The Prisoner's Throne (The Stolen Heir Duology, #2)(24)

And if she doesn’t keep using her power . . .

No matter how dangerous the magic, Oak can too easily imagine Wren believing that if she doesn’t use it, she won’t be able to keep her throne. This was a land of huldufólk, nisser, and trolls, used to bowing only to strength and ferocity. They followed Lady Nore, but they were willing to hail Wren, her murderer, as their new queen.

She may be inclined to push herself past her limits to keep that support. To prove herself worthy. Has he not witnessed his sister doing just that?

You know what would really impress them? his mind supplies unhelpfully. Daring to skewer the heir to Elfhame.

“Tonight, at dinner,” Hyacinthe says, “persuade her to let you go. And if you can’t, then leave. Go. Actually escape this time, and take your political conflict with you.”

Oak rolls his eyes at the assumption that getting out of the prisons was easy and he could have done it at any time. “You could advise her to let me go. Unless she doesn’t trust you, either.”

Hyacinthe hesitates, not taking the bait. “She would trust me less if she knew we were having this conversation. Perhaps wisely, I am not sure she trusts anyone. All the Folk in the Citadel have their own agendas.”

“I am last on the list of those whose advice she’d heed,” Oak says. “As you well know.”

“You have a way of persuading people.”

It’s a barbed comment, but the prince grits his teeth and refuses to be offended. No matter how barbed, it’s also the truth. “It would be far easier if I wasn’t wearing this bridle.”

Hyacinthe gives him a sideways look. “You’ll manage.” He must have heard the specifics of her command. You will stay in my prisons until you are sent for.

Oak sighs.

“And in the interim, stop picking fights,” Hyacinthe says, making Oak want to pick a fight with him. “Is there no situation you’re not compelled to make worse?”

Oak climbs the steps of the tower, thinking of the dinner ahead of him with Wren. The idea of sitting across from her at a table seems surreal, part of his hectic, fox-filled dreams.

They come to a wooden door with two locks on the outside. Hyacinthe moves past the prince to fit a key inside the first one and then the other.

One key. Two locks. Oak notes that. And none of it iron.

The room it opens onto is well appointed. Low couches are arranged on a rug looking so much softer than anything he’s seen in weeks that he could sink down onto that and be happy. Blue flames burn in the grate of a fireplace. They seem hot, and yet when he puts a hand to the ice wall above the fire, there is none of the slickness that would indicate melting. Where the rug doesn’t cover, the floor is inset with stone. If you didn’t look carefully, you could suppose that you weren’t in an ice palace at all.

“A far finer class of prison,” Oak says, moving to lean against one of the posts of the bed. While he was moving, he wasn’t dizzy, but now that he’s stopped, he feels the immense need to be supported by something.

“Get dressed,” Hyacinthe says, pointing to a set of clothes laid out on the bed. He holds the key in his palm pointedly, then places it on the mantel. “If you can’t persuade her, it may interest you to know there’s a shift in the guard at dawn. I left you a book on the table over there as well. It’s mortal literature, and I understand you like that sort of thing.”

Oak stares at the key as Hyacinthe leaves. Part of him wants to dismiss this as a trick, a way for the former falcon to prove the prince untrustworthy.

His gaze goes to the clothing left for him and then the mattress beneath, stuffed with goose down or perhaps duck feathers. He feels almost sick with the desire to lie down, to allow his throbbing temple to rest on a pillow.

He takes a deep breath and forces himself to pick up the book that Hyacinthe indicated—a hardback with a dust jacket that proclaims Magic Tricks for Dummies. He ruffies the pages, thinking of how he once made a coin disappear and reappear in front of Wren. Remembering his fingers brushing against her ear, her surprised laugh.

He should have let her leave that night. Let her take the damned bridle, get on the bus, and go, if that was what she wanted.

But no, he had to show off. Be clever. Manipulate everyone and everything, just the way he’d been taught. Just the way his father had manipulated him to come here.

With a sigh, he frowns down at the book again. There doesn’t seem to be anything tucked inside. He isn’t sure what it means then, except that Hyacinthe thinks he’s a dummy. Just in case, he goes through the pages again, more slowly this time.

On 161, he finds an almost thoroughly dried stalk of ragwort.



Guards wait for him in the hall when he emerges from the room, dressed in the clothes he was given.

The doublet is of some silvery fabric that feels sturdy and stiff, as though there might be silver threads woven into the cloth. His shoulders are a little broader and his torso a little longer than the original owner, and it feels even more uncomfortably tight than the uniform. The pants are black as a starless sky and have to be pushed up a little because of the curve of his leg above his hooves.

He says nothing to the guards, and their faces are grim as they escort him to a high-ceilinged dining room where their new queen is waiting.

Wren stands at the head of a long table in a dress of some material that seems to be black and then silver, depending on the light. Her hair is pulled away from her pale blue face, and while she does not wear a crown, the ornaments in her hair suggest one.