Her words are a kick to the stomach, the more because he can tell she doesn’t mean to be cruel. And because he hadn’t thought of it. He sometimes wondered if gancanagh blood meant Folk liked him a little better than they might have otherwise, but he was too vain to think of it affecting Oriana or his sisters.
Oriana, who loved his mother so well that she took Liriope’s son and raised him as her own, risking her life to do so. Jude and Vivi, who sacrificed their own safety for him. Jude, who was still making sacrifices to ensure he would someday be the High King. If magic is the cause of that loyalty, instead of love, then he is a curse on the people around him.
A part of him must have suspected, because why else keep himself so apart? He told himself that it was because he wanted to repay them for all the sacrifices they made, told himself that he wanted to become as great as they were, but maybe it had always been this.
He feels sick.
And sicker still when his mouth curves unconsciously into a smile. It has become such an automatic reaction to pain, for him to mask it with a grin. Oak, laughing all the time. Pretending nothing hurts. A false face hiding a false heart.
He can’t blame her for saying what she did. Probably someone should have said it to him much sooner. And how could he have ever supposed she would come to care for him? Who can love someone who is empty inside? Someone who steals love instead of earning it?
The prince recalls lying on the ground after drinking several cups of liquor laced with blusher mushroom, back in the troll village. That was the last time he felt Wren’s hand on his Rushed cheek, her skin cool enough to ground him in that moment, to keep him hanging on to consciousness.
I am poison, he told her then. And he didn’t even know the half of it.
Oak sits with Wren until she falls asleep. Then he spreads a blanket over her and stands. Inside, the horror he felt when she spoke those words— have you ever wondered if anyone truly loved you—hasn’t faded, but he can hide that. Easily. For the first time, he hates how easily. He hates that he can fold himself up so tightly in his own skin that there’s nothing real about him on the outside.
He climbs the step. Standing on the deck, he looks at the ocean far below. It seems as though they’re sailing through a sea of clouds.
Soldiers are attempting to repair the gunwale, shattered by tentacles. Others are trying to smooth out the raw, splintered bits of wood where spearpoints gouged the deck, a faint spatter of blood marring the light color of it.
The ship Ries high enough for sailors and soldiers to trail their fingers through clouds and let the mist wet their skin. High enough for seabirds to soar beside them; a few even rest on the mast and rigging.
Bogdana stands at the helm. Her expression is strained, and when she sees him, her eyes narrow. Whatever she wishes to say to him, though, it seems she cannot move away from directing the storm that propels them in order to do it.
Scanning the ship, Oak spots Tiernan near the mast, beneath the netting running up to the base of the sail. His head is pillowed on a cloak, his blackberry hair still damp and stiff with salt. His eyes are shut, his skin gone very pale.
Hyacinthe sits beside him, long fall of dark hair over his face. When Oak squats nearby, Hyacinthe pushes it back to reveal his pained expression. He looks as though he is losing blood from some invisible wound.
“She woke up enough to speak with me,” Oak tells him so at least he doesn’t have Wren to worry about. “Told me some very unpleasant things about myself.”
“He’s breathing,” says Hyacinthe, nodding toward Tiernan.
For a long moment, they watch the rise and fall of Tiernan’s chest. Each inhalation comes with what seems like a lot of effort. As he watches, the prince doesn’t trust that one breath will follow the next.
“His loyalty to me might cost him his life,” Oak says.
To his surprise, Hyacinthe shakes his head. His hand goes to the other man’s chest, coming to rest over his heart. “It was my lack of loyalty to him that was the problem.” His voice is so soft that the prince isn’t sure he heard the words correctly.
“You couldn’t have—” Oak begins, but Hyacinthe cuts him off.
“I could have loved him better,” Hyacinthe says. “And I could have better believed in his love.”
“How could that have helped against a monster?” the prince asks. He’s in the mood for an argument and beginning to hope that Hyacinthe might give him one.
“You don’t think what I said is true?”
“Of course I do,” Oak says. “You should better believe in his love— you should beg him for another chance. But that wouldn’t have saved him from drowning. You jumping in after him did save him.”