The Prisoner’s Throne: A Novel of Elfhame

When Oak returns to the bedroom in the tower, two servants are waiting for him. One has the head of an owl and long, gangly arms. The other has skin the color of moss and small moth wings.

“We are to ready you for bed,” says one, indicating the dressing gown.

After weeks wearing the same rags, this is a lot. “Great. I can take it from here,” he says.

“It is our duty to make sure you’re properly cared for,” says the other, ignoring Oak’s objections and shoving his arms into the positions necessary for the removal of his doublet.

The prince submits, allowing them to strip him down and put him in the robe. It’s a thick blue satin, lined in gold and warm enough that he doesn’t entirely begrudge the change. It is strange to have spent weeks being treated as a prisoner, to now be treated as a prince. To be pampered and bullied just as he would be in Elfhame, not trusted to do basic tasks for himself.

He wonders if they do this to Wren. If she lets them.

He thinks of the rough silk of her hair slipping through his fingers.

All that matters is that I do want you.

As he sat for those long weeks in the prisons, he dreamed of her speaking words like those. But if she truly desired him only to be a handsome object with no will of his own, sprawled at her feet like a lazy hound, he would come to hate it. Eventually, he would hate her, too.

He goes to the mantel and takes the key. The metal is cold in the palm of his hand.

If she wants more from him, if she wants him, then she has to trust that if he leaves, he’ll return.

Taking a deep breath, he walks to the bed. The dressing gown is warm but won’t be once he hits the wind. He takes the thickest of the blankets and wraps it over his shoulders like a cloak. Then, ragwort stalk in one hand, he opens the door and peers out into the corridor.

No guard waits for him. He supposes Hyacinthe made sure of that.

As lightly as he can with his hooves, he goes to the stairs and begins to ascend. Up the spiraling structure, avoiding the landings until at last he comes to the top of the parapet. He steps out into the cold and looks out on the white landscape below.

As high up as he is, he can see beyond the trolls’ massive—and as yet unfinished—wall. He squints as he spots what appears to be a flickering flame. And then another. A sound comes to him with the wind. Metallic and rhythmic, at first it sounds like sheeting rain. Then like the early rumblings of thunder.

Below him, behind the battlements, guards shout to one another. They must have spotted whatever it is that Oak is seeing. There’s a confusion of footsteps.

But it isn’t until the prince hears the distant blare of a horn that he finally identifies what he’s been looking at. Soldiers marching toward the Citadel. The snake promised that in three days’ time, someone would rescue him. What he didn’t expect was that it would be the entire army of Elfhame.

Oak paces back and forth atop the cold parapet, panic making it impossible to focus. Tink, he tells himself. Tink.

He could use the ragwort steed and fly to them—assuming they would know it was him and not shoot him out of the sky. But once he got there, then what? They marched here for a war, and he wasn’t foolish enough to believe they would merely turn around and go home once he was safe.

No, once he was safe, they would have no reason to hold back.

He grew up in a general’s home, so he has a sense of what’s likely to happen next. Grima Mog will send ahead riders to meet with Wren. They will demand to see him and offer terms of surrender. Wren will reject that and possibly unmake the messengers.

He needs to do something, but if he goes there with the bridle cutting into his cheeks, that will end all hope of peace.

Closing his eyes, Oak thinks through his options. They’re all terrible, but the sheer mad audacity of one has a particular appeal.

Is there no situation you’re not compelled to make worse?

The prince hopes that Hyacinthe isn’t right.

He doesn’t have a lot of time. Dropping the blanket, he heads down the steps, not bothering to care how loud his hooves are on the ice. Any guard that hears him has bigger problems.

Halfway down the spiral stairs, he almost crashes into a nisse with hair the green of celery and eyes so pale they are almost colorless. The faerie is carrying a tray with strips of raw venison arranged on a plate beside a bowl of stewed seaweed. Startled, the nisse takes a step back and loses his balance. The whole tray crashes down, plate cracking, seaweed splashing onto the steps.

The terror on the nisse’s face makes it clear that the punishment for such a mishap in the old Court of Teeth would have been terrible. But when the nisse realizes who is standing in front of him, he becomes, if anything, more afraid.

