When Oak was a child, he came down with fevers that laid him up for weeks. He would thrash in bed, sweating or shivering. Servants
would come and press cold cloths to his brow or put him in baths stinking with herbs. Sometimes Oriana would sit with him, or one of his sisters would come and read.
Once, when he was five, he opened his eyes to see Madoc in the doorway, regarding him with an odd, evaluating expression on his face.
Am I going to die? he asked.
Madoc was startled out of whatever he was thinking, but there was still something grim in the set of his mouth. He walked to the bed and placed his large hand on Oak’s brow, ignoring his small horns. No, my boy, he said seriously. Your fate is to cheat death like the little scamp you are.
And because Madoc could not lie, Oak was comforted and fell back to sleep. The fever must have broken that night, because when he woke, he was well again and ready for mischief.
This morning, Oak feels like a scamp who’s cheated death again.
Waking to warmth and softness is such a delicious luxury that Oak’s burns and bruises cannot dent the pleasure of it. There is a taste on his tongue that is somehow the flavor of sleep itself, as though he went so deep into the land of dreams that he brought some of it back with him.
He looks at his little finger, bare now, and smiles up at the ice ceiling.
There is a knock on the door, shaking him out of his thoughts. Before he realizes he’s not wearing much in the way of clothes, Fernwaif bustles in with a tray and a pitcher. She’s got on a brown homespun dress and an apron, her hair pulled back in a kerchief.
“Still abed?” she asks, plopping down the tray on his coverlets. It contains a teapot and cup, along with a plate of black bread, butter, and jam. “You’re leaving with the tide.”
The prince feels oddly self-conscious at sleeping late, although lounging around at all hours is part of the self-indulgent persona he’s played for years. He’s not sure why that role feels so suffocating this morning, but it does.
“We’re leaving today?” He pushes his back against the headboard so he can sit upright.
Fernwaif gives a little laugh as she pours water into a bowl on a washing stand. “Will you miss us when you’re in the High Court?”
Oak will not miss the endless boredom and despair of his prison cell, or the sound of cold wind howling through trees, but it occurs to him that while he’s glad to be headed home, being with Wren there will be complicated in new ways. The High Court is a place full of intrigues and ambition. Once Oak returns, he will be at the swirling center of at least one conspiracy. He has no idea if it will even be possible to play the feckless, merry courtier while winning Wren’s goodwill.
And he is even less sure that’s who he wants to be.
“Fate may bring me again to these shores,” Oak says.
“My sister and I will look forward to tales of the great feasts and dances,” Fernwaif says, looking wistful. “And how you honored our lady.”
Oak can only imagine what Wren might say if somehow she found herself having to actually exchange vows with him. I pledge my troth to thee and promise to turn thy guts inside out if you deceive. Oh yes, this is going well.
What was it that Hyacinthe said? You deceive as easily as you breathe and with as little thought. Oak very much hopes that’s not true.
He doesn’t hear the turn of the lock as Fernwaif leaves. He supposes there’s no point in restricting his movements now, when they’re planning on his leaving.
Rising, Oak splashes his face with the water from the washing stand, slicking back his hair. He manages to pull on Lord Jarel’s pants before heavy footsteps on the stairs herald the appearance of five knights. To his surprise, they wear the livery of Elfhame—the crest of the Green-briar line imprinted on their armor with its crown, tree, and grasping roots.
“Your Highness,” one says, and Oak feels disoriented at the sound of his title, spoken without hostility. “Grima Mog sent us. Our commander wishes you to know that the boat awaits you and that we will accompany you on your return to the isles.”
They have more appropriate garments for him, too—a green cloak embroidered in gold, heavy gloves, and a woolen tunic and trousers.
“Do you have anything here you wish us to pack?” one of the knights asks. She has eyes like those of a frog, gold-flecked and wide.
“I seem to have . . . misplaced my armor and my sword,” Oak admits.
No one questions the strangeness of that. No one questions him at all. A knight with sharply pointed ears and moonlight-colored hair passes over his
own curved blade—a cutlass—along with its sheath.
