The prince thinks of the key on the mantel, of the possibility of escape. “I could have left.”
“You wouldn’t have gotten far.” She sounds very sure.
Another course comes. This one is hot, so hot that the plate steams and the side of his ice wine goblet shines with melt. Deer hearts grilled over a fire, a sauce of red berries beneath them.
He wonders if Wren planned the progression of this meal. If not, someone in the kitchens has a truly grim sense of humor.
He doesn’t lift his fork. He doesn’t eat meat, but he’s not sure he’d eat this even if he did.
She watches him. “You wish me to make you my advisor. To sit at my feet, tame and helpful. So advise me—I wish to be obeyed, even if I cannot be loved. I have few examples of queens that I might model myself after. Ought I rule like Queen Annet, who executes her lovers when she grows tired of them? Like your sister? I am told the High King himself called her method of diplomacy the path of knives. Or perhaps like Lady Nore, who used arbitrary and almost constant cruelty to keep her followers in line.”
Oak sets his jaw. “I believe that you can be obeyed and loved. You don’t need to rule like anyone other than yourself.”
“Love, again?” Wren says, but the twist of her mouth softens. Some part of her must be frightened to be back in this Citadel, to be sovereign over those she was fighting mere weeks before, to have been ill, to have demands on her power. She doesn’t behave as though she’s afraid, though.
He looks across the table at the scars on her cheeks that came from wearing the bridle so long. At her moss-dark eyes. A feeling of helplessness sweeps over him. All his words tangle in his mouth, though he is used to having them come easily, tripping off his tongue.
He would tell her that he wants to stay with her, that he wants to be her friend again, wants to feel her teeth against his throat, but how can he possibly convince her of his sincerity? And even if she did believe him, what would it matter when his desires didn’t keep her safe from his machinations?
“I never pretended to feelings that weren’t real,” he manages.
She watches him, her body tense, her eyes haunted. “Never? In the Court of Moths, would you really have endured my kiss if you didn’t think you needed me on your quest?”
He snorts in surprise. “I would have endured it, yes. I would endure it again right now.”
A slight rosiness comes into her cheeks. “That’s not fair.”
“This is nonsensical. Surely you could tell I liked it,” he says. “I even liked it when you bit me. On the shoulder, remember? I might have a few tiny scars yet from the points of your teeth.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she tells him, annoyed.
“Unfair,” he says. “When I so love being ridiculous.”
Servants come to collect their plates. The prince’s food is untouched.
She looks down at her lap, turning enough away from him to hide her expression. “You cannot really expect me to believe you liked being bitten?”
He finds himself in the position he has so often put others, on his back foot. A hot flush creeps up his neck.
“Well?” she says.
He grins at her. “Didn’t you mean for me to enjoy it a little?”
For a long moment, there’s a silence between them.
The final course comes. Cold again, ice shaved into a pyramid of flakes, coated in a thin syrup as red as blood.
He eats it and tries not to shiver.
A few minutes later, Wren stands. “You will go back to the room in the tower, where I trust you will remain until I summon you again.”
“To sprawl at your feet like a war prize?” he asks hopefully.
“That might amuse you enough to keep you from mischief.” A small smile tugs at a corner of her mouth.
Oak pushes back his chair and walks to her, reaching for her hand. He is surprised when she lets him take it. Her fingers are cold in his.
She glances toward the guards. A red-haired falcon steps forward. Before Oak lets her hand go, though, he brings the back of it to his lips.
“My lady,” he says, eyes closing for a moment when his mouth touches her skin. He feels as though he is attempting to cross a chasm on a bridge of razors. One misstep and he’s going to be in a world of pain.
But Wren only makes a small frown, as though expecting to find mockery in his gaze. She takes back her hand, her face unreadable as the guards lead him to the door.
“I am not the person you believe me to be,” she says in a rush.
He turns back to her, surprised.
“That girl you knew. Inside her was always this great rage, this emptiness. And now it’s all I am.” Wren looks wretched, her hands pressed together in front of her. Her eyes haunted.
Oak thinks of Mellith and her memories. Of her death and Wren’s birth. Of the way she’s watching him now.
“I don’t believe that,” he tells her.
She turns to one of the guards. “On the way to his rooms,” she tells him, “make sure you pass the Great Hall.”
One of the falcons nods, looking discomfited. The guards escort Oak out, marching him through the corridor. As they pass the throne room, they slow their steps enough for him to get a clear look inside.
Against the ice of the wall, as though a piece of decor, hangs Valen’s body. For a moment, Oak wonders if this is Bogdana’s handiwork, but the falcon is neither flayed nor displayed in the manner of the storm hag’s other victims.
His throat is cut. A gruesome necklace of blood has dried along his collarbone. His clothing is stiff with it, as though starched. Oak can see the gape of flesh, cut cleanly with a sharp knife.
The prince glances back in the direction of where he had dinner with Wren.
When she noted his reluctance to name the person responsible for his bruises, she already knew. Hyacinthe must have conveyed Oak’s words to her. She could have done this while the prince donned his clothes for their dinner.
It is not as if he hasn’t seen murders before. In Elfhame, he saw plenty. His hands aren’t clean. But looking at the dead falcon, displayed thus, he recognizes that, even without Mellith’s memories, Wren saw things that were far more terrifying and cruel than anything he witnessed. And perhaps somewhere inside her, she is coming to learn that she can be all the things that once scared her.
CHAPTER
8
O
ak was a child when Madoc was exiled to the mortal world, and yet, no matter what anyone said, he still knew it was his fault.
Without Oak, there would have been no war. No plan to steal the crown. No family at one another’s throats.
At least your father wasn’t executed for treason, Oriana told Oak when he complained about not being able to see him. Oak laughed, thinking she made a joke. When he realized that really could have happened, the idea of Madoc’s dying while he watched, powerless to stop it, haunted his nightmares. Beheadings. Drownings. Burnings. Being buried alive. His sisters, grim-faced. Oriana, weeping.
Those bad dreams made not seeing Madoc even harder.
It’s not a good idea right now, Oriana told him. We don’t want to seem as though we’re not loyal to the crown.
And so he lived with Vivi and Heather in the mortal world, went to the mortal school, and during library time, compulsively looked up new, horrible details of executions. Sometimes Jude or Taryn would visit him at the apartment. His mother came often. Occasionally, someone like Garrett or Van would show up and instruct him in bladework.
No one thought he had any real talent for it.
Oak’s problem was that he thought of sword fighting as a game and didn’t want to hurt anyone. Games were supposed to be fun. Then, after a lot of scolding, he understood sword fighting as a deadly game and still didn’t want to hurt anyone.