The soldier looks surprised to be asked for information. “Your Highness, I believe so. He rode into the camp yesterday. We recognized your steed.”
“Where is that messenger now?” Valen became violent when Oak stopped actively using enchantment against him—but Valen hated Oak. Hopefully Daggry felt their transaction benefited them both. Hopefully Daggry was well on his way back to the lover he sacrificed so many years to save.
“I’m not sure—” the soldier begins.
From inside the stable comes the sounding of a horn, and he sees an open-topped carriage roll out, pulled by elk. It is all of black wood, looking as though it wasn’t painted that way but scorched instead. The wheels are as tall as one of the soldiers standing beside it, the spokes slender as spun sugar. A groom perches on the back, all in white with a mask in the shape of a falcon, the leather twisting like branches over his eyebrows. A similarly masked driver—this one wearing the mask of a wren—sits in the front, urging the elk on with a whip.
They stop and open the door to the carriage, standing at attention.
Wren walks from the Citadel, unaccompanied by guards or ladies-in-waiting. Her gown is all black, and the toothlike, obsidian crown of the Court of Teeth rests on her head. Her feet are bare—perhaps to show that the cold cannot harm her or because she prefers it. After all, she went barefoot for many years in the woods.
She allows her groom to hand her into the carriage, where she sits, back straight. Her blue skin is the color of the clear sky. Her hair blows in a wild nimbus around her face, and her gown billows, making her seem elemental. One of the Folk of the Air.
Wren’s gaze goes to him once, then darts away.
The rest of Wren’s retinue assembles around her. Hyacinthe rides a large, shaggy deer, which seems as though it will be far better in picking its way through the snow than the delicate hooves of Oak’s faerie horse. Half a dozen falcons accompany him, wearing livery all of a shimmering gray. Bogdana rides a bear, which lumbers around, unnerving everyone.
Tiernan rides up to where Oak has mounted Damsel Fly. His jaw is tight with tension. “This doesn’t feel right.”
Randalin arrives a moment later, the Ghost beside him.
“Your betrothed really is remarkable,” the Minister of Keys says. “Do you know she has two ancient troll kings swearing fealty to her?”
“I certainly do,” Oak says.
“It would be better for everyone if we move now,” says the Ghost.
“I suppose,” Randalin says with a long-suffering sigh, somehow oblivious to the danger all around him. “We were in such a hurry to march here, and now we’re in such a hurry to leave. I personally would be interested in sampling local dishes.”
“The kitchens are somewhat understaffed,” Oak says.
“I am going to check on the queen’s party,” the Ghost says, then rides off in that direction.
“When did the knights arrive?” Oak asks Tiernan, gesturing toward the Folk swarming around the castle.
“This morning. Courtesy of Grima Mog. To escort us to the boat,” Tiernan says mildly since Randalin is beside them.
Oak nods, taking that in.
The horn blows again, and they begin to move.
It takes them more than an hour to arrive at the rough-hewn ice wall built by the troll kings. As they draw closer, Oak is awed by the sheer scale of it. It towers over them as they ride into the gap.
And then past the army of Elfhame.
Fires dot the landscape, burning where soldiers crowd around them for warmth. Several knights sit alone on makeshift stools, polishing weapons, while larger groups gather to drink barley tea and smoke pipes. Although a few call out cheerfully at the sight of Oak, he notes something ugly in their gaze when they see Wren’s carriage.
A loud sound like a clang of metal on metal rings across the snow, and the group comes to an abrupt halt. Bogdana’s bear growls. Wren’s guards crowd around her carriage, hands on their weapons. She says something to them, low. The air is thick with the threat of violence.
Grima Mog and a group of armored soldiers walk toward the procession. Oak spurs Damsel Fly toward the grand general, his heart beating hard.
Do they mean to betray Wren? Make a captive of her? If they try, he’ll invoke his authority as Cardan’s heir. He will find out the extent of all his powers. He will do something.
“Greetings, Prince Oak,” says Grima Mog. She wears a hat, clotted and black with blood. Armor covers the rest of her, and she has a massive, two-handed sword strapped to her back. She passes a scroll up into his hands. It’s sealed with a ribbon and wax. “This explains to the High King and Queen that we will remain here until a treaty is signed.”
The entire army, camped in the cold just beyond the wall, waiting and planning.
“Word will come soon,” Oak promises.
Grima Mog gives a half smile, lower canine escaping her lip. “Waiting is dull business. You wouldn’t want us to grow restless.”
Then, taking a step back, Grima Mog gives a signal. Her people fall back. The soldiers of Elfhame who were part of Oak’s procession begin to move again. The wheels of Wren’s carriage roll forward. The bear plods on.
Oak is immensely relieved to leave the army behind.
Next, they draw close to the Stone Forest, the trees hanging heavy with their strange blue fruit. Wind whistles through branches, making an eerie tune.
The Ghost rides up to Oak, reining in his horse. “I wasn’t sure how to interpret your note,” the spy says quietly.
“I meant it quite literally,” Oak returns.
He wrote it in haste, sitting on the floor of the storage room, with Daggry watching him. Certainly it could have been better, but he thought it was quite clear:
Things are not as they seem. Call off the battle.
Send someone to the Citadel, and I will explain.
“Although I admit not to fully understanding how you accomplished what you did,” the Ghost says, “I am impressed.”
Oak frowns, not liking what the spy is implying. That Oak’s offer of marriage is insincere, a lure. That the prince has set and sprung a trap. Oak doesn’t want Wren cast in the role of their enemy, nor that of a mark.
“When one is charmed,” the prince says, “it’s easy to be charming.”
“You worried your sisters,” the Ghost counters.
Oak notes the plural. The spy has been close to Jude’s twin, Taryn, for years, leaving how close as a matter of speculation among the family.
“They ought to recall what they were doing when they were my age,” Oak says. Jude has been worrying the rest of them for years.
The spy gives a half smile. “Perhaps that’s what stopped the High Queen from hanging Tiernan up by his toes for going along with your plan instead of stopping you.”
No wonder Tiernan was so stiff with Oak. He must have been interrogated, insulted. “Perhaps she remembered that if Tiernan had stopped me, that would have meant letting our father die.”
The Ghost sighs, and neither of them speaks for the rest of the ride to the shore.
A ship made of pale wood is anchored out past the black stones and shallow waters of the beach. Long and slender, with both bow and stern tapered to points that curl like the stems of leaves, she is a proud ship. Two masts rise from her deck, and around their bases, Oak can see puddles of the white sails that will be hoisted to catch the wind. The name Moonskimmer is emblazoned along the side in carved letters.
And from the other direction, he sees the troll kings, stepping through the snow toward them. Their skin is the deep gray of granite, riddled with what appear to be cracks and fissures. Their faces look more sculpted than alive, even as their expressions shift. One has a beard, while the other’s face is bare. Both wear old and tattered scale armor, marbled with tarnish. Both have circlets on their brows of rough, dark gold. One has a club made from most of a fir tree attached to a leather belt that must have been sewn from the whole hides of several bears.