A Fate of Wrath & Flame

by K. A. Tucker

  He falters, as if not expecting an answer so quickly, or one at all. “Sofie,” he repeats, his brow furrowing. “I do not know any Sofie.”

  “That’s what she told me her name was, but maybe she was lying.”

  “Who is she? A courtier? A lady-in-waiting? A servant?”

  “Definitely not a servant. She has her own castle. She’s tall and thin and has long red hair. She’s beautiful. Good with a sword.”

  He shakes his head. The description must not fit anyone he knows. “Where did you meet her?”

  “At a charity event in Manhattan.”

  “Is that in Ybaris?”

  He’s a king who hasn’t heard of Manhattan? “No. It’s in New York. We met there and then flew to—”

  “Flew? Are you telling me a caster was behind this?”

  I frown. A what?

  “Is she an elemental?”

  “I don’t know?”

  He mutters something under his breath that sounds like a curse. “How powerful is she? Is she within our city walls now?” He fires off questions, his voice suddenly urgent.

  How powerful? I can’t begin to answer that. “She said she couldn’t come here.”

  He paces again. “And what did you promise that misguided fool, Lord Muirn, for his help with the insurgents?” He hums. “Of course … your hand in marriage. With all of us dead, you would need an Islorian of noble blood to help you secure the throne. Though you would have had little luck swaying the court with that turncoat. You truly know nothing of Islorian ways.”

  I try again. “I know you don’t believe me, but I didn’t kill your parents. I wasn’t going to try to kill you.”

  “You’re locked in a tower and facing charges of high treason. You’ll say anything, won’t you, Romeria?”

  “Probably,” I admit. My name on his tongue—as if he knows me so well—is jarring. “But that doesn’t change the fact that this wasn’t me. I’m not who you think I am.”

  He stalks toward me and I edge away until my back hits the wall, trapping me from evading his towering form. The moonlight illuminates a face I would admire under normal circumstances. Now, though, I see only hard lines and hatred.

  His attention drops to where I clutch the blanket close to my chest, settling on my makeshift bandage. “I don’t see any need for you to wear such jewelry anymore, do you?” He holds his hand out, palm up.

  It’s not my bandage but my ring that has grabbed his attention, and his meaning is clear.

  You must not remove this ring for any reason.

  I don’t want to test the truth of Sofie’s warning, so I tuck my hand beneath the blanket in response. Summoning all my nerve, I meet Zander’s steely gaze, holding it while I find my voice and say, “It’s mine.”

  Time hangs as my heart drums in my chest and the growing tension swirling around us threatens to choke the air from my lungs. He seems to be trying to read my thoughts as surely as I try to read his.

  I pray he can see the honesty and innocence in mine when I say slowly, clearly, “I’m not who you think I am—”

  “Are you not Princess Romeria, future queen of the kingdom of Ybaris, betrothed to be my wife?” he says with deadly calm.

  My mouth gapes. Princess? Kingdom? Betrothed? “No! I mean, yes, my name is Romeria, but I’m not—”

  “Enough!” His brow furrows as he reaches beneath his jacket for his hip. His hand wraps around the hilt of the dagger. “Is there any shred of you that feels remorse for what you’ve done?”

  I stay mute, afraid any answer will guarantee that he draws that weapon from its sheath.

  “Do you know how much I wish to believe you were not behind this?” he whispers hoarsely, moving closer. His eyes shine with raw pain. “Please, convince me you would not do this to me.”

  I flatten my body against the cool stone wall and hold my breath, the urge to scream clawing at my throat. After all I’ve been through, this is how I am to die? In a medieval tower cell, at the hands of this emotionally wounded king, mistaken for someone else?

  He leans in and his lips brush against mine in a featherlight stroke.

  I’m frozen in shock by the unexpected move, and the next one, when he kisses me with more intention. His words find purchase within the swirl of my panic. I was to be his wife. He wants to believe I’m innocent of these terrible crimes.

  Maybe there is a way to convince him still.

