The Prisoner's Throne (The Stolen Heir Duology, #2)(35)

“We can unravel the details of the treaty in Elfhame,” Randalin says. “It will be easier with all parties present.”

“I am not sure I’m ready to leave my Citadel,” says Wren, and she glances at Oak. He can see her weighing the choice to let him return with them. Can see the calculation in her face as to whether this was his intention all along.

Two servants enter the room bearing a large wooden tray with steaming silver goblets atop it.

“Please, take one,” Wren offers.

Do not try to poison them, he thinks, staring at her as though he can somehow speak through his gaze. Garrett will switch cups with you, and you’ ll never guess it.

The Ghost takes the hot drink. Oak lifts one, too, the metal warm in his hand. He catches scents of barley and caraway.

Randalin raises his glass. “To you, Lady Suren. And to you, Prince Oak. In the hopes you will reconsider and join us in returning to Elfhame. Your family will insist on it, prince. And I was meant to remind you, should I be so fortunate as to have an audience with you, Lady Suren, that you made vows to the High Court.”

“If they mean to give me orders, let them come here and do so,” Wren says. “But perhaps I can sweep aside a promise like I would a curse. Pull it apart like a cobweb.”

The Folk stare, horrified by even the possibility that someone in Faerie could not be bound by her word. Oak never thought of the promises they made as magic, but he supposes they are a kind of binding.

“You ought not want things to start off on the wrong foot,” Randalin warns, sounding as though he were reprimanding a student who gave a wrong answer. The councilor seems unaware of how quickly this conversation might devolve into violence.

Grima Mog cracks her knuckles. She is very aware.

“Randalin—” Oak begins.

Bogdana interrupts him. “The councilor is correct,” she says. “Wren ought to be properly wed to the heir of Elfhame, with all the pomp and circumstance appropriate to such a union. Let us journey together to the Shifting Isles.”

Wren gives the storm hag a sharp look but doesn’t contradict her. Doesn’t say she won’t go. Instead, her fingers linger on the ring sitting loosely on her hand. She turns it anxiously.

Oak recalls Wren coming to the gardens of Elfhame years and years ago, where Jude had received her, along with Lord Jarel, Lady Nore, and Madoc. Recalls that one of them had proposed a truce, cemented with a marriage between him and Wren.

He was a little afraid of her, with her sharp teeth. He had yet to hit the growth spurt that came at thirteen and pulled his body like taffy; she almost certainly was taller than him. He didn’t want to marry her—he didn’t want to marry anyone—and was relieved when Jude refused.

But he saw the expression in Wren’s face when Vivi referred to her as creepy. The sting of hurt, the flash of rage.

She is going to destroy Elfhame. It’s what she was born to do. That’s what Bogdana believes, what she wants. And maybe Wren wants it a little bit, too. Maybe Oak has made a horrifically large mistake.

But, no. Wren couldn’t have known he would do anything like this. Still, whatever Bogdana favors is unlikely to be a good idea.

“We don’t need to depart immediately,” the prince hedges. “No doubt you will need time to get together your trousseau.”

“Nonsense,” says Bogdana. “I know a hag who will enchant Queen Suren three dresses, one for every day in Elfhame before her wedding. The first shall be the pale colors of morning, the second the bright colors of the afternoon, and the last spangled with the jewels of night.”

“Three days won’t be enough time,” says Randalin, frowning.

“Now who is trying to delay?” the storm hag demands, as though the councilor has committed a grave offense. “Perhaps none of this is necessary. He could marry her now, with those gathered here as witnesses.”

“No,” says Wren firmly.

A shame, because Oak doesn’t think it’s such a bad idea. If they were married, then surely his sister couldn’t attempt to burn the Citadel to the ground. Her troops would have to pull back while Oak could keep the ragwort stalk safely in his pocket and bide his time.

“We would not want to disrespect the High Court,” Wren says. “We will return with you to Elfhame so long as you withdraw your army from this territory. Whatever preparations are necessary, we will manage.”

The Ghost smiles enigmatically. “Excellent. Randalin, your ship is small and swift and well outfitted for traveling in comfort. We can use it to return to Elfhame ahead of the army. If you expect to be ready within a day or two, I will send the message right now.”

“You may do so,” Wren tells him.

“No, no need,” Grima Mog interrupts them gruffiy. “I am here to negotiate over battles, not withdrawals. I will return to my army and inform them that no blood will be shed upon the morrow, nor possibly at all.” She says this as though they are to be deprived of a great treat. She’s a redcap; she might actually believe that.

Her leaving is also almost certainly a test, to see if her departure will be allowed.

As she stomps out, the rest of them drink the contents of their steaming goblets. Randalin makes an officious and confusing speech that manages to be partially about his grievances over the discomforts he endured on the journey, his loyalty to the throne and to Oak, and his belief that alliances are very important. By the time he’s done, he’s behaving as though he negotiated the marriage himself.