by K. A. Tucker
My graphite-tinged thumbnail finds its way between my teeth as a fresh wave of anxiety washes over me and my urge to flee kicks in. I always have a way out, a getaway route at the ready. Finding it is part of my planning in the weeks leading up to whatever I’m slinking into—a way to slink back out. Yet here, I am trapped. It’s unsettling, compounded by the reality that there’s still too much I don’t know—about why I’m here and why Malachi might want that stone.
I need to find the queen’s secret passage.
I’m mentally checking off all the spots in the bedchamber I’ve investigated so far to consider what I’ve missed when, from somewhere deep inside the cultivated grounds, a woman’s bloodcurdling scream pierces the tranquil evening.
Chapter Twenty
“What in fates’ name …” Corrin’s arms are laden with the meal tray as she steps out onto my terrace, staring with bewilderment at the furniture I dragged out. “Why is half your bedchamber outside?”
I ignore her melodramatic question—there are only two pieces—and point to the flock of sentries who circle Boaz, awaiting his instruction. “What’s going on down there? What happened?” Zander took off running toward the screaming woman at a speed that dropped my jaw. Abarrane dismissed her pupils, collected a sword, and chased after him.
When they reemerged, it was at a brisk, purposeful walk toward the doors that lead into the main hall, Zander’s shoulders rigid with tension. Since then, the patrons who were wandering the grounds have rushed away, and the guards are out in full force.
Desperate for information, I ran to my door in hopes that Elisaf was there, but it was the unfriendly day guard, and he gave nothing more than a grunt of “no idea.”
Corrin sets my meal on the side table, her expression somber. “Lord Quill has been murdered.”
“What?” My eyes widen. “But I saw him walking into the garden not ten minutes before that woman screamed.”
“And he will not be walking out. He was poisoned the same way King Eachann and Queen Esma were dispatched.” She gives me a pointed look.
I hold my hands in the air in surrender. “You can’t blame me for this. I’ve been locked in here all afternoon.”
“Certainly, I am not suggesting that you somehow snuck out and poisoned anyone,” she says crisply.
I think back to the couple in matching green from the throne room earlier, smiling, oblivious to what was in store for one of them. Well, at least Lord Quill was oblivious. “The woman he was with wasn’t his wife.”
“No. It was his tributary.”
“Someone tainted her blood.” They were going out there so he could feed off her. “I’m … shocked.”
“Indeed.”
“Is it normal to be affectionate with your tributary when you’re married?”
“I am here to ensure you are fed and bathed, not to provide you with idle gossip.” Corrin’s fingers graze the stiff paper as she studies the dresses I sketched. “You illustrated these?”
I’m not going to get anywhere with her. “Yes.” One is based on a tulle ball gown that a guest at a charity event wore and I admired from afar, with embroidered flowers and a seductive V-neckline. What is the point of having my own royal seamstress if I don’t have her ripping off couture? Another design is my own, layers of sheer fabric that offer full coverage while allowing provocative glimpses of a female silhouette with high slits along the thighs. I’m curious to see what Dagny might do with these.
Corrin spreads the sheets out, the paper crinkling under her touch. “How do you know such styles?”
I study my graphite-soiled fingers. “I don’t know. I just do,” I lie.
“You are talented.”
I mock gasp. “Is that a compliment?” I know I have skill. On my first day of art class, the instructor took one look at my sketch of the quintessential but tedious fruit-in-bowl model and informed me that I had signed up for the wrong session, that I should be in her advanced level. She asked where I learned my technique. I shrugged. How did I explain that I’d spent years sitting in parks, quietly sketching strangers with stolen art supplies?
Corrin rolls her eyes and taps the tray she set down. “This is red lentil and potato. Don’t wait until it cools, or you won’t enjoy it as much.”
“Does nobody eat meat around here?”
“Of course, they do. But Ybarisans live off a strict diet of vegetables, fruits, and grains, so that is what I’ve brought you.”
“Yes, every day for weeks and weeks,” I drawl.
“Is this suddenly not to your satisfaction, Your Highness?”
Corrin bristles so easily. “No, it’s not that.” It’s strange, what a person can become accustomed to and how quickly they forget past struggles. There was a point in my life when I would’ve been overjoyed to have someone deliver food—any food—to me on a platter several times a day. I spent years eating whatever filled my stomach, whether it be stolen off a cart or scrounged from a dumpster behind a restaurant. Once I was able to support myself, I became more finicky, choosing the organic apples and ensuring at least one meal a day was green.
But right now, I would kill for a greasy burger on a brioche bun from the pub three blocks from my apartment. That, or one of Alton’s sauerkraut-laden hotdogs.
She frowns strangely at me. “Are you saying you suddenly crave animal flesh?”
I cringe. “Not when you call it that.”
“But you would eat it? After a lifetime of not …” Her words fade, her frown growing deeper.
“I was just curious.” I quietly chastise myself. I’m beginning to feel like every question, every idle curiosity might out me as an imposter. “What do the Islorians eat? You know, besides …” I give her a knowing look.
