“I’m not sure—” the soldier begins.
From inside the stable comes the sounding of a horn, and he sees an open-topped carriage roll out, pulled by elk. It is all of black wood, looking as though it wasn’t painted that way but scorched instead. The wheels are as tall as one of the soldiers standing beside it, the spokes slender as spun sugar. A groom perches on the back, all in white with a mask in the shape of a falcon, the leather twisting like branches over his eyebrows. A similarly masked driver—this one wearing the mask of a wren—sits in the front, urging the elk on with a whip.
They stop and open the door to the carriage, standing at attention.
Wren walks from the Citadel, unaccompanied by guards or ladies-in-waiting. Her gown is all black, and the toothlike, obsidian crown of the Court of Teeth rests on her head. Her feet are bare—perhaps to show that the cold cannot harm her or because she prefers it. After all, she went barefoot for many years in the woods.
She allows her groom to hand her into the carriage, where she sits, back straight. Her blue skin is the color of the clear sky. Her hair blows in a wild nimbus around her face, and her gown billows, making her seem elemental. One of the Folk of the Air.
Wren’s gaze goes to him once, then darts away.
The rest of Wren’s retinue assembles around her. Hyacinthe rides a large, shaggy deer, which seems as though it will be far better in picking its way through the snow than the delicate hooves of Oak’s faerie horse. Half a dozen falcons accompany him, wearing livery all of a shimmering gray. Bogdana rides a bear, which lumbers around, unnerving everyone.
Tiernan rides up to where Oak has mounted Damsel Fly. His jaw is tight with tension. “This doesn’t feel right.”
Randalin arrives a moment later, the Ghost beside him.
“Your betrothed really is remarkable,” the Minister of Keys says. “Do you know she has two ancient troll kings swearing fealty to her?”
“I certainly do,” Oak says.
“It would be better for everyone if we move now,” says the Ghost.
“I suppose,” Randalin says with a long-suffering sigh, somehow oblivious to the danger all around him. “We were in such a hurry to march here, and now we’re in such a hurry to leave. I personally would be interested in sampling local dishes.”
“The kitchens are somewhat understaffed,” Oak says.
“I am going to check on the queen’s party,” the Ghost says, then rides off in that direction.
“When did the knights arrive?” Oak asks Tiernan, gesturing toward the Folk swarming around the castle.
“This morning. Courtesy of Grima Mog. To escort us to the boat,” Tiernan says mildly since Randalin is beside them.
Oak nods, taking that in.
The horn blows again, and they begin to move.
It takes them more than an hour to arrive at the rough-hewn ice wall built by the troll kings. As they draw closer, Oak is awed by the sheer scale of it. It towers over them as they ride into the gap.
And then past the army of Elfhame.
Fires dot the landscape, burning where soldiers crowd around them for warmth. Several knights sit alone on makeshift stools, polishing weapons, while larger groups gather to drink barley tea and smoke pipes. Although a few call out cheerfully at the sight of Oak, he notes something ugly in their gaze when they see Wren’s carriage.
A loud sound like a clang of metal on metal rings across the snow, and the group comes to an abrupt halt. Bogdana’s bear growls. Wren’s guards crowd around her carriage, hands on their weapons. She says something to them, low. The air is thick with the threat of violence.
Grima Mog and a group of armored soldiers walk toward the procession. Oak spurs Damsel Fly toward the grand general, his heart beating hard.
Do they mean to betray Wren? Make a captive of her? If they try, he’ll invoke his authority as Cardan’s heir. He will find out the extent of all his powers. He will do something.
“Greetings, Prince Oak,” says Grima Mog. She wears a hat, clotted and black with blood. Armor covers the rest of her, and she has a massive, two-handed sword strapped to her back. She passes a scroll up into his hands. It’s sealed with a ribbon and wax. “This explains to the High King and Queen that we will remain here until a treaty is signed.”
The entire army, camped in the cold just beyond the wall, waiting and planning.
“Word will come soon,” Oak promises.
Grima Mog gives a half smile, lower canine escaping her lip. “Waiting is dull business. You wouldn’t want us to grow restless.”