by K. A. Tucker
“Technically, that’s not true. The raw merth vine only grows in the Terren mountains, which means the poison was brought here when you and your people crossed the rift. While we may be playing a game of your innocence, we both know you were fully aware of what you were shuttling in your pocket.”
“Fine, but none of them know that.” I ease into the formal settee across from him, tucking my legs beneath me for warmth. Outside, the rain pelts mercilessly against the windows. “Maybe Atticus is right. You could avoid this if you married Saoirse. Adley wouldn’t have any reason to kill anyone.”
“You do not know of what you speak.” His jaw tenses. “The duplicity would be tenfold. People like Adley and his ilk have no place ruling Islor.”
“But they think they do, and you’re only antagonizing them by dangling me over the throne like a threat.”
The corner of his mouth curls. “Perhaps.”
Realization strikes me. “That’s what you want. You want to force Adley to make a move so you have an excuse to charge him with treason and punish him.”
“Something reckless and ill-planned would be preferred.” His grin is both evil and playful. “Welcome to the throne. Threats come from every direction, and they do not wait in line for their turn.”
I shake my head. “No thanks.” I’d rather lurk in obscurity.
He smooths a finger over the carved detail in the chair’s wooden arm. “I cannot rule Islor with someone like Saoirse, but it doesn’t matter who I share the throne with—you or Adley’s daughter. He does not want me sitting here, period.” His full lips twist as if considering his next words, whether to say them at all. “You are aware of my vision for how I’d like to see the kingdom of Islor progress in the future. For the mortals.”
“Where the humans are not forced into this tributary system. Yes. Elisaf told me.” A future where they are free to sit at their dinner tables with their family and dream of destinies that don’t involve servitude.
“I realize it is likely an unsurmountable feat, and yet I know in my heart it is the right course.” His forehead creases. “I do not feel that the mortals are inferior. I have never felt that way.”
An unexpected wave of respect washes over me as I regard this Islorian king, his words echoing my accusation from the day in the rookery.
“We have rules in place to try to protect them. Laws against turning mortals, and against children entering the tributary system. Punishment for harming them without cause. But there are whispers coming from the east of mortals being bred like cattle and sold in an underground market. It has always existed, but it is quickly becoming more prevalent. Children are being ripped from their parents’ arms and fed upon. The younger they are, the sweeter their blood.”
My eyes widen in horror.
“I, of course, would not know that firsthand,” he adds quickly. “But many cities in the east have become cesspools of indecency, and that indecency is now spreading across Islor like a plague as virulent as the blood curse itself. These immortals mock the laws we have in place to protect mortals and threatens to return us to dark days from our past. It is the opposite of what I want for Islor’s future, and I fear that is part of the reason for the increase. It is a bold declaration of opposition.”
Kettling is in the east. “Adley doesn’t care about how these mortals are being sold in his city?”
“Who do you think is at the helm?” he says evenly. “On the surface, Adley professes his undying devotion to Cirilea and the throne of Islor, but Kettling has always been an adversary, even as far back as the days of Ailill. He does not want a society where mortals are equal to us. He would put them all in chains and cages if allowed. My father knew of this. He knew what Kettling was doing, but he turned a blind eye in favor of keeping the peace. That’s what he wanted to be known as—a peacemaker. That is why he forged this union with King Barris, who was said to be a progressive man, not so entwined in the religion of fates and caster power. The same cannot be said for his wife.”
There’s a twinge of bitterness in Zander’s tone. “But my father was far from perfect, and he made many mistakes. One of those was believing Adley is an anomaly. The truth is, there are many who share his beliefs that mortals exist solely for our survival. My father gave Adley too much time and leeway to make Islorians wealthy and therefore loyal to him. They have no interest in sacrificing their affluence for my plans. I am a threat to them. And while there was a time when Adley could have been easily removed from his position and this situation we find ourselves in avoided, that time has passed. He has too many ardent supporters.”
I can hear the passion and frustration in Zander’s voice—but also the hint of resignation. “Can’t you send Atticus and the army there?”
“That was my plan. After we married and my parents abdicated the throne. But now we face pressure from Ybaris. Half the army is camped near the rift with the other half ready to march at the first sign of trouble. To call arms against Kettling now would mean dividing the men even more.
