The ship Ries high enough for sailors and soldiers to trail their fingers through clouds and let the mist wet their skin. High enough for seabirds to soar beside them; a few even rest on the mast and rigging.
Bogdana stands at the helm. Her expression is strained, and when she sees him, her eyes narrow. Whatever she wishes to say to him, though, it seems she cannot move away from directing the storm that propels them in order to do it.
Scanning the ship, Oak spots Tiernan near the mast, beneath the netting running up to the base of the sail. His head is pillowed on a cloak, his blackberry hair still damp and stiff with salt. His eyes are shut, his skin gone very pale.
Hyacinthe sits beside him, long fall of dark hair over his face. When Oak squats nearby, Hyacinthe pushes it back to reveal his pained expression. He looks as though he is losing blood from some invisible wound.
“She woke up enough to speak with me,” Oak tells him so at least he doesn’t have Wren to worry about. “Told me some very unpleasant things about myself.”
“He’s breathing,” says Hyacinthe, nodding toward Tiernan.
For a long moment, they watch the rise and fall of Tiernan’s chest. Each inhalation comes with what seems like a lot of effort. As he watches, the prince doesn’t trust that one breath will follow the next.
“His loyalty to me might cost him his life,” Oak says.
To his surprise, Hyacinthe shakes his head. His hand goes to the other man’s chest, coming to rest over his heart. “It was my lack of loyalty to him that was the problem.” His voice is so soft that the prince isn’t sure he heard the words correctly.
“You couldn’t have—” Oak begins, but Hyacinthe cuts him off.
“I could have loved him better,” Hyacinthe says. “And I could have better believed in his love.”
“How could that have helped against a monster?” the prince asks. He’s in the mood for an argument and beginning to hope that Hyacinthe might give him one.
“You don’t think what I said is true?”
“Of course I do,” Oak says. “You should better believe in his love— you should beg him for another chance. But that wouldn’t have saved him from drowning. You jumping in after himdidsave him.”
“And you being there to pull us back onto deck saved us both.” Hyacinthe shoves his hair behind his ear and gives a shuddering sigh. His gaze snags on Tiernan as he shifts a little. “Perhaps I have had enough of vengeance. Perhaps I need not make things so hard.” As Oak begins to stand, though, the former falcon looks up at him. “That doesn’t mean I release you from your promise, prince.”
Right. He’d promised to cut off someone’s hand.
As afternoon moves toward night, Tiernan finally wakes. Once he understands what happened, he’s furious with Oak and Hyacinthe both.
“You shouldn’t have gone after me,” he tells Hyacinthe, then turns to the prince. “And youcertainlyshouldn’t have.”
“I barely did anything,” says Oak. “While it’s possible that Hyacinthe battled a shark for you.”
“I didnot.” For all Hyacinthe’s talk of love, the evening finds him sullen.
Oak stands. “Well, I leave you two to that argument. Or some other argument.”
The prince heads to the helm, where he finds the Ghost sitting alone, watching the sails billow. He has a staff beside him. Like Vivi, the Ghost had a human parent, and it’s visible in the sandy brown of his hair, an unusual color in Faerie.
“There is a tale about hags to which you might hearken,” Garrett says.
“Oh?” Oak is almost certain he’s not going to like this.
The Ghost gazes past the prince, at the horizon, the bright blaze of the sun fading to embers. “It is said that a hag’s power comes from the part of them that’s missing. Each one has a cold stone or wisp of cloud or ever-burning flame where their hearts ought to be.”
Oak thinks of Wren and her heart, the only part of her that was ever flesh, and doesn’t think that can be true. “And?”
“They are as different from the rest of the Folk as mortals are from faeries. And you’re bringing two of the most powerful of their kind to Elfhame.” The Ghost gives him a long look. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“So do I,” Oak says, sighing.
“You remind me of your father sometimes, though I doubt you would like to hear it.”
“Madoc?” No one has ever said that to him before.
