When you’re chatting with the Cardan to your Jude and she starts spamming you in revenge ⤵
[image] (GR ruined it, click on image for high quality)
(ಠಿ_ಠ)When you’re chatting with the Cardan to your Jude and she starts spamming you in revenge ⤵
[image] (GR ruined it, click on image for high quality)
(ಠಿ_ಠ)
I believe I just had a front row seat to what this book is gonna be like so I don’t think I even need to read it anymore. I don’t want to be spammed you know. What do you say I block her and also build a pillow wall between us at night. Or maybe clip that tail...hmmm...
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# WE STAN THE TAIL anyone??
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Dear Holly Black,
I need the heavens to open and this book to fall into my lap. Wouldn't mind if Cardan fell into my lap either. You know, as a side dish.
Books in series: ➳ The Cruel Prince (The Folk of the Air, #1) ★★★★★ ➳ The Lost Sisters (The Folk of the Air, #1.5) ★★★★☆ ➳ The Wicked King (The Folk of the Air, #2) ★★★★★ ➳ The Queen of Nothing (The Folk of the Air, #3) ★★★★☆ ➳ How the King of Elfhame Learned to Hate Stories (The Folk of the Air, #3.5) ★★★★☆...more
I hate it so much I can’t stop thinking about it. I hate it enough to wanna make 100 accounts to rate it one star over & over again.
BI hate this book.
I hate it so much I can’t stop thinking about it. I hate it enough to wanna make 100 accounts to rate it one star over & over again.
But I won’t, not because that’s immoral but because there can’t be hate unless there is love. There can’t be loss unless there is need. There can’t be hurt unless there is care.
“I hate you,” I say, the words coming out like a caress. I say it again, over and over. A litany. An enchantment. A ward against what I really feel.
So really, it’s my own damn fault. I all but handed Holly Black a gilded dagger, turned my back, and begged her to please please stab me right in the feels, going so far as to give her directions to the place just south of my hopes and slightly north of my dreams.
I am Jude and this book is my Wicked King.
And there is no better way, absolutely none, to convey how it feels to read its every page, every brush of ink, every curve and crease, than to quote the book itself: It has all the sinister pleasure of sneaking out of the house, all the revolting satisfaction of stealing. It reminds me of the moment before I slammed a blade through my hand, amazed at my own capacity for self-betrayal. (Please do excuse me for stealing lines—I do so because I am an inadequate piece of human soul and incapable of competing with the Faerie Queen who wrote this pure trove of gems).
“Power is much easier to acquire than it is to hold on to.”
I have said it before, and I’ll say it again: People don’t paint this series as it truly is. The Folk of the Air is not a light, romantic fairytale, however addictive; it’s a dark and deadly one—less a page-turner and more a temptress. It’s about tricks and snares, games and intrigue and pain and, above all else, power. Infectious, greedy, alluring power.
And that, all of that, weaves itself through every nook, around every thread of the books. It hugs Jude’s curves and flies from her lips, slides along Cardan’s tail and between his clever clasp. It wraps its hungry grasp around the characters, bathing, entombing, suffocating. And it, quite gloriously, circles the dynamics and bonds, twisting and blurring the lines of love and hate, want and fear, until it is one with its every angle, dip, and chip. I guess it makes sense some would mistake one for the other.
Isak Danielson’s song Power (which you can find on my book playlist) is The Wicked King incarnate and why oh why didn’t I listen when people told me NOT to finish it before an exam and went ahead to do just that? Sigh, I’m a fool, yes, but a fool for Jude and Cardan. And that never ceases to be an honour.
“Things are always super dramatic around here,” Vivi tells Heather. “Epic. Everyone acts as though they just stepped out of a murder ballad.”
As I called this book a pure trove of gems, I will proceed to refer to the treasures as the four most precious gemstones:
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Black Diamond: Jude Duarte
“Once upon a time, there was a human girl stolen away by faeries, and because of that, she swore to destroy them.”
