Page 58 of The Prisoner's Throne
Once, Oak would have been amused rather than annoyed. He knows the councilor is harmless. Knows his annoyance is overreaction. “Go ahead,” the prince says, trying to get back his equilibrium.
When the councilor heads off toward shore, Oak heaves a sigh and stalks toward Wren. Hyacinthe is whispering something in her ear while she shakes her head.
“If you’re well enough—” Oak begins.
She cuts him off. “I am.”
“Then, Your Majesty,” says the prince, “will you take my arm?”
She looks up at him, as remote and impenetrable as the Citadel itself. Oak feels a little awed by her and then angry on her behalf. He hates that she must wear a mask, no matter how much it costs her, no matter what she’s been through.
As you must.
She nods, placing her hand lightly atop his. “I shall be the politest of monsters.”
For a moment, in the flash of her eyes, in the lifted corner of her mouth, and the glint of a sharp tooth, he sees the girl who quested with him. The one who was fierce and kind, resourceful and brave. But then she is gone again, submerged into cold stiffness. No longer looking like the girl he loved in the weeks leading up to this, but very like the one he loved as a child.
She’s nervous, he thinks.
As Oak leads her ashore, toward the onlookers, he hears whispers.
Witch Queen. Hag Queen.
Still, he is their prince. Their whispers fade as the crowd dutifully parts around him. Tiernan and Hyacinthe both follow, one on each side.
When Oak comes to his sister, he bows. Wren, seeming unsure of the etiquette, bobs in a shallow curtsy.
Despite how much magic it must have taken to destroy that monster in the sea, despite how sick she was after, she appears remarkably composed.
“Welcome home, Prince Oak,” Jude says formally, and then her mouth twists into a wry smile. “And congratulations on the completion of your epic quest. Remind me to knight you when I get the chance.”
Oak grins and bites his tongue. He is certain she will have much more to say to him later when they are alone.
“And you, Queen Suren of the former Court of Teeth,” says Cardan in his silky voice. “You’ve changed quite a bit, but then you would have, I suppose. Felicitations on the murder of your mother.”
Wren’s body stiffens with surprise.
Oak desperately wants to stop Cardan from talking, but short of kicking him or throwing something at his head, he has no idea how.
“The Ice Needle Citadel is full of old nightmares,” Wren says after a beat of silence. “I look forward to making new ones.”
Cardan gives her a half smile of appreciation for that line. “We shall dine together at dusk tomorrow to celebrate your arrival. And betrothal, if the frantic messages we received from Grima Mog were accurate.”
Oak’s mind spins, trying to figure out if he should object to any part of this. “We are, indeed, betrothed,” he confirms.
Jude looks over at him, studying his face. Then she turns to Wren. “So you’re to be my new sister.”
Wren flinches, as though her words are the opening move of some kind of cruel game. Oak wants to put his hand out, to touch her arm, to reassure her, except he knows better than to make Wren look as though she needs reassurance.
Besides, he’s not entirely sure what his sisterdidintend with those words.
A moment later, the black vulture lands on the dirt beside them and transforms into Bogdana, dark feathers becoming her dress and hair.
All around, there is the rattle of swords coming free of sheaths.
“What an appropriate greeting, Your Majesties,” says the storm hag. She does not bow. Nor does she curtsy. She doesn’t even incline her head.
“Bogdana,” Jude says, and there is something that is possibly admiration in her voice. “Your reputation precedes you.”
