How the King of Elfhame Learned to Hate Stories

Having a heart is terrible, but you need one anyway.

A heart of stone can still be broken.

You don’t think monster girls and wicked boys deserve love?

But no one chooses a future. You choose a path without being certain where it leads.

You didn’t hear the story I told,” he goes on. “A shame. It featured a handsome boy with a heart of stone and a natural aptitude for villainy. Everything you could like.

The next time you want to make a point,' Jude says, 'I beg you not to make it so dramatically.' His shoulder hurts, and she may be right about the iron poisoning. He certainly feels as though his head is swimming. But he smiles up at the trees, the looping electrical lines, the streaks of clouds. 'So long as you're begging,' he says.

And you think it was sunrise I was waiting for and not my queen. Do you not hear her footfalls? She has never quite managed the trick of hiding them as well as one of the Folk. Surely you've heard of her, Jude Duarte, who defeated the redcap Grima Mog, who brought the Court of Teeth to their knees? She's forever getting me out of scrapes. Truly, I don't know what I would do without her.

You didn’t get what you deserved, but you don’t have to live inside that one story forever. No one’s heart has to remain stone.

Boys change. And so do stories.

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 all the land.

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 his siblings who didn't take him on 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.

Playing the villain was the only thing he’d ever really excelled at.

Because stories tell a truth, if not precisely the truth.

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.

Stories can justify anything. It doesn’t matter if the boy with the heart of stone is a hero or a villain; it doesn’t matter if he got what he deserved or if he didn’t. No one can reward him or punish him, save the storyteller.

Cardan stands, too. 'Everyone finds different lessons in stories, I suppose, but here's one. Having a heart is terrible, but you need one anyway.

You can't eat some of a dumpling and put it back,' Oak insists. 'That's revolting.' Cardan considers that villainy takes many forms, and he is good at all of them.

It’s absurd, sometimes, the thought that she loves him. He’s grateful, of course, but it feels as though it’s just another of the ridiculous, absurd, dangerous things she does. She wants to fight monsters, and she wants him for a lover, the same boy she fantasized about murdering. She likes nothing easy or safe or sure.

Some might think of him as a strong draught, burning the back of one’s throat, but invigorating all the same. You might beg to differ. So long as you’re begging, he doesn’t mind a bit.

Choose a future, Balekin had commanded him when he’d first brought Cardan to Hollow Hall. But no one chooses a future. You choose a path without being certain where it leads. Choose one way and a monster rends your flesh. Choose another and your heart turns to stone, or fire, or glass.

I am not weak, he wanted to shout, but he wasn’t sure he could say that aloud, either

The Grand General would mount your head on a wall,” Nicasia informed him, patting his cheek. “A very fine head,” he informed her with a wicked grin. “Suitable for mounting.

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

Remember, all you really get to control is yourself.

Cardan had trusted Nicasia not to hurt him, which was ridiculous, since he well knew that everyone hurts one another and that the people you loved hurt you the most grievously.

You didn't hear the story I told," he goes on. "A shame. It featured a handsome boy with a heart of stone and a natural aptitude for villainy. Everything you could like." She laughs. "You really are terrible, you know that? I don't even understand why the things you say make me smile." He lets himself lean against her, lets himself hear the warmth in her voice. "There is one thing I did like about playing the hero. The only good bit. And that was not having to be terrified for you." "The next time you want to make a point," Jude says, "I beg you not to make it so dramatically." His shoulder hurts, and she may be right about the iron poisoning. He certainly feels as though his head is swimming. But he smiles up at the trees, the looping electrical lines, the streaks of clouds. "So long as you're begging," he says.

I thought you could use a little nonsense,” she told him, which worried him a little.

He could no more lie than any of the Folk, but stories were the closest thing to lies the Folk could tell.

Everyone finds different lessons in stories, I suppose, but here’s one. Having a heart is terrible, but you need one anyway.

So long as you’re begging, he doesn’t mind a bit.