by K. A. Tucker
Atticus. That name rings a bell. Zander mentioned him in the tower. That’s his brother, the one who was shot with an arrow the night of the attack. I study the man again. A prince, I suppose. He looks nothing like Zander, but he bears a remarkable similarity to his sister from what I remember of her. He is strikingly handsome with high cheekbones and full lips, though I would dare say not so attractive as the king.
Zander grips his chin in thought, his gaze on the map. “What do you recommend, Captain?”
I note how Atticus’s jaw tenses.
Boaz nods toward the woman who threatened to skin me. “Send Abarrane and a handful of her soldiers there with a summons. Have Atticus split our forces. Prepare half to march on Lyndel if needed and keep the other half fanned out along here”—Boaz drags a finger across the map—“to catch any contingents moving for Cirilea. Any who reach these walls, I will manage with the royal guard.”
Atticus opens his mouth to speak, but Zander lifts a hand, stalling his brother’s words.
His lips press into a thin line. He seems to be weighing his captain’s opinion over his brother’s, also in a high-ranked position. Boaz looks maybe two decades older than Zander, who I doubt has reached thirty, but there is a wisdom in his eyes only earned with experience. He is clearly one of the few people Zander trusts after what happened to his parents.
What must it be like to be thrust into the position of king so suddenly, and so young?
Then again, they’re not human. How old are any of them, really?
This constant questioning of everything I know … it’s enough to drive a person insane.
“Very well.” Zander nods toward the woman—Abarrane, I gather. “I will provide you with a summons letter. Seek shelter at Lord Telor’s stronghold before escorting him here, under the pretext of important courtly matters. Search for any evidence of Ybarisans, but not openly. I do not wish to cause discord with one of our strongest supporters, especially considering our source.”
“Your Highness.” She bows deeply and then, spinning on leather boots, storms out, slowing long enough to spare me a contemptuous glare.
I avert my eyes, letting them fall on the expansive canvas stretched across the table, on the oddly shaped land mass that looks to be hand drawn in ink and surrounded by water. It’s too far from me to read any of the script.
“That will be all,” Zander says.
I take that as my signal, and I turn to follow Elisaf out.
“Not you.”
My back stiffens. Somehow, I know without looking that he’s talking to me.
Atticus’s cold, calculating gaze is on me as he passes. He slows long enough to whisper, “How unfortunate it is that you didn’t choose someone more skilled with a bow.” His hand curls around the hilt of his sword, as if to make a point. Surely, he’d use it on me, if his brother would allow it.
I’m sure I’ve had people curse the thief who made off with their jewels, but I’ve never had so many people wish me dead to my face.
Everyone files out, and I’m left alone, standing across the table from the man who decides whether those wishes are fulfilled.
The moments drag without a single sound as I wait impatiently and try not to stare at him, my curiosity about his elven kind competing with the anxiety I feel, knowing he would much rather have me dead. He needs me, though, should another daaknar show up. A reality that must burn his insides. Is that the only reason I’m still alive?
What would he do if one did suddenly appear? Throw me to it like chum to a shark so it can sink its fangs into me?
Princess Romeria chose to murder a king and queen and lead an insurrection rather than marry this man. Is it as Wendeline says? Was that choice about power and deep-seated hatred? Or is there something more?
Still, he says nothing. Is he waiting for me to grovel at his feet for my release? I haven’t reached that point of desperation—yet. But I’m not here to win a battle of wills. That would be stupid. I clear my voice. “Thank you, for taking the locks off the balcony.”
He doesn’t acknowledge my appreciation, instead gesturing toward the map. “Go ahead.”
I hesitate.
“You seem extremely interested in it, and I would prefer you interrogate me rather than my caster on matters of our kingdoms. Besides, there’s nothing here you haven’t seen before.”
I highly doubt that.
What has Wendeline repeated of our conversations? I’m beginning to assume everything. Did she tell him that I called him a monster? Would he care?