“While those loyal to Cirilea are many, we cannot battle both Ybaris and Kettling, especially not if Adley calls on allies from Kier. They are daunting warriors, even for mortals, who fought alongside Kettling long ago, the last time Kettling rose against Cirilea. And every day I receive more messages that men are allying with Adley. If the east joins together under him, they will be formidable against me.”
And yet the man stood in the front row of the court yesterday and bowed to his king. I sneer with distaste. “I don’t know how you didn’t sic Abarrane on him.”
“Believe me, it is an urge I struggle with daily.”
I shake my head. “Whoever betrayed you in the castle is the least of your worries right now.”
“Perhaps.” But the dark expression that passes over his face says otherwise.
My thoughts wander in the lingering—and oddly comfortable—silence, back to Lord Quill’s unfortunate demise. “Elisaf said they found a vial of the poison in my lady maid’s dress.”
“One tiny vial, easily hidden in her clothing. From what she told us upon questioning, each tributary only needed to ingest a drop’s worth in their drink. There were almost twenty drops in that vial when the priestesses tested it.”
“But you took it from her.”
“We did, and it is still safe within the royal vault. Untouched.”
“That means there’s more than one. How many did I bring?”
“We do not know. But Abarrane found another one on your brother when we captured him.” And by the troubled look on Zander’s face, I’m guessing that’s also a concern to him.
“How would Adley get hold of this poison?”
“Another fair question that I do not have an answer for. I’ve received reports of Ybarisans seen in Meadwell in the east and Salt Bay in the south. They are traveling in groups of two to three, slipping in and out of taverns, asking about tributaries of the nobility.”
I follow his train of thought. “You think they’re carrying more of these vials with them and targeting the humans to get to the lords and ladies.”
“It would be smart to assume they are. At the moment, though, much of the court is here for the coming summer fair, and their lands are being governed by stewards.”
But they’re not safe here, either, if Quill is any indication. “The seamstress, Dagny, said the Ybarisans killed a tributary.”
“Lady and Lord Rengard’s of Bellcross, on the other side of Eldred Wood,” he confirms. “Males matching their description were seen fleeing as the body was found, so it is safe to assume they had a hand in it.”
“Why would they kill her?”
“That remains to be seen.” Something in his voice makes me suspect he has an idea that he doesn’t want to share with me.
“Hey, you know who would know?” I pause for effect. “Tyree.”
Zander’s attention shifts to the hearth, the logs stacked neatly in the grate. “I’ve already provided my answer for that suggestion.”
�
�But that was before Quill was poisoned.”
“And for all we know, that has nothing to do with Adley, and it was a message to you to let you know that you still have allies within the walls.”
I hadn’t thought of that. “Wouldn’t it be good to know that?”
His lips purse. He knows I’m right.
“Next time it could be Annika or Atticus who is poisoned. Or you.” What would happen to me if Zander died? Would they simply let me go?
“We are far too careful to allow something like that to happen to us, after our parents’ demise.” He pauses. “You are quick and persistent with your offers of help. Why do you feign to care what befalls us?”
“Because I have nothing better to do?” My flippant answer rolls off my tongue before I can stop myself.
His eyes narrow. “Or this demonstration of fervent support is an attempt to gain my trust?”
I snort. “We’ve both agreed that there is nothing I can do to gain that.” But it is becoming increasingly clear that Zander weighs every action and word out of my mouth, looking for duplicity. “Do you think in any way other than in angles?”
“Betrayal rarely approaches from a straight line.” He watches me evenly.
“Fair enough. How about this reason”—I lean forward—“because it’s worth trying before someone else dies.”
A long exhale slips from Zander’s lips. “We will see how things progress.”
At least that’s not a flat-out no. “What happens now?”
He studies his fingernail intently. “Boaz and his men are investigating. I suspect they won’t discover anything of import. People will be fraught with tension until they settle their nerves or someone else turns up dead.”
“Something to look forward to, then,” I mutter, curling my arms around my chest. The rain has brought damp and chilly air with it, and the hairs on my arms stand on end.
“You are cold,” Zander says.
“You don’t miss much, do you?”
“I do not miss anything. It is best you remember that.” His gaze is steady on me for a moment before it flips to the hearth and a rush of flames engulfs the logs in the iron grate.
My mouth drops. It’s the first time I’ve seen Zander use his affinity.
He chuckles. It’s the same easy, beguiling sound I heard in the sparring square earlier. “You look like the children who watch the priestesses light lanterns for the first time.”
