Note: This chapter contains sentences from Holly Black's The Cruel Prince. They are indicated in bold. I have also written out the characters of Caelia and Rhyia as extraneous to my story.

Just as she'd expected, Jude spent the next two days in lockdown.

Lysander fussed over her in the stillroom, unwrapping her clumsy dressing and putting some poultice on her wound before wrapping it up again, far more expertly. He raised an eyebrow at the half-healed cut, but, to Jude's relief, didn't ask where she'd gotten it. He seemed far more worried about her stomach, asking disturbingly accurate questions about whether she was experiencing dizzy spells and, most ominously of all, what she'd been eating lately.

Jude gave as little information as she could. Of course, she literally couldn't tell Lysander what she'd been up to: Dain's spell saw to that. But even if she could have, she wouldn't have. Jude mistrusted all faeries, and Lysander's gentle treatment didn't change that. She couldn't shake the feeling that there must be some ulterior motive behind it, even if she couldn't imagine what.

Lysander did something else odd. Cradling her left hand, he examined her missing fingertip. "Have you considered getting a prosthetic for this?"

For a moment, Jude thought she'd fallen into an alternate universe, one with a completely different language. "What?"

"A prosthetic. A synthetic replacement. Mortals make really good ones these days. Even robotics. Almost as good as the real thing." Lysander sighed when he saw Jude's blank expression. "Never mind. Go to bed, Jude. I'll see you in the morning."

But when Jude awoke the next morning, it was clear that Lysander had paid a surprise visit in the middle of the night. She found the handy vine outside her window gone, with only a mild disturbance in the soil to mark that it was ever there.

Jude hung out the window, staring down at the blank space where her escape ladder had been. She had to hand it to Lysander: her brother-in-law was sharper than she'd given him credit for.

Breakfast was a loud, convivial affair with the two children jabbering and eating everything in sight. Lysander patiently spooned porridge into Philomel, seated on his lap, until Jude hoped he'd forgotten about her. But no such luck: he waylaid her after breakfast, brandishing a bottle under her nose.

"Lysander, is this really necessary?" Jude hissed. "I told you I'm fine!"

He paid no heed, pouring potion into a spoon. "Take this."

Sulkily, Jude complied. To her annoyance, the potion did help: the nausea instantly disappeared, and her stomach felt better than it had in weeks.

But there was no time to dwell on it. Taryn called that their new dresses had arrived, and Jude and Lysander were swept off to the parlor to survey the results.

Madoc was standing by patiently, quiet through the feminine storm of enthusiasm. Taryn and Oriana were both in transports of joy at the gorgeous gowns the seamstress had produced, and even Vivienne had to smile at the wonderful creation made for her. The mortal world had nothing like it. Philomel danced by, sporting the purple-and-silver gown Oriana had made for her. "Look, Daddy!" she cried, spinning around.

"Very nice, sweetie!" Lysander scooped her up and spun her around, making her laugh madly. "And your gown's perfect, Taryn," he added, coming to a halt. "Brambleweft has outdone herself."

Taryn, holding her new gown up to herself, beamed at her husband. "I'm glad you think so!" She peered around. "But where's your gown, Jude?"

"Here." Oak, trailing his own new suit, hauled over a long, flowing creation. "Look, it has your name on it," he added, proud of his reading abilities.

Jude stared. "But that's not what I ordered!"

It was a gorgeous ombre gown, white at the throat, darkening to deep blue at the hem, embroidered with the stark outlines of trees. Tiny stars sparkled in the tree branches.

Oriana checked the nametag. "Oak's right; it has your name on it." She shrugged. "Maybe Brambleweft felt inspired." Her smile faded, looking at the girls with their gowns. "You're all going to look wonderful."

"You make that sound like a bad thing," said Vivienne, smirking.

"It's not necessarily a good thing." Was it Jude's imagination, or did Oriana's eyes linger on her a moment longer than the others? "There will be many faeries of different Courts at the coronation celebrations. Not all of them will know you're under Madoc and Lysander's protection—and not all of them will care. I want you all to promise me that you'll be careful."

