But, no. Wren couldn’t have known he would do anything like this. Still, whatever Bogdana favors is unlikely to be a good idea.
“We don’t need to depart immediately,” the prince hedges. “No doubt you will need time to get together your trousseau.”
“Nonsense,” says Bogdana. “I know a hag who will enchant Queen Suren three dresses, one for every day in Elfhame before her wedding. The first shall be the pale colors of morning, the second the bright colors of the afternoon, and the last spangled with the jewels of night.”
“Three days won’t be enough time,” says Randalin, frowning.
“Now who is trying to delay?” the storm hag demands, as though the councilor has committed a grave offense. “Perhaps none of this is necessary. He could marry her now, with those gathered here as witnesses.”
“No,” says Wren firmly.
A shame, because Oak doesn’t think it’s such a bad idea. If they were married, then surely his sister couldn’t attempt to burn the Citadel to the ground. Her troops would have to pull back while Oak could keep the ragwort stalk safely in his pocket and bide his time.
“We would not want to disrespect the High Court,” Wren says. “We will return with you to Elfhame so long as you withdraw your army from this territory. Whatever preparations are necessary, we will manage.”
The Ghost smiles enigmatically. “Excellent. Randalin, your ship is small and swift and well outfitted for traveling in comfort. We can use it to return to Elfhame ahead of the army. If you expect to be ready within a day or two, I will send the message right now.”
“You may do so,” Wren tells him.
“No, no need,” Grima Mog interrupts them gruffiy. “I am here to negotiate over battles, not withdrawals. I will return to my army and inform them that no blood will be shed upon the morrow, nor possibly at all.” She says this as though they are to be deprived of a great treat. She’s a redcap; she might actually believe that.
Her leaving is also almost certainly a test, to see if her departure will be allowed.
As she stomps out, the rest of them drink the contents of their steaming goblets. Randalin makes an officious and confusing speech that manages to be partially about his grievances over the discomforts he endured on the journey, his loyalty to the throne and to Oak, and his belief that alliances are very important. By the time he’s done, he’s behaving as though he negotiated the marriage himself.
After that, servants make ready to lead each of them to rooms.
The Ghost catches Wren’s eye. “We hope that you will choose wisely when you select your retinue.” He gives a pointed look in the direction of the storm hag.
A small smile pulls at the corner of Wren’s mouth, making her sharp teeth evident. “Someone will have to remain here and watch over the Citadel.”
After the Elfhame ambassadors and their guards depart, Wren puts a hand on Oak’s arm, as though she needs to draw his attention. “What kind of game is this?” She lowers her voice, although Bogdana is watching them closely. Hyacinthe and the other guards are pretending they are not.
“The kind where no one loses so badly that they have to throw away all their cards,” Oak says.
“You only delay the inevitable.” She turns from him, her skirts whirling around her.
He wonders how she must have felt when the army of Elfhame arrived. She seems to have resigned herself to the battle with a certain hopelessness, as though she couldn’t imagine a way out.
“Maybe I can keep delaying it.” Daringly, he walks after her, stepping in front so that she’s forced to look up at him. “Or maybe it isn’t inevitable.”
A few strands of light blue hair have fallen around her face, lessening the severity of the style. But nothing can alter the hardness in her expression. “Hyacinthe,” she says.
He steps forward. “My lady.”
“Take the prince back to his rooms. And this time, make sure he actually stays there.” It’s not an accusation, but it’s close.
“Yes, my lady,” Hyacinthe affirms, taking Oak by the arm and tugging him in the direction of the hall.
“And bring the bridle to my chambers immediately after,” she says.
“Yes, my lady,” Hyacinthe says again, his voice remarkably even.
The prince goes along willingly. At least until they enter the stairwell and Hyacinthe shoves him against the wall, hand to his throat.
“What exactly do you think you were doing?” Hyacinthe demands.