  It’s been awhile since I’ve kissed someone—a guy at a club six months ago, who didn’t bother to remove his wedding band when he propositioned me; I divested him of his Blancpain watch that night—and forever since I meant it. With a deep, shaky breath, I coax Zander’s mouth with mine. His lips are soft and warm, such a contrast to his cold, hard demeanor, and they part willingly.

  I release my grip on my blanket and it slides off my shoulders, falling to my feet. With tentative fingers, I smooth my uninjured hand over the wall of chest before me, silently admiring the expanse of solid muscle beneath my palm as I lean my head back and taunt him, teasing the seam of his lips with the tip of my tongue.

  Zander goes still, and I fear whatever momentary spell he’s fallen under has waned as quickly as it struck him. But then, with a sharp inhale, he’s responding fervently, reaching to grip the back of my head, his fingers knitting through my hair as he deepens the kiss with skilled strokes of his tongue. Firm hips pin me to the wall, his tense body pressed against mine.

  I’m momentarily overwhelmed. I’ve never been kissed like this—with so much desperation. But I remember my purpose quickly. My hand climbs up over the thick column of his throat to graze that carved jawline with a tender touch. My other one—the injured hand—slips from between us, where it’s safe from being crushed.

  Where it’s closer to the dagger.

  Zander’s lips shift from my mouth to my jaw, and then to my neck, his breaths coming in shallow pants.

  In the headiness of this moment, my body begins to respond despite the peril I’m in. I arch my back to give him better access, and his grip on my hair tightens. He tilts my head at an angle, stretching my neck wide. I shudder at the playful scrape of his teeth, the unexpected sharpness of them sending a shiver to my core.

  But when his fingers curl around the neckline of my dress and I feel the jerk of fabric, hear the tear of a seam, I realize I’m quickly losing control of the situation—if I ever had any to begin with.

  I never allowed anyone to use me like this when I was living on the streets. I am not about to let it happen now, no matter how dire my situation. But I will use it to my advantage.

  Night air caresses my bare skin, where one side of my dress has been pulled down precariously low. I feel Zander’s gaze on my body as surely as if it were his mouth, but he hasn’t made a move. He has stalled, as if contemplating whether to continue or stop. Any moment, he could decide on the latter.

  Gritting my teeth against the sting in my palm, I slip my fingers inside his jacket, skating them over his trim waist to get my bearings before I draw his hips tighter against my parted thighs.

  He responds with a guttural sound. His fist tightens on my hair once again, and his mouth moves for my neck. I feel another deliciously sharp drag of his teeth and a soft moan escapes my lips, unbidden. But I use the moment’s distraction to brush the dagger’s hilt with my thumb, testing its fit in the sheath while searching for a light, unnoticeable grasp.

  I pinch the top …

  Zander peels away from me suddenly and takes several steps back, out of my reach.

  My hands remain empty, my plan foiled.

  His Adam’s apple bobs with his hard swallow. “We could have brought peace. We could have changed Islor and Ybaris together. But you’re right. You’re not who I thought you were.” His jaw clenches as he studies a long, gold hair pin in his palm. “And I will never believe another word out of your treacherous mouth.”

  “I swear to you, Zander—”

  “Don’t you ever say my name again!” he roars. He pa
uses a few moments to regain his composure, and when he speaks again, his voice has taken on that cold, detached tone. “You will face your punishment at dawn, along with the rest of the traitors. And I promise, yours won’t be quick or painless, as my parents’ deaths were not.” He nods toward my hand. “Let us see if it can keep you from Azo’dem, for surely that’s where the fates will deem you deserve to go.” He strolls out of my cell without a backward glance, the bars clanging as the door slams shut. His footfalls down the stairs are swift, and they take all my hope along with them.

  Tugging my dress back into place, I rush to the window, ready to tell him everything—about Sofie, Korsakov, the horn, this mission for Malachi’s stone. But he must have gone another way because the only people in the courtyard are the soldier pacing in front of the tower door and the two men arranging a line of wooden structures.