"We'll be careful," Taryn promised. She put her gown down, as though she'd suddenly lost all interest in it. "And we'll be heading home right after the coronation, right, Lysander?"

Lysander nodded. "That's right."

"Are you sure about that, Lysander?" Madoc spoke up suddenly. His golden cat's eyes were fixed on his son-in-law. "Perhaps you could stay longer. Participate in the revels. Visit some old acquaintances."

Something flashed through Lysander's eyes, something perhaps only Jude saw. He put Philomel down gently before turning to face Madoc head-on. "No," he said, tone flat and cold and uncompromising. "Taryn has expressed her preference for returning home as soon as possible, and it is my preference also. We will witness the coronation and then we will go home." Behind him, Taryn gathered up Philomel, swinging her up onto her hip and eyeing her husband and foster father nervously.

"A new reign brings many changes." Madoc's tone was mild, but seemed to carry some strange, hidden message. Some hidden menace.

"Not in this." Lysander's voice was equally soft, equally uncompromising. "I swore I would protect Taryn and Philomel, and that holds true still—now and always. I did not swear I would obey you, General."

"Perhaps," Madoc ground out, "you should consider new vows."

The two men glared at each other, unblinking. Philomel looked between them, eyes wide, mouth trembling. Oak slipped his hand into Oriana's, whose brow was bent with vexation. Vivienne, on the other hand, seemed to be biting back sniggers, eyes bright at this open, if mysterious, defiance of Madoc.

"Enough." Oriana stepped forward now. Her mouth was a thin, hard line. "Now is not the time to be fighting amongst ourselves. Madoc, Lysander, be civil if you can't be friendly. There will be time to quarrel after the coronation."

"No one's going to quarrel," said Taryn unexpectedly. "Because we'll be going home after the coronation and everything will go back to normal." She sounded more like she was trying to convince herself than anyone else. She shifted Philomel in her arms. "Jude, why don't you show us all how you look in your new gown? And maybe we can dress up Melly too!"

Taryn kept Jude busy for the rest of the day modeling her new dress and playing with Philomel. Jude longed to ask her whether Lysander had put her up to it, but resisted.

The next day, the last before the coronation, Madoc cornered her.

"Jude." Her foster father appeared at her side after breakfast. "Come with me."

Alarmed but curious, Jude followed him into his office. To her surprise, he motioned her into a chair. "What's this all about, Father?" Jude asked. "If it's about those exercises—"

"It's not about that." Madoc leaned in, cat-eyes intent on her. "Jude," he said at last, "do you remember when Taryn married Lysander?"

This was so completely unexpected that Jude gaped at him nearly half a minute. She finally winched up her jaw. "Of course I do. How could I forget?"

"When Oriana and I told Taryn she had to marry Lysander," Madoc said, "she obeyed us. She shed some tears over the matter, but in the end she married him."

Resentment stabbed Jude. "She was fifteen, Father. She was a child."

"Exactly," Madoc said flatly. "She recognized that we were much older and wiser than she was, and so she saw the sense of obeying us." His glare became still more intense. "You are not like Taryn, Jude. If I were to tell you that you needed to marry…what would you do?"

"But I don't need to marry." This conversation just kept getting weirder, not to mention alarming. "All I ever wanted was to become a knight," Jude added, not hiding the bitterness in her voice. "But you said—"

"I know what I said," Madoc interrupted her. He lowered his voice. "I have plans for us, Jude. Plans that will secure all our fortunes. Plans that may require some…flexibility on your part."

"What kind of flexibility?" Jude asked, her anxiety going up another notch.

"Never mind that for now." Madoc placed a clawed hand on her knee. "It matters not what we desire for ourselves," he said, voice almost gentle. "What matters is that we fulfill our duty. And family is the greatest duty. Remember that, when the time comes."

Jude looked at Madoc's hand on her knee, but what she saw was blood. Her parents' blood, spattered across the floor by that very hand. Her mouth tightened. Madoc was a fine one to talk about duty over desire.

But she pasted on a smile and said, "Of course, Father. I'll remember."

"Good." Madoc gave a brief smile and withdrew his hand, standing in one fluid motion. "Trust me, Jude. Trust me, and everything will come clear in time."