“We can find some armor for you among our company,” the knight says. “That’s not necessary,” Oak says, feeling very self-conscious. They are looking at him as though he has endured a terrible trial, even though they
must know he’s betrothed. “You really ought to keep your sword.”
“Return it to me once you’ve found one better,” says the knight, crossing to the door. “We will await you in the hall.”
Quickly, the prince changes clothes. The fabric carries the scent of the air that blew across the line where it was hung to dry—sweetgrass and the salty tang of the ocean. Breathing it in fills him with homesickness.
Outside the Citadel, more soldiers of Elfhame wait, bundled up in heavily padded and fur-trimmed armor, their cloaks whipping behind them. They glare across the snow at the former falcons.
One of them holds Damsel Fly’s reins. His horse’s legs are wrapped against the snow, and a blanket hangs over her back. When the prince draws close, she frisks up to him, butting her head against his shoulder.
“Damsel!” Oak exclaims, stroking his hand over his horse’s neck. “Was there a messenger from the Citadel with her?”
The soldier looks surprised to be asked for information. “Your Highness, I believe so. He rode into the camp yesterday. We recognized your steed.”
“Where is that messenger now?” Valen became violent when Oak stopped actively using enchantment against him—but Valen hated Oak. Hopefully Daggry felt their transaction benefited them both. Hopefully Daggry was well on his way back to the lover he sacrificed so many years to save.
“I’m not sure—” the soldier begins.
From inside the stable comes the sounding of a horn, and he sees an open-topped carriage roll out, pulled by elk. It is all of black wood, looking as though it wasn’t painted that way but scorched instead. The wheels are as tall as one of the soldiers standing beside it, the spokes slender as spun sugar. A groom perches on the back, all in white with a mask in the shape of a falcon, the leather twisting like branches over his eyebrows. A similarly masked driver—this one wearing the mask of a wren—sits in the front, urging the elk on with a whip.
They stop and open the door to the carriage, standing at attention.
Wren walks from the Citadel, unaccompanied by guards or ladies-in- waiting. Her gown is all black, and the toothlike, obsidian crown of the Court of Teeth rests on her head. Her feet are bare—perhaps to show that the cold cannot harm her or because she prefers it. After all, she went barefoot for many years in the woods.
She allows her groom to hand her into the carriage, where she sits, back straight. Her blue skin is the color of the clear sky. Her hair blows in a wild nimbus around her face, and her gown billows, making her seem elemental. One of the Folk of the Air.
Wren’s gaze goes to him once, then darts away.
The rest of Wren’s retinue assembles around her. Hyacinthe rides a large, shaggy deer, which seems as though it will be far better in picking its way through the snow than the delicate hooves of Oak’s faerie horse. Half a dozen falcons accompany him, wearing livery all of a shimmering gray. Bogdana rides a bear, which lumbers around, unnerving everyone.
Tiernan rides up to where Oak has mounted Damsel Fly. His jaw is tight with tension. “This doesn’t feel right.”
Randalin arrives a moment later, the Ghost beside him.
“Your betrothed really is remarkable,” the Minister of Keys says. “Do you know she has two ancient troll kings swearing fealty to her?”
“I certainly do,” Oak says.
“It would be better for everyone if we move now,” says the Ghost.
“I suppose,” Randalin says with a long-suffering sigh, somehow oblivious to the danger all around him. “We were in such a hurry to march here, and now we’re in such a hurry to leave. I personally would be interested in sampling local dishes.”
“The kitchens are somewhat understaffed,” Oak says.
“I am going to check on the queen’s party,” the Ghost says, then rides off in that direction.
“When did the knights arrive?” Oak asks Tiernan, gesturing toward the Folk swarming around the castle.
“This morning. Courtesy of Grima Mog. To escort us to the boat,” Tiernan says mildly since Randalin is beside them.
Oak nods, taking that in.
The horn blows again, and they begin to move.
