On Insear, there is a small forest of pavilions and other elaborate tents. He looks among them for Wren’s, listening in vain for the sound of her voice or Tiernan’s. He doesn’t hear either of them, and he doesn’t see Madoc’s moon-and-dagger crest marking a tent for him, either.
Everything feels wrong. He can see individual threads but not make out the larger web, and there isn’t much time.
It may already be too late.Wasn’t that what Wren said?
Surely, she couldn’t have been referring to the poison.
I’m not the one who needs saving.
He pushes the thought from his mind. No, she couldn’t have been speaking about that. She couldn’t have a hand in murdering Lady Elaine and probably killing Garrett, too, for all that turning him into a tree might help.
As Oak and Jack walk on, the prince spots a tent with the flap open and Tatterfell within. But it isn’t Madoc’s crest that’s stamped on the outside. The prince frowns at the mark until he understands what he’s looking at.Dain’s crest.But people don’t generally refer to Oak as Dain’s son, even though at this point it’s well known where his Greenbriar blood comes from. If she sees this, Oriana is going to have a fit.
Oak puzzles over who arranged things this way. Not his sister. Nor Cardan, unless this is some kind of backhanded way of reminding Oak of his place. But it seems a little too backhanded. Cardan is subtle but notconfusinglysubtle.
He steps inside. The tent is furnished with rugs covering the rock and patches of grass. He spots a table is crowded with bottles of water and wine and the pressings of fruit. Candles burn to chase away shadows. Tatterfell looks up from spreading his change of clothes out on a low couch.
“You’re early,” the imp says. “And who’s this?”
Jack comes forward to take Tatterfell’s hand and bow deeply over it. “His steed and sometimes companion, Jack of the Lakes. It is my honor, lovely lady. Perhaps we shall dance together this evening.”
The little faerie blushes, looking very unlike her usual grouchy self.
Oak looks at the burgundy doublet, chosen hours earlier. He can still feel the disorientation of the blusher mushroom coursing through his system, but his movements are less stiff and more sure.
“You must dress for the festivities,” she says.
He opens his mouth to tell her that they’re probably not going to happen, then remembers her calling tonight a farce. Did she know something? Did she have a part in this?
He needs to think straight, but it’s so hard with blusher mushroom still addling his mind. Almost certainly, Tatterfell was not planning any assassinations. But he wonders if the poisonings had to do with stopping the ceremony.
That theory didn’t withstand much scrutiny, though. If they wanted it stopped, and had some power over Wren, couldn’t they pressure her to end it? Whoevertheywere.
As his mind runs in circles, he strips off his hunting clothes and puts on the new, more formal ones. In moments, Tatterfell is dusting him off and polishing away any mud on his hooves. As though he really is going to his wedding.
The flap of the tent opens, and two knights step inside.
“The High King and Queen request your presence in their tent before the revel begins,” one says.
“Is Wren there?” he asks.
The knight who spoke shakes his head. He looks to be at least part redcap. The other knight has more elven features and dark eyes. He seems twitchy.
“Tell them I will be along presently,” Oak says.
“I’m afraid we’re to escort you—now.”
That explains the twitchiness, then. “And if I don’t comply?”
“We must yet bring you to them,” the elven knight says, looking unhappy about it.
“Well, then,” Oak says, walking to them. He could, perhaps, use his charm to talk the knights out of it, but that seems hardly worth it. Jude would only send more soldiers, and these two would get in undeniable trouble.
The prince carefully does not look in the direction of Jack. Since the kelpie wasn’t mentioned, he doesn’t have to go and will be the safer for it.
Lightning slices across the sky, followed by a crack of thunder. No rain has started yet, though the air is thick with it. The wind is picking up, too, whipping the skirts of the tents. Oak wonders if Bogdana has something to do with this. Certainly, she is in a bad enough mood.
He thinks of Wren again, of the talons biting into her skin. Of her words in the gardens.I’m not safe. You can’t trust me.
