Oak wakes with dread in his heart. As he lingers over a coffee-like substance that is made from roasted dandelions and picks at a plate
of acorn cakes, his mind spins. His thoughts fly between Wren in his arms, her eyes bright and teeth sharp, kissing him as though they could crawl into each other’s skin—then Lady Elaine and the capsizing of his plans—then circling back to what he learned about the Ghost.
Who gave Oak’s mother poison.
Who gave Oak’s mother poison so that Oak would die.
How could the Ghost look at Oak when, if not for Oriana, if not for
sheer luck, he could have been the prince’s murderer?
It galls Oak to think of Taryn and Jude watching him be trained, letting the Ghost clap him on the shoulder or reposition his arm to swing a sword.
Somehow, it’s Taryn’s betrayal that strikes Oak the most sharply. Jude has always been constrained by position and politics while Madoc has been constrained by his nature. Oak thought of Taryn as the kind-hearted one, the one who wanted a gentler world.
Maybe she just wanted an easier one.
Oak kicks one hoof against the low table, sending the coffeepot and the tray it was sitting on crashing to the floor, crockery smashing, cakes going everywhere. He kicks it again, splintering a wooden leg and causing the whole thing to collapse.
If his mother came in, she would frown, call him childish or petulant. Summon servants to clean up. Ignore any reason he may have for his anger.
That’s what his family does. Ignores everything uncomfortable. Talks around betrayals and murders. Papers over bloodstains and duels. Brushes all the bones under the rug.
Since he was old enough to really understand why he had to be the one to put the Blood Crown on Cardan’s head or live with Vivi and Heather in the mortal world, away from his parents, Oak wasn’t able to think of his sisters without being aware of the debt he owed them. The sacrifices they made for him. Everything he could never repay. So it is entirely new for him to think of them and be absolutely furious.
Then his thoughts slide back to Wren. To her expression of horror when he told her he loved her. To her warning of the night before, after he kissed her, while she dug her nails into his nape.
He was playing fast and loose back in the Ice Needle Citadel, determined to win her over despite the danger. And then he came up with a desperate plan to avoid a conflict when it was clear that Elfhame considered Wren a dangerous enemy.
When she agreed to come home with him, he thought it might help to be away from the Citadel. Wren was focused on survival for so long—and whatever else you may say about the isles, they are full of wine and song and other lazy indulgences.
But ever since they arrived, she’s been different. Of course, he could just as easily say that she’s been different ever since he confessed his love.
You’ve always been clever, she told him when she asked him to break things off. Be clever now.
Does she think that if she is the one to dump him, Elfhame will take her crown for breaking his heart?
And yet, he can’t shed the feeling there is a greater wrongness she was trying to communicate. Could someone be leveraging something against her in order to stop their marriage? Was it one of her retinue? One of his family? He didn’t think it could be Bogdana, who was so vocal in support of their union.
Or perhaps it was the storm hag—maybe Bogdana threatened Wren if she strayed from that path? And yet, if that was the case, why not tell Oak outright?
A knock comes on the door. A moment later, it opens and Tatterfell enters. She frowns at him, her inkdrop eyes taking in the wreckage of the table.
“Leave it,” he tells her. “And leave off lecturing me about it, too.”
She presses her thin lips together. She’s been a servant in Madoc’s household, paying off some debt, and then moved to the castle with Jude, possibly as a spy for their father. He’s never much liked her. She’s impatient and prone to pinching.
“The hunt is today,” she says. “And then that farce on Insear right after. There are tents for you to change in, but we still need to select what garb to send over.”
“I don’t need your help with that,” he tells her. Her words that farce on Insear echo in his head.
The little faerie looks up at him with her shining black eyes. “You ought to clothe yourself as though you expect to exchange vows, even if there’s little chance of that.”
He frowns at Tatterfell. “Why do you think so?”
She snorts, going to his wardrobe and taking down a tunic of deep burgundy cloth embroidered with golden leaves and pants of a deep brown. “Oh, it’s not my place to speculate on the plans of my betters.”
“And yet,” Oak says.
“And yet, were I Jude,” Tatterfell says, pulling out riding clothes of mouse gray, “I might want to marry you to the new queen of the Under-sea. It would be a better alliance, and if you don’t marry her, the alliance goes to someone else.”