If you want me to trust you, Jude wanted to say, then tell me exactly who it is you want me to marry. Tell me why you won't let me train to be a knight. Tell me what Balekin was doing sneaking out of our house the other night. Tell me what you're up to.

But of course she could not ask him any of that. He wouldn't reveal any of his secrets to her. And Jude had secrets of her own to protect.

"Yes, Father," she said instead, and hid a smile.

Madoc hadn't noticed that, just like Lysander, she had made no promise to obey him.

The next day, the day of the coronation, the family all awoke early and, after a brief breakfast, were instantly consumed in preparations. Jude's sisters kept dashing around the upper floor, shouting for hairbrushes and necklaces; Oak ran shrieking by in his new suit, trailing the stuffed snake; and Philomel burst into tears, necessitating Taryn, only half-laced into her new gown, to scoop her up and try to soothe her. Oriana swept around in her glorious new gown, trying to restore order with little success.

Jude stayed out of it. Standing in the middle of her room, she let Tatterfell lace her into her new ombre dress. "How lovely you look, Miss Jude," the little imp said, scurrying around her. "You will surely break hearts at the celebrations!"

"I doubt that, Tatterfell," Jude said, thinking of the gorgeous faerie women who would be attending. "But you did a great job on my hair." She tossed her head, indicating the horn-shaped brads, glittering with gems.

Tatterfell ensured her rowan necklace was in place. "Enjoy yourself, Miss Jude. Today you witness history!"

"I suppose I do," Jude realized. She'd been so wrapped up in her own affairs, and how the coronation would affect them, that she'd rather lost track of what the abdication and coronation actually meant. The end of one reign and the beginning of another. Her heart lifted again. Today Dain would become High King. She wouldn't have to worry about Madoc making her marry anyone.

Finally, everyone was ready. They all spilled down the stairs to climb into the two waiting carriages. The upper servants stood outside the door, bowing and curtsying. Oak hopped into the carriage after Oriana, but Philomel, perched in Tatterfell's arms, cried again, reaching out after Taryn and Lysander's carriage as it rolled away.

Jude, seated in the same carriage, shook her head back at her niece. "You're barely gone a minute," she said to Taryn, "and Melly already misses you!"

"She's not used to being without us." Taryn was staring moodily out the window. The late afternoon sunshine coated the island of Insmire, edging every leaf in gold, glittering off the Lake of Masks in glory, but Taryn glared like she hated all she saw. "By God," she said suddenly, startling Jude with both the human oath and her low-voiced vehemence, "I'll be glad to go home again."

Jude felt a surge of irrational annoyance that Taryn didn't consider Elfhame to be home. "Why? What's so great about that place?" she demanded sharply.

"No bad memories," Taryn said simply.

Vivienne flashed Jude a smug smile. "See, Jude? Taryn has sense."

Jude shoved her. "Oh, shut up." She wondered what Madoc and Oriana, riding in the carriage ahead, would think of this conversation.

"Please don't fight," said Lysander, sounding tired. He sat next to Taryn, resplendent in his gold-and-green suit, but his eyes were fixed on the floor, his expression inward and sad.

Jude eyed him sidelong. Lysander seemed to be taking this coronation very hard. She remembered his earlier remark about Eldred's death. Did he know Eldred? Was Eldred the "old friend" he'd been visiting? And, if so, what did that make Lysander to the High King?

They got caught in a traffic jam near the Palace of Elfhame: all the other attendees' coaches and carriages were arriving at the same time. After what seemed a claustrophobic eternity of snorting horses and vehicles crammed on either side, Lysnder made an impatient noise and opened the door. "Come on," he called. "It'll be easier just to walk."

"This isn't exactly a grand entry," Jude murmured, climbing out after Taryn.

"I'll take efficiency over grandeur any day," Lysander returned. He nodded to Madoc and Oriana, who were also climbing out. "Shall we go together?" he asked Madoc.

"I suppose there's no help for it," said Madoc, sounding more amused than anything else, and they all set off, weaving through the trapped conveyances to the entrance hall.

