The prince kisses his mother’s cheek. “See? After considering the Undersea, nothing seems so bad.” Then he leaves her and goes to where Hyacinthe is scowling at him.
“I heard you last night,” Hyacinthe says, low-voiced.
That could mean a lot of things. “And?”
“With your nephew,” he says.
Oak winces. He should have realized that if he could eavesdrop on Tiernan and Hyacinthe, it was equally possible for him to be eaves-dropped upon.
“Were you going to deliver what I asked of you?” Hyacinthe asks. “Or are you the coward who lets your mother’s murderer walk free?”
Oak has been asking himself about the closer betrayals, but eventually he would have to answer that question. “I thought you’d had enough of revenge.”
“I am not speaking of myself,” Hyacinthe reminds him. “And I told you that I did not release you from your vow.”
Choosing the worst possible moment, the Ghost moves toward them, a skin of wine and two carved wooden cups in his hand. Right, because he was going to give Oak an update on whatever it was he was seeking to find out the night before.
“Send him away,” Hyacinthe says.
“He knows something,” Oak objects.
“Send him away or I will stab him through,” hisses Hyacinthe under his breath.
“A cup of mead, prince?” offers the Ghost, pouring one for Oak and then one for himself. He glances at Hyacinthe. “I am afraid I only brought the two, but if you bring yours, I will pour.”
Oak’s cheeks feel hot, and there is a roaring in his ears the way there is when he gives in to instinct and fights without mercy. He takes the cup of honey wine and drinks it. It’s too sweet and cloying in his mouth.
The Ghost takes his in a gulp, then winces. “Not good wine, but wine nonetheless. Now, if you will walk with me.”
“I am afraid I can’t talk right now,” the prince tells Garrett.
The Ghost must hear something in his voice. Looking puzzled, he says, “Come find me when you’re ready, but it must be soon. I will ride a little ways north so that we will be alone. When we’re done, we will speak with your sister.”
“You’re gripping your sword,” Hyacinthe tells Oak in a low voice as the spy departs.
Oak glances down at his hand, surprised to find it curled around the hilt of his blade. Surprised to find it shaking a little.
“I have to go after him,” the prince says. “Someone’s manipulating Wren.”
“Manipulating? Who? How?” Hyacinthe asks. “I don’t know.”
Hyacinthe glances in the direction that the Ghost went. Courtiers are still sitting on blankets, so there’s no chance of the hunt starting up again immediately. Oak needs to find out what information the spy has.
Garrett already disappeared into the Milkwood, somehow slipping between the white trunks.
With a glance toward Wren and a reminder that he needs to keep his temper, Oak remounts the kelpie and heads in the direction the Ghost went. His head is swimming. He’s got to keep himself under control. Surely whatever it is that the spy knows will help Oak understand the constraints on Wren and who put them there.
He rides a little farther and looks down at his hand, which has started to tremble. He still has the sensation of being underwater. And with it, he feels a rush of something entirely too familiar.
Blusher mushroom. He’s been poisoned.
He thinks of the honey wine, sweet enough to hide the flavor. Honey wine, given into his hand by the Ghost.
The prince laughs out loud. Of all the things the Ghost knows about murder, apparently he doesn’t know that this is the one poison to which Oak is immune. If the spy hadn’t decided to go with the symmetry of finishing the job the way he’d begun it, Oak might really be dead.
The prince draws his sword.
Oh, he’s going to murder the spy. The Ghost thinks he knows what Oak can do, but he isn’t aware of his other lessons, from Madoc. Garrett doesn’t know what Oak has become under his father’s tutelage. Doesn’t know how many people he’s already slain.
The prince urges Jack north through the brambles, past the columns of pale trees. Finally, he comes upon a clearing. The kelpie stops short. For a moment, Oak doesn’t understand what he’s looking at.
There, in a tangle of vines, lies a body.
Oak slides down from the kelpie’s back to draw closer. The man’s mouth is stained purple. His eyes are open, staring up at the late afternoon sky as though lost in contemplation of the clouds.