I approach the table cautiously, struggling to ignore the feel of his gaze on me, like cool fingertips against my skin. I tilt my head to better read, feeling a slight pull where the daaknar bit my neck, even though the marks are now invisible.
The map is drawn in ink and intricately detailed, on paper or canvas much thicker than anything I’ve ever seen. I don’t have anything to judge scale, but the various mountain ranges would suggest a vast expanse of land. Off the southwest corner of Islor is Seacadore, separated by Fortune’s Channel. In the southeast, Islor connects with Kier. In the north, Ybaris borders a large country named Skatrana. To the northeast is an island called Mordain.
“Something perplexes you,” Zander murmurs.
More like something is becoming shockingly clear. “Is this the only map you have?” I struggle to keep my voice calm.
“No, but it’s the most extensive one of the lands.” He folds his arms over his chest. “Why? Do you believe something to be missing?”
The Americas, Europe, Africa, Australia … I may not be a geography expert, but I know enough to recognize that this is not any of those continents, in any time frame.
It is far from here.
I calm my breathing. “What other places are there? Like, on the other side of this Endless Sea?”
“Espador and Udral, but we don’t concern ourselves with them. They are too far for benefits of regular trade.”
There’s no way people in North America or the other continents would not know of this place. It’s too big to be missed.
I slide into the empty chair to hide the fact that my legs are wobbling.
“Please, make yourself comfortable,” Zander mocks, but he’s watching me closely. After a moment, he offers, “You are suddenly rather pale, and I would prefer you not collapse on my table. I have work to do.” His eyes flicker to my shoulder where my scars are concealed. “Should I call for Wendeline?”
What could the caster tell me about sending people to other worlds with magic? Perhaps everything. And perhaps admitting that I’m not from this world is precisely what will make Zander decide I am, in fact, not more valuable to him alive than dead, daaknar or not.
I shake my head. I’ll gather that information some other way. For now, I should learn as much as I can from this map while Zander seems willing to share information. “Have you been here?” I point to Seacadore.
“Yes. Islor can produce most everything it needs on our lands, but there are things we enjoy. Their latest ruler, Empress Roshmira, is an especially keen partner in commerce.”
Commerce like the ingredients for Wendeline’s salve, I imagine. I tap Mordain. “And Wendeline’s from here, right?”
He stares at me without answering for so long that I begin to fear I’ve earned the priestess a flogging for admitting even that much about herself.
“Yes, she is,” he finally confirms, his tone calm, conversational. “As are all casters.”
“They’re all from this island?”
“No, but they are sent there at an early age to receive their training. Afterward, they are required to serve Ybaris.”
“But not Islor?” Like Wendeline and Margrethe?
His lips twist. “Ybaris does not allow them passage through the rift to come here.”
“Why not?” My questions are tumbling from my mouth without touching a scale first to decide if my curiosity might be dangerous.
“Because Ybaris does not want Islor having acce
ss to any of the casters’ power.”
The “why” is on the tip of my tongue, but I sense Zander’s irritation growing, so I hold it and refocus on the map, tracing the path from the island, through Ybaris, to where the cartographer illustrated a long, jagged canyon across the mountains. Great Rift is written across it. Wendeline wasn’t talking about a great rift as some sort of schism in their relationship. Or at least, not entirely.
This Great Rift is a literal split between the two kingdoms.
The only viable passage across on land is through an ominous sounding Valley of Bones, but he’s saying they’re not permitted to go through there. “So Wendeline got here by ship, then?” I follow the map south from Mordain, through the Grave Deep.
“Not that way. In two thousand years, no one has ever survived that sailing route. They traveled across Ybaris, into Skatrana, boarded a ship from Westport”—his long index finger traces the path to a port city in the far west—“to Seacadore, and then crossed the water to our port.”
I see now that Cirilea is on the southwest side. A channel cuts into the land, leading ships directly to it. “That’s a long way to travel to get here.” Wendeline did say as much.