It takes them more than an hour to arrive at the rough-hewn ice wall built by the troll kings. As they draw closer, Oak is awed by the sheer scale of it. It towers over them as they ride into the gap.
And then past the army of Elfhame.
Fires dot the landscape, burning where soldiers crowd around them for warmth. Several knights sit alone on makeshift stools, polishing weapons, while larger groups gather to drink barley tea and smoke pipes. Although a few call out cheerfully at the sight of Oak, he notes something ugly in their gaze when they see Wren’s carriage.
A loud sound like a clang of metal on metal rings across the snow, and the group comes to an abrupt halt. Bogdana’s bear growls. Wren’s guards crowd around her carriage, hands on their weapons. She says something to them, low. The air is thick with the threat of violence.
Grima Mog and a group of armored soldiers walk toward the procession. Oak spurs Damsel Fly toward the grand general, his heart beating hard.
Do they mean to betray Wren? Make a captive of her? If they try, he’ll invoke his authority as Cardan’s heir. He will find out the extent of all his powers. He will do something.
“Greetings, Prince Oak,” says Grima Mog. She wears a hat, clotted and black with blood. Armor covers the rest of her, and she has a massive, two- handed sword strapped to her back. She passes a scroll up into his hands. It’s sealed with a ribbon and wax. “This explains to the High King and Queen that we will remain here until a treaty is signed.”
The entire army, camped in the cold just beyond the wall, waiting and planning.
“Word will come soon,” Oak promises.
Grima Mog gives a half smile, lower canine escaping her lip. “Waiting is dull business. You wouldn’t want us to grow restless.”
Then, taking a step back, Grima Mog gives a signal. Her people fall back. The soldiers of Elfhame who were part of Oak’s procession begin to move again. The wheels of Wren’s carriage roll forward. The bear plods on.
Oak is immensely relieved to leave the army behind.
Next, they draw close to the Stone Forest, the trees hanging heavy with their strange blue fruit. Wind whistles through branches, making an eerie tune.
The Ghost rides up to Oak, reining in his horse. “I wasn’t sure how to interpret your note,” the spy says quietly.
“I meant it quite literally,” Oak returns.
He wrote it in haste, sitting on the floor of the storage room, with Daggry watching him. Certainly it could have been better, but he thought it was quite clear:
Things are not as they seem. Call off the battle. Send someone to the Citadel, and I will explain.
“Although I admit not to fully understanding how you accomplished what you did,” the Ghost says, “I am impressed.”
Oak frowns, not liking what the spy is implying. That Oak’s offer of marriage is insincere, a lure. That the prince has set and sprung a trap. Oak doesn’t want Wren cast in the role of their enemy, nor that of a mark.
“When one is charmed,” the prince says, “it’s easy to be charming.” “You worried your sisters,” the Ghost counters.
Oak notes the plural. The spy has been close to Jude’s twin, Taryn, for years, leaving how close as a matter of speculation among the family.
“They ought to recall what they were doing when they were my age,” Oak says. Jude has been worrying the rest of them for years.
The spy gives a half smile. “Perhaps that’s what stopped the High Queen from hanging Tiernan up by his toes for going along with your plan instead of stopping you.”
No wonder Tiernan was so stiff with Oak. He must have been interrogated, insulted. “Perhaps she remembered that if Tiernan had stopped me, that would have meant letting our father die.”
The Ghost sighs, and neither of them speaks for the rest of the ride to the shore.
A ship made of pale wood is anchored out past the black stones and shallow waters of the beach. Long and slender, with both bow and stern tapered to points that curl like the stems of leaves, she is a proud ship. Two masts rise from her deck, and around their bases, Oak can see puddles of the white sails that will be hoisted to catch the wind. The name Moonskimmer is emblazoned along the side in carved letters.
And from the other direction, he sees the troll kings, stepping through the snow toward them. Their skin is the deep gray of granite, riddled with what appear to be cracks and fissures. Their faces look more sculpted than alive, even as their expressions shift. One has a beard, while the other’s face is bare. Both wear old and tattered scale armor, marbled with tarnish. Both have circlets on their brows of rough, dark gold. One has a club made from most of a fir tree attached to a leather belt that must have been sewn from the whole hides of several bears.