“You’re not supposed to be out of your rooms,” the nisse says.

Oak notes the raw meat. “I suppose not.”

The nisse starts to move away, stepping down a stair, looking behind him in a nervous way that suggests he will run. Before he can, Oak presses his hand over the nisse’s mouth, pushing the faerie’s back to the wall, even as he struggles against the prince’s grip.

Oak needs an ally, a willing one.

Hating himself, the prince reaches for the honey-mouthed power that stretches languorously at his summons. He leans in to whisper in the nisse’s ear. “I don’t want to frighten you,” he says, his voice sounding strange to his own ears. “And I don’t intend to hurt you. When you came here, I’ll wager it was because of a bad bargain.”

That’s how it was in Balekin’s house. And he didn’t think anyone would stay working for Lord Jarel and Lady Nore if they had any other option.

The nisse doesn’t respond. But something in his expression and his stance makes Oak understand that the servant has been punished before, has been badly hurt, more than once. No wonder Oak scares him.

“What did you promise? I can help,” Oak asks, pulling his hand away slowly. The burr is still in his voice.

The nisse relaxes some, tipping his head back against the wall. “Mortals found my family. I don’t know what they thought we were, but they killed two of us and caught the third. I got away and came to the only place I knew could get back the lover that was taken—the Ice Needle Citadel. And I promised that if they were returned to me, I would loyally work in the Citadel until one of the royal family thought I had repaid my debt and dismissed me.”

Oak lets out a groan. That’s the sort of desperate, foolish bargain he associates with mortals, but mortals are not the only ones who grow desperate or who can be foolish. “Is that exactly what you promised?” Again, his voice has lost its honey-tongued power. He became too distracted to maintain it, too interested in what he wants to remember to say the right thing.

The nisse winces. “I will never forget.”

Oak thinks about being a child and reckless about magic. He thinks about Valen and how furious he was after he realized Oak was enchanting him.

When he speaks, he can feel the air thicken. “I am one of the royal family. Not the one you meant, but you didn’t specify, so I ought to be able to free you from your debt. But I need your help. I need someone to act as a messenger.” Oak can feel the moments his words sink in, like a fish biting a worm, only to have a hook sink through its cheek.

He remembers the feeling of his body betraying him, the feeling of his limbs fighting against his will. There’s none of that here. This is the opportunity the nisse has been looking for.

“We could both get in a lot of trouble,” he says with a nervous glance down the stairs.

“We could,” Oak says in his regular voice.

The nisse nods slowly, pushing off from the wall. “Tell me what you will have me do.”

“First, I need something other than this to wear.”

The nisse raises his eyebrows.

“Yes, yes, you find me to be vain,” says Oak. “But I’m afraid I still need to discover wherever it is that they keep Lord Jarel’s old clothes.”

The nisse flinches. “You’d wear them?”

Probably the dressing gown Oak has on once belonged to Lord Jarel, as well as what Oak was given to put on for dinner. There hadn’t been time to commission whole new outfits, nor had they fit right. And if they had been fetched for him, then he could fetch something else for himself. “Let’s just take a look. What ought I call you?”

“Daggry, Your Highness.”

“Lead on, Daggry,” Oak says.

It’s easier to move through the Citadel with a servant able to scout ahead and report which ways are clear. They make it to a storeroom, slipping inside before they are spotted.

“This is very near my bedchamber,” says Daggry. “Should you wish to visit me there tonight.”

Oak makes his mouth curve, though guilt chokes him. “I don’t think either one of us will have much time for sleeping.”

Oak thinks of his mother’s warning: Say those things, and they will not only want to listen to you. They will come to want you above all other things.

“No,” Daggry says. “I was not proposing sleep.”

The narrow room is piled with trunks, stacked haphazardly one on the next. And packed in them, the prince finds clothes spread with dried lavender and picked over for gold and pearl ornaments. Strings hang loose from the places where buttons and trims were cut away. He wonders if Lady Nore sold the missing pieces before she discovered the value of the bones she stole from the tombs underneath Elfhame. Before Bogdana began whispering in her ear, urging her on the path that would bring Wren back to the storm hag.

