The Stolen Heir: A Novel of Elfhame (The Stolen Heir, 1)
The Stolen Heir: Chapter 6

A knock on the door announces a knight with hair the color of rotten vegetation and eyes like onyx, who introduces herself as Lupine. She tells us that she is to lead us to the revel happening in the great hall of the palace. When she speaks, I see that the inside of her mouth is as black as her eyes. “The Queen of Moths awaits you.”

She appears to be one of the sluagh, the half-dead Folk. Banshees, who are said to be the souls of those who died in grief. Fetches, which mirror the faces of the dying and announce their doom. If the Gentry are proof that faeries can live forever, and be forever young, then the sluagh are proof they might even live on after that. I replace them both disconcerting and fascinating in equal measure.

Tiernan and Jack have made themselves presentable. The kelpie slicked back his dark hair and affixed a flower just below the collar of his shirt. Tiernan wears a doublet he must have hunted up from one of his bags, brown velvet and slightly wrinkled, more that of a soldier than a courtier. He frowned when he saw Oak emerge from my room with me.

“Lead on,” Oak tells Lupine, and with a shallow bow, she sets off, leaving us to trail behind.

The tunnels of the Court of Moths carry the scents of fresh-turned earth and seawater. As the southernmost Court on the coast, it is perhaps not surprising that we pass through sea caves, their walls studded with the sharp remains of barnacles. There is a wet, crashing sound, and for a moment I imagine the ocean rushing in and drowning us all. But it recedes, and I realize the waves must be far enough off not to be a danger.

A little farther and we come to an underground grove. The air is suffocatingly humid. We pass floss-silk trees, their thick gray trunks covered in thorns bigger than two of my fingers together. From them hang what appear to be woolen nests of white seedpods. A few wriggle as I study them, as though something more than seeds is trapped inside, trying to be born.

The next room has a still pool dipping down into unknown depths, with night-dark water. Jack of the Lakes goes toward it, dabbling his hand. Tiernan tugs sharply on the back of his doublet. “You don’t want to go swimming in there, kelpie.”

“Do you think there’s an enchantment on it?” Jack asks, fascinated, squatting to look at his reflection.

“I think it’s where the sea folk come in,” says the knight grimly. “Swim too far, and you will replace yourself in the Undersea, where they have little love for lake dwellers.”

I kick my skirt ahead of me. My fingers dig deep into my pockets, running over what I stuffed into them. The sharp scissors I stole from Habetrot, the matchbook, the fox figurine, a single licorice jelly bean. I hate the idea of my things remaining in the room and being pawed over by inquisitive servants, inventoried for the queen.

Three more turns, and then I hear strains of music. We pass a smattering of guards, one that smacks their lips at me.

“Did they let you see Hyacinthe?” I ask Tiernan, matching my step to his. I do not like the thought of the former falcon being confined when he was already desperate to be free. And I am worried over Queen Annet’s plans, no less her whims.

Tiernan seems surprised I have spoken to him voluntarily. “He’s well enough.”

I study the knight. His expression is stiff, his broad shoulders set. A thin dusting of stubble darkens his jaw. His short black hair appears unbrushed. I wonder how long he remained in the prisons and how quickly he had to dress because of it.

“What do you think Queen Annet will do with him?” I ask.

Tiernan frowns. “Nothing much. The prince has promised—” He bites off the end of the sentence.

I give him a swift, sideways look. “Did you really trick Hyacinthe into being captured?”

He turns toward me sharply. “He told you that?”

“Why shouldn’t he? Would you have used the bridle to keep him from speaking had you known what he would say?” I keep my voice low, but something in my tone makes Jack of the Lakes glance my way, a small smile at the edge of his mouth.

“Of course I wouldn’t!” Tiernan snaps. “And I am not the one with command of him anyway.”

That seems like splitting hairs, since Oak must have told Hyacinthe to obey the knight. He’s issued plenty of orders in my hearing. Still, I hate the reminder that the prince is the one who owns the bridle. I want to like him. I want to believe that he’s nothing like Madoc.

Up ahead, Lupine is telling Oak something about the crystalline structures, how there are rooms of ruby and sapphire near the prisons. She points toward an arched doorway, beyond which I can see steps down. The prince bends to say something in return, and her face changes, her eyes going a little glassy.

