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Taryn's Inquest - Cardan's POV

Summary: Taryn's inquest and the moments that follow - from Cardan's perspective.

Across the room, Jude appears, dressed as Taryn. She is in all of the Court’s finery, looking as much to me like her sister as she always has, which is to say she looks nothing like her sister. Sure, they may have the same physical appearance, but the difference in the manner in which they carry themselves is unmistakable. Where Taryn is demure and desperate to please, Jude is unapologetic and strong. I am amazed she is able to fool anyone with how straight she stands and how high she holds her head; Taryn would be sniveling with her shoulders slumped.

I am at a loss as to why she would return this way, play-acting a part that could not suit her less. Nevertheless, I must assume she has come to me in this way for a reason. If she wants to identify as her worthless twin, I shall let her.

Despite my role as king and the image I must maintain, despite my resolve to protect Taryn, despite everything, it takes all the self-discipline, a skill of whose existence until very recently I was unaware, I can muster to refrain from running across the room and taking her into my arms.

Soon, she is standing before me, deep within a curtsy that appears to cause her physical pain. It looks entirely unnatural for her to be bowing to me, to anyone, not even considering that she is the queen of the land. Oh, Jude. I just barely catch myself before saying the wrong name.

“Taryn?” She looks up at me with reluctance. Her pupils dilate and her eyes glitter with barely contained anger.

“Your majesty,” she says stiffly.

I suppose she expects me to play my part as well. I suppose I shall. I hesitate for a moment, imagining with no small amount of difficulty that the sister before is the pathetic, sniveling travesty of Jude.

“We recognize your grief. We would not disturb your mourning were it not for questions over the cause of your husband’s death.”

Questions, I suppose, I now know the answer to, since she sent her sister in her stead. Although, many other questions take their place. My jumbled thoughts turn to my many unrequited letters, and I wonder at her return. She must never have planned to; I suppose Taryn’s impending execution alone lured her back. But, for the time being, I will exploit any opportunity to convince her to rule beside me. In Elfhame.

I am pulled back to the present as Nicasia, with no small amount of malice, accuses Jude of Locke’s demise. Unbeknownst to her, it seems, she is standing before us. Am I really the only one who can see that this is very much not Taryn? I realize, with a knot of shame, that I alone pay the exceptional amount of attention to her required to uncover her slight so quickly.

Her voice changes then, the silence of the room glinting off her voice as moonlight off the edge of a particularly sharp knife. “Jude is in exile.” Is she really? “And I’ve never hurt Locke.” If there were any doubt of her not being Taryn, it has just been expunged from my mind, as Taryn would never have shown such repulsion, however subtle, at the necessity of saying the name.

Nicasia is too wrapped up in her own grief over Locke to notice.

I am not so encumbered.

“No?”

“I lov… I loved him.” She says with no small amount of difficulty. I think back to Locke’s ridiculous party, of her obvious infatuation. Of the ridiculous and unexpected anger that seemed to overwhelm me at the sight of her in his arms. Of my own fury mirrored in her eyes when she glanced at me. Of the countless weeks that followed during which I tried, albeit unsuccessfully, not to think or care about Locke’s toying with the Duarte sisters. Of Jude’s defiance at that critical moment when Locke believed he would have both sisters under his control. Of the chaos that directly followed.

“Sometimes I believed that you did, yes. But you could well be lying. I am going to put a glamour on you. All it will do is force you to tell us the truth.” Or at least it would, had she not foolishly bargained with the most abominable of my siblings. However, despite the idiocy of the choice, I cannot deny that it has ended up being quite a valuable little talent.

“Now, tell me only the truth. What is your name?”

“Taryn Duarte.” Jude dips into an unnatural-looking, at least for her, curtsy. “Daughter of Madoc, wife of Locke, subject of the High King of Elfhame.”

As if. There wasn’t a single word that just came out of her mouth that was not a lie. That’s my girl. The thought comes to me unbidden and with sharp barbs that pierce through my heart. Because she’s not. She’s not my girl, is she? Regardless of what I thought before her exile, she chose to stay. She chose to stay as far away as possible from me. Nerves suddenly overtake me as I begin to consider just why she is here in the first place.

“What fine courtly manners.”

