The Prisoner's Throne (The Stolen Heir Duology, #2)(36)

After that, servants make ready to lead each of them to rooms.

The Ghost catches Wren’s eye. “We hope that you will choose wisely when you select your retinue.” He gives a pointed look in the direction of the storm hag.

A small smile pulls at the corner of Wren’s mouth, making her sharp teeth evident. “Someone will have to remain here and watch over the Citadel.”

After the Elfhame ambassadors and their guards depart, Wren puts a hand on Oak’s arm, as though she needs to draw his attention. “What kind of game is this?” She lowers her voice, although Bogdana is watching them closely. Hyacinthe and the other guards are pretending they are not.

“The kind where no one loses so badly that they have to throw away all their cards,” Oak says.

“You only delay the inevitable.” She turns from him, her skirts whirling around her.

He wonders how she must have felt when the army of Elfhame arrived. She seems to have resigned herself to the battle with a certain hopelessness, as though she couldn’t imagine a way out.

“Maybe I can keep delaying it.” Daringly, he walks after her, stepping in front so that she’s forced to look up at him. “Or maybe it isn’t inevitable.”

A few strands of light blue hair have fallen around her face, lessening the severity of the style. But nothing can alter the hardness in her expression. “Hyacinthe,” she says.

He steps forward. “My lady.”

“Take the prince back to his rooms. And this time, make sure he actually stays there.” It’s not an accusation, but it’s close.

“Yes, my lady,” Hyacinthe affirms, taking Oak by the arm and tugging him in the direction of the hall.

“And bring the bridle to my chambers immediately after,” she says.

“Yes, my lady,” Hyacinthe says again, his voice remarkably even.

The prince goes along willingly. At least until they enter the stairwell and Hyacinthe shoves him against the wall, hand to his throat.

“What exactly do you think you were doing?” Hyacinthe demands.

The prince holds his hands out in surrender. “It worked.”

“I didn’t expect you to . . . ,” he starts, but cannot seem to finish the sentence. “I should have, of course. Do you think that traveling to Elfhame will help her use her power less?”

“Than fighting a war?” Oak asks. “I do.”

“And whose fault is it that she’s in this position in the first place?”

“Mine,” Oak admits with a wince. “But not just mine. You were the one who put the idea of defeating Lady Nore in order to end his exile into my father’s head. If Madoc had never come here, then none of this would have ever happened.”

“You’re blaming me for the former grand general’s schemes. I ought to be flattered.”

“My sister would have executed you for your part in those schemes,” Oak tells Hyacinthe. “Had we not taken you that night, at best, you would have been locked in the Tower of Forgetting. But most likely she would have had your head. And then Tiernan’s for good measure.”

“Is that how you justify manipulating all the people around you like pieces on a chessboard?” Hyacinthe accuses. “That you’re doing the best for them?”

“As opposed to you, who doesn’t care how much Tiernan suffers for your sake? I suppose you think that makes you honest, rather than a coward.” Oak isn’t thinking about what he’s saying anymore. He’s too angry for that. “Or maybe you want to cause him pain. Maybe you’re still furious with him for not following you into exile. Maybe making him miserable is your way of having revenge.”

Hyacinthe’s punch sends Oak staggering back. He can taste blood where a tooth caught on the inside of his mouth. Is there no situation you’re not compelled to make worse?

“You have no right to speak of my feelings for Tiernan.” Hyacinthe’s voice is raw.

For a moment, in the hot flush of his anger, Oak wonders what would happen if he said all the right things now, instead of the wrong ones. It would serve Hyacinthe right to have to like him.

But it was so satisfying to do just the opposite.

“You’ve been wanting to hit me for a long time.” Oak spits blood onto the ice steps. “Well, come on, then.”

Hyacinthe punches him again, this time connecting with his jaw, knocking him against a wall.

When Oak looks up, it’s as though he’s seeing through a haze. Oh, this was a bad idea. There’s a roaring in his ears.

He’s afraid suddenly that he cannot hold back.

“Fight, you coward,” Hyacinthe says, punching him in the stomach.

Oak’s hand goes to his side, to the knife he concealed there, wrapped tight enough not to muss the line of the doublet. He doesn’t remember deciding to draw it before it’s in his hand, sharp and deadly.

Hyacinthe’s eyes widen, and Oak is very afraid that he is about to lose time again.

He lets the blade drop.

They stare at each other.

Oak can feel the pulse of his blood, that part of him that’s eager for a real fight, that wants to stop thinking, stop feeling, stop doing anything but make the cold calculations of combat. His awareness of himself flickers like a light, warning that it’s about to cut out and welcome in the dark.