The Prisoner's Throne (The Stolen Heir Duology, #2)(89)

“Come,” Bogdana says, stepping off the edge of the rocks. A swirling wind catches and lifts her, as it caught and lifted the ship. The storm hag’s robes billow. She gives a sharp tug on Oak’s wrist. He follows her, his hooves walking on what seems like nothing but knots and eddies of air.

The fog parts, and droplets of rain do not fall in their path as the wind carries them over the sea.

Minutes later, they drop onto the black rocks of Insear. Oak slips and nearly falls, attempting to find his footing.

And in front of him, he sees Wren and Jude.

They are squared off, his sister holding a sword in one hand, her eyes shining. Most of her brown hair has come out of its braids and hangs loose and wet around her face. Her cheeks are pink with cold, and the bottom of her dress is raggedly cut away, as though she wants to be sure it won’t trip her.

Wren wears the clothes she wore at the hunt, the same clothes she wore on Insmoor. They hang on her, as though there is even less of her now, as though more of her has been eaten away. Her cheekbones are sharper, the hollows beneath them more pronounced. Her expression is as bleak as the rain-streaked sky. As bleak as when she was going to let him stab her.

Behind his sister are four other Folk. The Roach, a dagger in one hand and a fresh wound on his brow. Two archers—knights that Oak recognizes, holding longbows. And a courtier, dressed in velvet and lace, hair and beard in braids, hands gripping a hammer. They are all soaked to the bone.

On Wren’s side are more than a dozen of her soldiers—armored, swords at their belts and bows in their hands.

“Jude,” Oak says, but she doesn’t even seem to hear him.

As he watches, Wren lunges toward Jude, grabbing for her unsheathed blade. Wren’s blood smears over the bare steel where the edge catches her palm. But before the sword can bite more deeply, before Jude can wrench it from her grip, the metal begins to melt. It pools on the ground, hissing where it hits water, cooling into jagged metal shapes. Unmade.

Jude takes a step back, dropping the hilt as though it bit her.

“Nice trick.” Her voice isn’t quite steady.

“I see you have things well in hand, daughter,” Bogdana calls to Wren. “I have the prince. Now, where is the High King?”

“Shoot them,” Jude snaps, ignoring Bogdana’s words and instead focusing on the falcons transforming into soldiers. “Shoot all our enemies.”

Arrows fly, soaring through the air in a beautiful and deadly arc.

Before they can fall, Wren raises a hand. She makes a small motion, as though brushing away a gnat. The arrows break and scatter like twigs caught in a harsh wind.

Jude has pulled two daggers from her bodice, both of them curved and sharp as razors.

Oak steps away from Bogdana, hand on the pommel of his own sword. “Stop!” he shouts.

The storm hag sneers. “Don’t be foolish, boy; you’re surrounded.”

Several of the falcons have notched their own bows, and though Oak believes Wren doesn’t want more death, if they fire, he isn’t at all sure she’d stop her own archers’ arrows from striking. It would be a drain on her power, and her falcons would take it much amiss.

“I have your sister,” he calls, because that’s the important thing. That’s what she needs to know. “I have Bex.”

Wren turns, her eyes wide, hair plastered to her neck. Lips parted, he can see her sharp teeth.

“He’s stolen her from us,” Bogdana shouts. “Believe nothing he says. He would use her to fetter you, child.”

Jude looks across at them, eyebrows raised. “Blackmail, brother? Impressive.”

“That’s not—” he starts.

“You have some decisions to make,” Jude tells him. “The falcons follow your lady. But perhaps she wants your head on a pike as much as the storm hag does. Give her an inch, and she might take your life.”

Bogdana answers before Oak can. “Ah, Queen of Elfhame, you see how useless your weapons are. You’re married to the faithless child of a faithless line. Your crown was secured with my daughter’s blood.”

“My crown was secured with a lot of people’s blood.” Jude turns to her archers. “Ready another volley.”

“You cannot so easily hurt us with sharp sticks,” Wren says, but her gaze keeps drifting to Oak. She must be aware that this is his family and he has hers.

Wren’s magic harrowed her before they got to Elfhame. She sagged in Oak’s arms just the day before. She cannot stop arrows endlessly. He’s not sure what she can do.

“Randalin is dead,” the prince tells the storm hag. “He conspired against Elfhame. He poisoned the Ghost. He planned this coup long before he tried to involve you in it. There is no reason to let him drag you down, too.”

“Don’t let him manipulate you,” Bogdana says, as though it’s Wren he’s trying to convince. “He’s using you just as Randalin hoped to— Randalin, who wanted to help put Prince Oak on the throne. See how the councilor was rewarded for his loyalty? And this is the person you would trust not to use your sister against you?”

Once Bex was safe, Oak thought Wren would be free of Bogdana’s control. And she is, but that doesn’t mean she’s free. He has Bex. He can control Wren the way Bogdana did. He could make her crawl to him as assuredly as if strips of the bridle were digging into her skin.