It’s a moment before she abandons whatever thoughts are cycling through her mind. “I assume you’re referring to the immortals. Fruit, breads, meats, cheeses. They have an appetite as the mortals do, in all manners, though it does not fully sustain them. As far as the tributaries go, some indulge more than others. Some, nightly. Not all are like His Highness in that regard.”
“And how often does he have them come to his room?”
“Only when required,” she answers vaguely, peering over the rail at the horde of soldiers milling about.
I hesitate. “How does the tributary system work, anyway?”
“Dreadfully.”
I sigh with exasperation. “Corrin. Come on … help me out here. How do people become tributaries?”
“By being mortal.” Her lips purse with reluctance. “The first Hudem of every year is called Presenting Day. Young women and men are lined up in town squares and bid upon by immortals. It is a requirement that every human serve as tributary once they reach a certain age. Of course, the more desirable ones fetch higher coin and land in noble homes, sometimes even here within the castle if they’re blessed.” She sneers at that last word. “The less appealing are purchased by the commoners. The tradesmen and farmers and the sort. All are taken from their families. They serve as tributaries until they reach their midtwenties, when they are required to marry and breed. They may remain on as tributaries for some years still, or if their keeper prefers a change, they might offer them another position of servitude. If not, they are sold to another keeper who can utilize them.”
She tells me this matter-of-factly, but I hear the bitterness in her voice. She may be loyal to Cirilea and to the king, but this isn’t a life she wants to see for her kind. “If they’re fortunate, they’ll have a keeper who ensures they and their families are properly cared for.”
“And if they’re not?”
Her lips twist with contempt. “Then they’re worked to the bone while they starve and their keepers flourish.”
And then, at some point, they find themselves in the rookery, feeble and broken and struggling, but free. “And what if they don’t want to get married and have children?”
“As if they have a choice in the matter,” she scoffs. “Besides, no woman wants
to find herself unwed and end up with a keeper who has a penchant for the business of breeding.”
“What do you mean by ‘breeding’?”
“Do not try to tell me the fates have stripped your knowledge of procreation,” she mutters. “It means exactly what you think it means.”
I cringe. Wendeline called this a civilized system where everyone survives. I don’t see anything civilized about it. “But Zander wants to change all this.” He sees the problem with it.
“It is a far-fetched notion that will never work, but a noble one.” She peers up at the dimming sky, now a murky blue. A line of clouds rolling in from the east are faintly visible, and the air has cooled from this morning. “The priestesses have predicted rainfall tonight. This furniture needs to be returned before you retire.” She lifts the table.
“I’ll move it back later.” It’s been so nice sitting out here, even with the sour turn for Lord Quill.
“But the rain will ruin—”
“I’ll move it in before it rains. I promise.” I feel less like the queen-to-be and more like a misbehaved child who used her mother’s best linens to build a fort.
With a huff, she sets the table down. She scowls at my pencil’s stubby end.
“It needs sharpening.”
“I see that.” She slips it into her pocket. “Perhaps Dorkus can help.”
My eyebrows pop. “I’m sorry. Who?”
“Your other guard.”
“His name is Dorkus?” I struggle to hold my immature giggle. Maybe that’s why he wouldn’t share it.
She frowns curiously at me but then dismisses her thoughts with a wave of her finger around the terrace on her way out. “Before the rain!”
Nobody ventures along the winding paths of the royal grounds tonight, other than Boaz’s guards. Two hours ago, the same burly men who lugged stone from the shattered water fountain the other day hauled Lord Quinn’s lifeless body out of the garden on a stretcher. Darkness has descended since, and the priestesses have passed through to light the lanterns with their caster magic.
But no one comes. There is no sound of music or laughter carrying through the cracks in the doors either. Nothing but subdued voices. Everyone seems anxious, as they should be. Someone in the court was murdered today.
“Who is this woman?”
I startle at Zander’s voice suddenly behind me and spin around. “Can you please not sneak up on me like that?” I haven’t seen him in hours, since he disappeared into the main building with Abarrane and Atticus. A dim light glows from his bedchamber windows, and the door sits propped open. He has shed his jacket and sword, and his tunic is untucked, the front unlaced, as if he began undressing and decided to come out here partway through. Does he have a servant who helps him as Corrin begrudgingly helps me? I’ve never seen a hint of one.
“It is not my fault Ybarisans lack stealth.” He smirks, but his rapt attention is still on the paper in his hand. “Who is she?”
Sofie’s face stares back at us beneath the lantern light—delivered by Corrin when she returned with a freshly sharpened pencil, courtesy of dear Dorkus. Faces have always etched their way into my mind, and yet I’m surprised by how precisely I remember the cunning woman’s upturned eyes and jagged cheekbones, having spent not even twenty-four hours with her. Just long enough for her to alter my life irrevocably.
“I’m not sure.” It’s a lie but also a truth. Who is Sofie? An elemental, surely. Brokenhearted and desperate over her husband’s dire situation, also true. But beyond that, I don’t know anything about her.
I watch Zander closely, searching for any hint that he can read my lie in my pulse as he did earlier. But he’s studying the sketch with a creased forehead.
“Why? Does she look familiar to you?” Has Sofie been to Islor before?