Love-talker.

“Is that where he’s being held?” I ask, angling my head in the direction that Lupine indicated.

Tiernan nods. “You think I am terrible, is that it? Hyacinthe’s father was a sworn knight of Lady Liriope—Oak’s birth mother. When she was poisoned, he killed himself out of shame at having failed her.

“Hyacinthe swore to avenge his father. When Madoc proved to him that Prince Dain was responsible, he declared that he would be loyal thereafter to the general who caused his death. And Hyacinthe was fantastically loyal.”

“That’s why he chose to be punished rather than repent?” I ask.

Tiernan made a motion of uncertainty. “Hyacinthe had heard awful things of the new High King—that he pulled the wings off of Folk who wouldn’t bow to him, that sort of stuff. And Cardan was the brother of Prince Dain. So yes, his loyalty to Madoc was some of it, but not all. He can’t let go of his desire for revenge, even if he’s no longer sure whom he blames.”

“Is that why he’s wearing the bridle?” I ask.

He frowns. “There was an incident. This punishment was better than the others.”

This is the most Tiernan has ever spoken to me, and even now, I suspect he is mostly talking to himself.

Still, if he expects me to believe he bridled Hyacinthe for Hyacinthe’s own sake, I will replace that hard to do. In the Court of Teeth, everything terrible that happened to me was supposed to be for my benefit. They probably could have found a way to slit my throat and call it a gift.

We pause at the edge of the great hall.

“Allow me to escort you in?” Oak asks me, offering his arm.

Lupine sighs.

Awkwardly, I place my hand over his, as I see others doing. The pressure of his skin against my palm feels shockingly intimate. I note the three gold rings on his fingers. I note that his nails are clean. Mine are jagged in places or bitten.

I am unfamiliar with Faerie Courts in times of peace, and yet I do not think it is just that which makes me sense the pull toward violence that is in the air. Faeries spin in intersecting circle dances. Some are in garments of silk and velvet, leaping along with those in gowns of stitched leaves or bark, others in bare skin. Among the petals, grasses, silks, and embroidered fabrics are human clothes—t-shirts, leather jackets, tulle skirts. One of the ogres wears a silver-sequined gown over their leather trousers.

Giants move slowly enough for the crowd to part around them, a few goblins dance, a troll sinks her teeth into what appears to be a stag’s liver, a redcap adjusts his gore-soaked hat, pixies flit up into the tangled roots of the domed ceiling, and nixies toss their still-wet hair as they cavort. I note a trio of hobs playing a game of chestnuts in a corner, perhaps to decide what will happen to a sprite that one of them is holding in a birdcage, her feet stuck in honey.

As we enter, Folk turn toward us. They do not look at me in horror, as they did in the Court of Teeth, where I was often paraded before them while I tried to bite my captors and pulled at my chains. I see curiosity in the gazes that follow me, not entirely unmixed with admiration—though that part is doubtless either for the gown or the prince on my arm.

The air is thick with the sweetness of flowers and overripe fruit, making me feel dizzy when it fills my lungs. Small faeries buzz through it like living dust motes.

Long, low tables are heaped with food—grapes as black as ink rest beside golden apples, cakes dusted with sugar and rose petals rise in towers, and pomegranates spill their red seeds onto the tablecloth—pale silk that trails its fringe onto the packed dirt of the floor. Silver goblets stand near carafes of wines—one as green as grass, another the purple of violets, and a third the pale yellow of buttercups.

Fiddlers and pipers spread out across the brugh play songs that ought to have been discordant, but instead the notes come together in a wild and delirious noise. It makes my blood sing.

There are performers nearby, jugglers who toss golden balls into the air that turn silver before being caught. A horned acrobat steps into a flower-covered hoop and arches her back while twisting her body, making it spin. A few Folk gasp in delight. The Gentry flash their haughty, superior smiles.

For me, who has been so much alone, it feels like drowning in a deluge of sights and sounds and smells.

I make a fist of the hand that is not touching Oak, sinking my ragged nails into the pad of my thumb to keep my expression neutral. The pain works, clearing my head.

Do not scream, I tell myself. Do not bite anyone. Do not cry.