The prince thinks of the contest he was told of for Nicasia’s hand. The one that Cirien-Cròin was attempting to prevent with the attack. “Cardan courted her, didn’t he?”
Tatterfell is quiet for a moment. “Another good reason for your sister to marry you to her. Besides, I hear she threw over the High King for Locke. You look something like him.”
Oak scowls as she urges him out of his nightshirt. “Jude doesn’t usually expect much from me.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Tatterfell says. “I hear you’re widely considered to be a rake.”
Oak wants to object, but he has to consider that maybe Jude does think a marriage of Oak to Nicasia would be possible and useful. Maybe it did seem like a good solution to Cardan, who’s heard rumors of Oak’s treachery.
And if Jude wanted him to compete to be King of the Undersea, would that lead Jude to move against Wren? Would Jude push her to break off the betrothal while pretending to allow it? Push Wren to hide her interference from Oak—and have enough power to back up any threat.
Well, given the secrets she’s already kept, if that is what she’s doing, he’d never know about it?
 |
Dressed in mouse gray, with Tatterfell taking his evening clothes on to Insear, Oak heads to the stables. From there, he will ride out to the Milkwood, where he intends to determine the actual reason Wren wants Oak in particular to break off their betrothal.
As he heads toward Damsel Fly, he finds Jack of the Lakes waiting for him. The kelpie is in his person form, dressed all in brown and black, bits of seaweed hanging out of his breast pockets. A rough-beaten gold hoop hangs from one ear.
“Hullo,” Jack says, brushing the hair back from his eyes.
“My apologies,” Oak says, resting one hand on the needle of a sword he insisted on strapping to his belt. “I haven’t yet managed to speak with my sister on your behalf.”
He shrugs. “My obligation to you is greater than yours to me, prince.
I’ve come to dismiss some of it, if I can.”
“Observe another clandestine meeting?” Oak asks.
“I am a steed. Get on my back, and we’ll ride to the hunt together.”
Oak frowns, considering. Jack is capricious and a gossip. But the vow he once gave Oak was sincere, and at the moment, Oak is feeling short on allies. Someone he can even mostly trust seems a boon. “Concerned about something?”
“I mislike this place,” Jack says. “Viper nest,” Oak agrees.
“It seems quite the trick to tell the friendly snakes from the other ones.” “Ah,” Oak says. “They’re all friendly snakes until they bite you.”
“Perhaps you’ll have no need of me today,” the kelpie tells him. “But if you do, I will be there.”
Oak nods. Jack’s concern makes his own worries all the more real. He reaches for a saddle. “You really don’t mind?”
“So long as there’s no bit between my teeth,” Jack says, transforming shape on the last word. Where once there was a boy, there is a sharptoothed black horse. The sheen on his coat is murky green, and his mane ripples like water.
Oak swings up on his back and rides out. Tiernan is waiting for him outside the palace stables on a white steed of his own. He takes one look at Jack and raises both his brows. “Have you run mad, trusting him again?”
Oak thinks of what he promised Hyacinthe in the Citadel—the hand of the person responsible for Liriope’s death. And the prince considers Tiernan, whose happiness he will rob if he gives that to Hyacinthe—even supposing he could. He considers how awful it would be and all the consequences that would follow.
“Oh, don’t worry,” Oak says. “I’m not sure I trust anyone anymore. Not even myself.”
|
They arrive at the Milkwood, riding beneath pale, silvery boughs covered with bleached leaves. There, the gentry of the Court are assembling in their riding garb. Cardan sits atop a black steed with flowers braided into its mane. He himself is wearing a doublet with a high collar and a crisscrossing pattern sewn into the dark fabric. Aside from shining buttons in the shape of beetles, he looks positively staid.
Taryn is all in lilac—a jacket with long tulip sleeves, breeches, and boots—and astride a dappled pony. The Ghost is beside her in dark gray, and somehow seems more knight, clad in her livery, than partner.
Oak feels a spike of rage at the sight of him. Rage that he swallows. For now.
Beside the High King, Jude is mounted on a riding toad, wearing a dress the color of unskimmed cream with billowing sleeves. Over that, a thin vest, embroidered with gold, laces over her chest. Calf-high brown boots dig into the stirrups. No crown sits on her head, and her hair is pulled simply back.