Oak draws Damsel Fly up short. The others stop as well; even Wren’s carriage skids to a halt, the elk pawing at the ground and shaking their heads as though wishing they could pull free from their harnesses.
Wren hops down fearlessly, her bare feet in the snow.
Alone, she walks toward them. Her dress furls around her as the wind whips at her hair.
Oak slides off his horse, sinking his nails into the palm of his hand. He wants to run after Wren even though he knows this would be a terrible moment to undermine her authority. Still, it’s hard to watch her, small and alone, standing before these massive, ancient beings.
One begins to speak in an old tongue. Oak sort of learned it in the palace school, but only ever as a language used to read equally old books. No one spoke it conversationally. And it turned out his instructor’s pronunciations were waaaaay off.
The prince is able to understand only the vaguest gist. They promise to watch over her lands until she returns. They agree to stay clear of the army but don’t seem to like the idea. Oak isn’t sure how Wren understands them
—perhaps Mellith knew their speech—but she clearly does.
“We entrust these lands to you while we are away,” she says. “And if I do not return, make war in my name.”
Both troll kings sink to one knee and bow their heads to her. A deeper hush falls over the Folk standing witness. Even Randalin looks more awed than delighted.
Wren touches the hand of each king, and they rise at the press of her fingers.
Then she walks back, barefoot, to her carriage. Halfway there, she glances at Oak. He gives her a smile, a small one because he’s still a bit stunned. She doesn’t return it.
The procession moves on to the coastline. Oak rides alone and speaks to no one.
At the edge of the black rocks, where the waves crash, Tiernan dismounts. He says something to the Ghost, who signals to the ship with a waved hand. They cast off a rowboat to ferry the passengers aboard in groups.
“You should head over first, Your Highness,” the Ghost says. Oak hesitates, then shakes his head. “Let the queen’s party go.”
Tiernan sighs with annoyance at what he no doubt sees as Oak’s objection to reasonable security. Oak is aware that it seems he’s just being contrary, but he refuses to give them an opportunity to sail once he’s aboard, leaving Wren to Elfhame’s army.
The Ghost gestures toward Hyacinthe, indicating Wren’s people should take precedence.
It’s a strange feeling, after being in captivity for weeks, to realize that no one here has the authority to make him do anything. People have been thrusting power at Oak since the beginning of Cardan’s rule, and he’s been avoiding it for just as long. He wonders if, after being stripped of so many choices, he has finally grown a taste for it.
Hyacinthe hands Wren into the boat. Her masked driver stays with the coach, though the footman climbs down and joins her, taking a seat in the front. The rest of her soldiers remain on the rocks as the crew-person who rowed to shore casts off again.
Oak watches in puzzlement. Surely, she isn’t going with that few attendants?
The storm hag dismounts from her bear. With a twist of her head, she transforms herself into a massive vulture. Giving a screech, she flies out to the ship, alighting atop the mast. And then, as if responding to some unseen signal, Wren’s soldiers become falcons. They soar up into the sky, leaving the sound of feathered wings echoing all around Oak.
“What has she done?” Tiernan mutters.
Oh, no one in Elfhame is going to like this. Wren didn’t just break the curse on the traitors; she turned it into a boon. She gave them the ability to turn into their cursed form at will.
The falcons fly to the ship, landing on the boom, where, one by one, they drop to the deck as Folk again.
Oak wonders if Hyacinthe can do that. He’s in a boat, so perhaps not.
She broke his curse before she discovered the extent of her power.
When the rowboat returns, Oak gets in with half the knights of Elfhame accompanying him. At the ship, sailors help him aboard, then bow low. The captain introduces himself—he is a wizened man with wild white hair and skin the color of rich clay.
“Welcome, Your Highness. We’re all so glad the rescue was successful.” “I wasn’t precisely saved,” Oak says.
The captain glances in Wren’s direction, a flicker of unease in his face. “Yes, we understand.”