The guide indicates a slightly raised dais, where the Unseelie queen sits on a throne of mangrove, roots of it spread out so that they seem like the tentacles of some enormous octopus. Queen Annet wears a gown that is half leather armor and half dramatic extravagance, making her look ready to rise and fight upon a stage. Her hair falls loose in a cascade of black curls, caught in a crown of magenta bougainvillea. Her stomach is round and heavy with child. One of her clawed hands spreads across her belly protectively.

I have learned many things in the woods. I could tell you the flight patterns of crows, how to collect water droplets off leaves after a storm. I could tell you how to unravel the spells of the half dozen Folk who seek to bind mortals into unfair bargains. But I have learned nothing of politics. And yet, I have an awful feeling that every move Queen Annet has made since we arrived was pure calculation.

At Oak’s approach, Queen Annet rises and sinks into a curtsy.

“Please do not trouble yourself,” he says too late. He makes a bow of his own, clearly much surprised to replace her pregnant. Faeries do not reproduce easily or often, and rumor was that Queen Annet had spent decades longing in vain for a child.

I make a curtsy, too, lowering my head. I am not sure the exact etiquette relative to our stations, but I hope that if I go low enough and stay there long enough, it will serve.

“Your kindness in giving us rest and refreshment is more than we would have asked,” Oak says, a phrase that could have come only from someone who has been tutored in courtesy, since he sounds polite, but underneath that, a lot is left unsaid.

“And how may we accommodate you further?” asks Queen Annet while settling herself back in her throne with the help of a goblin attendant.

“I have heard that the Thistlewitch makes her home deep in a cypress swamp in your lands. We know that those who seek her there do so at their peril. We ask for a clear path to her, if you can grant us one.”

“And for what purpose do you seek her?” The queen’s gaze brooks little in the way of evasion.

“It is said she can replace all lost things,” says Oak. “Maybe even see into the future. But we wish to know about the past.”

Queen Annet smiles in a way that makes me worried. “I do not seek to anger the High Court by misplacing their prince. I could give you a marking to write on your shoes that would lead you straight through the swamp.”

Oak opens his mouth, looking ready to thank her and be off on our way.

“And yet,” Queen Annet says. “Let us consider your traveling companions. A kelpie, your bodyguard, and a fallen queen.” Her gaze goes to me. “Do not think I do not know you, Suren, daughter of ice.”

My gaze meets hers, quick and hostile, before I can make myself otherwise.

“And Hyacinthe,” Oak says. “Whose return I would appreciate.”

“Your prisoner?” Queen Annet raises her eyebrows. “We will secure him for the time being so that you need not play jailer in my house.”

“It is no hardship,” Oak says. “Whatever else you think of me, I know my duty to a captured foe, especially considering that my father is more than a little responsible for his being cursed. I ought to be the one to look after him.”

Queen Annet smiles. “Sometimes duty can be a hardship. As long as everyone is well behaved, I will return him anon. Headed north, then, are you?”

“I am.” The prince looks wary.

“The High Court won’t help your father, will they?” the queen goes on, studying Oak.

He doesn’t answer, and she nods as though his silence is answer enough.

“So you’re left to save Madoc yourself.” The queen draws forward on her throne. “Does that sister of yours even know you’ve embarked on this quest?”

Jude, we can’t just let him die. That was what Oak said when he was delirious and half-unconscious.

That’s why he seems tired and anxious, why he’s the one putting himself in danger with only a single knight at his side. Why he and Tiernan evaded so many of my questions. Because Lady Nore took his foster father prisoner. And since Madoc was a traitor, banished from Elfhame, no one else is willing to lift a finger to get him back.

“What a dutiful boy you are,” says Queen Annet when he doesn’t answer.

The tilt of his mouth goes sharp-edged.

My heart beats double time. If he hid this from me, he did it for a reason. Maybe it was only that he thought I had cause not to like Madoc, since he was allied with the Court of Teeth. Or maybe he knew that we would be at cross purposes when we arrived at the Citadel, me wishing to bring Lady Nore down, and him looking to negotiate.

“The High Court might not thank me for aiding you,” Queen Annet says. “Might even punish me for my part in your plan. It seems you’ve brought trouble to my household, Oak of Elfhame. This is poor repayment for our generosity.”

And now, after realizing the game Oak has been playing with me, I understand the game Queen Annet has been playing with him.