He finds paper and ink, books and pen nibs attached to owl feathers. At the very bottom of the trunk, Oak digs up a few scattered weapons. Cheap, flat ones, a few pitted or scratched where gems were obviously removed from hilts. He lifts up a small dagger, keeping it mostly hidden in the palm of his hand.

“I am going to write a note,” he says.

Daggry watches him with unnerving eagerness.

Taking out the paper, pens, and ink, Oak braces against one of the chests and scratches out two messages. The owl feather pen stains his fingers and makes him wish for a Sharpie. “Take the first of these to Hyacinthe,” Oak says. “And the second one to the army that waits beyond the wall.”

“The High Court’s army?” the nisse says with a squeak in his voice.

Oak nods. “Go to the stables of the Citadel. There you will find my horse. Her name is Damsel Fly. Take her, and ride as fast as you are able. Once you come to the army, tell them you have a message from Prince Oak. Do not let them send you back with a message. Tell them it wouldn’t be safe for you.”

Daggry frowns, as though thinking things through. “And you will be grateful?’

“Very,” Oak agrees.

“Enough to—” the nisse begins to say as he tucks away the notes.

“As a member of the royal family, I deem the time you have served a fair recompense for what you were given, and I dismiss you from service at the Citadel,” Oak tells the nisse, frightened of the low burr in his own voice, like the purr of a cat. Frightened of the way the nisse gives him a look so full of gratitude and longing that it feels like a lash.

“I will do just as you’ve asked,” says the nisse as he leaves, closing the door behind him.

For a moment, Oak just rubs at his face, not sure if he should be ashamed of what he’s done, and if so, how ashamed. Forcibly, he thrusts that confusion of guilt aside. He has made his choices. Now he must live with them and hope they were the right ones.

The army of Elfhame is in danger because of him. Planning to hurt Wren because of him. Perhaps about to die because of him.

He strips off the dressing gown, pulling out a more regal outfit, grateful for Lord Jarel’s height. The clothes are still a little short on him, a little tight across the chest.

You are such a beanstalk, he remembers Heather’s mother saying. I remember when I could pick you up. He is surprised by how much that memory hurts, since Heather’s mother is still alive and still kind and would let him sleep in her guest room anytime he wanted. Of course, that’s predicated on his leaving this Citadel alive.

Sometimes, Oak thinks, it’s not in his best interest to investigate his feelings too closely. In fact, right now, perhaps he ought not investigate his feelings at all.

Oak puts on a blue doublet, threaded with silver, then the matching pants. The hem rips a little as he puts his left hoof through one leg, but it’s not immensely noticeable.

He hides the knife in the waistband, hoping he won’t need it.

I can still fix things. That’s what he tells himself over and over. He has a plan, and it might be mad and desperate and even a little presumptuous, but it can work.

Despite the cold, he discovers only two cloaks in the pile of clothes. He rejects the one lined in sealskin on the theory it may be from a selkie. That leaves him with the other, lined in fox fur, though he likes it little better.

Oak draws the hood over his face and heads to the Hall of Queens, where he asked Hyacinthe to meet. The room is echoing and empty; as he waits, he stares at the two women frozen inside the walls, former brides of Lord Jarel. Former queens of the Court of Teeth. Their cold, dead eyes seem to watch him back.

The prince paces the floor, but minutes pass and no one comes. His breath steams in the air as he listens for footsteps.

As dawn breaks, through the wavy ice he can see riders passing through the gap in the ice wall. They thunder toward the Citadel with banners streaming behind them, on faerie steeds whose hooves are light on the frozen crust of the snow.

His plan—wobbly from the start, he now has to admit—feels as though it is capsizing.

“Why are you still here?” a gruff voice asks.

For a long moment, relief robs the prince of breath. When he can compose his face, he turns toward Hyacinthe. “If I run from the Citadel wearing this bridle,” he says, “no one in command will care what I say. They will believe I am in Wren’s power. I will have even less sway over the army than I do, and that isn’t much. With Grima Mog in charge of them, and orders already in place from my sister, they’ll be looking forward to a fight.”

