Tiernan’s hand has yet to leave his sword hilt. Grima Mog’s eyebrows are raised. She seems to be waiting for someone to tell her this is all a joke.
Oak goes on smiling, as though everyone has been expressing only their utmost delight.
Randalin clears his throat. “Let me be the first to offer my felicitations. Very wise to secure the succession.”
Although the councilor’s reasoning seems muddled, the prince is happy for any ally. Oak makes a shallow bow. “I can occasionally be wise.”
Eyebrows raised, the Ghost moves his gaze from Wren to Oak. “Your family will be pleased to know you are well. The reports . . . let’s say they suggested otherwise.”
At that, Bogdana manages a toothy smile. “Your besotted princeling seems none the worse for wear. Accept our hospitality. We offer you rooms and repast. Stay the night, then take your army and toddle back to Elfhame. Perhaps send the king and queen for a little visit.”
“I didn’t realize you were empowered to offer us much of anything, storm hag.” Grima Mog makes the words sound almost as though they were spoken in honest confusion. “Is it not Queen Suren alone who rules here?”
“For now,” says the storm hag with an almost gracious nod toward Oak, as if she were indicating he would rule beside Wren rather than asserting her own power.
Wren motions toward a servant and then turns back to the Minister of Keys. “You must be tired after your travels, and cold. Perhaps a hot drink before you are led to your rooms.”
“We would be honored to accept your accommodation,” Randalin says, puffing himself up. He accompanied the army, so he must have thought there would be some kind of negotiation for him to lead. Maybe he convinced himself this would be an easy situation to resolve and is gratified to believe himself correct. “On the morrow, we must discuss your plans to return to Elfhame. The prince returning with his bride-to-be will be glad tidings indeed and a cause for much celebration. And of course, there will be a treaty to negotiate.”
Oak winces. “A treaty. Of course.” He cannot help but cut a glance in Wren’s direction, trying to gauge her reaction.
The Ghost tilts his head as he regards Wren. “Are you certain about accepting the young prince’s proposal? He can be something of a fool.”
Her lips twitch.
Randalin draws in a shocked breath.
Oak gives the Ghost a speaking look. “The question is whether she will have me be her fool.”
Wren smiles. “I’m certain.”
Oak glances at her in surprise, unable to help himself. He attempts to smooth out his expression but is certain he’s too late. Someone saw. Someone knows he isn’t sure of her love.
“We have a great deal in common, after all,” Wren affirms. “Especially a love of games.”
She’s good at them, too. Quick to pick up on his plan, to measure its worth, and play along. They’ve been working against each other for so long that he forgot how easy it was to work together.
“We can unravel the details of the treaty in Elfhame,” Randalin says. “It will be easier with all parties present.”
“I am not sure I’m ready to leave my Citadel,” says Wren, and she glances at Oak. He can see her weighing the choice to let him return with them. Can see the calculation in her face as to whether this was his intention all along.
Two servants enter the room bearing a large wooden tray with steaming silver goblets atop it.
“Please, take one,” Wren offers.
Do not try to poison them, he thinks, staring at her as though he can somehow speak through his gaze. Garrett will switch cups with you, and you’ ll never guess it.
The Ghost takes the hot drink. Oak lifts one, too, the metal warm in his hand. He catches scents of barley and caraway.
Randalin raises his glass. “To you, Lady Suren. And to you, Prince Oak. In the hopes you will reconsider and join us in returning to Elfhame. Your family will insist on it, prince. And I was meant to remind you, should I be so fortunate as to have an audience with you, Lady Suren, that you made vows to the High Court.”
“If they mean to give me orders, let them come here and do so,” Wren says. “But perhaps I can sweep aside a promise like I would a curse. Pull it apart like a cobweb.”
The Folk stare, horrified by even the possibility that someone in Faerie could not be bound by her word. Oak never thought of the promises they made as magic, but he supposes they are a kind of binding.
“You ought not want things to start off on the wrong foot,” Randalin warns, sounding as though he were reprimanding a student who gave a wrong answer. The councilor seems unaware of how quickly this conversation might devolve into violence.
Grima Mog cracks her knuckles. She is very aware.
“Randalin—” Oak begins.
Bogdana interrupts him. “The councilor is correct,” she says. “Wren ought to be properly wed to the heir of Elfhame, with all the pomp and circumstance appropriate to such a union. Let us journey together to the Shifting Isles.”
Wren gives the storm hag a sharp look but doesn’t contradict her. Doesn’t say she won’t go. Instead, her fingers linger on the ring sitting loosely on her hand. She turns it anxiously.
Oak recalls Wren coming to the gardens of Elfhame years and years ago, where Jude had received her, along with Lord Jarel, Lady Nore, and Madoc. Recalls that one of them had proposed a truce, cemented with a marriage between him and Wren.
He was a little afraid of her, with her sharp teeth. He had yet to hit the growth spurt that came at thirteen and pulled his body like taffy; she almost certainly was taller than him. He didn’t want to marry her—he didn’t want to marry anyone—and was relieved when Jude refused.
But he saw the expression in Wren’s face when Vivi referred to her as creepy. The sting of hurt, the flash of rage.
She is going to destroy Elfhame. It’s what she was born to do. That’s what Bogdana believes, what she wants. And maybe Wren wants it a little bit, too. Maybe Oak has made a horrifically large mistake.
But, no. Wren couldn’t have known he would do anything like this. Still, whatever Bogdana favors is unlikely to be a good idea.
“We don’t need to depart immediately,” the prince hedges. “No doubt you will need time to get together your trousseau.”
“Nonsense,” says Bogdana. “I know a hag who will enchant Queen Suren three dresses, one for every day in Elfhame before her wedding. The first shall be the pale colors of morning, the second the bright colors of the afternoon, and the last spangled with the jewels of night.”
“Three days won’t be enough time,” says Randalin, frowning.
“Now who is trying to delay?” the storm hag demands, as though the councilor has committed a grave offense. “Perhaps none of this is necessary. He could marry her now, with those gathered here as witnesses.”
“No,” says Wren firmly.
A shame, because Oak doesn’t think it’s such a bad idea. If they were married, then surely his sister couldn’t attempt to burn the Citadel to the ground. Her troops would have to pull back while Oak could keep the ragwort stalk safely in his pocket and bide his time.
“We would not want to disrespect the High Court,” Wren says. “We will return with you to Elfhame so long as you withdraw your army from this territory. Whatever preparations are necessary, we will manage.”
The Ghost smiles enigmatically. “Excellent. Randalin, your ship is small and swift and well outfitted for traveling in comfort. We can use it to return to Elfhame ahead of the army. If you expect to be ready within a day or two, I will send the message right now.”
“You may do so,” Wren tells him.
“No, no need,” Grima Mog interrupts them gruffiy. “I am here to negotiate over battles, not withdrawals. I will return to my army and inform them that no blood will be shed upon the morrow, nor possibly at all.” She says this as though they are to be deprived of a great treat. She’s a redcap; she might actually believe that.