He shakes his head. “I thought so, but no.” He breaks his gaze of my illustration to peer at me. His eyes drop to where the daaknar’s claws sunk into my flesh, visible in my peach gown. His jaw tenses. With revulsion or pity, I can’t tell.
I fight the urge to shrink away, feeling self-conscious despite my resolve to not care what he thinks.
His attention shifts back to Sofie’s face, but he offers, “I imagine that must have hurt.”
Not as bad as being poisoned with something that burns you from the inside out, I’ll wager. I’m about to ask him about Lord Quill when a large raindrop splatters onto the paper. It’s followed by a second and a third in quick succession.
I curse as I dive for the table. “Corrin is going to murder me if this furniture gets damaged!”
“She does pride herself on immaculate upholstery,” Zander says wryly. “Here.” He gives me the sketch, freeing his hands to collect the sizable wing chair and side table with ease.
I grab the lantern and together we rush inside as the deluge hits. I quietly trail Zander through my bedchamber toward the fireplace. Around us, the room glows with the various candelabras and candlesticks that Corrin lit on her way out. Coupled with the old-timey grace of the room, it creates an ambience that one might find romantic, under different circumstances. “I heard what happened.”
“I believe everyone in the castle heard what happened.”
“Do you have any idea who did it?”
“Not precisely, no.” He sets my furniture down, taking a moment to arrange it properly.
“The woman who was with Lord Quill, his tributary, was hanging off him. Do you think maybe his wife got jealous and—”
“Lady Quill did not murder her husband. She knew where he was and who he was with. And what they were doing.”
“And she didn’t care that her husband was getting more than his fill of blood? Because there is no way that wasn’t happening, and don’t even try to tell me differently.”
Zander brushes absently at wet spots on his shirt. “How they choose to conduct their relationship is none of our business.”
“Right. Of course. I forgot that’s how it works around here.” Just like it’s none of anyone else’s business that Zander brings his feeder stock to his bed when his supposed bride-to-be is right next door.
Zander’s eyebrow raises in question.
“Never mind,” I mutter. Can he read the irritation? I hope so. There is no way I would tolerate him bringing women to his bed for any reason if this thing between us were real. “Fine. Maybe this tributary felt differently, though. Maybe she was in love with Quill and wanted him to leave his wife and turn her, and when he wouldn’t, she got angry and poisoned him.”
“I think I liked it better when you knew nothing of our ways.” Zander flops into the chair he set down, as if the weight of the day has overwhelmed him. “Highly doubtful. It is forbidden to turn a human, even if that human is willing. Doing so would be an immediate death sentence for both parties. Besides, I was there shortly after Lord Quill fell. Humans are embarrassingly easy to read, and there was nothing but agonizing heartbreak in her.”
“So, you’re saying she did care for him.”
“Yes, and that is not surprising. Many of them bond with their keepers. But that does not change reality. Humans are taught from an early age that to be a tributary is an important role, but a service and nothing more.”
“Such an important service that the more attractive, the better, I’ve heard.” My voice is full of scorn.
“It certainly makes the necessity more pleasant,” he retorts with a challenge in his stare.
How many of his tributaries has Zander slept with? Would he have climbed on top of that last one had I not been there to catch him in the act? A mental image of what that might look like skitters through my thoughts unbidden, and I feel my pulse quicken.
Heat flashes in Zander’s eyes, and the corners of his mouth curl as if he has a secret. “Please, continue whatever line of thought you are on. I much prefer your reaction to that than the swirl of fear and guilt that consumed you earlier.”
My cheeks flame. “How can you do that?”
He shrugs
casually. “I just can. And for whatever reason, it’s becoming easier to do so with you.”
Is it because my mind is human? Or is it because I don’t know how to use this elven body and its abilities?
“Unfortunate for you, isn’t it? Especially when your thoughts veer in that direction.”
I set my jaw, wanting to steer this conversation far away from any direction that gives him the upper hand. “Someone else targeted Quill. Why? What enemies has he made?”
“We all have our enemies, but I doubt he made any so profound that he would be wary. He was an easy target. Also, my supporter. That’s another strike against him.”
“But why kill him now?”
“I retract my earlier comment. You still know nothing.” He rubs the bridge of his nose. “To stir a new wave of suspicion now that you have risen from the dead and your brother is sitting in the dungeon, awaiting execution.”
“So, this has to do with me after all.”
“Doesn’t everything lately?” he mutters, more to himself.
“Who would want to …” My voice drifts. “Lord Adley.”
“Or one of his staunch supporters. You are finally catching on.”
I glare at him.
“What? You barely knew your own name a month ago.”
I knew my name well. It’s everything else that was a mystery. “Are you saying this is retaliation for yesterday?”
“For humiliating him in front of the entire court?” He smirks. “That was something to behold, even if it was not according to our plan. I will admit I enjoyed it.”
“Really? Because I remember your reaction being different afterward.”
“It was just … unexpected, is all. In any case, it was probably happenstance, given poisoning Quill required planning. Adley would benefit from chaos and division within the court, people forming backdoor alliances and pacts, and naturally, everyone is now speculating how many more will suffer the same fate with you sitting on our throne.”
“But I’m not poisoning them.”
