“Still abed?” she asks, plopping down the tray on his coverlets. It contains a teapot and cup, along with a plate of black bread, butter, and jam. “You’re leaving with the tide.”
The prince feels oddly self-conscious at sleeping late, although lounging around at all hours is part of the self-indulgent persona he’s played for years. He’s not sure why that role feels so suffocating this morning, but it does.
“We’re leaving today?” He pushes his back against the headboard so he can sit upright.
Fernwaif gives a little laugh as she pours water into a bowl on a washing stand. “Will you miss us when you’re in the High Court?”
Oak will not miss the endless boredom and despair of his prison cell, or the sound of cold wind howling through trees, but it occurs to him that while he’s glad to be headed home, being with Wren there will be complicated in new ways. The High Court is a place full of intrigues and ambition. Once Oak returns, he will be at the swirling center of at least one conspiracy. He has no idea if it will even be possible to play the feckless, merry courtier while winning Wren’s goodwill.
And he is even less sure that’s who he wants to be.
“Fate may bring me again to these shores,” Oak says.
“My sister and I will look forward to tales of the great feasts and dances,” Fernwaif says, looking wistful. “And how you honored our lady.”
Oak can only imagine what Wren might say if somehow she found herself having to actually exchange vows with him. I pledge my troth to thee and promise to turn thy guts inside out if you deceive. Oh yes, this is going well.
What was it that Hyacinthe said? You deceive as easily as you breathe and with as little thought. Oak very much hopes that’s not true.
He doesn’t hear the turn of the lock as Fernwaif leaves. He supposes there’s no point in restricting his movements now, when they’re planning on his leaving.
Rising, Oak splashes his face with the water from the washing stand, slicking back his hair. He manages to pull on Lord Jarel’s pants before heavy footsteps on the stairs herald the appearance of five knights. To his surprise, they wear the livery of Elfhame—the crest of the Greenbriar line imprinted on their armor with its crown, tree, and grasping roots.
“Your Highness,” one says, and Oak feels disoriented at the sound of his title, spoken without hostility. “Grima Mog sent us. Our commander wishes you to know that the boat awaits you and that we will accompany you on your return to the isles.”
They have more appropriate garments for him, too—a green cloak embroidered in gold, heavy gloves, and a woolen tunic and trousers.
“Do you have anything here you wish us to pack?” one of the knights asks. She has eyes like those of a frog, gold-flecked and wide.
“I seem to have . . . misplaced my armor and my sword,” Oak admits.
No one questions the strangeness of that. No one questions him at all. A knight with sharply pointed ears and moonlight-colored hair passes over his own curved blade—a cutlass—along with its sheath.
“We can find some armor for you among our company,” the knight says.
“That’s not necessary,” Oak says, feeling very self-conscious. They are looking at him as though he has endured a terrible trial, even though they must know he’s betrothed. “You really ought to keep your sword.”
“Return it to me once you’ve found one better,” says the knight, crossing to the door. “We will await you in the hall.”
Quickly, the prince changes clothes. The fabric carries the scent of the air that blew across the line where it was hung to dry—sweetgrass and the salty tang of the ocean. Breathing it in fills him with homesickness.
Outside the Citadel, more soldiers of Elfhame wait, bundled up in heavily padded and fur-trimmed armor, their cloaks whipping behind them. They glare across the snow at the former falcons.
One of them holds Damsel Fly’s reins. His horse’s legs are wrapped against the snow, and a blanket hangs over her back. When the prince draws close, she frisks up to him, butting her head against his shoulder.
“Damsel!” Oak exclaims, stroking his hand over his horse’s neck. “Was there a messenger from the Citadel with her?”
The soldier looks surprised to be asked for information. “Your Highness, I believe so. He rode into the camp yesterday. We recognized your steed.”
“Where is that messenger now?” Valen became violent when Oak stopped actively using enchantment against him—but Valen hated Oak. Hopefully Daggry felt their transaction benefited them both. Hopefully Daggry was well on his way back to the lover he sacrificed so many years to save.