Elm didn’t bother to glance at them. “Shove over.”
Beech’s eyes, already too large for his head, bulged. “But, sire, the King has gifted us these seats—”
“I don’t give a flying f—”
“What Prince Renelm means,” Ione said, her voice easy, “is that, while he merely warms Prince Hauth’s seat, that seat,” she said, gesturing to the chair under Beech’s narrow bottom, “belongs to me, your future Queen.” She threw her gaze over her shoulder at Elm. “Unless you’d like to see me take my seat atop the Prince’s lap.”
Beech’s eyes widened further—as did his wife’s and son’s. They brooked no further argument. Fleeing either her beauty or wrath, the Beech family not only vacated Ione’s seat, but the dais altogether.
There was no getting comfortable. Elm half expected spikes to shoot out of Hauth’s chair and impale him, the wood sensing his master’s absence, conscious that the spare had taken his place.
What Ione had said about sitting in his lap hadn’t helped him settle.
Elm ate quickly, waiting for his father to be distracted so that he and Ione might slip away from the wretched dais and continue their search for her Maiden Card.
But his father’s focus was never long spent. King Rowan spoke to courtiers in grunts and nods, his gaze forward—but Elm was certain he was watching him. He was like a schoolmaster, waiting for his least-favorite pupil to step out of line.
When the gong chimed ten times, Elm let out a groan. “What a waste of time.”
“You’re in a mood,” Ione said into her goblet, her heart-shaped mouth stained red along the inside of her lips.
“I’m always in a mood.”
“A family trait, perhaps.”
That set his teeth on edge. “You’re not half as funny as you think you are, Hawthorn.”
She took another drink. “I wouldn’t know where to start, making a Rowan laugh.”
Elm pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m being an ass.” He flung a hand toward the great hall. “It comes easy, in this place.”
“So your terrible mood has nothing to do with the party that left the castle this morning? The one with Elspeth and Ravyn Yew?”
Elm lifted his head from his hands, his eyes slow to focus. He ran his thumb along the rim of his goblet. “Who told you that?”
“The Destrier with marks on his face—Linden.” She touched the high collar of her dress. “I think he thought it might hurt me, knowing my cousin was free of the castle and I wasn’t.”
“Did it?”
“It might have, once. I might have cried for the loneliness of it all.” Her voice frosted over. “But I don’t cry anymore.”
The pinch of guilt Elm had felt for dragging her up to the dais wrenched. He looked out over the great hall. Still too early to dance, most of court was still seated at the long table, their goblets ever full, tended by servants who expertly wove through the hall. Those who stood came in a slow line to the dais, offering words of praise to his father and his council or asking after Hauth.
They should have been looking for Ione’s Maiden Card, not wasting the evening on pageantry.
Once, he’d thought it necessary. He’d told Elspeth Spindle as much on Market Day. It’s pageantry that keeps us looking like everyone else.
Elm drained his goblet, then reached for Ione’s, using the opportunity to speak into her ear. “I have another idea how we might find your Card.” His breath stirred a loose strand of hair that framed her face. “But you may not care for it.”
“I don’t care for anything anymore, Prince. That’s entirely the problem.”
It was loud in the great hall. No one would find it strange that Elm might speak so near her ear. What was strange was Ione’s quick intake of breath when he’d leaned close. The brush of pink in her cheeks. The gooseflesh along the nape of her neck.
Elm noted them all. It seemed, despite her many protestations, Ione Hawthorn could feel some things.
He hadn’t heard the shuffling of feet. Shadows danced in Elm’s periphery. He was still looking at Ione’s neck when a feminine voice from below the dais said, “Good evening, Prince Renelm.”
Elm pulled back—dragged his eyes forward. Wayland Pine, with his wife and their three daughters, stood before the King, the eldest slightly ahead of the rest. It was she who had spoken.
Elm couldn’t for the life of him remember her name.
Like the Pines, the King was waiting for Elm to respond, wearing a glower that conveyed just how little effort it would take to reach over and throttle his son in front of them.
Pageantry.
Elm winked at his father, fixing his face with his custom brand of petulant, courtly charm. “The Pine family. How delightful.” He turned to Wayland. “I was sorry to hear about your Iron Gate Card.” His bruised hand flexed beneath the table. “Nasty things, highwaymen.”
Wayland Pine, the poor bastard, looked close to tears at the mention of the Providence Card Ravyn had rid him of several weeks ago. “Thank you, my Prince.” He bowed, his hand on his eldest daughter’s back, pushing her slightly forward. “You remember Farrah, my eldest.”
Elm hardly did. “Of course. Are you long at Stone, Miss Pine?”
Farrah’s eyes flickered to the King. “For a week, Your Grace. For the feasts.”
“For which we are most grateful to be invited,” Wayland chimed, another bow.
The King raised a hand, acceptance and dismissal in a single gesture.
The Pines shuffled back, Farrah bidding Elm a backward glance. “What feasts?” he said to his father, watching the Pines disappear into the crowd.
The King leaned back in his chair. “Beginning tomorrow night, there will be six feasts. On the sixth, you will choose a wife.”
It came quickly, Elm’s rage. Like flames licking through a grate, he felt heat all over him. He tried to swallow it, but the pain of it was already there. His palms hurt. His eyes burned. His molars pressed so hard into each other they felt fused. For an instant, he considered flipping the table over.
If the King felt his rage, he made no note of it. “Your time under Ravyn’s wing has ended. I should have married you off years ago.”
With that, the King severed the discussion. He stood from his seat, everyone on the dais besides Elm and Ione standing in reverence as they watched the King and the two Destriers that shadowed him quit the great hall.
Elm felt reckless. He opened his mouth to call after his father, to unleash some of the venom pooling on his tongue, but a hand on his arm stopped him.
“You have the look of someone who’s about to break something,” Ione said in an even voice.
He wanted to. Elm didn’t know what, but he vowed something would shatter.
Ione’s grip on his arm tightened. So tight that when she stood, she pulled Elm with her. “Come, Prince. Let’s get drunk.”
Chapter Nineteen
Ravyn
The journey from Stone to Castle Yew was a two-hour ride. They made it in nearly half the time. Better to ride fast and let the wind fill Ravyn’s ears than suffer another word out of the Nightmare’s mouth.