The Prisoner's Throne (The Stolen Heir Duology, #2)(19)

“Tell me this,” Valen says, looming over him. “Where did you get the poison you used on Straun?”

Well, crap. That’s a very good question. Oak thinks of the jeweled snake. Imagines how he will look if he tries to explain.

“I thought I didn’t need to torture you to get you to tell me whatever I wanted to know?” Valen turns the knife so that the point hovers over Oak’s eye. He glances at it and sees the edge of one of the straps of the bridle reflected in the blade. A reminder that Wren didn’t sanction this interrogation, that she doesn’t know about it. She wouldn’t need to torture him to find out any of this. All she’d have to do, with the bridle on him, was ask. He could no more deny her than he could stop his own heart from beating.

Of course, whether she’d care if Valen hurt him was another matter. He liked to think that she would, at least for her pride. After all, ten lashes from an ice whip wouldn’t seem like much of a punishment if someone else had already gouged out one of his eyes.

He’d rather not lose the eye, though. Still, all he has going for him is his charm, and that’s a double-edged sword. “You asked me about my sister—and you’re right. I do know her. I know she’s likely to send someone to negotiate for my return. Whatever you think of me, I am valuable to Elfhame.”

“She’d pay a ransom?” Valen licks his lips. Oak can see his desire, a hunger for glory and gold and all the things that were denied him.

“Oh yes,” Oak agrees. “But it hardly matters if Wren won’t agree to give me up. Whatever my sister offers now could have always been Wren’s, along with the Citadel, as a reward for removing Lady Nore.”

Valen’s mouth twists into a harsh smile. “But you seem to have made Queen Suren angry enough to prefer your being brought low to her own rise.”

That stung, being uncomfortably true. “You could make your own bargain with the High Queen.”

The tip of the iron knife presses against Oak’s cheek. It burns like a lit match against his skin. He jerks again, a puppet on a string.

“How about you answer the question about the poison, and then we can discuss what deals I am going to make.”

Panic Roods Oak. He’s going to refuse to talk. And he’s going to be tortured until he gives in and talks anyway. Once Hyacinthe learns about the snake, he will tell Wren, and she’ll believe Oak is her enemy, no matter what he says in his defense. And whatever his sister’s plan is, it’s sure to become exponentially more lethal.

But with enough pain and enough time, anyone will say almost anything.

Perhaps, Oak thinks, perhaps he can get himself hurt so badly the questioning can’t continue. It’s a terrible plan, but no other idea presents itself. He can hardly smile at Valen as he did at Fernwaif and have that be enough to persuade him to let Oak leave the dungeon.

Unless . . .

It’s been a long time since he used his twisting tongue, as Bogdana put it. His true gancanagh power. Let his mouth speak for him, let the words come without his will. Say all the right things in the right way at the right time.

It’s terrifying, like letting go in a sword fight and allowing pure instinct to take over, not being entirely sure whose blood will wind up on his hands.

But whatever Valen is going to do next is more terrifying. If Oak can escape this room in one piece and without putting anyone he cares about in danger, he can figure out the rest from there.

Of course, part of the problem is that his power isn’t one of pure persuasion. He can’t just make someone do what he wants. He can only make himself into what they want and hope that is enough. Worse, he is never sure what that will be. Once he gives in, his mouth makes the words, and he is left with the consequences.

“The trolls of the Stone Forest have blusher mushroom. It’s not so very hard to come by. Forget the poison. Think of your future,” Oak says, his voice sounding strange, even to his own ears. There’s a rough hum underneath and a buzz on his lips, like the sting of electricity. It’s been a long time since he has reached for this power, but it uncurls languorously at his command. “You only want command of Lady Wren’s army? You were meant for greater things.”

Valen’s eyes dilate, the irises blowing wide. He scowls in confusion, shaking his head. “The trolls? That’s where you got the poison.”

Oak doesn’t like how eager the enchantment feels, now that it’s awakened. How easily it Rows through him. He’s felt trickles of this magic before, but not since he was a child has he let himself feel the full force of it. “I am closer to the center of power than anyone at this Citadel,” he says. “Madoc is out of favor, and many in the High Court do not like our armies being led by Grima Mog. Many would prefer you—and isn’t that really what you want?”

“I have lost all chance of that.” Valen’s words aren’t scornful, though. He sounds frightened by his own hopes. The iron knife dips low enough in his gloved hand that he seems in danger of burning his own thigh with the tip.

“You have lived as a falcon for nine years,” Oak says, the words dragging against his tongue. “You were strong enough not to stagger beneath that burden. You are free, and yet if you are not careful, you will be caught in a new net.”

Valen listens as though fascinated.

“You are headed toward a conflict with Elfhame, yet you have no army of stick and stone and no authority of command. But with me, things could change. Elfhame could reward you instead of targeting you. I could help. Unbind me, and I will give you what you have long deserved.”