Faerie rules around hospitality are extremely specific. For example, invoking parlay is how Madoc got the High Court to allow him, Lord Jarel, and Lady Nore to walk right into Elfhame without anyone touching a hair on his head, even though he had an enemy army camped right at the edge of one of the islands.

But once he lifted a sword and broke the rules of hospitality, well, all bets were off.

The Court of Moths declared themselves to be our hosts, so they were obligated to take care of us. Unless we were bad guests. Then they’d be free to do whatever they liked.

But what could Annet want from him? A boon for her unborn child? The bridle? The head of the heir to Elfhame?

“If my sister bears anyone a grudge for this,” Oak says, “it will be me and me alone.”

Queen Annet considers this. “Give me your hand,” she says finally.

He does, turning it palm up. She cuts the tip of her finger with a knife taken from a strap at her wrist, then writes a symbol on his skin. “Trace that onto your shoes, and you will replace your way through the swamp.”

The ease with which she has given us what we want makes it clear to me she anticipates getting something from us later. Something we would not give her now, if she asked for it.

“We are all gratitude.” Oak inclines his head toward her. This seems like a cue to curtsy again.

“I take very seriously my obligations as a host,” Queen Annet warns, then gives Oak a small, strange smile. “You may depart in the morning. For tonight, make merry in my halls. You will need a little warmth where you are going.”

Somewhere nearby, a new group of musicians starts up, playing an eerie tune.

As we make our way from the dais, Tiernan puts his hand on Oak’s arm. “I don’t like this.”

I push my way into the crowd. My thoughts are a tangle. I recall Hyacinthe referring to Lady Nore communicating with Oak. She would have had to if she wanted him to know she had his father. And whatever else he intended, whatever he told me, Oak wants to secure his father’s freedom far more than he wants to stop Lady Nore. Were I his sister, I wouldn’t send him north, not when his goals might not match her own.

His goals almost certainly don’t match mine.

“Elfhame requires your assistance.” I repeat his words back to him with a sneer.

He doesn’t look half as guilty as he ought. “I should have explained, about Madoc.”

“I wonder why you decided against it,” I say in a tone that indicates just the opposite.

He meets my gaze with all the arrogance of royalty. “Everything I did tell you was true.”

“Yes, you deceive the way all the Gentry do. With your tricks and omissions. It’s not as though you have the option of lying.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I note that Tiernan has backed away from our argument. He is moving in the direction of the banquet table and the wine.

Oak sighs, and finally I hear something like chagrin creep into his voice. “Wren, you have plenty of reasons not to trust me right now, but I do intend to stop Lady Nore. And I believe we can. Though I plan on bringing back Madoc, we will still have done a deed no one can deny was of service to Elfhame. Whatever trouble I will be in, you’ll be a hero.”

I am not sure anyone has considered me that, not even the people I’ve saved. “And if I decide to part ways? Are you going to tie my hands and drag me along with you?”

He looks at me with trickster eyes beneath arched golden brows. “Not unless you scratch me again.”

“Why do you want to help him?” I ask. Madoc had been willing to use Oak as a path to power, at the least.

“He’s my father,” he says, as though that should be enough.

“I am going north for the sole purpose of destroying my parent, and you’ve never seemed to think I would so much as hesitate,” I remind him.

“Madoc is not the father of my blood,” he says. “He’s the person who raised me. He’s my dad. And yes, fine, he’s complicated. He always craved conquest. Not even power, really, but the fight itself. Maybe because he was a redcap, or maybe it’s just how he was, but it’s like a compulsion.”

I am not sure it makes it better, to think of it as a compulsion.

“Strategy was dinner-table conversation. It was game play. It was everything. From the minute he met my mother and learned who sired me, learned that I could be the heir to Elfhame, he couldn’t help scheming.

“After he got exiled to the mortal world, stuck with that geas that kept him from picking up a weapon, he was completely at a loss. Started working shifts at a slaughterhouse just for the smell of blood. Trained me in the combat he was barred from. Got involved in playing politics with the neighbors in his apartment building. Had them all at each other’s throats inside of a month. Last I heard, one of the old ladies stabbed a young guy in the neck with a pen.”