I will fight every single person who dares call my Jude annoying or unbearable and anything else in the thesaurus for those adjectives. She is the definition of a brilliant badass queen and I am willing to rip throats to prove it. Metaphorically, of course.
In The Cruel Prince she evolved from the girl who wanted to impress and fit in and fight for honour, to a ruthless, power-hungry, scheming star, and in this sequel her shine multiplies a thousandfold; so I suggest you all shield your eyes before you go blind from her magnificence. Exploring her hatred of vulnerability, her need for control, and her insistence on relentlessly pushing and pushing herself both physically and mentally to the brink of collapse until she’s achieved perfection and utter independence, made me relate to her on a level that bordered on discomfort, if comfort really had any meaning (at least to me) and I wasn’t such a self-absorbed bastard.
The sheer will. That, right there, is my most adored trait in human or faerie, reality or fiction.
“You’re unwinding yourself like a spool. What happens when there’s no more thread?” “Then I spin more.”
Anger or fear? Fear or anger? Jude would argue anger (unsurprisingly, that is, her being a furious hurricane and all) and I happen to agree. Both are overwhelming emotions that can drown and paralyse and turn one into a fool, while both can also motivate and embolden and turn one into a champion. However, there is a certain strand of arrogance interwoven with amger that fear happens to lack. And, you all know me, I would pick anger over fear any day.
So I can do nothing less than shout my love for her from the rooftops, no mountains, as Jude takes the hurt and weakness the Folk carved into her flesh and bone, adds it to the stew of her desire to be magic like them mixed with her obsessive knowledge of their rules and their ways and the music of their strings as they are pulled and plucked, and sprinkles it with a formidable amount of pleasure from the power and the dance and determination to learn and excel, watching it all bubble and burn. She is certainly my favourite cook, because she is better at being worse than them. Never, ever underestimate my little murderer’s strength, her skill at strategy, and her capacity for cruelty.
Lastly, I want to raise a glass to the question Holly raises with this book: Is it good, or bad, for a ruler to contain those cutting, cunning impulses? Answer that as you will.
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Cat’s Eye Emerald: Cardan Greenbriar
“Have you never heard that virtue is its own reward?” Cardan says pleasantly. “That’s because there’s no other reward in it.”
Ahhhh, I am in love with this wicked king (while wanting to strangle him to death and back, ofc) and I’m not even sorry.
I stand by my point in my review of The Cruel Prince that his most important difference from most wicked charming boys (or girls) in books, is his absolute lack of ambition. Hell, that’s also the main difference between him and Jude. This small (perhaps inconsequential to most fans) detail is so ridiculously highlighted for me because it makes him endearing and unique and helplessly adorable, adding to his irresistible charm as he languishes on life, and why am I swooning right now ugh.
The Wicked King is undoubtedly the best installment in this trilogy and one of the reasons for that is Cardan’s beautiful, heart-stopping growth as a character. He goes from a person commited to, as Jude would put it, “being a layabout who does none of the real work of governance,” to finding himself, his resolve, mettle, fight—whatever you want to call it—because of how his feeling of powerlessness and fear trickle away, drip by drip, as he no longer has someone to inflame (Jude excluded). And, mostly, because of Jude pushing him unwittingly.
He learns to own it.
“The three of you have one solution to every problem. Murder. No key fits every lock.” Cardan gives us all a stern look, holding up a long-fingered hand with my stolen ruby ring still on one finger. “Someone tries to betray the High King, murder. Someone gives you a harsh look, murder. Someone disrespects you, murder. Someone ruins your laundry, murder.”
I could go on for two more paragraphs about why he seems to “have a singular taste for women who threaten” him and why and how a certain type of power dynamic appeals to our dear twisted fearie as it, honestly, does to most of the messed up characters in this series, but I won’t bore you anymore with my psychological talk. I will just go ahead and carve a Cardan-shaped chamber deep in my cold, dark heart to trap this clever, cutting, shameless, straightforward yet playful boy and protect him at all costs.