“All they want is you,” Hyacinthe says.

“Maybe, but once they have me, what’s the next thing they will want? If I am safe, they have no reason not to attack. Help me help Wren. Remove the bridle.”

Hyacinthe snorts. “I know the words of command well. I could use them to order you to leave the Citadel and surrender yourself to Grima Mog.”

“If you send me away with the bridle on, no one will ever believe that we are not at war,” Oak says.

Hyacinthe crosses his arms. “Am I supposed to believe you’re on Wren’s side in this conflict? That escaping is somehow all for her?”

Oak wishes he could say that. Wishes he even believed in clear sides with defined borders. He had to give those up when his father crossed swords with his sister. “Even if Wren can unmake the entire army of Elfhame, pull them apart as easily as she might pull the wings off butterflies, it will cost her. Hurt her. Make her sicker.”

“You’re their prince,” Hyacinthe says with a sneer. “You look to save your own people.”

“How about no one dies? Let’s try for that!” Oak snaps, his voice loud enough to echo in the room.

Hyacinthe looks at the prince for a long moment. “Very well. I’ll take off the bridle and let you try whatever it is you’re planning, so long as you promise no harm will come to Wren—and you agree to do something for me.”

No matter how much he wants to, Oak knows better than to give his word without hearing the conditions. He waits.

“You thought I was foolish for going after the High King,” Hyacinthe says.

“I still do,” Oak confirms.

Hyacinthe gives him a frustrated look. “I admit that I’m impulsive. When the curse started again, when I could feel myself becoming a falcon again—I thought if Cardan were dead, it would end the curse. I blamed him.”

Oak bites his tongue. Hyacinthe has not yet come to the favor part.

“There’s something I want to know, but I am not crafty enough to discover it. Nor am I so well connected.” Hyacinthe looks as though he hates admitting this. “But you—you deceive as easily as you breathe and with as little thought.”

“And you want . . .”

“Revenge. I thought it was impossible, but Madoc told me something different,” Hyacinthe says. “You should care, you know? You owe her a blood debt as well.”

Oak frowns. “Prince Dain killed Liriope, and he’s dead himself. I know you want to punish someone—”

“No, he ordered her killed,” Hyacinthe says. “But he wasn’t the one to administer the poison. Not the one to sneak past my father as he guarded her. Not the one to leave you both for dead. That is the person I can still kill for my father’s sake.”

Oak assumed that Dain administered the poison. Slipped it into a drink. Poured it over her lips while she slept beside him. He never imagined that her murderer was still alive.

“So I find the person who gave her the poison. Or try, at least—and you remove the bridle,” Oak says. “I agree.”

“Bring me the hand of the person responsible for her death,” Hyacinthe says.

“You want a hand?” Oak raises both brows.

“That hand, I do.”

Oak doesn’t have time to negotiate. “Fine.”

Hyacinthe gives a strange smile, and Oak worries that he’s made the wrong decision, but it’s too late to question it.

“In Grimsen’s name,” Hyacinthe begins, and Oak jams his hand into the pocket of the cloak for the knife he found. His skin is clammy despite the cold. He cannot be sure that Hyacinthe won’t use the command to do something other than unbind him. If so, Oak is going to try to cut the falcon’s throat before he finishes speaking.

Probably there wouldn’t even be time. Oak’s fingers twitch.

“In Grimsen’s name, let the bridle no longer bind you,” Hyacinthe says.

Oak takes his blade to the strap, but it doesn’t cut. He nicks his own cheek for the effort. A moment later, though, he has unhooked the bridle with shaking hands. He pulls it off his face, throwing it to the ground. He can feel the indentations where the straps pressed into his cheek. Not sunken so deeply to scar, but tight enough to mark.

“A monstrous object,” Hyacinthe says as he bends to pick up the bridle. He wore it long enough to hate it, perhaps even more than Oak. “Now what?”

