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Holly Black

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“Too difficult? Better not to make the attempt? Those are the words of a coward,' Cardan said, full of childish bravado. In truth, his brother intimidated him, but that only made him more scornful. Prince Dain smiled. 'Let us exchange arrows at least. Then, if you miss, you can say that it was my arrow then went awry.' Prince Cardan ought to have been suspicious of this kindness, but he'd had little enough of the real thing to tell true from false. Instead, he notched Dain's arrow and pulled back the bowstring, aiming for the walnut. A sinking feeling came over him. He might not shoot true. He might hurt the man. But on the heels of that, angry glee sparked at the idea of doing something so horrifying that his father could no longer ignore him. If he could not get the High King's attention for something good, then perhaps he could get if for something really, really bad. Cardan's hand wobbled. The mortal's liquid eyes watched him in frozen fear. Enchanted, of course. No one would stand like that willingly. That was what decided him. Cardan forced a laugh as he relaxed the bowstring, letting the arrow fall out of the notch. 'I simply will not shoot under these conditions,' he said, feeling ridiculous at having backed down. 'The wind is coming from the north and mussing my hair. It's getting all in my eyes.' But Prince Dain raised his bow and loosed the arrow Cardan had exchanged with him. It struck the mortal through the throat. He dropped with almost no sound, eyes still open, now staring at nothing. It happened so fat that Cardan didn't cry out, didn't react. He just stared at his brother, slow, terrible understanding crashing over him. 'Ah,' said Prince Dain with a satisfied smile. 'A shame. It seems your arrow went awry. Perhaps you can complain to our father about that hair in your eyes.”

MurderHolly BlackThe Folk Of The AirCardan GreenbriarCardanThe Queen Of NothingSibling RivalryDainTrickedPrince Dain
Book:The Queen of Nothing
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“Too difficult? Better not to make the attempt? Those are the words of a coward,' Cardan said, full of childish bravado. In truth, his brother intimidated him, but that only made him more scornful. Prince Dain smiled. 'Let us exchange arrows at least. Then, if you miss, you can say that it was my arrow then went awry.' Prince Cardan ought to have been suspicious of this kindness, but he'd had little enough of the real thing to tell true from false. Instead, he notched Dain's arrow and pulled back the bowstring, aiming for the walnut. A sinking feeling came over him. He might not shoot true. He might hurt the man. But on the heels of that, angry glee sparked at the idea of doing something so horrifying that his father could no longer ignore him. If he could not get the High King's attention for something good, then perhaps he could get if for something really, really bad. Cardan's hand wobbled. The mortal's liquid eyes watched him in frozen fear. Enchanted, of course. No one would stand like that willingly. That was what decided him. Cardan forced a laugh as he relaxed the bowstring, letting the arrow fall out of the notch. 'I simply will not shoot under these conditions,' he said, feeling ridiculous at having backed down. 'The wind is coming from the north and mussing my hair. It's getting all in my eyes.' But Prince Dain raised his bow and loosed the arrow Cardan had exchanged with him. It struck the mortal through the throat. He dropped with almost no sound, eyes still open, now staring at nothing. It happened so fast that Cardan didn't cry out, didn't react. He just stared at his brother, slow, terrible understanding crashing over him. 'Ah,' said Prince Dain with a satisfied smile. 'A shame. It seems your arrow went awry. Perhaps you can complain to our father about that hair in your eyes.”

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Book:The Queen of Nothing
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“Valerian and Locke look strange; their clothing moth-eaten, their skin pallid, and only inky smudges where their eyes ought to be. Nicasia doesn't seem to notice. Her sea-coloured hair hangs down her back in heavy coils; her lips are twisted in to a mocking smiles, as though nothing in the world is wrong. Cardan wears a bloodstained crown, tilted at an angle, the sharp planes of his face as hauntingly beautiful as ever.”

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Book:The Queen of Nothing
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“The off curve of her ear was what he had noticed first. A roundness echoed in her cheeks and her mouth. Then it was the way her body looked solid, as though meant to take up space and weight in the world. When she moved, she left behind footprints in the forest floor. Because she didn't know how to glide silently, to disturb no leaf of branch. He felt smug to see how bad she was at even such an easy thing. It was only later that it disturbed him to think back on the shape of her boot in the soil, as though she was the only real thing in a land of ghosts. He had seen her before, he supposed. But at the palace school, he really looked. He noted her skirts, spattered with mud, and her hair ribbons, partially undone. He saw her twin sister, her double, as though one of them were a changeling child and not human at all. He saw the way they whispered together while they ate, smiling over private jokes. He saw the way they answered the instructors, as though they had any right to this knowledge, had any right to be sitting among their betters. To occasionally better their betters with those answers. And the one girl was good with a sword, instructed personally by the Grand General, as though she was not some by-blow of a faithless wife.”