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Burmese Ruby: The Jurdan Ship
“If you’re the sickness, I suppose you can’t also be the cure.”
I mean whoever wasn’t already abroad this ship should be careful because I might kindly push them overboard for being late to the party (let’s ignore the fact that I was also late to the general party shh). If book one was them warming up for the match, book two is them sparring at full swing and I am here for it. And “what is sparring but a game of strategy, played at speed?” So just as he is wary of her, bracing for her next blow while enjoying the game and trusting her completely, he is also going to land blows. Really, it’s only fair.
“I have heard that for mortals, the feeling of falling in love is very like the feeling of fear. Your heart beats fast. Your senses are heightened. You grow light-headed, maybe even dizzy.”
I think my second favourite aspect of their relationship (after the games and sparring match) is how their need and attraction and glimpse of a kindred spirit morphs into denial and fury and fiery hatred as they run away from the feeling they despise lacing through their love, all while being helpless to do so. Running at full speed on the tilted ground drenched with a rain of pain and desire, Cardan has already slipped. It’s Jude’s turn to do so.
“Kiss me again,” he says, drunk and foolish. “Kiss me until I am sick of it.”
Now, I’m going to make a confession. I was as stupefyingly petrified of their dynamic shifting as Jude was. Every step he took beyond her control, every claim he made to his own self, every fistful of power he dug up, I found myself screaming no no just as much as I cheered his growth. Because I understand her fear of being out of control and powerless, and do not want him to hold more power than Jude. And that fear is idiotic and unfair, because the fact that one’s power should come out of another’s powerlessness needs to give everyone pause.
He has capered while she schemed, it’s time for them to learn to be equals, with mutual trust even in their game of chess, having faith in the fact that their opponent and partner will never land a killing blow.
“For a moment,” he says, “I wondered if it wasn’t you shooting bolts at me.” I make a face at him. “And what made you decide it wasn’t?” He grins up at me. “They missed.”
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Violet Sapphire: Rest of the Rabble
“Like the ant in the fable who labors in the dirt while the grasshopper sings the summer away.” “And has nothing left for winter,” I say. “I need for nothing,” he says, shaking his head, mock-mournful. “I am the Corn King, after all, to be sacrificed so little Oak can take my place in the spring.”
✧ Storytelling: I might’ve read only one trilogy by Holly Black, but I can safely say she is one true Weaver; taking the tale by the throat, dunking it in an ocean of vocabulary and punctuations, and threading the water and words into whorls of magic and enchantment. Thank you, Holly, for weaving waves of wailing tales for us.
✧ Worldbuilding: No words can capture and frame my love for this mystical, fairytaleish land of exotic, quiet allure, so I’m not even gonna try.
“I’m still your father.” “You’re my father’s murderer,” I blurt out. “I can be both,” Madoc says, smiling, showing those teeth.
✧ Madoc: I could not tear my gaze away from this messed up father-daughter relationship. He, the monster who took everything from Jude, also gave her a new life, pushed her to her fullest potential (even while underestimating her), encouraged her fire (even while beating her down), was all is she had. And I lived for how thoroughly this facet of this dark tapestry, this theme of moving past and beyond the power of the person who raised you, burns throughout the book. P.S. Pain makes you strong? Sith much?
“Your ridiculous family might be surprised to find that not everything is solved by murder,” Locke calls after me. “We would be surprised to find that,” I call back.
✧ Taryn the Betrayer: I argued in my review of The Lost Sisters that Taryn likes the games and adventure and power play and is fierce enough to claim her own tale (while being hypocritical enough to deny it). And she does. But doesn’t mean she is not weak, because she is that, too. She escapes confrontation and discomfort like a sunflower constantly turning towards the sun to flee the darkness—and I’ve never much liked sunflowers. This adaptability is exactly what fascinates Locke, and this weakness is just what takes apart the trust between these two lost sisters.
