He holds up his hands in surrender. “Nothing I said was un—”
Wren hurls the teacup at him. It smashes against the floor, jagged bits of pottery flying. “Get out!”
He stares at the shards in horror, realizing what it means. She picked up the cup. I persuaded her to pick up the cup. This is the exact problem with being a love-talker. His power cares nothing for consequences.
“You told me you’d give me an order after I tried to persuade you.” Oak takes a step toward the door, his heart beating painfully hard. “I shall obey.”
When he passes Straun, the guard snorts, as though he believes Oak had his chance and blew it.
The prince stands on the deck for the better part of the night, staring numbly into the sea as dawn blushes on the horizon. He’s still there when he hears a scream behind him.
At the cry, he whirls, hand already going to the blade at his hip—finding not the needle-thin rapier he’s used to wielding but a borrowed cutlass. The curved blade rattles in its scabbard as he pulls it free—just as a thick black tentacle sprawls across the deck.
It wriggles toward the prince like some disembodied finger, dragging itself forward. Oak takes several steps back.
Another tentacle rises from the water to twine around the prow, ripping through one of the sails.
A troll sailor, interrupted from a game of Fidchell with an ogre, scrambles to his feet and up the rigging in horror. Shouts ring out.
“The Undersea! The Undersea is attacking!”
The ocean churns as seven sharks surface with merrows astride their backs. All the merrows are different shades of mottled green and wield jagged-looking spears. They are armored in pearlescent scales of shells and draped in woven ropes of seaweed. The expression in their cold, pale eyes makes it clear they have come to fight.
The captain blows on a crooked pipe. Sailors run to positions, beginning to haul out massive harpoons from hatches beneath the deck, each weapon heavy enough to take several of them to move.
The knights and falcons spread out, swords and bows to hand.
“Subjects of Elfhame,” a merrow shouts. Like the others, he is clad in shells cut into discs that overlap one another to make a sort of scale armor, but his bare arms are encircled in bracelets of gold, and his hair is knotted into thick braids, decorated with the teeth of sea creatures. “Know the power of Cirien-Cròin, far greater than the line of Orlagh.”
Oak steps toward the gunwale, but Tiernan grabs his shoulder and squeezes it hard. “Don’t be a fool and draw their eye. Perhaps they won’t recognize you.”
Before Oak can argue, Randalin raises his voice. “Is that your name? The name of your monster?” He sounds somewhere between stern lecturer and on the verge of panic.
The merrow laughs. “The name of our master, who has gone courting. He sends us with a message.”
“Deliver it, and go on your way,” says Randalin, making a shooing motion toward the tentacle. “And get that thing off our deck.”
Oak spots Wren, not sure when she left her chambers. He catches her gaze, remembering the warning she was given by the merrow she freed from the Court of Moths—that a war was coming for control of the Undersea. And Loana mentioned that Nicasia was having a contest for her hand and, with it, her crown. Then Loana tried to drown him, which overshadowed the warning. But he recalls it vividly now.
Wren widens her eyes, as though trying to tell him something. Probably that they’re screwed. If she unmakes the tentacle, she might unmake the ship along with it.
At least this seems to have put their disastrous game out of her mind.
“You are the message,” the merrow says. “You, at the bottom of the sea with crabs picking out your eyes.”
Another tentacle rises from the waves, slithering up the side of the boat. Well, this is very, very bad.
Seven merrows and one monster. The thing with the tentacles doesn’t seem to have any particular cleverness. As far as Oak can tell, it can’t even see what it is grabbing for. If they can get rid of the merrows, there is a chance that without anyone commanding it to strike, the thing will go away. Of course, there is also a chance it may decide to rip the ship to teeny, tiny pieces.
“Queen Suren,” the merrow says, spotting her. “You should have taken our offer and given us your prize. I see you lost your war. Here we find you in the hands of your enemy. Were you our ally, we would save you, but now you will die with the others. Unless . . .”
“Your Highness,” Tiernan hisses at Oak. His sword is drawn and his jaw set. “Get below.”
“And how will that help, exactly?” Oak demands. “Will waiting to drown make the experience better?”
“For once, just—” Tiernan begins.
But Oak has already come to a decision. “Hello there!” he says, striding toward the merrow. “Looking for a prize? What did you have in mind?”
From behind him, he thinks he hears Tiernan muttering about how strangling Oak himself may be a kindness. At least it would be a merciful death.
“Prince Oak of Elfhame,” the merrow says with a scowl. As though he is finding this much too easy. “We’re taking you to Cirien-Cròin.”
“Wonderful plan!” says Oak. “Did you know that she chained me up? And now I’m supposed to marry her unless someone takes me away. Come aboard. Let’s go.”
Wren’s expression has gone shuttered. She can’t possibly believe he’s serious, but that doesn’t mean his words don’t cut close to the bone.
“You can’t mean to go with them,” Randalin says, because Randalin is an idiot.
The merrow signals, and six of the sharks swim closer so that the merrows on their backs can climb onto the deck. One has a silver net in his hands. It gleams in the morning light.
Six. That’s almost all of them.
“Take the queen, too,” commands the merrow leader. “Leave the rest to Sablecoil.”
Sablecoil. That must be the monster.
“You’re not taking anyone,” says one of the knights. “If you board the ship, we’ll—”
“Oh, let them come,” Oak interrupts with a speaking look. “Maybe they’ll take her and allow the rest of us to go.”
“Your Highness,” says another knight, his voice respectful but slow, as though Oak is a greater fool than the councilor. “I very much doubt that’s their plan. If it were, I would hand her over in a heartbeat.”
The prince glances toward Wren, hoping she didn’t hear. Randalin has caught hold of her hand and is attempting to drag her toward the stateroom near the helm of the ship, in what appears to be an act of actual valiance on his part.
“Perhaps we can come to some arrangement,” the merrow commander says. “After all, who can speak of Cirien-Cròin’s might if all who witness it are dead? We will take the prince and the queen, then Sablecoil will release you while we treat with one another.”
That’s a terrible deal. That’s such a bad deal even Sablecoil would know better than to take it.
“Yes, yes!” Oak says cheerily. “I look forward to discussing this Cirien-Cròin’s wooing of Nicasia. I might have some insights to share. My half-brother seduced her, you know.”
A nearby sailor makes a startled noise. None of them would speak of her that way while they crossed her waters.
The merrow commander, still on his shark, smiles, showing thin teeth, like those of some deepwater fish. The six merrows on the deck split up, four heading toward Wren and two toward the prince. They don’t expect Oak to be difficult to subdue, even if he resists.
As the merrows get closer, he feels a momentary spike of panic.
Most of the people on this boat don’t expect him to be hard to subdue, either, or anything other than a fool. That’s the reputation he’s painstakingly built. A reputation he’s about to throw away.