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Book:How the King of Elfhame Learned to Hate Stories
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“Vivi and Heather take them out for bubble tea. There are no actual bubbles. Instead, he is served toothsome balls soaked in a sweet, milky tea. Vivi orders grass jelly, and Heather gets a lavender drink that is the colour of the flowers and just as fragrant. Cardan is fascinated and insists on having a sip of each. Then he eats a bite of the half-dozen types of dumplings they order- mushroom, cabbage and pork, cilantro and beef, hot-oil chicken dumplings that numb his tongue, then creamy custard to cool it, along with sweet red bean that sticks to his teeth. Heather glares at Cardan as though he bit the head off a sprite in the middle of a banquet. 'You can't eat some of a dumpling and put it back,' Oak insists. 'That's revolting.' Cardan considers villainy takes many forms, and he is good at all of them. Jude stabs the remainder of the bean bun with a single chopstick, popping it into her mouth and chewing with obvious satisfaction. 'Gooh,' she gets out when she notices the others looking at her. Vivi laughs and orders more dumplings.”

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Book:How the King of Elfhame Learned to Hate Stories
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“With Nicasia by his side, Cardan drew others to him until he formed a malicious little foursome who prowled the isles of Elfhame looking for trouble. They unravelled precious tapestries and set fire to part of the Crooked Forest. They made their instructors at the palace school weep and made courtiers terrified to cross them. Valerian, who loved cruelty the way some Folk loved poetry. Locke, who had a whole empty house for them to run amok in, along with an endless appetite for merriment. Nicasia, whose contempt for the land made her eager to have all of Elfhame kiss her slipper. And Cardan, who modelled himself on his eldest brother and learned how to use his status to make Folk scrape and grovel and bow and beg, who delighted in being a villain. Villains were wonderful. They got to be cruel and selfish, to preen in front of mirrors and poison apples, and trap girls on mountains of glass. They indulged all their worst impulses, revenged themselves for the least offense, and took every last thing they wanted. And sure, they wound up in barrels studded with nails, or dancing in iron shoes heated by fire, not just dead, but disgraced and screaming. But before they got what was coming to them, they got to be the fairest in the land.”

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Book:How the King of Elfhame Learned to Hate Stories
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“He stalked back to the enormous moth, but it wouldn't return him to Elfhame until he went to a nearby general store, glamoured leaves into money to buy it an entire six-pack of lager, and then poured the booze into a frothing puddle on the ground for the creature to lap at.”

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Book:How the King of Elfhame Learned to Hate Stories
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“I would have my room,' Cardan said, narrowing his eyes and assuming his most superior pose. 'Perhaps you two might take whatever this is elsewhere.' Part of him thought she would laugh, having known him before he perfected his sneer, but she shrank under his gaze. Locke stood up, putting on his pants. 'Oh, don't be like that. We're all friends here.' Cardan's practiced demeanour went up in smoke. He became the snarling feral child that had prowled the palace, stealing from tables, unkempt and unloved. Launching himself at Locke, he bore him to the floor. They collapsed in a heap. Cardan punched, hitting Locke somewhere between the eye and the cheekbone. 'Stop telling me who I am,' he snarled, teeth bared. 'I am tired of your stories.' Locke tried to knock Cardan off him. But Cardan had the advantage, and he used it to wrap his hands around Locke's throat. Maybe he really was still drunk. He felt giddy and dizzy all at once. 'You're going to really hurt him!' Nicasia shouted, hitting Cardan's shoulder and then, when that didn't work, trying to haul him off the other boy. Locke made a wordless sound, and Cardan realised he was pressing so tightly on his windpipe that he couldn't speak. Cardan dropped his hands away. Locke choked, gasping for air. 'Create some tale about this,' Cardan shouted, adrenaline still fizzing through his bloodstream. 'Fine,' Locke finally managed, his voice strange. 'Fine, you made, hedge-born coxcomb. But you were only together out of habit; otherwise, it wouldn't have been so easy to make her love me.' Cardan punched him. This time, Locke swung back, catching Cardan on the side of the head. They rolled around, hitting each other, until Locke scuttled back and made it to his feet. He ran for the door, Cardan right behind. 'You are both fools,' Nicasia shouted after them.”

