The Prisoner's Throne （The Stolen Heir Duology, #2）
Holly Black
SIX WEEKS BEFORE IMPRISONMENT
O
ak jammed his hooves into velvet pants.
“Have I made you late?” Lady Elaine asked from the bed, her voice full of wicked satisfaction. She propped up her head with an elbow and gave a little laugh. “It won’t be too much longer before you don’t have to do anything at their beck and call.”
“Yes,” Oak said, distracted. “Only yours, right?”
She laughed again.
Doublet only half-buttoned, he tried desperately to remember the fastest route to the gardens. He’d meant to be punctual, but then the opportunity to finally see the scope of the treasonous plot he’d been pursuing had presented itself.
I promise I will introduce you to the rest of my associates, she’d told him, her fingers sliding beneath his shirt, untucking it. You will be impressed with how close to the throne we can get. . . .
Cursing himself, the sky, and the concept of time in general, Oak raced out the door.
“Hurry, you scamp,” one of the palace laundresses called after him. “It will look ill if they begin without you. And fix your hair!”
He tried to smooth down his curls as servants veered out of his way. In the palace of Elfhame, no matter how tall he grew, Oak was forever the mischievous, wild-haired boy who coaxed guards into playing conkers with horse chestnuts and stole honey cakes from the kitchens. Faerie caught its inhabitants in amber, so if they were not careful, a hundred years might pass in the lazy blink of an eye. And so, few noticed how much the prince had changed.
Not that he didn’t resemble his younger self right then, pelting down another corridor, hooves clattering against stone. He dodged left to avoid running into a page with an armful of scrolls, wove right so as not to knock over a small table with an entire tea tray atop it, then almost slammed into Randalin, an elderly member of the Living Council.
By the time he made it to the gardens, Oak was out of breath. Panting, he took in the garlands of Bowers and musicians, the courtiers and revelers. No High King or Queen yet. That meant he had a chance to make his way to the front with no one the wiser.
But before he could slip into the crowd, his mother, Oriana, grabbed hold of his sleeve. Her expression was stern, and since her skin was usually ghostly white, it was easy to see the Bush of anger in her cheeks. It pinked them so they matched the rosy color of her eyes.
“Where have you been?” Her fingers went to Oak’s doublet, fixing his buttons.
“I lost track of time,” he admitted.
“Doing what?” She dusted off the velvet. Then she licked her finger and rubbed a smudge on Oak’s nose.
He grinned at her fondly, letting her fuss. If she thought of him as barely more than a boy, then she wouldn’t look more deeply into any trouble he made for himself. His gaze went to the crowd, looking for his guard. Tiernan was going to be angry when he understood Oak’s plan in full. But flushing out a conspiracy would be worth it. And Lady Elaine had been so close to telling him the names of the other people involved.
“We’d better head toward the dais,” he told Oriana, catching hold of her hand and giving it a squeeze.
She squeezed back, swift and punishingly hard. “You are heir to all of Elfhame,” she said as though he might have missed that bit. “It’s time to start behaving like someone who could rule. Never forget that you must inspire fear as well as love. Your sister hasn’t.”
Oak’s gaze went to the crowd. He had three sisters, but he knew which one she meant.
He put out his arm, like a gallant knight, and his mother allowed herself to be mollified enough to take it. Oak kept his expression every bit as grave as she could wish. That was easily done, because as he took the first step, the High King and Queen came into view at the edge of the gardens.
His sister Jude was in a gown the color of deep red roses, with high slashes on the sides so that the dress wouldn’t restrict her movements. She wore no blade at her waist, but her hair was done up in her familiar horns. Oak was almost certain she hid a small knife in one of them. She would have a few more sewn into her garment and strapped beneath her sleeves.
Despite being the High Queen of Elfhame, with an army at her disposal and dozens of Courts at her command, she still acted as though she’d have to handle every problem herself—and that each one would best be solved through murder.
Beside her, Cardan was in black velvet adorned with even blacker feathers that shone like they’d been dragged through an oil spill, the darkness of his clothes the better to show off the heavy rings shining on his fingers and the large pearl swinging from one of his ears. He winked at Oak, and Oak smiled in return despite his intention to remain serious.