  Icy unease prickles my skin as I survey the structures again with more discerning eyes. Piles of timber of varying lengths are stacked purposely beneath, like kindling for a fire.

  Those are pyres and this is an execution square.

  And by his last words to me, I’m certain I know which method I’m destined for.

  My insides sink as I finally grasp the true gravity of my situation.

  The king may still love whoever he thinks I am, but he also just sentenced her to death.

  Chapter Eight

  My heartbeat is a relentless anvil against its cavity wall. This is all playing out like some terrible nightmare, and yet my every grain is warning me that if I don’t get out of this tiny cell before sunrise, there is no waking up from what will happen to me.

  Sofie talked of mythical creatures as gods and making flames dance on her fingertips. She alluded to there being other, far more superior beings. Such as what? All I’ve seen are more humans. Angry humans who think I’ve risen from the dead after murdering their king and queen, and inciting an insurrection in their city.

  But where is this Cirilea? Where on earth could there be a medieval city like this, with war in the streets and a king who hasn’t heard of New York, who executes people and talks of these casters and power like it’s a magical force?

  Could there be magic in the world?

  Centuries ago, they burned women by the thousands for witchcraft, on account of superstition, not fact. Or so history books say. But what if there is truth to the magic? And what if Sofie somehow sent me back to that time, to a place that no longer exists on a map? It’s either that, or …

  You are about to enter a world unlike that which you know.

  There are two moons in the sky.

  No, it’s not possible.

  None of this can be happening. This is a delusion. Just like my father has delusions. My worst nightmare—that his sickness is hereditary—is coming to fruition.

  And yet, my palm stings from Zander’s blade, and my knee aches from where it smashed against the stone floor, and the sound of the cell door slamming shut still chimes in my ear.

  And tomorrow morning, when I’m chained to one of those posts and the wood is lit, I know in my gut everyone will hear my screams.

  Wherever I am, this is all too real.

  I’ve been in desperate situations before—hell, the last decade of my life has been one big desperate situation—and yet this time feels different.

  I pace around my cell, feeling the walls move closer as the minutes pass. I pause long enough to check the sky. I can see only one moon from this angle—the lower, bigger one—and it is still shining bright, but dawn can’t be too many hours from arriving.

  I fidget with the ring encasing my finger, twirling it around and around, its white stone smooth against my thumb. “Sofie, if you can somehow hear this … get me out of here,” I mutter, my voice a whine of despair. The ring helped me when I needed light in the deep, dark waters. Maybe it can somehow pick the lock or …

  Pick the lock.

  With frantic fingers, I search the damp mess on my head. My hair must have been styled at some point, secured with gold pins like the one the king held in his palm. If only …

  My fingertips graze metal. Relief blossoms as I fish it out, pulling strands of hair with it. I’m nearly laughing as I find three more in this rat’s nest. Racing to kneel in front of the cell door, I silently thank Tarryn for yet another skill she passed on to me. Though I haven’t picked a lock in years, I remember the basics.

  It’s difficult to see from this angle, but the lock on the cell door looks like a common padlock, though old and cumbersome and made of iron.

  It’s an awkward reach but my arms are thin, and the pins are long. And softer than I expected. The first one snaps immediately.

  I curse and set it aside. With the second one, I approach with more caution, sliding it into the keyhole. It takes gentle finagling, poking this way and that, my arms aching from the strain of the angle. Finally, a click sounds. Overwhelming relief hits me as my cell door swings open, even though I know it’s only the first of many flaming hoops I’ll have to jump through to escape my predicament.

  With a renewed sense of purpose, I rush back to the window to take a more calculated stock of the situation. Still only one guard patrols the square at this late hour. The workers have left, their jobs complete. I spend a few moments searching the shadows for movement, but there is none from what I can see. Either Boaz is feeling confident about his claim that no one will attempt to free me, or he can’t spare more soldiers here when they’re needed elsewhere in the city on a night of unrest.

  Maybe he should have been more worried about his precious king inadvertently showing me the way out.

