The Prisoner's Throne (The Stolen Heir Duology, #2)(63)

Cardan raises his brows. “A bold statement to make to your rulers in the heart of their Court. So what do you propose?”

In her hands, the leather shreds and shrivels. The magic departs from it like a thunderclap. The buckles fall to the dirt floor.

Jude takes a step toward her. Everyone in the brugh is looking at them now. The sound the destruction made drew their attention as surely as a shout.

“You unmade it,” says Jude, staring at the remains.

“Since I have cheated you out of one gift, I will give you another. There’s a geas on the High Queen, one that would be easy enough for me to remove.” Wren’s smile is sharp-toothed. Oak isn’t sure what the nature of the geas is, but he is sure from the spark of panic in Jude’s face that she doesn’t want it gone.

The offer hangs in the air for a long moment.

“So many secrets, wife,” Cardan says mildly.

The look Jude gives him in return could have peeled paint.

“Not only the geas, but half a curse,” Wren tells his sister. “It winds around you but cannot quite tighten its grip. Gnaws at you.”

The shock on Jude’s face is obvious. “But he never finished speaking—”

Cardan holds up a hand to stop her. All teasing is gone from his voice. “What curse?”

Oak supposes the High King may well take a curse seriously, since he was once cursed into a giant, poisonous serpent.

“It happened a long time ago. When we went to the palace school,” Oak’s sister says.

“Who cursed you?” asks Cardan.

“Valerian,” Jude spits out. “Right before he died.”

“Right before you killed him, you mean,” Cardan says, his dark eyes glittering with something that looks a lot like fury. Although whether it is toward Jude or this long-dead person, Oak isn’t certain.

“No,” Jude says, not seeming in the least afraid. “I’d already killed him. He just didn’t know it yet.”

“I can remove that and leave the geas alone,” Wren says. “You see, I can be quite helpful.”

“One supposes so,” says the High King, his thoughts clearly on the curse and this Valerian. “A useful alliance.”

Oak supposes that means Wren is still pretending she’s willing to marry him.

Wren reaches her hand into the air, extending her fingers toward Jude and making a motion as though gripping something tightly. Then her hand fists.

His sister gasps. She touches her breastbone, and her head tips forward so that her face is hidden.

The High Queen’s knight, Fand, unsheathes her blade, the glint of the steel reflecting candlelight. All around, guards’ hands go to their hilts.

“Jude?” Oak whispers, taking a step toward her. “Wren, what did you—”

“If you’ve hurt her—” Cardan begins, his gaze on his wife.

“I removed the curse,” Wren says, her voice even.

“I’m fine,” Jude grates out, hand still pressing against her chest. She moves to a chair—not the one at the head of the table, not her own— and sits. “Wren has given me quite a gift. I will have to think long and hard about what to give her in return.”

There’s a threat in those words. And looking around, Oak realizes the reason for it.

It isn’t just that Wren took apart the bridle without permission and the curse without warning, nor that she exposed something that Jude may have wanted to stay hidden, but she made the High King and Queen look weak before their Court. It’s true they weren’t up on the dais for all to see, but enough courtiers were listening and watching for rumors to spread.

The High King and Queen were helpless in the face of Wren’s magic.

That Wren did them a service and put them in her debt.

She did to Jude what Bogdana had done to her in the Citadel—and did it more successfully.

But to what purpose?

“You bring an element of chaos to a party, don’t you?” Cardan says, his tone light, but his gaze fierce. He lifts a goblet from the table. “We obviously have many things to discuss regarding the future. But for now, we share a meal. Let us toast, to love.”

The High King’s voice has a ringing quality that enjoins people to pay attention. Nearby, many glasses are raised. Someone presses a silver-chased goblet into the prince’s hand. Wren is given one by a servant, already filled to the brim with a dark wine.

“Love,” Cardan goes on. “That force that compels us to be sometimes better and often worse. That power by which we can all be bound. That which we ought to fear and yet most desire. That which unites us this evening—and shall unite the both of you soon enough.”

Oak glances at Wren. Her face is like stone. She is clutching her own goblet so tightly that her knuckles are white.

There is a half smile on Cardan’s face, and when his gaze goes to Oak, he gives a small extra tip of his goblet. One that may be a challenge.

I do not want your throne, Oak wishes he could just say aloud and not care if anyone hears, not care if it makes the moment awkward. But the conspirators will reveal themselves just after midnight, and it’s worth waiting a single day.

The Ghost, standing near Randalin, raises his own glass in Oak’s direction. Not far from them, standing by Taryn and Leander, Oriana does not toast and, in fact, appears to be contemplating pouring her wine onto the dirt.