“And I appreciate her for it.”
“Enough to flog her just for talking to me?” It slips out before I can stop myself.
“You forget yourself,” he warns through gritted teeth.
I bite my tongue and study the smaller details on the map—the towns and castles. Lyndel, where that man told me to run, is north, past the dense forest, protected on the north and west by the mountain ridge, in the south by hills. To the east is a great expanse of land where the towns are numerous. “What is this? The Plains of Aminadav,” I read out loud.
That question earns me an eyebrow twitch—of surprise or amusement, I’m unsure. “That is the reason your father wanted this union in the first place.”
“He wanted land?” My arranged marriage to this guy is over property?
“We would never give him any part of Islor, not even for you. But he wanted what the plains produces, for your people.” Zander lifts a leg and settles on the side of the table. It’s an oddly casual pose and different from what I pictured—him sitting stiffly on his throne. “The plains have the most fertile soil in both our realms. The crops harvested there are plentiful, year after year. It easily sustains all of Islor. Ybaris, on the other hand, has boglands and dead woods. It’s overcrowded and has been plagued with blights and disease for centuries. Your kingdom cannot sustain itself for much longer, no matter how much of the casters’ magic you wield to try to fix it.”
“So, you and I were supposed to get married and then Ybaris would have access to these farmlands?”
“To a percentage of its harvest, yes. As well as resources from our mines.”
Princess Romeria was a bargaining chip. The only one? “And what would Islor get in return? Besides my delightful company.”
His jaw tenses, and I quietly chastise myself. Angering him won’t get me more information. “Ybaris would send us casters and twenty thousand mortals to work the lands. They would ensure safe passage through the rift, and we would help them reestablish in Islor. Give them homes and jobs. Your father knew some would take issue with this proposal, with the idea of trading so many mortal Ybarisans to Islor and giving us access to caster magic, but he hoped they’d see the benefit in time, once their bellies were full of the food it produced, and their strongest were not sent to slaughter in battle.”
I eye the map again where the two countries share a border. The Valley of Bones. “I take it there are a lot of bodies down there?”
“There is far worse than that down there,” he murmurs, more to himself. He shakes his head. “Your father wanted to help his people, and his own family killed him for it. I cannot imagine what his dying thoughts would have been.” His eyes flicker to me, as if testing my reaction.
He won’t get one. I’m too curious to feel empathy for a stranger at the moment. “Why wouldn’t the queen … my mother”—I test that out—“want that too?”
“Neilina?” he scoffs. “Because she is hungry for power and wants our land for herself, and she would gladly watch every last one of us burn. She has been the serpent whispering of war and conquer in your father’s ear for centuries. Her in one ear, and Caedmon in the other. I don’t know how he resisted it.”
Centuries.
He’s saying Princess Romeria’s parents were king and queen for hundreds of years.
I clear the shock from my voice. “How old are you?”
A slow, vicious smile touches his lips. “Oh, come now. And to think the idea of someone much older than you was so appealing before. What was it you said to me …” He bites his bottom lip, but something tells me it’s all an act. I doubt he has to search his thoughts for anything. “You were happy to marry someone so much more experienced.” His gaze drops to my mouth. “Actually, happy was not it. Eager to learn were the words you used.”
“I did not say that.”
“Do you want to know what other things you whispered in my ear—”
“No.” I feel my face burn.
His expression smooths over. “Good, because I’d much rather scrub those memories from my mind forever.”
What must Zander have been like when he didn’t despise me? A flash of the night in the tower hits me, of those few brief moments when his anger gave way to pain and desperation. I remember the look in his eyes. He wasn’t hateful. He was vulnerable, hurt. He was still in love.
He hasn’t answered my question. I try a different tactic. “How old am I?”
“Just a baby.” He pauses, as if deciding how much more to reveal. “You just passed your twenty-fifth year.”
