Who gave Oak’s mother poison.
Who gave Oak’s mother poison so that Oak would die.
How could the Ghost look at Oak when, if not for Oriana, if not for sheer luck, he could have been the prince’s murderer?
It galls Oak to think of Taryn and Jude watching him be trained, letting the Ghost clap him on the shoulder or reposition his arm to swing a sword.
Somehow, it’s Taryn’s betrayal that strikes Oak the most sharply. Jude has always been constrained by position and politics while Madoc has been constrained by his nature. Oak thought of Taryn as the kind-hearted one, the one who wanted a gentler world.
Maybe she just wanted an easier one.
Oak kicks one hoof against the low table, sending the coffeepot and the tray it was sitting on crashing to the floor, crockery smashing, cakes going everywhere. He kicks it again, splintering a wooden leg and causing the whole thing to collapse.
If his mother came in, she would frown, call him childish or petulant. Summon servants to clean up. Ignore any reason he may have for his anger.
That’s what his family does. Ignores everything uncomfortable. Talks around betrayals and murders. Papers over bloodstains and duels. Brushes all the bones under the rug.
Since he was old enough to really understand why he had to be the one to put the Blood Crown on Cardan’s head or live with Vivi and Heather in the mortal world, away from his parents, Oak wasn’t able to think of his sisters without being aware of the debt he owed them. The sacrifices they made for him. Everything he could never repay. So it is entirely new for him to think of them and be absolutely furious.
Then his thoughts slide back to Wren. To her expression of horror when he told her he loved her. To her warning of the night before, after he kissed her, while she dug her nails into his nape.
He was playing fast and loose back in the Ice Needle Citadel, determined to win her over despite the danger. And then he came up with a desperate plan to avoid a conflict when it was clear that Elfhame considered Wren a dangerous enemy.
When she agreed to come home with him, he thought it might help to be away from the Citadel. Wren was focused on survival for so long—and whatever else you may say about the isles, they are full of wine and song and other lazy indulgences.
But ever since they arrived, she’s been different. Of course, he could just as easily say that she’s been different ever since he confessed his love.
You’ve always been clever, she told him when she asked him to break things off. Be clever now.
Does she think that if she is the one to dump him, Elfhame will take her crown for breaking his heart?
And yet, he can’t shed the feeling there is a greater wrongness she was trying to communicate. Could someone be leveraging something against her in order to stop their marriage? Was it one of her retinue? One of his family? He didn’t think it could be Bogdana, who was so vocal in support of their union.
Or perhaps it was the storm hag—maybe Bogdana threatened Wren if she strayed from that path? And yet, if that was the case, why not tell Oak outright?
A knock comes on the door. A moment later, it opens and Tatterfell enters. She frowns at him, her inkdrop eyes taking in the wreckage of the table.
“Leave it,” he tells her. “And leave off lecturing me about it, too.”
She presses her thin lips together. She’s been a servant in Madoc’s household, paying off some debt, and then moved to the castle with Jude, possibly as a spy for their father. He’s never much liked her. She’s impatient and prone to pinching.
“The hunt is today,” she says. “And then that farce on Insear right after. There are tents for you to change in, but we still need to select what garb to send over.”
“I don’t need your help with that,” he tells her. Her words that farce on Insear echo in his head.
The little faerie looks up at him with her shining black eyes. “You ought to clothe yourself as though you expect to exchange vows, even if there’s little chance of that.”
He frowns at Tatterfell. “Why do you think so?”
She snorts, going to his wardrobe and taking down a tunic of deep burgundy cloth embroidered with golden leaves and pants of a deep brown. “Oh, it’s not my place to speculate on the plans of my betters.”
“And yet,” Oak says.
“And yet, were I Jude,” Tatterfell says, pulling out riding clothes of mouse gray, “I might want to marry you to the new queen of the Undersea. It would be a better alliance, and if you don’t marry her, the alliance goes to someone else.”
The prince thinks of the contest he was told of for Nicasia’s hand. The one that Cirien-Cròin was attempting to prevent with the attack. “Cardan courted her, didn’t he?”