Oak shakes his head, but it’s clear he loves Madoc, even knowing he’s a monster. “It’s his nature. I can’t deny that he brought an army to Elfhame’s shores. He’s the reason Folk were killed. He made himself an enemy of the High Court. He would have murdered Cardan if he’d had a chance. And so, no matter how much my sister loves our dad, she can’t ask her sworn subjects to help him. It would look terrible, to ask Folk to risk their lives for his when he put them in danger. But someone has to do it or he’s going to die.”

Now I am paying attention to what he doesn’t say. “Did she tell you she wanted to help him?”

“No,” he admits slowly.

“And does she want you to help him?”

He’s caught and knows it. “Jude didn’t know what I was planning, but if I were to guess how she’s feeling right now—I’d go with enraged. But Madoc would have come for us if we were the ones that were trapped.”

I’ve seen the High Queen angry, and no matter how she loves him, I am not sure she will forgive choosing their father over her. When she punishes the prince, though Oak believes otherwise, she will very probably punish those who helped him, too.

But when he reaches for my hand, I take it and feel the nervous, awful pleasure of his fingers threading through mine. “Trust me, Wren,” he says. “Help me.”

Love-talker.

Schemer.

My gaze goes to the scratches on his cheek, still raw-looking. My doing, for which he has not rebuked me. However secretive his nature, however foolish his reasons for loving his father, I like that he does. “I’ll come with you,” I say. “For now.”

“I’m glad.” The prince looks out at the hall, at the Gentry of the Court of Moths, at the dances and the revelry. Then he gives me his quicksilver smile, the kind that makes me feel as though we are friends conspiring together. “Since you’re in a benevolent mood, perhaps you’ll also dance with me.”

My surprise must be evident. “Why?”

He grins. “To celebrate you continuing with this quest. Because we’re at a party. So that Queen Annet believes we’ve got nothing to hide.”

“Do we have something to hide?” I ask.

He smiles wider, giving me a tug toward the revelers. “Always.”

I hesitate, but there is a part of me that wants to be convinced. “I don’t know how.”

“I have been trained in all the arts of the courtier,” he says. “Let me show you.”

I allow him to lead me into the crowd. Instead of going into one of the circle dances, though, he steers me to one side of them, so that we have room to practice. Turns me in his arms and shows me a movement, waiting for me to mirror it.

“Do you ever think about what it would be like to be a queen again?” he whispers against my cheek as we practice the steps.

I pull away to glare at him.

He holds up his hands in surrender. “It wasn’t meant to be a trick question.”

“You’re the one that’s going to rule,” I remind him.

“No,” he says, watching the other dancers. “I don’t think I will.”

I suppose he’s been avoiding the throne for most of his life. I think of cowering beneath the bed in his room during the Battle of the Serpent and shove the memory from my mind. I don’t want to think about back then. Just as I do not want to think about how, despite Hyacinthe’s warnings, I am ready to eat out of the prince’s hand as tamely as a dove.

It’s too easy. I’m hungry for kindness. Hungry for attention. I want and want and want.

“We ought to eat something,” I say. “We have a long journey ahead of us.”

Although he must know it is an excuse, he releases me from his arms.

We wend through the crowd to a banquet table laden with delicacies. Oak takes a tart filled with golden faerie fruit and cuts it in half, giving a portion to me. Though I was the one who suggested food, I realize how hungry I am only after taking the first bite. Self-consciously, I pour a glass of water from the pitcher set out to mix with the wine and gulp that down.

Oak pours himself wine, undiluted.

“Will you tell me how you came to be living…” He stops, as if trying to replace the words. “As you were.”

I remember the care I’d given that he not know. How could I explain the way time seemed to slip from my fingers, the way I became incrementally more detached, more unable to reach out a hand to take anything I wanted? I will not allow him to pity me any more than he does.

“You could have come to see me,” he says. “If you needed something.”

I laugh at that. “You?”

He frowns down at me with his amber eyes. “Why not?”

The enormity of the reasons catches in my mouth. He’s a prince of Elfhame, and I am the disgraced child of traitors. He befriends everyone, from the troll guard at the entrance to all those Tiernan mentioned back in the High Court, while I have spent years alone in the woods. But most of all, because he could have asked his sister to allow me to stay on the Shifting Isles and didn’t.

“Perhaps I wanted to save that favor you still owe me,” I say.

He laughs at that. Oak liking me is as silly as the sun liking a storm, but that doesn’t stop my desire for it.