There was a further scrum of kings, queens, nobles and courtiers, all attempting to process in grandly and instead having to jam themselves in like cattle. Jude hid a smile, watching the arrogant faeries getting crushed and flustered. Someone hadn't done a very good job of organizing this.

At last, however, they all made it through the entrance hall to the ballroom, and then they could suddenly breathe. Jude gave a sigh of relief at having the space to move. "What happens now?" she asked Madoc.

"I'll go stand by Prince Dain," he said. "The rest of you enjoy yourselves here until the chimes signal the start of the ceremony. When you enter the throne room, stay close to the dais, so my knights can look after you." His eyes traveled past Jude, fastening on someone standing behind her. "Ah, Prince Cardan."

Jude whirled around, hand going automatically to her hidden dagger. Prince Cardan Greenbriar, dressed all in black, gorgeous as a black diamond, raised a goblet sullenly to his lips. "Hello, General," he said with a bare minimum of politeness.

"I'm glad to see you, Your Highness." Madoc's eyes traveled between Jude and Cardan. "I would be honored if you would dance with my daughter Jude."

"What?" Jude said, at the same time Cardan said, "What for? So she can stab me?"

"Jude isn't going to stab you." Madoc took the goblet out of Cardan's hand and all but shoved the prince at Jude. "Dance and enjoy yourselves." The redcap turned and strode off.

"Or, what, you'll court-martial us?" Cardan muttered after Madoc's turned back. He turned to Jude with a resigned sigh and raised his hands. "Come on, then. Let's get this over with."

"Your enthusiasm overwhelms me," Jude drawled, and let him lead her into the dance.

He was, of course, an excellent dancer. He twirled Jude around, revolved around her, but his focus seemed elsewhere. "Why aren't you insulting me?" Jude asked eventually.

"What?" Cardan refocused on her, as though he'd genuinely forgotten all about her.

"Well, usually when we're face-to-face like this, you've said something vicious about what a dirty mortal I am and how I'm so beneath you, blah, blah, blah. So why aren't you doing it?"

"You'll have to excuse me," Cardan said with heavy irony. "I'm not in the mood for it today." He gave the crowded ballroom a hateful glance. "Great Trees, I shouldn't even be here."

Jude blinked. "You shouldn't be at the single most important Court event for centuries?"

"No." His voice was suddenly flat and blank. "My mother committed suicide a few days ago."

Jude nearly tripped over her next step. Cardan only just saved her. They danced on in silence a few more minutes.

"What happened?" Jude said at last. She found she had no idea what else to say.

"Her guards found her hanging from a rafter in her cell," Cardan said, still blank and flat. "She tore up her bedsheets to make a noose. She left a note saying she couldn't bear being imprisoned anymore and the new reign wasn't going to help her. She asked that all her personal effects be given to me."

Jude felt…she could not say. Much as she'd felt when she'd spied on Balekin beating Cardan. Sorry for Cardan, and surprised at her sorrow. "I'm sorry," she said quietly.

Cardan abruptly stopped dancing. He shoved her hands away and glared, chest rising and falling. "Why should you be sorry? You hate me."

"Yeah, I do," said Jude. "But that's still a terrible way to lose your mother."

Cardan stared at her a moment, then raised his voice in wild laughter. A few courtiers stopped to stare, but he paid no heed. "You know, you're the first person to give any kind of condolences," he said. "Everyone else acts like it just never happened." He leaned in, as if telling her a deep secret. "Want to know the worst thing about it, Jude? The worst thing about it is that I'm not actually that sad. She was my mother, and I am not sad she's dead. Just as I'm not that sad my father's about to die either." He gave a graceful, flowing bow. "Enjoy the ball, Jude Duarte."

And with that he turned on his heel and strode off into the crowd.

"What was that about?" Taryn appeared at Jude's side, staring after the disappearing prince.

"Nothing." Jude suddenly wished she had some wine. "He's…in a strange mood today."

She looked around for anyone from the Court of Shadows but saw no sign of them. Odd. She'd thought they were supposed to be here today.