He tries to judge from her expression, from her body language, if she is working against him. If she has gone around his back and threatened Wren. But Jude is a consummate liar. There’s no way he can tell, and asking would be worse than useless. All that would happen is that she’d know Wren gave something away.
On that thought, he notes Cardan watching him. He cannot, in this moment, bring himself to explain his true role in this or the other conspiracies. He cannot bring himself to be vulnerable in front of either of them. And if he begins to tell the story, Lady Elaine will face the very fate
she would have if she hadn’t renounced her treachery the night before. She will certainly be interrogated.
He thinks of the cold stone slab and Valen standing over him and shudders.
He wishes he could trust his sister as he once did. He wishes that he could be sure she trusted him.
The prince turns away, his gaze going to the servants loading baskets and blankets onto ponies for the picnic the courtiers will have once the hunt grows dull.
“We cannot possibly catch the silver stag,” says a man in a hat with a plume sticking out of it and a longbow. He rides a chestnut steed with dainty hooves. “Nor anything much with two mortals among us. They will frighten off the beasts with their noise.”
He means for Jude to hear, and she has. She gives him a lethal smile. “Well,” she says, “there are always birds in the trees to hunt. Even a few falcons.”
The reference to Wren’s soldiers is not missed. Some of the gathered Folk appear uncomfortable. Others seem eager.
“Or we could draw lots to play the fox,” she continues with a grin. “That’s a fine sport, and one I’ve played before.”
She’s been the fox, but they don’t know that. The man with the plumed hat looks nervous. “A ride through the Milkwood is its own delight.”
“I could not agree more,” she tells him.
Randalin blows a horn, calling for them to all assemble.
Oak spots Lady Elaine, whispering something to Lady Asha, Cardan’s mother. When she notices him, she turns away without meeting his gaze.
The attention of the crowd shifts, and voices still. He turns to see Wren and Bogdana ride in, not on steeds, but on creatures enchanted from sticks and twigs and brambles. They move like horses but remind Oak of ragwort ponies in their uncanniness.
Unconsciously, he leans back, urging Jack away. Their presence bothers Oak, not just because he fought creatures like them, not just because they were Lady Nore’s beasts and conjured from Mab’s bones, but because he was aboard the Moonskimmer and did not see them there.
Another secret.
Wren is in a dress of pale gold. A chain veil is on her head, set with shimmering aquamarines. It contains her hair and falls down over her cheeks and chin, almost to her waist. She holds the reins of a bridle made from a thin chain that wraps around the horse’s mouth. Though she looks majestic and even bridal, she frowns at her hands, shoulders hunched. She looks haunted.
By contrast, Bogdana is in another dark shroud, tattered in places and flying behind her in the breeze. Her expression is the picture of satisfaction.
Their arrival is greeted with murmurs of admiration. Courtiers ooh and aah over the bramble beasts, running hands over twiggy flanks.
He may not get answers out of his sister, but that doesn’t mean he can’t get answers. Pressing his knee gently against the kelpie’s flank, he guides him toward Wren.
“Is that . . . ?” Wren frowns.
“Jack of the Lakes,” Oak says, patting the kelpie’s neck. “A merry wight.”
Wren’s lip lifts in something that could have become a smile but doesn’t stay long enough.
“Tonight I must ask you a question,” Oak says. “What if it’s impossible to respond to what I ask incorrectly?”
“You would bind me to marriage unwilling?” Nothing in her tone acknowledges the night before, their tangled limbs and ragged breaths. Her eloquent, whispered wants.
He feels guilty that he’s not telling her the truth—he won’t make her do anything she doesn’t wish. But he needs to know if something is actually wrong.
“Am I supposed to declare that I was swept away first by one whim and then another?” he asks, blithe as ever. If her shield is coldness, his is mirth.
“Would they not believe it? Besides, you could tell the Court we had an argument.” Wren glances over her shoulder, as though afraid someone can hear her. “I would be more than willing to have one right now. A spectacular fight.”
He raises his brows. “And what might this argument be about?”
“Lady Elaine, perhaps,” Wren offers. “Your fickle nature. I could tell you about it, loudly.”
He winces. “I needed information from her.”
“And did you get it?” Her brows draw together.
“I am not what I pretend to be here at Court. I would have thought you knew that.”