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Book:How the King of Elfhame Learned to Hate Stories
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“Jude ought to be cowed. She was supposed to bow and scrape, to submit and acknowledge his superiority. A little grovelling wouldn't have gone amiss. He would have very much liked it if she begged. 'Give up,' Cardan said, fully expecting that she would. 'Never,' Jude wore an unnerving little smile in the corners of her mouth, as though even she couldn't believe what she was saying. The most infuriating part was that she didn't have to mean it. She was mortal. She could lie. So why wouldn't she? In this, there was no winning for her. And yet, after he told her all the soft, menacing things he could think of, after he left her clambering back up onto the riverbank, he realised he was the one who had retreated. He was the one who backed down. And all through that night and for many nights after, he couldn't rid his thoughts of her. Not the hatred in her eyes. That he understood. That he didn't mind. It warmed him. But the contempt made her feel as though she saw beneath all his sharp and polished edges. It reminded him of how his father and all the Court had seen him, before he learned how to shield himself with villainy. And doomed as she was, he envied her whatever conviction made her stand there and defy him. She ought to be nothing. She ought to be insignificant. She ought not to matter. He had to make her not matter. But every night, Jude haunted him. The coils of her hair. The calluses on her fingers. An absent bite of her lip. It was too much, the way he thought about her. He knew it was too much, but he couldn't stop. It disgusted him that he couldn't stop. He had to make her see that he was her better. To beg his pardon. And grovel. He had to find a way to make her admire him. To kneel before him and plead for his royal mercy. To surrender. To yield.”

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Book:How the King of Elfhame Learned to Hate Stories
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“Cardan lies on the rug with one arm propping up his head and the other slung across Jude's waist. He understands everything and nothing he sees on the screen- just as he understands everything and nothing about being here with her family. He feels like a feral cat that might bite out of habit.”

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Book:How the King of Elfhame Learned to Hate Stories
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“Oak gave up his room so they could sleep there, and although the bed is small, Cardan cannot mind when he takes Jude in his arms. 'You're probably missing your fancy palace right about now,' she whispers to him in the dark. He traces the edge of her lip, runs his finger over the soft human hair of her cheek, pausing on a freckle and comes to rest on a tiny scar, a line of pale skin drawn there by some blade. He considers explaining how much he despised the palace as a child, how he dreamed of escaping Elfhame. She knows most of that already. Then he considers reminding her that the fancy palace is now as much hers as his. 'Not in the least,' he says instead, and feels her smile against his skin. But once he starts recalling his desire to leave Elfhame, he can't help but also recall how desperately she wanted to stay. And how difficult that had been, how hard she had fought, how hard she was still fighting, even now that she didn't have to. 'Why didn't you hate everyone?' he asks. 'Everyone, all the time.' 'I hated you,' Jude reassures him, bringing her mouth to his.”

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Book:How the King of Elfhame Learned to Hate Stories
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“He looked down at a red book, embossed in gold. The title was Alice's Adventures in Wonderland & Through the Looking Glass. He frowned at it in confusion. It wasn't what he'd thought a mortal book would be like; he thought they would be dull things, odes to their cars or skyscrapers. ... 'This is really a mortal book?' he asked.”

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Book:How the King of Elfhame Learned to Hate Stories
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“Cardan had his polished boots resting on a rock and his head pillowed on the utterly ridiculous mortal book he'd been reading. Since the one with the girl and the rabbit and the bad queen, he'd discovered he had a taste for human novels. A hob in the market traded them to Cardan for roses smuggled out of the royal gardens.”

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Book:How the King of Elfhame Learned to Hate Stories
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“He visited the weavers and tailors with his brother, choosing garments with cuffs of feathers and exquisite embroidery, with collars as sharp as the points of his ears, and fabrics as soft as the tuft of his tail- a tail he tucked away, for it showed too much of what he schooled his face to hide. A poisonous flower displays its bright colours, a cobra flares its hood; predators ought not to shrink from extravagance. And that was what he was being polished and punished in to being.”

