How the King of Elfhame Learned to Hate Stories

It was not so many years after that Cardan found himself staring at the

polished door of his eldest brother's home. On it was a massive carving

of a sinister face. As he watched, its wooden mouth twisted up into an even

more sinister smile.

You can't frighten me, Cardan thought.

"Welcome, my princes," said the door, swinging open to admit him and

Balekin into the ominously named Hollow Hall. As Cardan passed through,

a wooden eye gave him a companionable wink.

You can't befriend me, either, he thought.

Balekin led his youngest brother to a room full of furniture covered in

velvet and silk. A human woman stood in a corner, dressed in drab gray, her

hair streaked with silver and pulled back into a tight bun. A worn leather

strap lay across her palm.

"So I am supposed to make you into a proper Prince of Elfhame,"

Balekin said, letting his greatcoat, with its bear-fur collar, drop to the floor,

kicking it aside to be picked up by some servant, and then settling himself

on one of the low and luxuriant couches.

"Or a delightfully improper one," Cardan said, hoping to sound like the

sort of younger brother who might be worth taking under Balekin's wing.

He led one of the largest and most influential circles at Court, the Grackles,

who were committed to merriment and decadence. It was well known that

the courtiers who attended the revels in Hollow Hall were indolent pleasure

seekers. Maybe there was room for Cardan among them. He was indolent!

He liked seeking pleasure!

Balekin smiled. "That's almost charming, little brother. And indeed, you

ought to flatter me, because if I hadn't taken you in, you might have been

sent to be fostered in one of the low Courts. There are many places where

an inconsequential Prince of Elfhame would be the source of much

diversion, none of it comfortable for you."

Cardan didn't flinch, but for the first time, he understood that as terrible

as things had been up to now, something worse might yet be ahead.

Ever since Dain had tricked him so that the arrow that slew the lover of

his father's seneschal seemed to have belonged to Cardan, ever since his

mother had been sent to the Tower of Forgetting for his supposed crime and

Eldred had refused to hear the truth, ever since he had been sent from the

palace in disgrace, Cardan had felt like the boy in Aslog's story. His heart

was stone.

Balekin continued. "I brought you here because you are one of the few

people who see Dain for what he is and are, therefore, valuable to me. But

that doesn't mean you're not a disgrace.

"You will choose clothing suitable to your station and no longer wear

garments that are dirty and torn. You will stop scavenging what you can

find from the kitchens or stealing from banquets, but sit at a table with

cutlery—and use it. You will learn some modicum of swordplay, and you

will attend the palace school, where I expect you to do what they ask of

you."

Cardan curled his lip. He had been forced into a blue doublet by one of

the palace servants and aggressively groomed, down to the combing of the

tuft of hair at the end of his tail, but the clothing was old. Loose threads

hung from his cuffs, and the fabric of his trousers was worn and thin at the

knees. But since it had never bothered him before, he refused to let it bother

him now. "All will be as you say, brother."

Balekin's smile grew lazy. "Now I will show you what happens if you

fail. This is Margaret. Margaret, come here." He gestured to the human

woman with the silvery hair.

She went toward them, although something was unsettling about the

way she moved. It was as though she were sleepwalking.

"What's the matter with her?" Cardan asked.

Balekin yawned. "She's ensorcelled. A victim of her own foolish

bargain."

Cardan had little experience of mortals. Some came through the High

Court, musicians and artists and lovers who had wished for magic and

found it. And there were the twin mortal children that Grand General

Madoc had stolen and insisted on treating as though they were his own born daughters, kissing them on the tops of their heads and resting his clawed

fingers protectively on their shoulders.

"Humans are like mice," Balekin went on. "Dead before they learn how

to be canny. Why shouldn't they serve us? It gives their short lives some

meaning."

Cardan looked at Margaret. The emptiness of her eyes still unnerved

him. But the strap in her hand unnerved him more.

"She is going to punish you," Balekin said. "And do you know why?"

"I am certain you are about to enlighten me," answered Cardan with a

sneer. It was almost a relief to know that curbing his tongue wouldn't help,

as he'd never been very good at it.

"Because I won't dirty my hands," Balekin said. "Better you experience

the humiliation of being beaten by a creature who ought to be your inferior.

And every time you think of how disgusting mortals are—with their pocked

skin and their decaying teeth and their fragile, little minds—I want you to

think of this moment, when you were lower than even that. And I want you

to remember how you willingly submitted, because if you don't, you will

have to leave Hollow Hall and my mercy.

"Now, little brother, you must choose a future."

It turned out that Cardan didn't have a heart of stone after all. As he

removed his shirt and sank to his knees, as he fisted his hands and tried not

to cry out when the strap fell, he burned with hatred. Hatred for Dain; for

his father; for all the siblings who didn't take him in and the one who did;

for his mother, who spat at his feet as she was led away; for stupid,

disgusting mortals; for all of Elfhame and everyone in it. Hate that was so

bright and hot that it was the first thing that truly warmed him. Hate that felt

so good that he welcomed being consumed by it.

Not a heart of stone, but a heart of fire.