The Prisoner's Throne (The Stolen Heir Duology, #2)(31)

Oak needs an ally, a willing one.

Hating himself, the prince reaches for the honey-mouthed power that stretches languorously at his summons. He leans in to whisper in the nisse’s ear. “I don’t want to frighten you,” he says, his voice sounding strange to his own ears. “And I don’t intend to hurt you. When you came here, I’ll wager it was because of a bad bargain.”

That’s how it was in Balekin’s house. And he didn’t think anyone would stay working for Lord Jarel and Lady Nore if they had any other option.

The nisse doesn’t respond. But something in his expression and his stance makes Oak understand that the servant has been punished before, has been badly hurt, more than once. No wonder Oak scares him.

“What did you promise? I can help,” Oak asks, pulling his hand away slowly. The burr is still in his voice.

The nisse relaxes some, tipping his head back against the wall. “Mortals found my family. I don’t know what they thought we were, but they killed two of us and caught the third. I got away and came to the only place I knew could get back the lover that was taken—the Ice Needle Citadel. And I promised that if they were returned to me, I would loyally work in the Citadel until one of the royal family thought I had repaid my debt and dismissed me.”

Oak lets out a groan. That’s the sort of desperate, foolish bargain he associates with mortals, but mortals are not the only ones who grow desperate or who can be foolish. “Is that exactly what you promised?” Again, his voice has lost its honey-tongued power. He became too distracted to maintain it, too interested in what he wants to remember to say the right thing.

The nisse winces. “I will never forget.”

Oak thinks about being a child and reckless about magic. He thinks about Valen and how furious he was after he realized Oak was enchanting him.

When he speaks, he can feel the air thicken. “I am one of the royal family. Not the one you meant, but you didn’t specify, so I ought to be able to free you from your debt. But I need your help. I need someone to act as a messenger.” Oak can feel the moments his words sink in, like a fish biting a worm, only to have a hook sink through its cheek.

He remembers the feeling of his body betraying him, the feeling of his limbs fighting against his will. There’s none of that here. This is the opportunity the nisse has been looking for.

“We could both get in a lot of trouble,” he says with a nervous glance down the stairs.

“We could,” Oak says in his regular voice.

The nisse nods slowly, pushing off from the wall. “Tell me what you will have me do.”

“First, I need something other than this to wear.”

The nisse raises his eyebrows.

“Yes, yes, you find me to be vain,” says Oak. “But I’m afraid I still need to discover wherever it is that they keep Lord Jarel’s old clothes.”

The nisse flinches. “You’d wear them?”

Probably the dressing gown Oak has on once belonged to Lord Jarel, as well as what Oak was given to put on for dinner. There hadn’t been time to commission whole new outfits, nor had they fit right. And if they had been fetched for him, then he could fetch something else for himself. “Let’s just take a look. What ought I call you?”

“Daggry, Your Highness.”

“Lead on, Daggry,” Oak says.

It’s easier to move through the Citadel with a servant able to scout ahead and report which ways are clear. They make it to a storeroom, slipping inside before they are spotted.

“This is very near my bedchamber,” says Daggry. “Should you wish to visit me there tonight.”

Oak makes his mouth curve, though guilt chokes him. “I don’t think either one of us will have much time for sleeping.”

Oak thinks of his mother’s warning: Say those things, and they will not only want to listen to you. They will come to want you above all other things.

“No,” Daggry says. “I was not proposing sleep.”

The narrow room is piled with trunks, stacked haphazardly one on the next. And packed in them, the prince finds clothes spread with dried lavender and picked over for gold and pearl ornaments. Strings hang loose from the places where buttons and trims were cut away. He wonders if Lady Nore sold the missing pieces before she discovered the value of the bones she stole from the tombs underneath Elfhame. Before Bogdana began whispering in her ear, urging her on the path that would bring Wren back to the storm hag.

He finds paper and ink, books and pen nibs attached to owl feathers. At the very bottom of the trunk, Oak digs up a few scattered weapons. Cheap, flat ones, a few pitted or scratched where gems were obviously removed from hilts. He lifts up a small dagger, keeping it mostly hidden in the palm of his hand.

“I am going to write a note,” he says.

Daggry watches him with unnerving eagerness.

Taking out the paper, pens, and ink, Oak braces against one of the chests and scratches out two messages. The owl feather pen stains his fingers and makes him wish for a Sharpie. “Take the first of these to Hyacinthe,” Oak says. “And the second one to the army that waits beyond the wall.”

“The High Court’s army?” the nisse says with a squeak in his voice.

Oak nods. “Go to the stables of the Citadel. There you will find my horse. Her name is Damsel Fly. Take her, and ride as fast as you are able. Once you come to the army, tell them you have a message from Prince Oak. Do not let them send you back with a message. Tell them it wouldn’t be safe for you.”