The nisse flinches. “You’d wear them?”
Probably the dressing gown Oak has on once belonged to Lord Jarel, as well as what Oak was given to put on for dinner. There hadn’t been time to commission whole new outfits, nor had they fit right. And if they had been fetched for him, then he could fetch something else for himself. “Let’s just take a look. What ought I call you?”
“Daggry, Your Highness.”
“Lead on, Daggry,” Oak says.
It’s easier to move through the Citadel with a servant able to scout ahead and report which ways are clear. They make it to a storeroom, slipping inside before they are spotted.
“This is very near my bedchamber,” says Daggry. “Should you wish to visit me there tonight.”
Oak makes his mouth curve, though guilt chokes him. “I don’t think either one of us will have much time for sleeping.”
Oak thinks of his mother’s warning: Say those things, and they will not only want to listen to you. They will come to want you above all other things.
“No,” Daggry says. “I was not proposing sleep.”
The narrow room is piled with trunks, stacked haphazardly one on the next. And packed in them, the prince finds clothes spread with dried lavender and picked over for gold and pearl ornaments. Strings hang loose from the places where buttons and trims were cut away. He wonders if Lady Nore sold the missing pieces before she discovered the value of the bones she stole from the tombs underneath Elfhame. Before Bogdana began whispering in her ear, urging her on the path that would bring Wren back to the storm hag.
He finds paper and ink, books and pen nibs attached to owl feathers. At the very bottom of the trunk, Oak digs up a few scattered weapons. Cheap, flat ones, a few pitted or scratched where gems were obviously removed from hilts. He lifts up a small dagger, keeping it mostly hidden in the palm of his hand.
“I am going to write a note,” he says.
Daggry watches him with unnerving eagerness.
Taking out the paper, pens, and ink, Oak braces against one of the chests and scratches out two messages. The owl feather pen stains his fingers and makes him wish for a Sharpie. “Take the first of these to Hyacinthe,” Oak says. “And the second one to the army that waits beyond the wall.”
“The High Court’s army?” the nisse says with a squeak in his voice.
Oak nods. “Go to the stables of the Citadel. There you will find my horse. Her name is Damsel Fly. Take her, and ride as fast as you are able. Once you come to the army, tell them you have a message from Prince Oak. Do not let them send you back with a message. Tell them it wouldn’t be safe for you.”
Daggry frowns, as though thinking things through. “And you will be grateful?’
“Very,” Oak agrees.
“Enough to—” the nisse begins to say as he tucks away the notes.
“As a member of the royal family, I deem the time you have served a fair recompense for what you were given, and I dismiss you from service at the Citadel,” Oak tells the nisse, frightened of the low burr in his own voice, like the purr of a cat. Frightened of the way the nisse gives him a look so full of gratitude and longing that it feels like a lash.
“I will do just as you’ve asked,” says the nisse as he leaves, closing the door behind him.
For a moment, Oak just rubs at his face, not sure if he should be ashamed of what he’s done, and if so, how ashamed. Forcibly, he thrusts that confusion of guilt aside. He has made his choices. Now he must live with them and hope they were the right ones.
The army of Elfhame is in danger because of him. Planning to hurt Wren because of him. Perhaps about to die because of him.
He strips off the dressing gown, pulling out a more regal outfit, grateful for Lord Jarel’s height. The clothes are still a little short on him, a little tight across the chest.
You are such a beanstalk, he remembers Heather’s mother saying. I remember when I could pick you up. He is surprised by how much that memory hurts, since Heather’s mother is still alive and still kind and would let him sleep in her guest room anytime he wanted. Of course, that’s predicated on his leaving this Citadel alive.
Sometimes, Oak thinks, it’s not in his best interest to investigate his feelings too closely. In fact, right now, perhaps he ought not investigate his feelings at all.
Oak puts on a blue doublet, threaded with silver, then the matching pants. The hem rips a little as he puts his left hoof through one leg, but it’s not immensely noticeable.
He hides the knife in the waistband, hoping he won’t need it.
I can still fix things. That’s what he tells himself over and over. He has a plan, and it might be mad and desperate and even a little presumptuous, but it can work.
Despite the cold, he discovers only two cloaks in the pile of clothes. He rejects the one lined in sealskin on the theory it may be from a selkie. That leaves him with the other, lined in fox fur, though he likes it little better.
Oak draws the hood over his face and heads to the Hall of Queens, where he asked Hyacinthe to meet. The room is echoing and empty; as he waits, he stares at the two women frozen inside the walls, former brides of Lord Jarel. Former queens of the Court of Teeth. Their cold, dead eyes seem to watch him back.
The prince paces the floor, but minutes pass and no one comes. His breath steams in the air as he listens for footsteps.
As dawn breaks, through the wavy ice he can see riders passing through the gap in the ice wall. They thunder toward the Citadel with banners streaming behind them, on faerie steeds whose hooves are light on the frozen crust of the snow.
His plan—wobbly from the start, he now has to admit—feels as though it is capsizing.
“Why are you still here?” a gruff voice asks.
For a long moment, relief robs the prince of breath. When he can compose his face, he turns toward Hyacinthe. “If I run from the Citadel wearing this bridle,” he says, “no one in command will care what I say. They will believe I am in Wren’s power. I will have even less sway over the army than I do, and that isn’t much. With Grima Mog in charge of them, and orders already in place from my sister, they’ll be looking forward to a fight.”
“All they want is you,” Hyacinthe says.
“Maybe, but once they have me, what’s the next thing they will want? If I am safe, they have no reason not to attack. Help me help Wren. Remove the bridle.”
Hyacinthe snorts. “I know the words of command well. I could use them to order you to leave the Citadel and surrender yourself to Grima Mog.”
“If you send me away with the bridle on, no one will ever believe that we are not at war,” Oak says.
Hyacinthe crosses his arms. “Am I supposed to believe you’re on Wren’s side in this conflict? That escaping is somehow all for her?”
Oak wishes he could say that. Wishes he even believed in clear sides with defined borders. He had to give those up when his father crossed swords with his sister. “Even if Wren can unmake the entire army of Elfhame, pull them apart as easily as she might pull the wings off butterflies, it will cost her. Hurt her. Make her sicker.”
“You’re their prince,” Hyacinthe says with a sneer. “You look to save your own people.”
“How about no one dies? Let’s try for that!” Oak snaps, his voice loud enough to echo in the room.
Hyacinthe looks at the prince for a long moment. “Very well. I’ll take off the bridle and let you try whatever it is you’re planning, so long as you promise no harm will come to Wren—and you agree to do something for me.”
No matter how much he wants to, Oak knows better than to give his word without hearing the conditions. He waits.
“You thought I was foolish for going after the High King,” Hyacinthe says.
“I still do,” Oak confirms.
Hyacinthe gives him a frustrated look. “I admit that I’m impulsive. When the curse started again, when I could feel myself becoming a falcon again—I thought if Cardan were dead, it would end the curse. I blamed him.”