You are such a beanstalk, he remembers Heather’s mother saying. I remember when I could pick you up. He is surprised by how much that memory hurts, since Heather’s mother is still alive and still kind and would let him sleep in her guest room anytime he wanted. Of course, that’s predicated on his leaving this Citadel alive.
Sometimes, Oak thinks, it’s not in his best interest to investigate his feelings too closely. In fact, right now, perhaps he ought not investigate his feelings at all.
Oak puts on a blue doublet, threaded with silver, then the matching pants. The hem rips a little as he puts his left hoof through one leg, but it’s not immensely noticeable.
He hides the knife in the waistband, hoping he won’t need it.
I can still fix things. That’s what he tells himself over and over. He has a plan, and it might be mad and desperate and even a little presumptuous, but it can work.
Despite the cold, he discovers only two cloaks in the pile of clothes. He rejects the one lined in sealskin on the theory it may be from a selkie. That leaves him with the other, lined in fox fur, though he likes it little better.
Oak draws the hood over his face and heads to the Hall of Queens, where he asked Hyacinthe to meet. The room is echoing and empty; as he waits, he stares at the two women frozen inside the walls, former brides of Lord Jarel. Former queens of the Court of Teeth. Their cold, dead eyes seem to watch him back.
The prince paces the floor, but minutes pass and no one comes. His breath steams in the air as he listens for footsteps.
As dawn breaks, through the wavy ice he can see riders passing through the gap in the ice wall. They thunder toward the Citadel with banners streaming behind them, on faerie steeds whose hooves are light on the frozen crust of the snow.
His plan—wobbly from the start, he now has to admit—feels as though it is capsizing.
“Why are you still here?” a gruff voice asks.
For a long moment, relief robs the prince of breath. When he can compose his face, he turns toward Hyacinthe. “If I run from the Citadel wearing this bridle,” he says, “no one in command will care what I say. They will believe I am in Wren’s power. I will have even less sway over the army than I do, and that isn’t much. With Grima Mog in charge of them, and orders already in place from my sister, they’ll be looking forward to a fight.”
“All they want is you,” Hyacinthe says.
“Maybe, but once they have me, what’s the next thing they will want? If I am safe, they have no reason not to attack. Help me help Wren. Remove the bridle.”
Hyacinthe snorts. “I know the words of command well. I could use them to order you to leave the Citadel and surrender yourself to Grima Mog.”
“If you send me away with the bridle on, no one will ever believe that we are not at war,” Oak says.
Hyacinthe crosses his arms. “Am I supposed to believe you’re on Wren’s side in this conflict? That escaping is somehow all for her?”
Oak wishes he could say that. Wishes he even believed in clear sides with defined borders. He had to give those up when his father crossed swords with his sister. “Even if Wren can unmake the entire army of Elfhame, pull them apart as easily as she might pull the wings off butterflies, it will cost her. Hurt her. Make her sicker.”
“You’re their prince,” Hyacinthe says with a sneer. “You look to save your own people.”
“How about no one dies? Let’s try for that!” Oak snaps, his voice loud enough to echo in the room.
Hyacinthe looks at the prince for a long moment. “Very well. I’ll take off the bridle and let you try whatever it is you’re planning, so long as you promise no harm will come to Wren—and you agree to do something for me.”
No matter how much he wants to, Oak knows better than to give his word without hearing the conditions. He waits.
“You thought I was foolish for going after the High King,” Hyacinthe says.
“I still do,” Oak confirms.
Hyacinthe gives him a frustrated look. “I admit that I’m impulsive. When the curse started again, when I could feel myself becoming a falcon again—I thought if Cardan were dead, it would end the curse. I blamed him.”
Oak bites his tongue. Hyacinthe has not yet come to the favor part.
“There’s something I want to know, but I am not crafty enough to discover it. Nor am I so well connected.” Hyacinthe looks as though he hates admitting this. “But you—you deceive as easily as you breathe and with as little thought.”
“And you want . . .”