Princess Romeria was twenty-five. Is twenty-five? Is she dead, or am I? Regardless, she is four years older than I am. Another piece of the puzzle to stew over.
“Why are you willing to tell me all this now?” What does he really want with me?
“Because if there is any shred of truth to this story of yours, perhaps filling in some blanks will help jog your memory. And then, perhaps, you will be inclined to share what you know. Now, if you have no other questions about the map, I have important letters to dispatch. We’ll see if that scant detail you provided is of any use at all.” He doesn’t wait for my response, sliding off the table and moving for a chair on the opposite side. “Elisaf!”
My guard steps in again.
“Please escort Her Highness out of my sight.”
“Yes, Your Highness.” Another deep bow. Do they get tired of the same stuffy salutations all the time?
I rise, hoping my legs don’t betray me. This audience wasn’t as dreadful as I’d anticipated. At least Zander has given me plenty to digest while I’m back in my rooms. Or out on the balcony. “Thank you for allowing me some fresh air.”
“You already said that,” he mutters, annoyed.
“I know. I just … I’m grateful.” Everything I have, I have by the grace of this man who hates me.
His expression is stony, unreadable. “I heard your rooms were in need of airing out.”
My nose scrunches at the memory of the salve. Corrin dumped so much lavender and jasmine in my bathwater, I was plucking petals off my skin even after I’d dried myself. I returned to my bedchamber with incense burning in a corner and my bed stripped.
How does he know, though? I answer my own question with my next thought. Wendeline must have told him. Maybe she urged him to accommodate my request, if anyone besides Boaz dares urge the king.
His attention is on the lengthy white feather he dips into an inkwell when he says, “They may remain open, but they can just as easily be shut. Do not get any ideas of escape. A guard will put an arrow through you before you reach the ground, and if you come back from the dead again, you’ll find yourself in the tower cell for good and a caster will not be there to heal your wounds.”
Noted.
I hesitate. “It would be great
if Wendeline could keep checking in on me.”
The corner of his mouth pulls. “So, that’s what you’re after. She has informed me that you have healed sufficiently.” Again, his eyes dart to my shoulder. Would he consider my scars as grotesque as Corrin makes them out to be?
“I am. I’m just …” I’m lonely. I haven’t felt it so acutely in so long. That’s what he wants, though. No friends, no family, no allies. “I appreciate her company.”
“What you appreciate is of no concern to me. Priestess Wendeline is terribly busy with duties far more essential than entertaining a prisoner. You may go now.” He adjusts his sheet of paper and sets to writing, his jaw tense.
“Thank you, Your Highness.” It doesn’t sound nearly as contrite as I mean it to.
Zander’s eyes break from his page to snap to me.
I duck out quickly behind Elisaf. Tony was right. My smart mouth will get me into trouble one day.
One by the statue.
One circling the gazebo.
At least two pacing the lengths of the exterior wall, disappearing into the cedar abyss.
Are the royal castle grounds always so guarded at night? Or is it because of the recent attack?
Or maybe it’s because I’m out here.
I wrap my bedsheet tighter around my shoulders as I play spot the guard in the tranquil garden below. The air has a slight bite to it now that the sun has been replaced by a moon—the common moon, I’m guessing—that is three-quarters full and offering a mere fraction of the light that the blood moon did. I don’t mind the darkness, though. I’ve been outside all afternoon since returning to my rooms, so long that my cheeks feel tight from the sun.
Can elves get sunburns?
I have so many questions still, but I hesitate asking. I would think that under normal circumstances, it wouldn’t make sense for me to be struck with amnesia and suddenly forget what it means to be human, to believe myself to be a cat or a bird, so why would I forget what it means to be elven?
They all think I’m elven, so elven I need to be. I will get my answers somehow.
My attention wanders to the main section of the sprawling castle, to the balcony where Zander stood earlier today. Is he there, somewhere within the shadows? More than likely he’s below, beyond those doors where people filter in and out and the sounds of laughter and violin notes carry.