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Book:How the King of Elfhame Learned to Hate Stories
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“He thought of one of those girls frowning over a book, pushing a lock of brown hair back over one oddly curved ear. He thought of the way she looked at him, brows narrowed in suspicion. Scornful and alert. Awake. Alive. He imagined her as a mindless servant and felt a rush of something he couldn't quite untangle- horror, and also a sort of terrible relief. No ensorcelled human could look at him as she did.”

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Book:How the King of Elfhame Learned to Hate Stories
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“The odd curve of her ear was what he had noticed first. A roundness echoed in her cheeks and her mouth. Then it was the way her body looked solid, as though meant to take up space and weight in the world. When she moved, she left behind footprints in the forest floor. Because she didn't know how to glide silently, to disturb no leaf of branch. He felt smug to see how bad she was at even such an easy thing. It was only later that it disturbed him to think back on the shape of her boot in the soil, as though she was the only real thing in a land of ghosts. He had seen her before, he supposed. But at the palace school, he really looked. He noted her skirts, spattered with mud, and her hair ribbons, partially undone. He saw her twin sister, her double, as though one of them were a changeling child and not human at all. He saw the way they whispered together while they ate, smiling over private jokes. He saw the way they answered the instructors, as though they had any right to this knowledge, had any right to be sitting among their betters. To occasionally better their betters with those answers. And the one girl was good with a sword, instructed personally by the Grand General, as though she was not some by-blow of a faithless wife.”

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Book:How the King of Elfhame Learned to Hate Stories
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“The seeds of Prince Cardan's resentment came full bloom. What was the point of her trying so hard? Why would she work like that when it would never win her anything? ... He had never tried like that for anything in his life. Jude, Cardan though, hating even the shape of her name. Jude.”

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Book:How the King of Elfhame Learned to Hate Stories
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“The weight of the sea seemed to pass down on him. He no longer had a sense of up or down. One was always suspended, fighting against the current or giving in to it. There would be no lying on beds of moss, no barbed words easily spoken, no falling down from too much wine, no dancing at all.”

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Book:How the King of Elfhame Learned to Hate Stories
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“Rhyia leaned over and pushed a fallen strand of his hair back over one of his ears. 'Take it.' 'You want me to have it?' he asked, just to be sure. He wondered what he'd done that was worthy of being commemorated with a present. 'I thought you could use a little nonsense,' she told him, which worried him a little.”

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Book:How the King of Elfhame Learned to Hate Stories
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“One of Locke's finest qualities was his ability to recast all their lowliest exploits as worthy of a ballad, told and retold until Cardan could almost believe that staggeringly better or thrillingly worse version of events. He could no more lie than any of the Folk, but stories were the closest thing to lies the Folk could tell.”

StoriesDramaticHolly BlackThe Folk Of The AirCardan GreenbriarCardanLockeBalladOverdramatic
Book:How the King of Elfhame Learned to Hate Stories
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“I would have my room,' Cardan said, narrowing his eyes and assuming his most superior pose. 'Perhaps you two might take whatever this is elsewhere.' Part of him thought she would laugh, having known him before he perfected his sneer, but she shrank under his gaze. Locke stood up, putting on his pants. 'Oh, don't be like that. We're all friends here.' Cardan's practiced demeanour went up in smoke. He became the snarling feral child that had prowled the palace, stealing from tables, unkempt and unloved. Launching himself at Locke, he bore him to the floor. They collapsed in a heap. Cardan punched, hitting Locke somewhere between the eye and the cheekbone. 'Stop telling me who I am,' he snarled, teeth bared. 'I am tired of your stories.' Locke tried to knock Cardan off him. But Cardan had the advantage, and he used it to wrap his hands around Locke's throat. Maybe he really was still drunk. He felt giddy and dizzy all at once. 'You're going to really hurt him!' Nicasia shouted, hitting Cardan's shoulder and then, when that didn't work, trying to haul him off the other boy. Locke made a wordless sound, and Cardan realised he was pressing so tightly on his windpipe that he couldn't speak. Cardan dropped his hands away. Locke choked, gasping for air. 'Create some tale about this,' Cardan shouted, adrenaline still fizzing through his bloodstream. 'Fine,' Locke finally managed, his voice strange. 'Fine, you mad, hedge-born coxcomb. But you were only together out of habit; otherwise, it wouldn't have been so easy to make her love me.' Cardan punched him. This time, Locke swung back, catching Cardan on the side of the head. They rolled around, hitting each other, until Locke scuttled back and made it to his feet. He ran for the door, Cardan right behind. 'You are both fools,' Nicasia shouted after them.”