As the captain moves to greet the Minister of Keys, Oak admits to himself that went poorly.
Then there is a great deal of negotiation over accommodations and storage, most of which the prince ignores. As the billowing white sails marked with the sigil of Elfhame rise, and the ship steers out into the sea, his heart speeds with the thought of going home.
And with what he will find when he gets there.
He stopped a war—or at least paused one. And yet, he is aware that bringing Wren into the heart of Elfhame puts the people there—people he loves—at risk. At the same time, spiriting Wren from her stronghold and separating her from the largest part of her defenders put her in an equally vulnerable position.
Wren knows that. And so does Jude. He must be very careful to keep either of them from feeling they must act on that knowledge.
He understands—or at least thinks he does—why Wren went along with his plan. She used up a lot of her power freeing the troll kings from their curse, and an engagement with the army of Elfhame, an army that could continuously replenish soldiers from the lower Courts, would be nearly impossible to win. After all, that’s what he’d been counting on when he put his ring on her finger.
And after some consideration, he believes he also understands why Bogdana wants them to go to Elfhame. She hates the Greenbriars, hates the High Court, and yet has long desired to see her daughter on the throne. If she was willing to trade a portion of her own power for Mellith to be Mab’s heir, then as much as she desires revenge, she must also long for a do-over.
If Wren marries Oak, she will be in line to be High Queen. That has to have some appeal.
And if not, Cardan will be in Bogdana’s sights. She will have gotten closer to him than would be possible otherwise.
And Wren herself? He suspects she’s venturing to the High Court because she wants the Court of Teeth made officially hers. But, of course, he hopes that some part of it has to do with him. He hopes that some part of her wants to see where this goes. The last time they were together in the Court of Elfhame, they’d been children. He hadn’t been able to do much for her. Neither of them is a child now, and he can do better. He can show her he cares about her. And he can show her some fun.
Of course, Oak will have to keep his family from making things extra complicated. Jude will want to punish Wren for holding Oak captive. Cardan will probably still be a bit resentful if he thinks Oak is plotting against him. Cardan may even think Wren is part of a new plot.
And so Oak needs to show his loyalty to a lot of different people, keep Bogdana from hurting anyone, and get a treaty signed before a battle breaks out in the heart of Elfhame. Not to mention he has to do that while proving to Wren he isn’t out for revenge—and that if she forgives him, he won’t see it as a chance to hurt her.
Well, no time like the present to begin. Oak moves across the deck toward her. Two falcons step in his way.
“She is my betrothed,” Oak says, as though there is merely some misunderstanding.
“You ought to be her prisoner,” says one, low enough that he will not be overheard by the Elfhame contingent.
“Both those things can be true,” Oak tells him.
Wren frowns at the guards and the prince both. “I will receive him. I wish to hear what he has to say.”
Her guards step away, but not far enough to be out of earshot.
Oak smiles and attempts to find a tone to communicate his sincerity. “My lady, I wished to tell you how glad I was that you decided to accept my suit and return to Elfhame by my side. I hope you do not begrudge too greatly the manner in which the proposal was given.”
“Should I?” she asks.
“You might consider it romantic,” he suggests, but he knows what she really thinks—that this is a game. And should he claim otherwise, she will be insulted that he thinks her such a poor opponent as to fall for that.
And it is not as though there is no strategy behind his offer, but he feels more like a hopelessly besotted ninny than a master strategist. He’d marry her, and happily.
She gives him a chilly little smile. “However I might feel, I will keep my word.”
Though you may not is heavily implied.
“We need not forever be at daggers drawn,” he says, and hopes she will believe him. “To that end, I did hope that Bogdana would not be accompanying us, since she wants to murder the High King—and me. I think that could complicate our visit.”
To his surprise, Wren glances up at the vulture in frustration. “Yes,” she says. “I told her to stay behind, but apparently I wasn’t clear enough. That’s why she’s hiding up there. If she came down, I could order her to go home.”
“She can’t hide from you forever,” Oak says.