"Well, I guess he would be." Taryn's gaze traveled across the room to a gorgeous figure surrounded by ladies-in-waiting. Princess Elowyn, the only Greenbriar daughter, stood with her ladies, sometimes responding to their chatter, but mostly staring into the distance with an odd frown. "His father's about to die. And Dain is about to become High King."

There was something in her sister's voice—some strange bitterness, some irony—that made Jude turn to frown at her. "Why do you care about Dain becoming King? This isn't your home anymore. You said so yourself."

Taryn looked across the ballroom, to the most crowded, convivial corner of all. There Prince Dain held court, surrounded by his future courtiers, glowing with regal happiness and confidence. Taryn's mouth thinned, her eyes cold.

"Let's just say I know some things about Dain," she murmured, so low Jude could barely hear her.

"Things?" Jude blinked. "What things?"

Taryn didn't answer. She had suddenly gone rigid, her gaze fixed on someone behind Jude. Jude turned, and immediately swooped into a curtsy.

Prince Balekin gave the sisters a courteous nod. He stood resplendent in his court attire, a silver circlet glowing on his head. Jude wondered if he knew of Cardan's mother's death. Surely he did: Cardan lived with him after all. And he hadn't even given Cardan any condolences?

Jude remembered the crack of the whip across Cardan's back. Balekin's sneering taunts.

"How nice to see you both," said the prince. His voice was even, his tone perfectly civilized. "I'm glad you could make it, Taryn."

"Your Highness is very kind," Taryn said in a faint whisper.

"But you didn't bring your daughter?" Balekin's gaze didn't leave Taryn's face.

Taryn shook her head. "She's too young for this ceremony, Your Highness."

"A pity. I would have liked to see her. Another time, perhaps." Balekin paused. "I trust Lord Lysander is taking good care of you both?"

"Yes, Your Highness." Then, with a touch of defiance: "We're all very happy."

Balekin nodded. "I'm glad Lysander's looking after you." He looked past the sisters. "Excuse me…"

Jude watched him stride off into the crowd before turning back to Taryn. "What the hell," she said, "was that? Taryn?"

Taryn gave no sign that she'd heard Jude. She was white as a sheet, staring after Balekin. Jude followed her gaze, and saw the prince talking to a guard. The guard was small and slight, and Jude thought they might be female. Her helmet covered her face, but Jude could see a sheet of shiny caramel-brown hair spilling out.

"Taryn?" Jude repeated. "Why was Balekin asking about your family like that?"

Taryn seemed to scramble for words. "Jude, I…I…"

At that moment, a series of silvery chimes sounded. A wave of excited chatter swept the room and everyone began funneling toward the entrance to the throne room. Taryn grabbed hold of Jude's hand. Her palm was sweaty, her nails digging in.

"Jude," she whispered, fierce and urgent, "do you remember what I said to you, right after the wedding? When I was packing my things?"

Jude recalled that day, two years ago now: Taryn dispiritedly packing her possessions, her mouth full of cryptic warnings. "You told me that Locke was a bad person. Worse than Cardan. That I should keep away from him. And Balekin."

Taryn's face was whiter and more strained than ever. "Dain's going to be a bad High King," she whispered, "but Balekin would be even worse. Remember what I said, Jude."

And then she darted off to Lysander's side, leaving Jude staring after her.

In the throne room, everyone was heading to their rightful places. Jude spotted her family up near the dais, just as instructed. She started to move to join them—then stopped. She found she didn't want to be near Taryn, not when her head was whirling as it was.

Taryn had a secret. She knew something about Dain—and Balekin. What was it? And why had she never told Jude?

There's plenty of things you don't tell Taryn. Things about Dain. And the Court of Shadows.

Jude pushed the little internal voice away. She hung back and watched the royal family assemble.

Eldred sat on the throne of branches, the Blood Crown on his brow, looking like he wished the ceremony was over already. Dain, dressed in a simple white robe, sat on a stool nearby. Behind them stood Balekin and Elowyn. Only Cardan was missing.

Jude looked around. She spotted the black-clad prince, slumped against the wall, sipping from a wineglass and looking like he wished he was anywhere else. She felt another unwelcome pang of sympathy and looked away quickly. He's going to be in so much trouble. The thought didn't bring as much satisfaction as it might have only a few hours ago.

