Wren reaches her hand into the air, extending her fingers toward Jude and making a motion as though gripping something tightly. Then her hand fists.
His sister gasps. She touches her breastbone, and her head tips forward so that her face is hidden.
The High Queen’s knight, Fand, unsheathes her blade, the glint of the steel reflecting candlelight. All around, guards’ hands go to their hilts.
“Jude?” Oak whispers, taking a step toward her. “Wren, what did you—”
“If you’ve hurt her—” Cardan begins, his gaze on his wife.
“I removed the curse,” Wren says, her voice even.
“I’m fine,” Jude grates out, hand still pressing against her chest. She moves to a chair—not the one at the head of the table, not her own— and sits. “Wren has given me quite a gift. I will have to think long and hard about what to give her in return.”
There’s a threat in those words. And looking around, Oak realizes the reason for it.
It isn’t just that Wren took apart the bridle without permission and the curse without warning, nor that she exposed something that Jude may have wanted to stay hidden, but she made the High King and Queen look weak before their Court. It’s true they weren’t up on the dais for all to see, but enough courtiers were listening and watching for rumors to spread.
The High King and Queen were helpless in the face of Wren’s magic.
That Wren did them a service and put them in her debt.
She did to Jude what Bogdana had done to her in the Citadel—and did it more successfully.
But to what purpose?
“You bring an element of chaos to a party, don’t you?” Cardan says, his tone light, but his gaze fierce. He lifts a goblet from the table. “We obviously have many things to discuss regarding the future. But for now, we share a meal. Let us toast, to love.”
The High King’s voice has a ringing quality that enjoins people to pay attention. Nearby, many glasses are raised. Someone presses a silver-chased goblet into the prince’s hand. Wren is given one by a servant, already filled to the brim with a dark wine.
“Love,” Cardan goes on. “That force that compels us to be sometimes better and often worse. That power by which we can all be bound. That which we ought to fear and yet most desire. That which unites us this evening—and shall unite the both of you soon enough.”
Oak glances at Wren. Her face is like stone. She is clutching her own goblet so tightly that her knuckles are white.
There is a half smile on Cardan’s face, and when his gaze goes to Oak, he gives a small extra tip of his goblet. One that may be a challenge.
I do not want your throne, Oak wishes he could just say aloud and not care if anyone hears, not care if it makes the moment awkward. But the conspirators will reveal themselves just after midnight, and it’s worth waiting a single day.
The Ghost, standing near Randalin, raises his own glass in Oak’s direction. Not far from them, standing by Taryn and Leander, Oriana does not toast and, in fact, appears to be contemplating pouring her wine onto the dirt.
Well, this is going great.
He turns toward Wren and realizes how pale she’s grown.
He thinks of her feverish gaze aboard the ship and how he had to carry her to her bed. If she passes out now, all her work—the way she forced herself upright to walk on the shore, this exchange with his sister—will be undone. The Court will see her as weak. He hates to admit it, but his family may see her that way, too.
But she can’t be well. She was weak from breaking the troll kings’ curse before they left. Then she took apart that monster, and now this. He thinks of Mother Marrow’s words, about how Wren’s own hag power—a power of creation—has been turned inside out.
“I would have a moment with my betrothed,” Oak says, reaching a hand toward her. “A dance, perhaps.”
Wren looks at him with wild eyes. He’s put her in a difficult position. She can’t very well turn him down, and yet she is probably wondering how much longer she can stay upright.
“We’re soon to eat,” his mother objects, having come closer without his noticing.
Oak makes a gesture of carelessness. “It’s a banquet, and now that the toast is made, we’re not needed here to sample every dish.”
Before anyone else can weigh in, he puts his arm around Wren’s waist and escorts her to the floor.
“Perhaps,” Oak says, when they’ve gone a few steps, “we continue on to a corner and sit for a moment.”
