Page 74 of The Prisoner's Throne
“I was waylaid,” he says by way of apology.
“As was I,” she tells him. “We should go back to your family’s table.”
He hates that she’s right but offers her his arm.
She takes it, leaning on him with some force. “When you said you loved me . . .” It begins as a question, but one she cannot seem to complete.
“Alas that I cannot lie,” he tells her as he guides her through the hall, the smile easy on his lips now. “I hope you will try to find the humor in my feelings. I shall endeavor to do so myself.”
“But . . . don’t you want revenge?” she asks, her voice even softer than before.
He glances at her swiftly and takes a moment to decide how to answer. “A little,” he admits finally. “I wouldn’t mind if there was some dramatic reversal where you pined while I remained aloof.”
Wren laughs at that, a startled sort of sound. “You are the least aloof person I know.”
He makes a face. “Alas once again, my dreams crushed.”
She stops smiling. “Oak, please. I’ve made a mistake. I’ve made several and I need . . .”
He stops. “What do you need?”
For a moment, it seems as though she will answer. Then she shakes her head.
Just then, the musicians cease playing their instruments. The rest of the courtiers begin to move toward the banquet tables.
Oak guides Wren back to her chair. Predictably enough, the leaf place card with her name on it is set across the table from him, in the place of honor, beside Cardan. His own seat is two down from Jude, next to Leander. A snub.
He’s almost sure that’s not where his chair was before he took off.
A servant comes with pies in the shape of trout.
“You’ll like this,” Taryn says to him and Leander both. “There’s a coin inside one of the dishes, and if you find it, you’ll receive a boon.”
The High King is speaking to Wren, perhaps telling her about the coin as well. Oak can see the effort she’s making not to shrink in on herself.
Slabs of mushroom, grilled and shiny with a sweet sauce, are brought out. Then stewed pears alongside platters of cheese. Seed cakes. Sweet, fresh cream. Broad beans, still in their pods. More fanciful pies arrive. They’re shaped like stags and falcons, swords and wreaths—each with a different filling. Partridge stewed in spices. Blackberries and hazelnuts, pickled sloes, mallow fruit.
When he looks over at Wren again, he can see that she is covering her mouth as she eats, as though to hide the sharpness of her teeth.
There is a sound at the entrance, a clatter of armor as guards leap to attention. The storm hag has arrived, hours late, wearing a tattered black dress that hangs off her like a shroud and a smile full of menace.
Bogdana thrusts her hand into the pie in the shape of a stag. Her hand is stained red with the juice of sloes as she pulls it out, her fingers gripping a coin. “I shall have my boon, king. I want Wren and your heir married tomorrow.”
“You requested three days,” Cardan reminds her. “To which we gave no answer.”
“And three days it will be,” says Bogdana. “Yesterday was the first, and tomorrow will be the third.”
Oak sits up straighter. He glances across the table, waiting for Wren to stop this. Waiting for her to say she doesn’t want to marry him.
Her gaze meets his, and there is something like pleading in it. As though she wants to both break his heart publicly and have some guarantee he won’t hold it against her.
“Go ahead,” he mouths.
But she remains silent.
A glance passes between Jude and Cardan. Then Jude stands and raises her glass, turning to Oak. “Tonight, we feast in the hall in celebration of your betrothal. Tomorrow, we will have a hunt in the afternoon, then dance on Insear. At the end of the night, I will ask your bride a question about you. Should she get it wrong, you will delay your marriage for seven days. Should she answer rightly, we will marry you both on the spot, if such is still your desire.”
Bogdana scowls and opens her mouth to speak.