“Don’t be such a fool,” she snaps. “It doesn’t matter what I believe, only that . . .”
“Yes?” He waits for her to finish the statement.
But she only shakes her head, smothering a cough. Bogdana glances back at them.
For a long moment, they ride in silence.
“I suppose you’re going to tell me that argument was enough,” Oak says finally. There’s definitely something strange about this conversation. “Jack could spread around a few details, given his penchant for gossip.”
The kelpie makes a horselike whinny and tosses his mane, objecting. “And I suppose you’re also going to tell me that last night means
nothing,” Oak goes on.
Wren stiffens. “What does it matter? Despite your declaration of love, can you really say you want to marry me?”
“And if I do?” he asks.
“That doesn’t matter, either,” she says, her voice the snap of a lash. He takes a breath. “Tonight—”
“Tonight is too late,” she says, anguished. “It may already be too late.” With that, she pulls at the lead on her twig-and-branch steed, wheeling away from him.
He watches after her, certain that someone is manipulating or threatening her. Obviously, she can’t tell him directly or she would have done so. But how can anyone constrain her, as powerful as she is?
He sees Taryn steer her horse to Wren’s side, hears his sister tell her how well she likes what Wren is wearing. Watches Bogdana guide her bramble steed toward Randalin. He doesn’t have the wit to be afraid of her and begins merrily chatting away.
Some of the courtiers have ridden fast, in search of game, but many more have ambled along on their mounts, deep in conversation. A few have parasols of flowers or feathers or even cobwebs.
Oak rides alongside them, deep in thought, until a horn blares, signaling the beginning of the picnic.
He swings down from Jack’s back and follows the others to the campsite. Servants have set up an array of differently patterned blankets and baskets, along with parasols and even musicians. If the presence of mortals or the lot of them trooping around hasn’t frightened off the silver stag, a few sets of murder ballads surely will.
There are duck hand pies, stoppered carafes of wine, blackberry tarts beside piles of roasted chestnuts, and bread so light and airy that cold butter spread across it would tear it like tissue.
Oriana walks to Oak, holding out a cup of red clover tea. “I barely spoke with you last night,” she says.
“We sat at the same table, Mother,” the prince reminds Oriana.
She puts her arm through his. She is so much smaller that it seems impossible she ever tossed him in her arms. “Have you come up with your question for the girl?”
He shakes his head.
“Ask her your fondest memory,” she urges slyly. “Or perhaps your deepest secret.”
“They’re clever questions,” Oak says. “They seem difficult, but she might well be able to guess both. Not a bad suggestion.”
His mother frowns, and he takes perverse delight in having turned her words against her. But at least he’s certain that if she’s so obvious in urging him to walk away, she isn’t engaged in a secret manipulation of Wren. “Hoping I will seek Nicasia’s hand instead?” he asks, thinking of Tatterfell’s theory.
Oriana’s eyes go wide. “Of course not. That would be madness.” “You don’t think my sister wants—”
“No,” his mother says. “She wouldn’t. You would never survive down there.”
If Jude does plan on his marrying Nicasia, she hasn’t started the process of suborning Oriana. And while, being the High Queen, she could do whatever she wants, you’d think she’d have brought it up once, at least.
He reminds himself that he can’t be sure, though. Right now, he can’t be sure of anything.
Taryn has stuck by Wren. They are speaking together, standing beside the Ghost’s horse. For a moment, he thinks of going over there and dumping his red clover tea over his sister’s head.
Hyacinthe walks toward Oak, signaling with raised brows.
The prince kisses his mother’s cheek. “See? After considering the Undersea, nothing seems so bad.” Then he leaves her and goes to where Hyacinthe is scowling at him.
“I heard you last night,” Hyacinthe says, low-voiced. That could mean a lot of things. “And?”
“With your nephew,” he says.
Oak winces. He should have realized that if he could eavesdrop on Tiernan and Hyacinthe, it was equally possible for him to be eaves-dropped upon.
“Were you going to deliver what I asked of you?” Hyacinthe asks. “Or are you the coward who lets your mother’s murderer walk free?”
Oak has been asking himself about the closer betrayals, but eventually he would have to answer that question. “I thought you’d had enough of revenge.”
