The Prisoner's Throne (The Stolen Heir Duology, #2)(25)

She looks every bit a terrifying Queen of Faerie, beckoning him to some final supper of poisoned apples.

He bows.

Her gaze rests on him, as though trying to decide if the gesture is mockery or not. Or maybe she’s only inspecting his bruises.

He’s certainly noting how fragile she looks. Harrowed.

And something else. Something he ought to have noted in her bedroom, when she’d given him orders, but he’d been too panicked to think about. There’s a defensiveness in her posture, as though she’s bracing for his anger. After having held him prisoner, she believes he hates her. She might still be angry with him, but she quite obviously expects him to be furious with her.

And every time he behaves as though he isn’t, she thinks he’s playing a trick.

“Hyacinthe told me you were reluctant to explain how you came to be hurt,” Wren says.

Oak doesn’t need to glance at the entrances to note the guards. He saw them upon his arrival. Not knowing their loyalties, he can hardly mention Valen, or even Straun, without stripping Hyacinthe of the element of surprise. Did she know that? Was this a play put on for their benefit? Or was this another test? “What would you say if I told you I grew so bored that I hit myself in the face?”

Her mouth becomes an even grimmer line. “No one would believe that lie, could you even tell it.”

Oak’s head dips forward, and he cannot keep the despair out of his voice. This is off to a bad start, and yet he truly does seem unable to keep himself from making it worse. “What lie would you believe?”





CHAPTER



7

W

ren stiffens. He can see the careful way she is holding herself. Transforming her habit for shyness into remoteness. He is all admiration, except for the part where this new queen might decide he is nothing but a thorn to be excised from her side.

“Am I to advise you how best to deceive me?” she says, and he knows they are no longer just talking about his bruises.

Oak walks to the end of the table opposite her. A servant comes and pulls out the chair for him. Dizzily, he drops into the seat, well aware that it probably makes him seem sulky.

He has no idea what to say.

He thinks of the moment in the Court of Moths when he was told that Wren betrayed him, when it seemed certain that she had. Used him as he was familiar with being used. Kissed him to distract from her true purpose. He was furious with her, certainly, and with himself for being a fool. He was angry enough to let them take her away.

It was only later when he understood the details that a terrible panic set in. Because she had betrayed him, but she did it to free those she felt were unfairly imprisoned. And she did it with no strategic or personal benefit, putting herself in danger for Folk and mortals she barely knew. Just as she helped all those mortals who made bad bargains with the Folk back in her town.

He hadn’t found out her reasons before he’d let them take her. He recalls the uncomfortable mix of anger and fear over what might be happening to her, the horror of not being certain he could save her from Queen Annet.

He wonders if this dinner is because Wren heard he was hurt and regrets that, if nothing else. She certainly felt betrayed. But betrayal didn’t stop one from feeling other things. “I do have some experience with deception,” he admits.

She frowns at that unexpected confession, taking her seat as well.

Another servant pours black wine into a goblet in front of him, one carved of ice. Oak lifts it, wondering if there’s any way to tell if the liquid within is poisoned. Some he can identify by taste, but plenty have either no flavor or one subtle enough to be masked by something more aromatic.

He thinks of Oriana, patiently feeding him a little bit of poison along with goat milk and honey when he was an infant, making him sicker to make him better. He takes a tentative sip.

The wine is strong and tastes of something like currants.

He notes that Wren has not touched her glass.

I have to show her that I trust her, he tells himself, even though he’s not entirely sure that he does. After all, she wouldn’t be the first person he liked who tried to kill him. She wouldn’t even be the first person he loved who tried to kill him.

He pushes the thought away. Lifting his wineglass in salute, he takes a deep draught. At that, Wren finally brings her goblet to her lips.

Oak tries not to show his relief. “I asked you once about whether you might like to be queen in earnest. It seems you changed your mind.” He manages to keep his voice light, although he still isn’t sure why he’s sitting here and not at the other end of an ice whip.

“Have you changed yours?” she asks.

He smiles. “Ought I? Tell me, Your Majesty, what is it like, now that you sit on a throne and have so many demands on your time and resources? Do you like having courtiers at your beck and call?”

Her returning smile is tinged with bitterness. “You know well, prince, that sitting at the head of the table does not mean your guests will not fall to bickering over the portions on their plates, the seating arrangements, or the polish on the silver. Nor does it mean they will not scheme for your seat.”

As though part of her speech, two huldufólk servants enter the room and set the first course before Oak and Wren.

Thin slivers of cold fish on a plate of ice with a scattering of cracked pink peppercorns. Elegant and cold.