Oak and Hyacinthe plunge into a storm of terrifying ferocity. The fog is so thick the prince can’t even see the shore of Insmire, and the waves have become towering things, beating against the shoreline, biting off rocks and sand.
Bogdana has sealed off Insear from aid, keeping Elfhame’s military and all else who would help them at bay. And now the storm hag waits with Wren for some signal that the royal family is dead.
There’s a problem with their plan, though. Oak hasn’t married Wren. Perhaps Randalin thought no one would find the Ghost’s or Elaine’s body—or that no one would care. Must have believed the evening’s festivities wouldn’t turn into an inquest. But since things didn’t happen that way, the murder of the High King and Queen wouldn’t automatically give Wren the throne. She still needed him.
As he walks along the beach, soaking wet, Oak is shaking so hard it’s difficult for him to tell what’s from the chill and what is from rage.
He’s become the fool he’s spent so long pretending to be. If he hadn’t fallen in love, then no one would be in danger. If he didn’t believe in Wren, promise to be on her side, make every excuse for her, then Randalin’s schemes would have come to nothing.
He loves her still, more’s the pity.
No matter, though. He owes his family his loyalty, no matter their secrets. Owes Elfhame itself. Whether or not he likes being the prince, he accepted the role with all its benefits and obligations. He cannot be the one to put his people in danger. And whatever Wren once felt for him, he cannot believe she could do all this unless that was gone. He ruined it, and he wasn’t able to fix it. Some broken things stay broken.
The prince runs through the storm, the cold cutting through his thin courtier’s clothes. “Come on,” he calls to Hyacinthe over the rumble of thunder, making a sweeping gesture with his arm to indicate a tent he wants them to duck into.
Marked with the sigil of a courtier from the Court of Rowan, it’s empty. Oak wipes some of the water off his face.
“Now what?” Hyacinthe asks.
“We find Wren and Bogdana. Can you guess where they might go? Surely you overheard something these past few days.” As the adrenaline of the fight ebbs away, Oak realizes there’s a raw line of pain down his back where he dimly recalls being stabbed. There may also be a shallow slash at his neck. It stings.
“And if we find them,” Hyacinthe hedges. “Then what?”
“We stop them,” Oak says, pushing away pain, pushing away the thought of what stopping them will really entail. “They can’t be too far. Bogdana needs to be close enough to control this storm.”
“I owe Wren a debt,” says Hyacinthe. “I swore myself to her.”
“She has Tiernan,” Oak reminds him.
The man looks away. “They’ll be on Insmoor.”
“Insmoor?” Oak echoes. The smallest isle, besides the one they’re standing on. The location of Mandrake Market and not much else.
“Bogdana turned the cottage back into a walnut before the hunt and tucked it away in her pocket. Told us we might have to meet her on Insmoor.”
So the rest of her falcons would be there with them. That makes things more complicated, but Oak won’t mind a chance to face Straun. And it isn’t like Wren could unmake Oak unless she wants to unmake her plans for ruling as well.
“I know how we can get to Insmoor,” the prince says.
Hyacinthe meets his gaze for a long moment, seeming to understand his scheme. “You cannot be serious.”
“Never more so,” Oak says, and plunges back out into the storm.
Oak’s teeth are chattering by the time he comes to the tent marked with Dain’s crest. Tatterfell and Jack are inside, huddled far from the flaps, which keep blowing apart, letting the cold rain inside.
“Jack, I’m afraid I need your help again,” Oak tells him.
“At your service, my prince,” Jack says, bowing his head. “I promised to be of use to you, and I shall.”
“After this, your debt to me will be more than paid. You will owe me nothing. Perhaps you will even be the one with a favor to call in.”
“I should enjoy that,” Jack says with a sly smile.
“I want you to take me under the waves to the shore. Do you have a way to keep me breathing while we go?”
Jack looks at him with wide eyes. “Alas, I am no help to you there. My kind do not much worry over the lives of our riders.”
Hyacinthe gives Oak an incredulous look. “No, you delight in their deaths and then devour them. Can you control yourself with the prince on your back?”
That wasn’t something Oak worried over before, but he doesn’t like the flash of delight that passes across Jack of the Lakes’ face at the mention of devouring.
“I can keep my teeth from the prince’s sweet flesh, but if you want to come along, there’s no telling what I might do to you,” Jack says.
“I’m coming,” Hyacinthe says. “They’ve got Tiernan.”
Oak hoped he would. He’s not sure he can do this alone. “No snacking on Hyacinthe.”
“Not even a small bite?” Jack asks petulantly. “You are making it hard to be merry, Your Highness.”
“Nonetheless,” Oak says.
“What fool thing is it that you intend to do in this storm?” Tatterfell asks, poking the prince in the gut. “And are you bleeding?”
“Maybe,” he says, touching a finger to his neck. It hurts, but his back hurts worse.
“Take off your shirt,” the little faerie commands, blinking up at him.
“There isn’t time,” he tells her. “But if you have some bindings, I’ll use them for my sword. I seem to have dropped the sheath somewhere.”
Tatterfell rolls her ink-drop eyes.
“I will swim as swiftly as I am able,” Jack says. “But it might not be swiftly enough.”
“You can surface partway there,” Oak suggests. “Let us catch a breath, then go on.”
Jack considers that for a long moment, as though it is not much in his nature. But after a moment, he nods. Hyacinthe frowns and keeps frowning.
Tatterfell binds up the sword and belts it to Oak’s waist with torn strips of his old clothes. She sews up the wound on his back as well, threatening to press her finger into the gouge if he moves.
“You’re ruthless,” he tells her.
She smiles as though he’s delivered an extremely charming compliment.
Then, bracing against the wind and rain, Oak, Jack, and Hyacinthe make their way to the shore.
At the beach, Jack transforms into a sharp-toothed horse. He lowers himself to his knees and waits for them to lash themselves to him. Oak wraps a rope scavenged from the tent around the kelpie’s chest and then around Hyacinthe, tying him tightly to Jack’s back. Then he straps himself on, looping the rope a final time around their middles so they are bound to one another.
When Oak looks at the crashing waves, he begins to doubt the wisdom of his plan. He can barely make out the lights of Insmoor in the storm. Can he really hold his breath for as long as Jack is going to believe he needs?
But there’s no going back. Nothing even to go back to, so he tries to inhale deeply and exhale slowly. Open up his lungs as much as he can.
Jack gallops toward the waves. The icy water splashes against Oak’s legs. He grips the rope and takes one last breath as Jack plunges them all into the sea.
The cold of the ocean stabs the prince’s chest. For a moment, it almost forces the breath from his lungs, but he manages to keep himself from gasping. Opens his eyes in the dark water. Feels the increasing, panicked pressure of Hyacinthe’s grip on his shoulder.
Jack swims swiftly through the water. After a minute, it’s clear it isn’t fast enough. Oak’s lungs burn; he feels lightheaded.
Jack needs to surface. He needs to do it now. Now. The prince presses his knees hard against the kelpie’s chest.
Hyacinthe’s hold on Oak’s shoulder goes slack, his fingers drifting away. Oak concentrates on the pain of the rope cutting into his hand. Tries to stay alert. Tries not to breathe. Tries not to breathe. Tries not to breathe.
Then he can’t hold on anymore, and water comes rushing in.
