The Prisoner's Throne (The Stolen Heir Duology, #2)(53)

All around, there is the rattle of swords coming free of sheaths.

“What an appropriate greeting, Your Majesties,” says the storm hag. She does not bow. Nor does she curtsy. She doesn’t even incline her head.

“Bogdana,” Jude says, and there is something that is possibly admiration in her voice. “Your reputation precedes you.”

“How pleasing,” says the storm hag. “Especially since I saved your ship from certain destruction.”

Jude looks toward the Ghost—then checks herself and turns to Randalin instead.

“It is even so, Your Majesty,” the councilor affirms. “The Undersea launched an attack on us.”

A ripple of surprise goes through the crowd.

Cardan raises his brows, looking skeptical. “The Undersea?”

“One of the contenders for Queen Nicasia’s hand,” Randalin clarifies.

The High King turns to Oak with an amused smirk. “Perhaps they were worried you might throw your hat into that ring.”

“They wanted to send a message,” Randalin goes on, as though arguing the case, “that the land ought to keep to itself and let the Undersea work out its ruler business on its own. If we act otherwise, we will have made a powerful new enemy.”

“Their dim view of treaties gives me a dim view of them,” says Cardan. “We will give Nicasia aid, as she once aided us, and as we swore to do.”

It was the Undersea who’d rallied to Jude’s side when Cardan had been enchanted into a serpent, while Madoc and his allies conspired to take crown and throne, and while Wren hid in Oak’s room.

“We are grateful to you for your help,” Jude tells Bogdana.

“I saved the ship, but Wren saved those on board,” the storm hag says, curling her long fingers possessively on the girl’s shoulder.

Wren tenses at the touch or the praise.

“And saved our father as well,” Oak affirms, because he has to make his sister understand that Wren isn’t their enemy. “I couldn’t have gotten to Madoc without her, nor gotten him out—but I’m sure he told you as much.”

“He told me many things,” says Jude.

“I hope we will see him at the wedding,” says Bogdana.

Jude raises her eyebrows and glances in the High King’s direction. It’s obvious they thought Oak being betrothed was a long way from an exchange of vows. “There are several celebrations that ought to precede—”

“Three days’ time,” Bogdana says. “No longer.”

“Or?” Cardan asks, voice light. A dare.

“Enough,” Wren hisses under her breath. She cannot quite call the storm hag to account in front of everyone, and Bogdana knows it, but past a certain point, she will have to do something.

The storm hag places both hands on Wren’s shoulders. “Prince?”

They all look at him, all weighing his loyalty. And while he would marry Wren right then if it were only up to him, he can’t help thinking that anything Bogdana is this eager for can’t be good. Maybe she’s guessed that Wren doesn’t intend to ever go through with it.

“It would pain me to wait even three days,” Oak says, lightly, deflecting. “But if we must, for the sake of propriety, better the thing is done right ”

“There are rituals to complete,” Jude says. “And your family to gather.” She is certainly stalling, as Wren hoped she would.

Cardan watches the interaction. Most particularly, he watches Oak. He suspects the prince of something. Oak has to get him alone. Has to explain.

“We have rooms ready at the palace—” Jude begins.

Wren shakes her head. “There is no need to trouble yourself for my sake. I can keep and quarter my own people.” From a pocket in her shimmering gray dress, she takes out the white walnut.

Jude frowns.

Oak can well believe Wren doesn’t want to be at the palace, to have them observe her every weakness. Still, to refuse the hospitality of the rulers of Elfhame makes a statement about her loyalties.

Cardan seems distracted by the walnut itself. “Oh, very well, I will be the one to ask the obvious question—what have you there?”

“If you will allow us a patch of grass, this is where myself and my people will stay,” Wren says.

Jude glances toward Oak, and he shrugs.

“By all means,” says the High Queen, gesturing toward the guard. “Clear a space.”

A few of her knights disperse the crowd until there is an expanse of grass near the edge of the black rocks overlooking the water.

“Is this enough room?” Jude asks.

“Enough and more than enough,” says Bogdana.

“We can be generous,” says Cardan, clearly choosing his words to irritate the storm hag.

Wren takes a few steps away from them, then tosses the walnut against a patch of mossy earth, reciting the little verse under her breath. Cries of astonishment ring out around them as a pavilion the white of swan feathers, with golden feet like those of a crow, rises from the dirt.

It reminds him of one of the tents in the encampment of the Court of Teeth. He recalls seeing something very like it when he came to cut through the ropes that tied Wren to a post. Recalls listening for Madoc’s voice among those of the other soldiers, half in longing and half in fear. He’d missed his father. He’d also been afraid of him.