The Prisoner's Throne (The Stolen Heir Duology, #2)(92)

“My father should have asked me,” Jude says, unbothered by the insult to her beloved.

“I don’t want to fight with you,” Oak warns.

“Of course you do,” Jude says. “Van, bring me my favorite sword since Wren ruined the other one. I left it where I changed clothes.”

The prince looks over to see the Roach, his mouth grim, walk toward the tent. A few moments later, he returns with a sword wrapped in heavy black cloth.

“I wasn’t part of Randalin’s conspiracy,” Oak tries again.

But Jude only gives her brother a grim smile. “Well, then, what a wonderful opportunity for you to prove your loyalty and die for the High King.”

The Roach unwraps a blade, but Oak can barely pay attention. Panic has taken hold of him. He cannot fight her. And if he does, he absolutely cannot lose control.

“There are twin swords,” Jude says. “Heartseeker and Heartsworn. Heartsworn can cut through anything. It once cut through an otherwise invulnerable serpent’s head and broke a curse. You can see why I’d like it.”

“That hardly seems fair,” Oak says, his eye on the sword at last. It’s finely crafted, as beautiful as one might expect one made in a great smith’s forge to be. And then he understands. He lets out his breath in a rush.

Jude moves into an easy stance. She’s good. She’s always been good. “What makes you think I am interested in fairness?”

“Fine,” says Oak. “But you won’t find me an easy opponent.”

“Yes, I saw you inside. That was impressive,” says his sister. “As was your cleverness. Apologies for not noticing what I should have long before.”

“Apology accepted,” says Oak with a nod.

Jude rushes at the prince. Oak parries, circling. “Cardan’s okay, then?” he asks as quietly as he is able.

“He’ll have an impressive scar,” she returns, voice low. “I mean, not as impressive as several of mine, obviously.”

Oak lets out a breath. “Obviously.”

“But what he’s really doing is getting the courtiers and servants off Insear,” Jude goes on softly. “Through the Undersea. His ex-girlfriend is still queen there. He’s leading them through the deep.”

Oak glances toward the tents. The ones that Jude threatened to murder anyone who went near. The ones that are empty.

“Swordplay is a dance, they say.” Jude raises her voice as she slashes her blade through the air. “One, two, three. One, two, three.”

“You’re terrible at dancing,” Oak says, forcing himself to stay in the moment. He will not lose himself in the fight. He will not let himself go.

She grins and moves in, nearly tripping him.

“Wren was being blackmailed,” he tells her, dodging a blow almost a moment too late, distracted by trying to think of what he can say to make her understand. “The thing with her sister.”

“I am not sure you know your enemies from your allies.”

“I do,” Oak says. “And the falcons follow her.”

“Tell me that you’re sure of her,” Jude says. “Really sure.”

Oak thrusts, parries. Their swords clang together. If Jude really were fighting with Heartsworn, it would have sliced his blade in half. But Oak recognized the sword the Roach brought—it was Nightfell, forged by her mortal father.

As soon as Jude lifted it, Oak understood her game at last.

With as few soldiers as they had, she knew they had to get close to their enemy. Knew they needed the edge of surprise.

“I’m sure,” says Oak.

“Okay.” Jude presses her attack, forcing Oak back, closer and closer to the storm hag. “This dance I’m good at. One. Two. Three.”

Together they turn. Oak presses the tip of his sword to one side of Bogdana’s throat. Jude’s goes to the other.

The falcons turn their weapons toward Oak and Jude. Pull back bowstrings. On the other side, Elfhame’s knights are ready to return a volley of arrows. If anyone fires, as close as they are to Bogdana, the storm hag is likely to be hit. But that doesn’t mean they won’t be hit, too.

“He tells me we can trust you,” Jude says to Wren.

“Hold,” Wren tells the falcons, her voice shaking a little. He can see in her face that she, despite everything, expected to find one of their blades to her throat. “Lower your weapons, and the High Court will do the same.”

“Get away from her!” a voice comes from one of the tents, and Bex steps into view. She’s soaked through and shivering, and when she sees them, her eyes go wide. “Wren?”

Horror clouds Wren’s expression as Bex steps out of the shelter of the canvas into the rain. One hand goes to cover her mouth automatically, to hide her sharp teeth. Wren never wanted her family to look at her and see a monster.

Oak notes her swaying a little with nothing nearby to grasp to keep her upright. Wren has been drinking up far too much magic. She must feel as though she is fraying at the edges. She may be fraying at the edges.

“Bex,” Wren says so quietly that he doubts the girl can hear the words over the storm.

The mortal takes a step toward her.

“She’s actually here,” Wren says, sounding awed. “She’s okay.”