✧ Locke the F***ing Fox: I know everyone hates and wants to kill this guy, but I can’t resist bringing him back to life after choking him for more of his playful, dangerous-but-fun fox games of backstabbing delight. *sheepish smile*
“Revenge is sweet, but ice cream is sweeter.”
✧ Vivi the Humanlover: A moment’s appreciation for mt defiant yet chill, loving yet selfish knight-at-heart.
✧ Fala the Fool: Putting him here because NO ONE SEEMS TO CARE FOR THIS GEM WHY. K I’mma truly shut up now bye.
Let’s start with a love story. Or maybe it’s another horror story. It seems like the difference is mostly in where t
We all know how the story goes:
Let’s start with a love story. Or maybe it’s another horror story. It seems like the difference is mostly in where the ending comes.
Once upon a time, there was a girl—obedient, trusting, good—like all the enduring girls in fairytales; girls without hands, without eyes, without the power to scream in protest, without any power at all.
But then a prince rides up and sees the girl and finds her beautiful. Beautiful, not despite her suffering, but because of it. So all of a sudden the girl matters because a prince chose her, is rewarded because of her patience and restraint. All of a sudden, the girl is made a princess and given worth by a dashing prince on a white horse—god forbid she have any worth or voice without him.
That’s how all the fairytales go, isn’t it?
Well, to hell with that. To hell with waiting for princes to give a girl power. This girl will take what she wants, make her own prince, fight to live a fairytale—no matter who she hurts in the process. She will pretend to be patient and loving, lying to even herself, all while a hungry monster brews just beneath the surface. And she has a fox to teach her to reach for that.
“It’s terrible to be a girl trapped in a story. But you can be more than that. You can be the teller. You can shape the story. You can make all of Faerie love you.”
Avril Lavigne’s song I Fell in Love with the Devil is the perfect companion to this short story written in the form of a mental letter from Taryn to Jude, listening to it while reading was a delight (you can find that and other series-related songs in my playlist at the end of the review).
Be bold, be bold, but not too bold, lest that your heart’s blood should run cold.
I think we all wanted to throttle Taryn by the end of the first book. And you’d probably want to do that even after reading these pages of excuses upon excuses. And yet.
Yet, Holly Black did something there with this novella—yes, I still want to give Taryn a satisfactory beating, but I can also respect her. Hell, if she weren’t a hypocrite who lied even to herself about being good and perfect and loving, I could have loved her steely resolve and hungry grasp. Alas, she is a hypocrite, and I hate hypocrites. It’s okay if you’re selfish and wicked and greedy, just don’t paint it in flowers, prancing around as anything other than the truth of what you are.
“Love is greedy,”
That’s what Taryn keeps telling herself this is all about: love. But that, my friends, is a blatant lie. She simply wants to matter, to have others’ attention, to be adored. She’s just like her twin sister, craving power of her own kind; their only difference is that, where Jude does not hide who and how she is, taking pride in her nature, Taryn wears a mask that fools all, even her own self.
Two sisters, raised in a land of beautiful nightmares. Both terrified. Both hungering for a place to belong, to be important. Both selfish, lying snakes. And my not-dear Taryn, that will not change however much you chant to all who would listen that you are loyal and giving.
Manipulated by Locke? Heh, no. Locke was drawn to her because of the lie she lived, the monster she hid within. She wants a story, and what better than to use that scary determination of hers to get the master of stories himself, whatever the cost?
“Love is a noble cause,” Vivi reminded her. “How can anything done in the service of a noble cause be wrong?”
The master of stories. The playful fox. The king of the stage. The manipulative troublemaker. Oh how I want to love-kill him. He’s intriguing and and unbearable and irresistible. His approach to life is simple: bored? Desiring entertainment? Perhaps a tale? Then let the wolves into the den of the sheep who was raised to be a wolf.
In the end, all Locke did was glimpse a kindred cruel spirit in Taryn, ferret it out, nurturing the long dormant trait. Because Taryn likes the game, craves the game, the suffering, no matter what excuses she strings together.
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