  I settle in to count the lone guard’s steps as I’ve done so many times before—it’s the mark of tired staff trying to survive a long shift. Twenty steps to the hay-filled wagon before he retraces his path to the tower, then heads in the opposite direction for thirty steps to the first pyre. Back and forth he marches, and each time, he takes twenty steps to the wagon and thirty to the pyre.

  If I can slip out while his back is to me, I might have a chance.

  I head for the winding stairs, my blood rushing in my ears as I descend. My knee throbs, but still I struggle to take the uneven steps slowly. I’m forced to pause several times and brace myself against the wall to quell the dizziness. The whole time, I’m counting and hoping I don’t misjudge the guard’s pace. Twenty steps to the left, twenty steps back. Thirty steps to the right, thirty steps back.

  By the time I see the wooden door, my bare feet ache and I’m on the verge of vomiting from nerves. But it’s now or never, and I’d rather be shot with an arrow trying to flee tonight than roasted in the square for a crowd tomorrow.

  Six steps hang between me and either death or escape, if I don’t balk.

  I take a deep breath and …

  The door creaks open and a hooded figure slips in, pushing the door closed behind them. Frozen, I watch with wide, panicked eyes as the person peels back their forest-green hood, revealing a head of plump blond curls.

  It’s Annika.

  Before I can form a coherent reaction—run or pounce—she looks up and sees me standing there. She lets out a tiny yelp but gathers her composure a split second later. “Fates, you are a resourceful one.” She searches my empty hands with bright blue eyes. Under the glow of torchlight, I can see she is as beautiful as her brother is handsome, though they look nothing alike—her skin coloring fairer, her face oval-shaped, her lips naturally curving into a pout. “What did you think you were going to do? Stroll out into the courtyard and wave at the guard?”

  Why hasn’t she screamed yet? And what is she even doing here in the tower? It’s the middle of the night.

  She thrusts a folded charcoal-gray cloth toward me. “Here, put this on. We haven’t much time. I told the guard that Boaz was looking for him. They’ll figure out soon enough that it was a lie, and then there will be no way to get you out of here.”

  I gape at her. Annika is helping me escape?

  “Qui
ckly! Before I change my mind,” she hisses.

  I rush down the last steps, accepting the material. A wool cloak, I realize, draping it over my shoulders.

  She peeks out the door. “Keep your head down, do not speak, and if you try to run, I will scream.” She spears me with a warning look before she draws her hood over her hair. I follow suit, and then she’s leading me into the night. We turn left almost immediately, avoiding the square. Her pace is swift as she weaves along a maze of narrow corridors and paths. I focus on the swirling hemline of her cloak and nothing else, counting my steps and attempting to track the changing direction. It’s habit, though I know in this case, I’ll never be able to retrace the path.

  The whole time, I’m anxious that she’s leading me into another trap, but I don’t have any other choice. Staying in the tower is a guaranteed death sentence. Trusting her offers me a shred of hope.

  Before long, we’re darting down steep stairs and through a long passageway, just wide enough for single file, the ceiling inches from my head. She carries a lantern she collected on the way in. It’s the only source of light.

  “We should be safe down here at this late hour.” They’re the first words she’s spoken since we left the tower.

  “Where are we?” I dare ask.

  “Beneath the castle.” She opens another door and pauses to peek around before passing through. “It’s far safer than going through it and taking the streets is too dangerous. Every guard in Cirilea is out tonight and on high alert.”

  “The undercroft,” I murmur more to myself, gaping at the mammoth, endless cavern of vaulted ceilings and massive pillars that makes Sofie’s castle look like a hovel. Annika’s hurried footsteps echo; mine make no sound. One positive of being barefoot, though I wince at the cuts and scrapes accumulating quickly.

  “Mother insisted we not take you down here until we were sure we could trust you. She didn’t want you knowing the ins and outs of this place, of how to move about unseen. Zander thought she was being unreasonably distrustful, but he complied.” Her voice hardens. “It turns out she was right to be cautious, though it didn’t make any difference in the end, did it?”