“I am not speaking of myself,” Hyacinthe reminds him. “And I told you that I did not release you from your vow.”
Choosing the worst possible moment, the Ghost moves toward them, a skin of wine and two carved wooden cups in his hand. Right, because he was going to give Oak an update on whatever it was he was seeking to find out the night before.
“Send him away,” Hyacinthe says.
“He knows something,” Oak objects.
“Send him away or I will stab him through,” hisses Hyacinthe under his breath.
“A cup of mead, prince?” offers the Ghost, pouring one for Oak and then one for himself. He glances at Hyacinthe. “I am afraid I only brought the two, but if you bring yours, I will pour.”
Oak’s cheeks feel hot, and there is a roaring in his ears the way there is when he gives in to instinct and fights without mercy. He takes the cup of honey wine and drinks it. It’s too sweet and cloying in his mouth.
The Ghost takes his in a gulp, then winces. “Not good wine, but wine nonetheless. Now, if you will walk with me.”
“I am afraid I can’t talk right now,” the prince tells Garrett.
The Ghost must hear something in his voice. Looking puzzled, he says, “Come find me when you’re ready, but it must be soon. I will ride a little
ways north so that we will be alone. When we’re done, we will speak with your sister.”
“You’re gripping your sword,” Hyacinthe tells Oak in a low voice as the spy departs.
Oak glances down at his hand, surprised to find it curled around the hilt of his blade. Surprised to find it shaking a little.
“I have to go after him,” the prince says. “Someone’s manipulating Wren.”
“Manipulating? Who? How?” Hyacinthe asks. “I don’t know.”
Hyacinthe glances in the direction that the Ghost went. Courtiers are still sitting on blankets, so there’s no chance of the hunt starting up again immediately. Oak needs to find out what information the spy has.
Garrett already disappeared into the Milkwood, somehow slipping between the white trunks.
With a glance toward Wren and a reminder that he needs to keep his temper, Oak remounts the kelpie and heads in the direction the Ghost went. His head is swimming. He’s got to keep himself under control. Surely whatever it is that the spy knows will help Oak understand the constraints on Wren and who put them there.
He rides a little farther and looks down at his hand, which has started to tremble. He still has the sensation of being underwater. And with it, he feels a rush of something entirely too familiar.
Blusher mushroom. He’s been poisoned.
He thinks of the honey wine, sweet enough to hide the flavor. Honey wine, given into his hand by the Ghost.
The prince laughs out loud. Of all the things the Ghost knows about murder, apparently he doesn’t know that this is the one poison to which Oak is immune. If the spy hadn’t decided to go with the symmetry of finishing the job the way he’d begun it, Oak might really be dead.
The prince draws his sword.
Oh, he’s going to murder the spy. The Ghost thinks he knows what Oak can do, but he isn’t aware of his other lessons, from Madoc. Garrett doesn’t know what Oak has become under his father’s tutelage. Doesn’t know how many people he’s already slain.
The prince urges Jack north through the brambles, past the columns of pale trees. Finally, he comes upon a clearing. The kelpie stops short. For a
moment, Oak doesn’t understand what he’s looking at.
There, in a tangle of vines, lies a body.
Oak slides down from the kelpie’s back to draw closer. The man’s mouth is stained purple. His eyes are open, staring up at the late afternoon sky as though lost in contemplation of the clouds.
“Garrett?” Oak says, leaning down to shake him. The Ghost does not move. He does not even blink.
The prince’s fingers close on his shoulder. The spy’s body is hard beneath his hand, more like fossilized wood than flesh.
Dead. The man who murdered his mother. The spy who had trained him to move quietly, to wait. Who bounced Leander on his shoulders. Taryn’s lover. Jude’s friend.
Dead. Impossibly dead.
Which means that Garrett didn’t poison Oak. He shared his poisoned wine, all unknowing.
Could Hyacinthe have done this? He might have thought dosing the Ghost with what killed Liriope to be fitting—a symmetry of a different kind. And if he knew that Oak wouldn’t die from it, he wouldn’t be kind enough to stop him from drinking a portion of the blusher mushroom. He wouldn’t care if Oak suffered a little.
But if it wasn’t Hyacinthe, then it came down to the question of what the Ghost had learned. What he wanted to tell Oak. What they needed to go to Jude with. What couldn’t wait.
