Tiernan cut his glance toward the throne and the High King lounging on it. “He knows.”
“Knows what?” Oak had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.
“Exactly? I’m not sure. But someone overheard something. The rumor is that you want to put a knife in his back.”
Oak scoffed. “He’s not going to believe that.”
Tiernan gave Oak an incredulous look. “His own brothers betrayed him. He’d be a fool if he didn’t.”
Oak turned his attention to Cardan again, and this time the High King met his eyes. Cardan’s eyebrows rose. There was a challenge in his gaze and the promise of lazy cruelty. Game on.
The prince turned away, frustrated. The last thing he wanted was for Cardan to think of him as an enemy. He ought to go to Jude. Try to explain.
Tomorrow, Oak told himself. When it would not spoil her evening. Or the day after next, when it would be too late for her to prevent him from meeting the conspirators, when he still might accomplish what he had hoped. When he learned who was behind the conspiracy. After that, he’d do his usual thing—pretend to panic. Tell the conspirators he wanted out. Give them reason to become afraid he was going to go to the High King and Queen with what he knew.
Attempting his murder was what he planned on their going down for, rather than treason. Because multiple attempts on Oak’s life allowed him to retain his reputation for fecklessness. No one would guess that he deliberately brought down this conspiracy, leaving him free to do it again.
And Jude wouldn’t guess he’d been putting himself in danger, not now and not those other times.
Unless, of course, he had to confess to all of it in order to convince Cardan he wasn’t against him. A shudder went through him at the thought of how horrified Jude would be, how upset his whole family would get. His well-being was the thing they all used to justify their own sacrifices, their own losses. At least Oak was happy, at least Oak had the childhood we didn’t, at least Oak . . .
Oak bit the inside of his cheek so hard he tasted blood. He needed to make sure his family never truly knew what he’d turned himself into. Once the traitors were caught, Cardan might forget about his suspicions. Maybe nothing needed to be said to anyone.
“Prince!” Oak’s friend Vier pulled free from a knot of young courtiers to sling an arm over Oak’s shoulder. “There you are. Come celebrate with us!”
Oak pushed his concerns aside with a forced laugh. It was his party, after all. And so he danced under the stars with the rest of the Court of Elfhame. Made merry. Played his part.
A pixie approached the prince, her skin grasshopper green, with wings to match. She brought two friends with her, and they twined their arms around his neck. Their mouths tasted of herbs and wine.
He moved from one partner to another in the moonlight, spinning beneath the stars. Laughing at nonsense.
A sluagh pressed herself to him, her lips stained black. He smiled down at her as they were swept up into another of the circle dances. Her mouth had the sweetness of bruised plums.
“Look at my face and I am someone,” she whispered in his ear. “Look at my back and I am no one. What am I?”
“I don’t know,” Oak admitted, a shiver running between his shoulders.
“Your mirror, Highness,” she said, her breath tickling the hairs on his neck.
And then she slipped away.
Hours later, Oak staggered back to the palace, his head hurting and dizziness making his steps uneven. In the mortal world, at seventeen, alcohol was illegal and, by consequence, something you hid. That night, however, he’d been expected to drink with every toast—blood-dark wines, fizzing green ones, and a sweet purple draught that tasted of violets.
Unable to discern whether he already had a hangover, or if something still worse was yet to come once he slept, Oak decided to try to find some aspirin. Vivi had handed a bag from Walgreens to Jude upon their arrival, one which he was almost certain contained painkillers.
He staggered toward the royal chambers.
“What are we doing here, exactly?” Tiernan asked, catching the prince’s elbow when he stumbled.
“Looking for a remedy for what ails me,” said Oak.
Tiernan, taciturn at the best of moments, only raised a brow.
Oak waved a hand at him. “You may keep your quips—spoken and unspoken—to yourself.”
“Your Highness,” Tiernan acknowledged, a judgment in and of itself.
The prince gestured toward the guard standing in front of the entrance to Jude and Cardan’s rooms—an ogress with a single eye, leather armor, and short hair. “She can look after me from here.”