“I was well instructed,” she says pointedly.

“Did you murder Locke?” The room goes silent as it awaits her confession.

“No. Nor did I orchestrate his death. Perhaps we ought to look to the sea, where he was found.” I do not miss the implication, or the glance she shoots my former lover.

Neither does Nicasia. She turns to me, likely believing she is imparting great wisdom and knowledge upon me. Little does she know that I only require answers from one person right now. “We know that Jude murdered Balekin. She confessed as much. And I have long suspected her of killing Valerian.” How did she know about Valerian? Perhaps I ought to keep a better eye on Nicasia.

“If Taryn isn’t the culprit, then Jude must be.” Perhaps I will ask her myself. “Queen Orlagh, my mother, – ” Yes, I know who Queen Orlagh is, thank you – “swore a truce with you. What possible gain could she have from the murder of your Master of Revels? She knew he was your friend – and mine.”

Debatable. In front of me, Jude appears to be having some sort of episode. After a moment of consideration, I decide to humor Nicasia.

“Well, what do you think? Did your sister do it? And don’t tell me what I already know. Yes, I sent Jude into exile. That may or may not have deterred her.”

“She had no reason to hate Locke. I don’t think she wished him ill.” I could think of a few reasons. I hate Locke for what he did to Jude; I can hardly imagine what she feels for him.

“Is that so?”

Right then, my mother decides to be… helpful. “Perhaps it is only Court gossip, but there is a popular tale about you, your sister, and Locke. She loved him, but he chose you. Some sisters cannot bear to see the other happy.”

Jude regards my mother with veiled surprise before she counters her with – “Jude never loved Locke. She loved someone else.” I am on the edge of my throne. “He’s the one she’d want dead.”

My brain locks up, unsure if it should key on her confession of love in front of the whole court or on her declaration that she desires my death. Either way, I know it is meant as a direct attack – both halves. She can lie, after all. Before she can rattle me further, I cut her off, needing the rest of the conversation to be private. “Enough. I have heard all I care to on this subject – ”

“No!” Upon registering whose voice interrupts my command, I nearly snap. A murmur ripples through the crowd at the sheer audacity required to interrupt the High King mid-decree. Nicasia shamelessly continues. “Taryn could have a charm on her, something that makes her resistant to glamours.”

She’s already resistant to glamour. I want to scream. But if Jude is going to torture me in front of the whole Court, why can’t I? “I suppose she’ll have to be searched.”

Her shoulders subtly shift back as she stands a little straighter, stiffer. Hiding terror that I can’t quite understand, she counters me. “My husband was murdered. And whether or not you believe me, I do mourn him. I will not make a spectacle of myself for the Court’s amusement when his body is barely cold.”

Very well, then. What a perfect excuse to get the answers I require. “As you wish. Then I suppose I will have to examine you alone in my chambers.”

***

She stands rather awkwardly across the table from me, her face fixed with an odd expression I can’t quite place.

She’s back. She’s home. She’s here. I can’t repress a grin. I gesture for her to join me on the couch. Start with the question that’s been eating away at me since I saw her walk in, the one which may seem the most trivial to anyone else, but is the most important to me. I attempt nonchalance as I say it.

“Well, didn’t you get my letters?”

Six unanswered letters. Six fragments of my heart that were never so much as acknowledged. Six attempts to understand what was going on in her head.

“What?” Bewilderment flashes through her clever eyes.

“You never replied to a one. I began to wonder if you’d misplaced your ambition in the mortal world.” She may well have. This may have been intended as a short visit. I will change that intention.

She appears to be genuinely confused. Is it possible she never received them? Does that explain her absence?

“Your Majesty,” she begins. Your Majesty? Does she really hate me so much as to resort to such formality? “I thought you brought me here to assure yourself I had neither charm nor amulet.”

Oh. We’re still playing that game, are we?

I give her a look. “I will if you like. Shall I command you to remove your clothes? I don’t mind.”

Something in her snaps. Her facade, I realize. “What are you doing? What are you playing at?”

Did she really think I didn’t recognize her? I think back to our interaction in the throne room. Had she thought me beguiled by a simple wardrobe change?

You mistook one for the other once before.

The memory hits me like a punch to the stomach. “Jude, you can’t really think I don’t know it’s you. I knew you from the moment you walked into the borough.”