Me, with my sharp teeth and chilly skin. It’s absurd. It’s grotesque.

And yet, the way he looks at me, it almost seems possible. I imagine that’s his plan. He wants me to be charmed by him so that I will stay by his side and do what he asks of me. No doubt he believes that a little attention and a few smiles will be all it requires of him. He expects me to be as malleable as one of the ladies of the Court.

So much of me wants to give in and pretend with him that it makes me hot with rage.

If he wants to charm me, the least I can do is make it cost him. I won’t settle for smiles and a dance. I am going to call his bluff. I am going to prove to myself—prove to us both—that his flirtation isn’t sincere. I lean toward him, expecting him to unconsciously move away. To be repulsed. But he only watches me curiously.

As I draw closer, his eyes widen a little.

“Wren,” he whispers. I am not sure if it’s a warning or not. I hate that I don’t know.

At every moment, I expect him to flinch or pull back as I put one hand on his shoulder, then go up on my toes, and kiss him.

This is ridiculous. Kissing him is profane. It gives me all the horrible satisfaction of smashing a crystal goblet.

It’s quick. Just the press of my dry mouth against his lips. A brief sense of softness, the warmth of breath, and then I pull away, my heart thrumming with fear, with the expectation that he will be disgusted.

With the certainty that I have well and truly punished him for trying to flirt with me.

The angry, feral part of me feels so close to the surface that I can almost scent its blood-clotted fur. I want to lick the scratches I made.

He doesn’t look alarmed, though. He’s studying my face, as though he’s trying to work something out.

After a moment, his eyes close, pale lashes against his cheek, and he dips forward to press his mouth to mine again. He goes slower, one of his hands cupping my head. A shivery feeling courses down my spine, a flush coming up on my skin.

When he draws back, he is not wearing his usual complicated smile. Instead, he looks as though someone just slapped him. I wonder if a kiss from me is like being clawed on the cheek.

Did he force himself to go through with it? For the sake of keeping me on this quest? For the sake of his father and his plans?

I thought to punish him, but all I have succeeded in doing is punishing myself.

I take a breath and let it out slowly. My gaze slides from his, and I spot Tiernan, coming toward us. I am not certain how much he saw, but I do not want to hear anything he might have to say just now. “Your pardon,” I tell Oak. “But I’ve had enough dancing. I think I will take my leave.”

The corner of his mouth quirks. “You know where to replace me if you change your mind.”

I hate the way those words make my skin flush.

I head into the crowd, hoping he will lose sight of me. Cursing myself for being foolish. Cursing him for addling my thoughts.

As my eyes slide across the dancers, I know I must talk to Hyacinthe.

As long as everyone is well behaved, I will return him anon. That was what Queen Annet said, but it was possible we had already failed at being well behaved. That coming here against the wishes of the High Queen might be excuse enough to keep him locked away.

Imprisoned as he is, though, I can go and speak with him right now with no one the wiser. He can give me his warning in full, can tell me everything he knows.

I scoop up a handful of roasted chestnuts and eat them slowly, dropping peels onto the floor as I move toward an exit. A cat-faced faerie tears at a piece of raw meat on a silver platter. A two-headed ogre drinks from a goblet that looks, pinched between his fingers, small enough to belong to a doll.

I aim a look in Oak’s direction. He’s being pulled into one of the dances by a laughing girl with golden hair and deer antlers. I imagine he will swiftly forget our kiss in her arms. And if the thought makes my stomach hurt, that only makes me think of getting to Hyacinthe again.

A mortal man leaps up onto a table near me, hair in thin locs. He has an expressive face and a rangy vulnerability that draws the eye. Pushing his glasses up higher onto his nose, he begins to play a fiddle.

The song he sings is of lost places and homes so far away that they are no longer home. He sings of love so intense it is indistinguishable from hate, and chains that are like riddles of old, no longer holding him, and yet unbroken.

Automatically, I look for ensorcellment, but there is none. He seems here of his own volition, although I dread to think how mistaken he may be in his audience. Still, Queen Annet says she is a fair host. So long as he keeps to the baroque rules of Faerie, he might replace himself back in his bed in the morning, his pockets full of gold.

Of course, no one will tell him the rules, so he won’t know if he breaks one.

Turning away at that thought, I move the rest of the way through the crowd as fast as I can.