The corners of Wren’s mouth twitch. “What do you think we will find when we arrive in Elfhame?”
An excellent question. “The High King and Queen will throw us some sort of party. But I suppose they may have a few concerns for me to allay first.”
Her lip lifts, showing off sharp teeth. “A polite way of putting it. But you are ever charming.”
“Am I?” he asks.
“Like a cat lazing in the sun. No one expects it to suddenly bite.”
“I am not the one fond of biting,” he says, and is gratified when she blushes, the pink coming up bright enough to show through the pale blue of her skin.
Not waiting to be dismissed, he takes that victory, makes a shallow bow, and departs, heading in the direction of Tiernan.
Her guards watch him go with angry looks. They probably blame him for Valen. Perhaps they blame him for all the things that Valen blamed him for. Might there really be some day that he and Wren were not at daggers drawn? He believed it enough to say it, but he was an eternal optimist.
“You’ve got a bruise on your face,” Tiernan says.
Oak reaches up self-consciously and prods around until he finds it, to the left of his mouth. It joins the bump on his head and the burns from the iron knife hidden by his collar. He’s a mess.
“How is my father?” he asks.
“Allowed back into Elfhame, just as he planned,” Tiernan says. “Giving your sister lots of unsolicited advice.”
Just because I’m bad doesn’t mean the advice is. That’s what Madoc told Wren, although Oak isn’t so sure he agrees on that point. Still, his father must be doing well, to be behaving like himself. That is the main thing.
He lets out a sigh of relief, his gaze going to the horizon, to the waves. His mind wanders to the last time they crossed this water and how Loana tried to distract him with a kiss and then drag him down to the watery depths. That was the second time she tried to drown him.
Drown me once, shame on me . . . He decides he doesn’t like the direction his thoughts are taking him. Nor does he like acknowledging that he has a particular sort of taste for paramours—the more dangerous, the better.
“Do you still love Hyacinthe?” the prince asks.
Tiernan looks at him in surprise. It isn’t that they never talk about their feelings, but Oak supposes it isn’t the second thing Tiernan expected him to ask about.
Or perhaps it isn’t something that Tiernan is prepared to think too closely on, because he shrugs. When Oak does not retract the question, Tiernan shakes his head, as though at the impossibility of answering. Then, finally, he gives in and speaks. “In ballads, love is a disease, an affliction. You contract it as a mortal might contract one of their viruses. Perhaps a touch of hands or a brush of lips, and then it is as though your whole body is fevered and fighting it. But there’s no way to prevent it from running its course.”
“That’s a remarkably poetic and profoundly awful view of love,” Oak says.
Tiernan looks back at the sea. “I was never in love before, so all I had were ballads to go by.”
Oak is silent, thinking of all the times he thought himself to be in love. “Never?”
Tiernan gives a soft huff of breath. “I had lovers, but that’s not the same thing.”
Oak thinks about how to name what he feels about Wren. He does not wish to write her ridiculous poems as he did for so many of the people with whom he thought he was in love, except that he does wish to make her laugh. He does not want to give her enormous speeches or to make grand, empty gestures; he does not want to give her the pantomime of love. He is starting to suspect, however, that pantomime is all he knows.
“But . . . ,” Tiernan says, and hesitates again, running a hand through his short blackberry hair. “What I feel is not like the ballads.”
“Not an affiiction, then?” Oak raises an eyebrow. “No fever?”
Tiernan gives him an exasperated look—one with which the prince is very familiar. “It is more the feeling that there is a part of me I have left somewhere and I am always looking for.”
“So he’s like a missing phone?”
“Someone ought to pitch you into the sea,” Tiernan says, but he has a small smile in the corner of his mouth. He doesn’t seem like someone who would like being teased. His grimness is what often allows him to be mistaken for a knight, despite his training as a spy. But he does like it.
“I think he’s rather desperately in love with you,” Oak says. “I think that’s why he was punching me in the mouth.”
When Tiernan sighs and looks out at the sea, Oak follows his example and is silent.
