked in her gold riding tunic. Thought of her sea-dark hair spilled over his lap.
After, they sat on the forest floor in a nest of silk and pillows, a feast laid out before them. Bottles of canary wine, and pitchers of flower infused water. Bowls of apples, plums, and pears. Plates piled high with strips of meat seasoned with rosemary, cheeses carved to resemble little arrows, and honey cakes for dessert. All of Princess Rhyia’s favorites.
Sleepy, Cardan stretched out on the blankets, a goblet in hand, his head propped up by his fist. Nicasia snatched the cup from his loose grip, a coquettish wink thrown his way.
“-you are half Redcap. A thirst for blood runs through your veins.”
He hadn’t been paying attention to the conversation. Something about hunting prowess.
Vivi sneered. “I’m nothing like him.” She took a bite of an apple, and sighed, speaking around the food, she said, “If anything it’s Jude that takes after him.”
“Which one is Jude?” Nicasia asked. “The sniveling one, or the scowling one?”
Vivi, sensitive to any slight, no matter how small against her sisters, threw the half-eaten apple at Nicasia’s head. It bounced off with a muted thunk. Ryhia laughed. Nicasia fumed.
Vivi was not wrong. There was something feral in Jude. Cardan thought of her, practice sword in hand, her mortal blood as it spilled from her nose, her mortal blood with its iron, the way it corrupted the air, the way it had set his teeth on edge.
VI.
Vivi found Cardan in the burgh, draped across his throne with courtiers fluttering about him, eager to please. She elbowed her way through the crush. Heather trailed behind her, her palm clammy. She gave her hand an encouraging squeeze. Heather tightened her grip.
She didn’t bow as she approached the dais, a slip in courtly formality that would’ve earned her a sharp pinch from Oriana. The Folk near him tittered at her perceived rudeness. Cardan appeared not to take offense as he beckoned them closer.
“Hey, High King,” she chirped.
“Hello, Vivi.”
She introduced Heather, who seemed to wilt under his gaze. She squeezed her hand again before pulling away, and offered up the gift.
Cardan made no move to take it. He eyed the sloppily wrapped present, and asked, “What is it?”
“Open it and find out.”
Sitting up, he took the present from her, running his fingertips over the glossy paper before tearing into it, the scraps falling to his feet. He paid no attention to the squat brownie who scuttled before him, and cleaned the mess.
Cardan stared at the snow globe, nonplussed; the rings on his fingers clacked against its plastic shell as he held it. He looked at her, brow arched.
Vivi mimicked the motion. “Shake it.”
He did, an elegant movement of the wrist, and watched the glitter swirl around. “Interesting,” he drawled.
“If you don’t like it-”
“I do.” He waved over a servant, this time a willowy creature with thorns for hair. “Take this to my rooms.”
He’s subdued tonight, she noticed. Quiet in a way she hasn’t seen since they were children, when he would hold himself so tense she’d complain she could hear his teeth grinding, and tease that his spine would crack, perpetually infuriated at the unfairness of his lot. They had been angry, alienated kids. It’s no wonder they became, and stayed friends throughout the years. She chose not to remark on his mood, she’d been away, and maybe the burden of the crown had changed him.
Besides, she had an ulterior motive for seeking him out.
Vivi didn't care much for politics, faerie or mortal, but Jude as seneschal was too good of gossip to ignore. Sidling up to Cardan, she said, “So, you made my sister your seneschal.”
“Yes.” He answered plainly, slumping back into the throne.
“More details, please,” She huffed. “Taryn doesn’t know anything, and Jude is cagey as hell these days. I mean, I didn’t even think she liked you.”
A strange look flickered across his face, visible for a brief second as it passed through his eyes. Something almost like vulnerability.
Abruptly, Cardan stood. She remembered a time when they were the same height, now she came just to his shoulders. “Excuse me, I have matters to attend to. I will see you both at the wedding.”
Vivi frowned as he stepped off the dais and approached Nicasia, feeling as though he had just blown her off.
She turned towards Heather, who’s eyes were wide. She followed her line of sight until her own vision landed on a pink-skinned pixie and a troll as they fucked against a wall. Vivi snorted. Nudging Heather with her elbow, she asked, “Wanna stay for a drink? Catch the show?”
“No!”
V.
Eyes swollen, and her heart a heavy thing in her chest, she looked at Jude. Drugged and pale, lying supine in the royal bed. If not for the warmth of her skin, and the twitching beneath her eyelids, she would think her sister dead.
Beyond the bedroom she heard Cardan enter. Hurriedly, she wiped at her eyes.
“How is she?”
“The same, I guess.” Her voice sounded clogged, she cleared her throat.
He walked around to the other side of the bed. Brushing Jude’s hair back from her face, he pressed his thumb to the space between her brows, smoothing out the crease that had formed there. “I wonder what she's dreaming about, to be frowning so?”
“I think that’s just her natural expression.”
Vivi glanced up at Cardan. He had removed the Blood Crown, and she could see the indentations of where it rested, of where it had flattened his curls. He had shed his doublet too, flinging it towards the direction of his closet. Dark circles had begun to appear beneath his eyes. Vivi followed the tender way he gazed down at her youngest sister, and pondered, not for the first time, at the relationship between them.
“Do you have any wine?”
“I could get some? Why?”
“Because I want to get drunk.”
She kissed the back of Jude’s hand before walking out to the sitting area. She sat down on the plush, fur rug laid over the hearth, the pelt glinted shades of copper in light of the flames. She kicked her shoes off, and buried her toes in the softness of it. At the door, Cardan requested wine.
One thing can be said for Elfhame: the servants are quick.
Cardan carried over an over sized decanter filled with liquid the hue of sea glass, and two silver chalices. He plopped down in front of her, his back against the leg of the overstuffed chair situated in front of the fireplace.
“You’re joining me?”
“It’s no fun being drunk by yourself,” he said, pouring.
“I’m not getting drunk for fun,” she sniffed. “I’m doing it to forget.”
Cardan passed her the cup.
“Forget what?”
Vivi thought Heather’s tear-stained face, the crack in her voice when she confessed, “ I think we’ve made a mistake.”
“How royally I fucked up everything with Heather.”
She took a swig, and winced. She’d forgotten how much more potent faerie wines were to the stuff back in the mortal world.
“Do you want some advice then? From someone who is literally a royal fuck up?”
“You’re not a fuck up.” She took another sip, and grimaced again at the taste, “and no I don’t want advice.”
“Fine,” he leaned his head back, exposing the long column of his throat. “I only said that to be nice.”
Despite everything, Vivi laughed.