“I’ll go see Prince Balekin. If he wants to make the High King an offer, he’ll have to convince the High King’s seneschal first.”
A corner of her mouth lifts. “I’ll come with you.”
I glance back at the throne again, making a vague gesture. “No. Stay here. Try to keep Cardan from getting into trouble.”
“He is trouble,” she reminds me, but doesn’t seem particularly worried by her own worrying pronouncement.
As I head toward the passageways into the palace, I spot Madoc across the room, half in shadow, watching me with his cat eyes. He isn’t close enough to speak, but if he were, I have no doubt what he would say.
Power is much easier to acquire than it is to hold on to.
Balekin is imprisoned in the Tower of Forgetting on the northernmost part of Insweal, Isle of Woe. Insweal is one of the three islands of Elfhame, connected to Insmire and Insmoor by large rocks and patches of land, populated with only a few fir trees, silvery stags, and the occasional treefolk. It’s possible to cross between Insmire and Insweal entirely on foot, if you don’t mind leaping stone to stone, walking through the Milkwood by yourself, and probably getting at least somewhat wet.
I mind all those things and decide to ride.
As the High King’s seneschal, I have the pick of his stables. Never much of a rider, I choose a horse that seems docile enough, her coat a soft black color, her mane in complicated and probably magical knots.
I lead her out while a goblin groom brings me a bit and bridle.
Then I swing onto her back and direct her toward the Tower of Forgetting. Waves crashing against the rocks beneath me. Salt spray misting the air. Insweal is a forbidding island, large stretches of its landscape bare of greenery, just black rocks and tide pools and a tower threaded through with cold iron.
I tie the horse to one of the black metal rings driven into the stone wall of the tower. She whickers nervously, her tail tucked hard against her body. I touch her muzzle in what I hope is a reassuring way.
“I won’t be long, and then we can get out of here,” I tell her, wishing I’d asked the groom for her name.
I don’t feel so differently from the horse as I knock on the heavy wooden door.
A large, hairy creature opens it. He’s wearing beautifully wrought plate armor, blond fur sticking out from any gaps. He’s obviously a soldier, which used to mean he would treat me well, for Madoc’s sake, but now might mean just the opposite.
“I am Jude Duarte, seneschal to the High King,” I tell him. “Here on the crown’s business. Let me in.”
He steps aside, pulling the door open, and I enter the dim antechamber of the Tower of Forgetting. My mortal eyes adjust slowly and poorly to the lack of light. I do not have the faerie ability to see in near darkness. At least three other guards are there, but I perceive them more as shapes than anything else.
“You’re here to see Prince Balekin, one supposes,” comes a voice from the back.
It is eerie not to be able to see the speaker clearly, but I pretend the discomfort away and nod. “Take me to him.”