The Prisoner's Throne (The Stolen Heir Duology, #2)(46)

He can see that she’s relaxed, sinking back onto the cushions, eyes half-closed as though in a daydream. And although he wouldn’t choose those words, he does plan to take her to all those places.

“I look forward to introducing you to each of my sisters and reminding them that you helped our father. I will tell the story of how you single-handedly defeated Lady Nore and bravely took an arrow in the side.” He’s not sure what he expects from his magic, but it isn’t this rush of words. Not a single thing he said is anything other than true. “And I will tell them the story of Mellith, and how wronged she was by Mab, how wronged you were and how much I want—”

Wren’s eyes open, wet with unshed tears. She sits up. “How dare you say those things? How dare you throw everything I cannot have in my face?”

“I didn’t—” he starts, and for a moment, he isn’t sure if he’s speaking as himself. If he’s using his power or not.

“Get out,” she growls, standing.

He holds up his hands in surrender. “Nothing I said was un—”

Wren hurls the teacup at him. It smashes against the floor, jagged bits of pottery flying. “Get out!”

He stares at the shards in horror, realizing what it means. She picked up the cup. I persuaded her to pick up the cup. This is the exact problem with being a love-talker. His power cares nothing for consequences.

“You told me you’d give me an order after I tried to persuade you.” Oak takes a step toward the door, his heart beating painfully hard. “I shall obey.”

When he passes Straun, the guard snorts, as though he believes Oak had his chance and blew it.



The prince stands on the deck for the better part of the night, staring numbly into the sea as dawn blushes on the horizon. He’s still there when he hears a scream behind him.

At the cry, he whirls, hand already going to the blade at his hip—finding not the needle-thin rapier he’s used to wielding but a borrowed cutlass. The curved blade rattles in its scabbard as he pulls it free—just as a thick black tentacle sprawls across the deck.

It wriggles toward the prince like some disembodied finger, dragging itself forward. Oak takes several steps back.

Another tentacle rises from the water to twine around the prow, ripping through one of the sails.

A troll sailor, interrupted from a game of Fidchell with an ogre, scrambles to his feet and up the rigging in horror. Shouts ring out.

“The Undersea! The Undersea is attacking!”

The ocean churns as seven sharks surface with merrows astride their backs. All the merrows are different shades of mottled green and wield jagged-looking spears. They are armored in pearlescent scales of shells and draped in woven ropes of seaweed. The expression in their cold, pale eyes makes it clear they have come to fight.

The captain blows on a crooked pipe. Sailors run to positions, beginning to haul out massive harpoons from hatches beneath the deck, each weapon heavy enough to take several of them to move.

The knights and falcons spread out, swords and bows to hand.

“Subjects of Elfhame,” a merrow shouts. Like the others, he is clad in shells cut into discs that overlap one another to make a sort of scale armor, but his bare arms are encircled in bracelets of gold, and his hair is knotted into thick braids, decorated with the teeth of sea creatures. “Know the power of Cirien-Cròin, far greater than the line of Orlagh.”

Oak steps toward the gunwale, but Tiernan grabs his shoulder and squeezes it hard. “Don’t be a fool and draw their eye. Perhaps they won’t recognize you.”

Before Oak can argue, Randalin raises his voice. “Is that your name? The name of your monster?” He sounds somewhere between stern lecturer and on the verge of panic.

The merrow laughs. “The name of our master, who has gone courting. He sends us with a message.”

“Deliver it, and go on your way,” says Randalin, making a shooing motion toward the tentacle. “And get that thing off our deck.”

Oak spots Wren, not sure when she left her chambers. He catches her gaze, remembering the warning she was given by the merrow she freed from the Court of Moths—that a war was coming for control of the Undersea. And Loana mentioned that Nicasia was having a contest for her hand and, with it, her crown. Then Loana tried to drown him, which overshadowed the warning. But he recalls it vividly now.

Wren widens her eyes, as though trying to tell him something. Probably that they’re screwed. If she unmakes the tentacle, she might unmake the ship along with it.

At least this seems to have put their disastrous game out of her mind.

“You are the message,” the merrow says. “You, at the bottom of the sea with crabs picking out your eyes.”

Another tentacle rises from the waves, slithering up the side of the boat. Well, this is very, very bad.

Seven merrows and one monster. The thing with the tentacles doesn’t seem to have any particular cleverness. As far as Oak can tell, it can’t even see what it is grabbing for. If they can get rid of the merrows, there is a chance that without anyone commanding it to strike, the thing will go away. Of course, there is also a chance it may decide to rip the ship to teeny, tiny pieces.

“Queen Suren,” the merrow says, spotting her. “You should have taken our offer and given us your prize. I see you lost your war. Here we find you in the hands of your enemy. Were you our ally, we would save you, but now you will die with the others. Unless . . .”