For some inexplicable reason, this seems to unsettle her more. Was she here on some agenda besides her own? The Council’s warnings of her potential allegiance to Madoc suddenly flood my thoughts.

“That’s not possible.” She shakes her head; that same unplaceable expression returns. She seems to be trying very hard to figure something out. Her scheming face strikes me as bizarre. What is her angle?

All at once, I become singularly aware of every inch that separates us. It’s worse, somehow, than when we were an entire ocean’s breadth apart, to be so close yet not touching. She’s not close enough for me to see the green in her hazel eyes. She’s not close enough that I can feel her breath as further assurance that she is, in fact, here before me. She’s not close enough that I could reach out to hold her hand, should she want that. No question of whether I want that. I want that more than I need air to breathe, in this current moment. She’s not close enough. I hate it. I stand up, needing to have her in my arms. “Come closer.”

She backs away from me, an emotion I don’t want to recognize screaming from her eyes. The pain in my chest swells. I clench my fists to hide their shaking, but I need to confirm one thing.

“My councilors told me that you met with an ambassador from the Court of Teeth, that you must be working with Madoc now. I was unwilling to believe it, but seeing the way you look at me, perhaps I must. Tell me it’s not true.” What will I do if it is? I cannot arrest her. She is my Queen. Every advantage is hers: her authority over the kingdom, her authority over my will, her authority over my heart. Should she be in an alliance with her adoptive father, the kingdom, along with its pathetic king, would be ruined.

Initially, this accusation just seems to confuse her again. Then, she seems to understand, though she does not voice whatever realization she just had. “I’m not the betrayer here.”

Oh. I hadn’t anticipated that her continued absence would still concern my paltry attempt at humor. Alas, for this at least, I can make amends.

“Are you still angry about—” Suddenly, as I study her body language, I come to a realization of my own. Her entire body is taut and shaking, and she seems to be wearing her anger as armor. I recognize this tactic; I’ve used it myself countless times. The tactic of using anger to disguise one particularly uncomfortable emotion. “No, you’re afraid. But why would you be afraid of me?”

She fears me. How could she possibly still think I harbor any desire to hurt her? Can she possibly still believe I hate her? I thought this lie had been dispelled long ago.

“I’m not,” the quaver in her voice and the shaking in her body give her away. “I hate you. You sent me into exile. Everything you say to me, everything you promise, it’s all a trick. And I, stupid enough to believe you once.”

Every word she says is like a tiny sword aimed directly at my chest. Is it possible she never realized? I had thought I had made it quite clear how desperately I had awaited her return. “Of course it was a trick -” She clutches a knife to her. Madoc must have sent her to kill me. Her hatred is genuine, and my heart lies in shattered remains all over the floor.

Before I can so much as utter another word, the whole world shakes. Or is it just my world? No, Jude seems just as alarmed as I am. Ah, of course. She must have been meant to kill me, and the explosion meant to hide her escape. I am unable to do much else but stare at her, concealing my anguish as I always have: behind a glare.

Her ears prick up as something akin to sword fighting echoes down the hall. With a muttered “Stay here,” she darts out of the room before I can react.

No. Not again. Absolutely not. I am not losing her again. Even if her plan was to kill me, let it be so long as I never have to endure another second of her absence.

She is already gone. When I make it into the hall, I am just able to make out Madoc’s figure as he carries Jude off down another corridor. A battle rages around me, and though I know I should be concerned about how close they made it to my chambers, all I can see is Jude’s absence.

It seems that Jude was the prize. Although the contingent of soldiers that Madoc brought here far outnumbers my guards, they recede as soon as they see that she is secured. The renegades begin racing down and out of the hill. Well, all shall soon understand the price that is to be paid for such an act.

Thorns and briars, vines and branches, commissioned by myself and empowered by all the cruel magic of Faerie, wind their way through the many corridors of the Palace of Elfhame after Madoc’s men like vipers after a meal. I fall to my knees and my vision blurs, every ounce of strength and every drop of energy pouring into the attack.

The Bomb finds me some time later, slumped against the doorframe to my chambers and surrounded by blood.

“She’s gone, Your Majesty.”

The world goes black.

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