She turned her attention back to the dais. Balekin was glancing away. Jude followed his gaze, and saw the mysterious female guard again, standing against the wall near the dais. Who was she? How did Balekin know her?

Eldred stood and the hall went quiet. "Long has been my rule, but today I take my leave of you." His voice echoed with quiet authority over the great assemblage. "When first I felt the call to search out the Land of Promise, I believed it would pass. But I can resist it no longer. Today, I will be king no more, but wanderer."

Cries rose around Jude, of grief and pain. She glanced toward her family. Lysander was staring at Eldred, silent tears running down his face.

Val Moren, the Court Poet and Seneschal, stood forward. "We are loath to let you go, my lord," said the mortal poet.

Eldred cupped his hands. The branches of the throne grew and budded, the roots in the ceiling lengthened and crawled. A summer breeze blew through the hall. "Another will stand in my place. I ask of you, release me."

"We release you," the assembled faeries all chorused.

Eldred let the mantle of state fall from his shoulders. He took the crown off his head. Already he looked happier—eager for what came next.

"Whom will you put in your stead, to be our High King?" Val Moren intoned.

"My third-born, my son Dain," said Eldred. "Come forward, child."

Dain stood. Elowyn stepped forward then, to pull his robe off, leaving him naked. The princess's face was carefully blank, and Jude wondered if she wished she was the one in Dain's place today.

"I will assume the honor and burden of the crown," said Dain. "I will have it."

"Unseelie Court, night host come forward and anoint your prince," Val Moren said.

There came a slight, silent commotion. Jude looked over, and so saw one of Madoc's lieutenants whispering to Oriana. Oriana looked startled, about to protest, but more of Madoc's knights were streaming in, surrounding Jude's family. Her sisters looked shocked, and Oak slipped his hand into Oriana's, but they were all marched off, whisked away through a discreet side door.

At least, Jude thought they were. Lysander looked as surprised as the rest of them, but just before he was pushed through the door he—vanished. One minute he was there, the next minute he wasn't.

And then he was by Jude's side.

She leaped away with a strangled cry. Around them, courtiers gave her startled, disapproving glances—the ceremony was continuing, with the various Courts anointing their new High King, and such behavior was far from appropriate—but Jude paid no heed.

"How did you do that?" she whispered incredulously. Faeries had great magic, but the ability to translocate—to disappear and then appear again in a different place in the twinkling of an eye—was among the rarest gifts of all. Jude had never met a faerie who could do it.

"Never mind." Half of Lysander's attention was still on the dais, where Dain was being anointed by a representative of the Wild Fey; the other half was urgently bent on Jude. "Jude, something's wrong. Did Madoc say anything to you?"

"Madoc…?" Jude scanned the dais. Madoc had not left with his family. He still stood in his appointed place, watching the ceremony. Indeed, he was watching with great attentiveness…

The guards were changing configuration on the dais, Jude realized. And some of them looked oddly familiar…

But now Eldred had raised the Blood Crown high. "Come, Dain. Kneel before me."

Dain, anointed with blood, pollen and mud, dressed once more in royal raiment, knelt before his father. The crown hovered, ready to descend onto Dain's head.

But now Balekin stepped forward. "Hold!" he shouted. "Hold! Or would you put a murderer on the throne of Faerie?"

A shocked gasp ran through the room, a wave of murmurs. But no one looked more shocked than Eldred, gaping at Balekin. "Balekin? What mean you?"

"You know what I mean." Balekin stood tall and dark, ominous as a portent of doom. His gaze was fastened on his father and brother, and it was hard to tell which he held more contempt for. "Dain is a murderer! A child killer!"

More gasps, a ripple of consternation, horrified whispers. Jude tried to step away, but Lysander's hand descended, holding her arm in a grip of iron.

"Balekin." Eldred sounded like he was striving for patience. "That was all over centuries ago. Your brother's name was cleared—"

"Cleared!" Balekin spat the word like it was poison. "Cleared but guilty he was and guilty he remains! He killed my son! He killed Rhion!"