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Book:How the King of Elfhame Learned to Hate Stories
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“One of her hands was at her hip, touching her belt, as though she might draw the weapon sheathed there. The idea was hilarious, He certainly hadn't buckled on a sword in preparation for coming here. He wasn't even sure he could stay standing long enough to swing, and he had only beaten her when he was sober because she let him. Jude looked up at him, and in her eyes, he recognised a hate big enough and wide enough and deep enough to match his own. A hate you could drown in like a vat of wine. Too late to hide it, she lowered her head in the pretense of defence. Impossible, Cardan thought. What had she to be angry about, she who had been given everything he was denied? Perhaps he had imagined it. Perhaps he wanted to see his reflection on someone else's face and had perversely chosen hers. With a whoop, he rode in her direction, just to watch her and her sister run. Just to show her that if she did hate him, her hatred was as impotent as his own.”

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Book:How the King of Elfhame Learned to Hate Stories
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“I want you to take me back,' she said. 'None of our plans need to change. Nothing between us needs to change from the way it was before.' He yawned, refusing to give her the satisfaction of his surprise. Those were the words that he'd hoped for her to say when he'd discovered her with Locke, but now, he found he no longer wanted them. In the end, he supposed Balekin had been right. Her dalliance was a mere nothing. Balekin was probably also right when he said that only with her by his side would Cardan have some measure of political power. If he lost her, he was only himself, the despised, youngest prince. Luckily, Cardan cared very little for politics. Or reprimands from Eldred. 'No, I don't think so,' Cardan said.”

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Book:How the King of Elfhame Learned to Hate Stories
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“I exile Jude Duarte to the mortal world. Until and unless she is pardoned by the crown, let her not step one foot in Faerie or forfeit her life.' 'I gasp. 'But you can't do that!' He looks at me for a long moment, but his gaze is mild, as though he's expecting me to be fine with exile. As though I am nothing more than one of his petitioners. As though I am nothing at all. 'Of course I can,' he replies. ... Our eyes meet, and the odd smile on his face is clearly meant for me. I remember what it was to hate him with the whole of my heart, but I've remembered too late.”

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Book:The Wicked King
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“Marry me,' he says. 'Become the Queen of Elfhame.' I feel a cold shock come over me, as though someone has told a particularly cruel joke, with me its target. As though someone looked in to my heart and saw the most ridiculous, most childish desire there and used it against me. 'But you can't.' 'I can,' he says. 'Kings and queens don't often marry for something other than a political alliance, true, but consider this a version of that. And were you queen, you wouldn't need my obedience. You could issue all your own orders. And I would be free.”

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Book:The Wicked King
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“Many times in his first nine years, Prince Cardan slept in the hay of the stables when his mother didn't want him in their suite of rooms. It was warm there, and he could pretend he was hiding, could pretend that someone was looking for him. Could pretend that when he was not found, it was only because the spot he'd chosen was so extremely clever.”

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“Yes,' I say, but my voice fails me. It comes out all breath. 'Yes.' He leans forward in the chair, eyebrows raised, but he doesn't wear his usual arrogant mien. I cannot read his expression. 'To what are you agreeing?' 'Okay,' I say. 'I'll do it. I'll marry you.' He gives me a wicked grin. 'I had no idea it would be such a sacrifice.' Frustrated, I flop over on the couch. 'That's not what I mean.' 'Marriage to the High King of Elfhame is largely thought to be a prize, an honour of which few are worthy.' I suppose his sincerity could last but only so long. I roll my eyes, grateful that he's acting like himself again, so I can better pretend not to be overawed by what's about to happen.”

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Book:The Wicked King
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“He cuts his gaze toward his unpredictable mortal High Queen, whose wild brown hair is blowing around her face, whose amber eyes are alight when she looks at him. They are two people who ought to have, by all rights, remained enemies forever. He can't believe his good fortune, can't trace the path that got him here.”