“We go to the Great Hall to meet the riders.” Oak traces his fingers over his cheeks, the cold of them a relief. He doesn’t like the idea that Hyacinthe has the bridle, but even if the prince could wrest it from him, he dreads so much as touching it.

Hyacinthe frowns. “And . . . ?”

“Attempt to seem convincingly happy to be Wren’s guest,” Oak says. “Then figure out how to send the army of Elfhame on its way.”

“That’s what you’re calling a plan?” Hyacinthe snorts. “We can’t be seen together, so give me a head start. I don’t want anyone to guess what I’ve done, in case it doesn’t work.”

“It would be a lot easier to get into the Great Hall with your help,” Oak points out.

“I’m sure it would be,” says Hyacinthe.

The falcon stalks off, leaving Oak to wait. To pace the Hall of Queens some more. Count off the minutes. Trace his fingers over his cheek to feel for any trace of the straps. There’s something there, but light, like the creases left from a pillow in the morning. He hopes these marks will disappear soon. Finally, he can bear to bide his time no longer. He pushes back the hood of his cloak and, head held high, walks toward the Great Hall.

If there is one thing he has learned from Cardan, it is that royalty inspires awe and awe can be cultivated easily into menace. It is with that in mind that he strides toward the guards.

Startled, they raise their spears. Two falcons, neither of whom he recognizes.

Oak looks at them blandly. “Well,” he says with an impatient wave of his hand. “Open the doors.”

He watches them hesitate. After all, he’s dressed well and clean. He doesn’t have on the bridle. And they must all know he is no longer being held in the prisons. They must all know Wren killed the last guard who put a finger on him.

“The emissaries of Elfhame are inside, are they not?” he adds.

One of the falcons nods to the other. Together, they open the double doors.

Wren sits on her throne; Bogdana and Hyacinthe stand beside her—along with a trio of heavily armored falcons.

And standing before her are four Folk—all of whom Oak recognizes. Unarmored, the Ghost appears to be playing the part of an ambassador. He’s dressed in finery, and the slightly human cast of his features makes him look far less threatening than he is.

An actual ambassador, Randalin, one of the Living Council, bites off his words at Oak’s arrival. Known as the Minister of Keys, he is short, horned, and even more beautifully dressed than the Ghost. As far as Oak is aware, Randalin can’t fight and, given the danger, Oak is surprised he came. Jude never much liked him, though, so he can certainly see why she allowed—and even perhaps encouraged—it.

Behind them are two soldiers. Oak knows Tiernan instantly, despite the helmet hiding his face. He assumes Hyacinthe knows him, too. At his side is Grima Mog, the grand general who replaced Oak’s father. A redcap, like Madoc, and the former general of the Court of Teeth. No one knows the defenses of the Citadel better than she does, so no one would have an easier time breaching them.

As Oak strides in, everyone becomes more alert. Tiernan’s hand goes automatically to the pommel of his sword in a foolish rejection of diplomacy.

“Hello,” the prince says. “I see you all started without me.”

Wren raises both her brows. Good game, he imagines her saying. Point to you. Possibly right before she tells her guards to pop off his head like a wine cork.

And then the Ghost stabs her in the back. And everyone cuts everyone else to pieces.

“Your Highness,” says Garrett, as though he really is some stuffy ambassador who hasn’t known Oak half his life. “After receiving your note, we expected you to be in attendance. We were growing concerned.”

Wren gives the prince a sharp look at the mention of a note.

“Hard to choose the right outfit for such a momentous occasion,” Oak says, hoping that the sheer absurdity of his plan will help sell it. “After all, it’s not every day that one gets to announce one’s engagement.”

At that, all of them stare at him agog. Even Bogdana seems to have lost the power of speech. But that is nothing to the way Wren is looking at him. It is as though she could immolate him in the cold green flame of her eyes.

Heedless of the warning, he walks to her side. Taking her hand, he slides the ring—the ring he was sent in the belly of an enchanted metal snake—off his pinkie finger and onto hers in the stealthy way the Roach taught him. So that it might be possible to believe she’d been wearing it the whole time.

He smiles up at her. “She’s accepted my ring. And so, I would be delighted to tell you that Wren and I are to be wed.”