Rhion.

Jude's mind flashed to the silver box, the baby's teething rattle. The name engraved on the lid.

"Brother, stop making a fool of yourself." Dain's voice hissed. "As our father says, my name was cleared. You don't have a shred of proof by which to accuse me now."

Balekin's eyes flashed. "Oh, don't I?"

He raised his hands, brought them together in a sharp clap. Another side door opened, and a contingent of Balekin's personal guards came marching in, dragging three bound and bloodied prisoners among them. Jude's heart nearly stopped when she recognized them. The Roach. The Bomb. The Ghost.

Dain's Court of Shadows. Captured and, by the looks of it, tortured.

"Recognize them, brother?" Balekin sneered at the stunned-looking Dain. "Your precious little Court of Shadows, your personal spy ring. But that's not all you used them for, is it?"

"Balekin?" Elowyn came forward now, face pale. "Balekin, what are you saying?"

"I'm saying, sister, that Dain has been using these three miserable swine to kill off the next generation of Greenbriars. Your children and mine. Even his own!"

This time it wasn't just a gasp: cries of horror and disbelief rose, a buzz of astonishment. Winged faeries rose into the air, wings humming with horror. Swan maidens stretched their necks and phookas tore their own hair, gaping.

At Jude's side, Lysander let out a long, horrified groan.

Elowyn's face had gone white. She turned to Dain. "Dain? Is this true?"

"Ask them!" Balekin jabbed a finger at the Roach.

Everyone's attention swiveled onto the three miserable prisoners on the dais. The Roach spat out a gobbet of blood and said, in a voice drained of all resistance, "It's true."

Absolute, stunned silence. The throne room was thrust into horrible limbo. Jude was as helpless as the rest. All she could do, all Lysander could do, was stand, and stare, and wait.

Eldred turned to Dain. On his ancient, ravaged face was a look so open, so vulnerable, so terrible, that Jude could scarcely bear to behold it. "Dain?" he whispered, and in his voice was an infinity of horror, of betrayal. "Dain?"

Dain knelt frozen. His mouth opened and closed.

"Is this true, Dain?" Eldred continued in that terrible whisper. "Did you kill Balekin's son? Elowyn's unborn children?" There was a horrible pause. "Your own…?"

Dain stared up into his father's face, and whatever Eldred saw there made him rock back, as though Dain had struck him.

"Please, Father." Dain sounded as young as Oak in that moment. "There was a prophecy…If any Greenbriar children were born, I would never become King. That was all my ambition, my dream…I couldn't give it up….Please…"

Eldred staggered, as though struck by lightning. His expression was more terrible than anything Jude had ever seen.

"You were wrong, Father." In Balekin's voice was a vicious satisfaction, a grief-ravaged triumph. "All these centuries, you were wrong about Dain. He murdered my son. He murdered Elowyn's babies in the womb. Your grandchildren. And you never saw."

At this Eldred let out a cry so dreadful that the very roots of the ceiling shriveled, shivering with horror. The cry went on and on, a howl of rage and grief and betrayal, and then his flesh began to disintegrate. Before all the crowd, Eldred's body siphoned off into a cloud of blood-red moths. The moths swarmed together, the sound of their wings like flapping paper, before storming out over the crowd. Everyone ducked, covering their heads.

When they straightened, the moths were gone. And so was the former High King.

"You've failed." Balekin's voice was a drawn blade. His eyes were fixed on the still-frozen Dain. "You failed to be crowned, Dain. And you failed to kill off the next generation too."

And he turned and called, "Alvara!"

The mysterious guard stepped forward, climbed onto the dais. She pulled off her helmet, and more caramel hair spilled out. Before all the assembled faeries, a girl looked out, a half-human faerie girl, proud and unafraid.

There was no doubt who she was. Aside from her hair, she was the image of Prince Balekin.

"My daughter, Princess Alvara Greenbriar," Balekin proclaimed. "I have raised her in secret, for this very day." He sneered down at Dain. "You worthless, disgusting little rat," he spat. "I swore vengeance. And I will have it."