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Book:How the King of Elfhame Learned to Hate Stories
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“Oh ho,' he says. 'My darling seneschal. Let us take a turn around the room.' He grabs me and pulls me toward the dance. He can barely stand. Three times he stumbles, and three times I have to hold most of his weight to keep him upright. 'Cardan.' I hiss. 'This is no meet behaviour for the High King.' He giggles at that. I think of how serious he was last night in his rooms and how far he seems from that person. 'Cardan,' I try again. 'You must not do this. I order you to pull yourself together. I command you to drink no more liquor and to attempt sobriety.' 'Yes, my sweet villain, my darling god. I will be as sober as a stone carving, just as soon as I can.' And with that, he kisses me on the mouth.”

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Book:The Wicked King
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“He slides my ruby ring off his finger. 'I, Cardan, son of Eldred, High King of Elfhame, take you, Jude Duarte, mortal ward of Madoc, to be my bride and my queen. Let us be wed until we wish for it to be otherwise and the crown has passed from our hands.' As he speaks, I begin to tremble with something between hope and fear. The words he's saying are so momentous that they're surreal, especially here, in Eldred's own rooms. Time seems to stretch out. Above us, the branches begin to bud, as though the land itself heard the words he spoke. Catching my hand, he slides the ring on. The exchange of rings is not a faerie ritual, and I am surprised by it. 'Your turn,' he says in to the silence. He gives me a grin. 'I'm trusting you to keep your word and release me from my bond of obedience after this.' I smile back, which maybe makes up for the way that I froze after he finished speaking. I still can't quite believe this is happening. My hand tightens on his as I speak. 'I, Jude Duarte, take Cardan, High King of Elfhame, to be my husband. Let us be wed until we don't want to be and the crown has passed from our hands.' He kisses the scar of my palm. I still have his brother's blood under my fingernails. I don't have a ring for him. Above us, the buds are blooming. The whole room smells of flowers. Drawing back, I speak again, pushing away all thoughts of Balekin, of the future in which I am going to have to tell him what I've done. 'Cardan, son of Eldred, High King of Elfhame, I forsake any command over you. You are free of your vow of obedience, for now and for always.' He lets out a breath and stands a bit unsteadily. I can't quite wrap my head around the idea that I am... I can't even think the words. Too much has happened tonight.”

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Book:The Wicked King
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“I look for the trick, because this must be one of those faerie bargains that sound like one thing but turn out to be something very different. 'So let me guess, you want me to release you from your vow for your promise to marry me? But then the marriage will take place in the month of never when the moon rises in the west and the tides flow backward.' He shakes his head, laughing. 'If you agree, I will marry you tonight,' he says. 'Now, even. Right here. We exchange vows, and it is done. This is no mortal marriage, to require being presided over and witnessed. I cannot lie. I cannot deny you.”

FunnyHolly BlackThe Folk Of The AirJude DuarteCardan GreenbriarJudeCardanThe Wicked KingMarry MeMarriage Proposal
Book:The Wicked King
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“This?' he demands, looking down at the waves far beneath them. 'This is how you travelled? What if the enchantment ended while Vivi wasn't with you?' 'I suppose I would have plummeted out of the air,' Jude tells him with troubling equanimity, her expression saying, Horrible risks are entirely normal to me. Cardan has to admit that the ragwort steeds are swift and that there is something thrilling about tangling his hand in a leafy mane and racing across the sky. It's not as though he doesn't enjoy a little danger, just that he doesn't gorge himself on it, unlike some people.”

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Book:How the King of Elfhame Learned to Hate Stories
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“One of his primary duties as the High King appears to be reminding her she isn't personally responsible for solving every tedious problem and carrying out every tedious execution in all of Elfhame. He wouldn't mind causing a little torment here or there, of a non-murdery sort, but her view of their positions seems overburdened with chores.”

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Book:How the King of Elfhame Learned to Hate Stories
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“If you must fight this thing, there's no reason to go alone. You could take a battalion of knights or, failing that, me.' 'You think you're the equal of a battalion of knights?' she asks with a smile. He might be, he supposes, although there's no telling how the mortal world will affect his magic. He did once raise an isle from the bottom of the sea. He wonders if he ought to remind her of that, wonders if she had been impressed. 'I believe that I could easily best all of them combined, in a suitable contest. Perhaps one involving drink.' She kicks her ragwort steed forward with a laugh.”

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Book:How the King of Elfhame Learned to Hate Stories
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