The Stolen Heir: A Novel of Elfhame
The Stolen Heir: Chapter 18

Bogdana leads the way to the Citadel. Hyacinthe walks by my side. When the servants bow, it is not out of mere courtesy. It comes from the same fear that caused them to make obeisances before Lady Nore and Lord Jarel.

Fear is not love, but it can appear much the same.

So too, power.

“Write to the High Court,” urges Bogdana. “As its faithful servant, you’ve retrieved Mab’s remains, ended the threat that Lady Nore presented, and set the former Grand General free. And then ask a boon— that you might remain here in her old castle and begin a Court of your own. That will be our first step. If your message gets there before Tiernan, the High Court could grant it all before they know better.” S~ᴇaʀᴄh the FindNʘᴠᴇl.nᴇt website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

Bogdana goes on. “Tell them that the prince is with you, but sustained an injury. You will send him back to Elfhame once he is rested and ready.”

Hyacinthe gives me a quick look, as though checking to see that I am the same person who so despised captivity as to help him escape from it.

I am not sure I am the same.

“Do not presume to give me orders,” I tell the storm hag. “I may owe you my life, but I also owe you my death.”

She steps back, chastened.

I will not make the same mistakes as Mellith.

“As soon as Tiernan and Madoc reach Elfhame, they will inform the High Court that we’re keeping Oak prisoner,” Hyacinthe says. “No matter what boon the High King and Queen have granted you, they’ll demand his release.”

“Perhaps a storm will delay their progress,” I suggest, with a nod toward Bogdana. “Perhaps Madoc’s injuries will require treatment. Many things can happen.”

All around the hall, birds still perch. Soldiers doomed to feed on kindness. To kill nothing or be forever winged. I close my eyes. I can see the magic binding them. It is tightly coiled and weaves through their little feathered forms, tugging at their tiny hearts. It takes me a moment to find the knots, but when I do, the curses dissipate like cobwebs.

With ecstatic sighs and gasps, these falcons discover they are in their own faerie bodies once more.

“My queen,” one says, over and over. “My queen.”

Surely, I am easier to follow than Lady Nore.

I nod but cannot smile. Somehow as satisfied as I find myself with what I have done, it does not touch me. It is as though my heart is still locked away in a box, still buried underground.

I find myself inextricably drawn to the prisons. There, in his iron cage, I see Oak lying atop the furs I had sent down. He looks up at the ceiling, cloak pillowed beneath his head, and whistles a tune.

I recognize it as one of those we danced to back at Queen Annet’s Court.

I do not shift from the shadows, but perhaps some small movement exposes me, because the prince turns toward where I am.

He squints, as though trying to make out my shape. “Wren?” he says. “Talk to me.”

I don’t reply. What would be the point? I know he will twist me around his finger with words. I know that if I give him half the chance, love-starved creature that I am, I will be under his spell again. With him, I am forever a night-blooming flower, attracted and repelled by the heat of the sun.

“Let me explain,” he calls to me. “Let me atone.”

I bite the tip of my tongue to keep myself from snapping at him. He meant to keep me ignorant. He tricked me. He lied with every smile. With every kiss. With the warmth in his eyes that should have been impossible to fake.

I’d known what he was capable of. Over and over, he’d shown me. And over and over, I believed there would be no more tricks. No more secrets.

Not anymore.

“You have good cause to be furious. But you couldn’t have lied, had you known the truth. I was afraid you’d have to lie.” He waits, and when I say nothing, rolls into a sitting position. “Wren?”

I can see the leather straps running across his cheeks. If he wears the bridle long enough, he’ll have scars.

“Talk to me!” he shouts, standing and coming to the bars. I see the gold of his hair, the sharp line of his cheekbones, the glint of his fox eyes. “Wren! Wren! ”

Coward that I am, I flee. My heart thundering, my hands shaking. But I can’t pretend that I don’t like the sound of him screaming my name.

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