He held out his hand, and Alvara handed him her sword. Balekin raised it high.

Then, with a single swipe, he brought it down.

Blood spattered the dais. Dain swayed, a near-comical look of surprise on his face. He raised a shaking hand to the gaping wound in his throat, blood pumping over his fingers. A horrible gurgle escaped him.

Then, with a final thump, he fell.

Jude watched in horrified fascination as blood continued to pour out of his wound, running down the steps of the dais like some gruesome waterfall. Gone. Dain was gone. The prince, her patron and protector, was gone.

Around her, the Folk were laughing and cheering at the sight.

Alvara let out a loud, wild laugh. "Well done, Father!" she cried, voice clear and high.

Elowyn glared down at Dain's corpse, her face a mask of venomous hatred. She spat on her brother's body. "If there's a hell, as the mortals say," she hissed, "I hope you rot there." She turned to Balekin, sweeping him a curtsy. "Shall I crown you, Balekin, or would your daughter have that honor?"

"I think Alvara's earned the right," said Balekin. He grinned at Alvara, who grinned back.

Elowyn bent to pick up the Blood Crown. She handed it to Alvara.

Balekin knelt before his daughter on the bloodstained dais, before the blasted throne. Alvara held the Blood Crown high. She paused, as though savoring the moment.

Then she laid it on Balekin's head.

Elowyn fell to her knees, followed by Alvara. "Hail the new High King of Faerie!" cried Elowyn. "Hail King Balekin!"

"King Balekin!" In a wave, everyone in the room went to their knees as well. Even Jude did, carried by the public conviction, stunned by what had just happened. Even Lysander knelt. Even Cardan.

King Balekin stood. He was glowing with triumph and with regal might. The crown burned like a star on his head. He paced to the throne and sat.

Instantly, the branches all straightened. New leaves came out, new flowers. The throne recognized the beginning of the new reign.

Taryn's voice echoed in Jude's ears: Dain's going to be a bad High King, but Balekin would be even worse.

Balekin indicated the former Court of Shadows. "Lock those pieces of scum in the dungeon," he ordered. Immediately, the three were dragged away, shoved off out of the throne room.

"Bring the Grand General to the dais," Balekin ordered.

Jude wouldn't have thought she could feel more shock in the state she was in. But still a cold shiver ran over her as Madoc was shoved up the steps. Foreboding gripped her, and beside her Lysander drew a horrified breath.

Madoc kept his calm and his dignity. He bowed before the new High King. "King Balekin," he said. "You have achieved a great victory today."

Balekin's lip curled. "But not the victory you wanted, Madoc, was it?"

What's he talking about? Jude wondered.

"You can't kill me," Madoc hissed. "You need me."

"I need you," said Balekin with silken softness, "like I need a knife in the back. You never intended to help me get the throne, for all your soft words. You intended for me to die. You intended my sister to die. And then you'd Eldred or my drunken wastrel of a brother to crown Dain's brat."

Madoc recoiled. For the first time ever, Jude saw her foster father well and truly shocked, and it was as cataclysmic as anything else that had occurred that day.

"Oh, yes." Balekin wore a soft, vicious smile. "I know about the boy. And, unfortunately for you, I laid my own plans." Balekin smiled at Alvara, a smile of pride, even affection. "I knew about your son, but you never knew about my older daughter, did you? You old fool. You thought you held all the cards, and you didn't hold a single one. And your time has passed."

And Balekin gave an almost lazy gesture.

Madoc let out a strangled cry. Trembling, fighting the movement every instant, he fell to his knees, his every motion jerky. Even at this distance, Jude could see his eyes bugging out as he fought against the High King's will.

"Off with his head," said Balekin with a vicious grin, and his daughter grinned too, eyes eager.

A guard stepped forward, raising his sword.

Jude opened her mouth to protest, to scream—but Lysander clapped a hand over her mouth, bringing her down with one arm. She writhed against him, biting his hand, but he clasped her against himself, helpless, as the sword came down like a flash of lightning.

Blood spurted once more across the dais. Madoc's head rolled across the steps, lips still moving with defiance or malediction.

Gone. Just like that, Madoc was gone.