“I guess they’re as new to it as I am. Or as I feel,” I quickly correct. “How did you do that? You can just set things on fire?”
He nods to the sconce on the wall, its flame dancing within the glass as if disturbed by a faint draft. “As long as there is a source, I can manipulate it in whichever way I choose.”
“And it’s the same for me with water?”
“As fun as it might be to teach my enemy how to use her element the moment her cuffs should come off, I’m afraid I must abstain,” he says dryly.
I let my head fall back as I release an obnoxious groan, earning another chuckle from him.
Zander isn’t in any rush to leave my bedchamber, his attention on the flames in the hearth, his thoughts seemingly miles away. What must it be like to sit upon that throne and rule all these people? To have the ultimate power and yet be wary of all those plotting to take it for themselves? It would make a person perpetually paranoid. I don’t envy him.
“What do you suppose will become of you once this charade”—he copies my gesture from earlier, waggling his finger between us—“is over?”
I’ll go home. Not to Ybaris, but to New York. I can’t say that. Sofie warned me not to, and until I know more about the nymphaeum, her words are my lifeline. “You mean, if I’m not a prisoner here anymore?”
“I do find it odd that you did not negotiate your release as part of this arrangement. It is almost as if you don’t expect to leave.”
Because I banked on Malachi getting me out of here when the time came, as Sofie promised. Now I’m wondering if that was foolish. “I guess I assumed you’d do the honorable thing. You know, being the decent person you are.”
He smirks.
But his question sparks a thought: What if there is no way back?
If what Wendeline told me of the Fate of Fire is true, he is not averse to using his subjects for his own ambitions. Do I even want to retrieve this stone for him? And will I be able to open this door? What makes him think I can, where the powerful key caster Farren could not? And what if Zander’s big plan to out Princess Romeria’s accomplice works, and we find them before Hudem? There won’t be a wedding—not between us, anyway. Will I be able to find another way into the nymphaeum? I still don’t know where it is.
“There it is again … that swirl of worry around you.” He cocks his head. “What troubles you so?”
I hate that he can do that.
“Those children today, the ones in the sparring court, you were good with them,” I say, changing topics.
He takes the bait. “You are surprised?”
“Yes.”
His lips curl at the corners, hinting at the dimples that emerge with his rare smiles. “Teaching weaponry has always been enjoyable to me, especially to the young ones. Sometimes I wish I could leave this and play soldier all day long. I envy my brother for that.” He reaches over his head to grip the back of the chair in a leisurely stretch.
I try to ignore the pull of material across his chest. “Seeing you with them made me think you aren’t awful,” I admit. Every day I spend a little more time with him, I remember less of the intimidating king in his suit of armor who was seconds from driving a dagger through my heart. Zander is quickly becoming like any other guy I might know, one who’s overwhelmed by his lot in life at the moment.
Except with fangs, I remind myself.
But it’s surprisingly easy to forget that, too, especially as we sit across from each other and talk like equals, rather than king and captive.
“Don’t worry. There’s still time to change your mind back,” he murmurs. “You were intrigued by Abarrane’s lesson.”
“You knew I was watching?” He hadn’t looked up once while he was with them.
He smirks. “You’re always watching. Standing outside as if these walls might suffocate you.” His eyes roam the gilded casting along the ceiling, the sharp jut of his throat protruding. “You watch the fighters on the court all day and the lovers in the grounds all night.”
“Is that what we’re calling them?” The guards down below must be reporting in to him. Does he ask for daily accounts from them too?
“And what would you call them?”
“I don’t know, but they’re feeding and fucking, and they’re not exactly discreet about it.”
Amusement gleams in his eyes, but I don’t miss the flash of heat as well. “Islorians aren’t known for our discretion.”
You are, I want to say, but bringing up his late-night visitor yet again would definitely send the wrong message. “It’s amazing, the way the fighters move in the sparring court. I’ve never seen—I mean, I can’t remember watching anyone fight like that. I wish I knew how.”
Maybe Tony wouldn’t have so easily wrestled my knife from my grip. But then what? Would I have stabbed him? Do I have it in me to stab a person? I’ve always prided myself on not getting lured down the path of violence and drugs that so many other kids on the street travelled down.
“You were semicapable with a blade before.”
“I also knew how to ride a horse, didn’t I?” I found an outfit of breeches, a tunic, and leather boots tucked in my closet, suggesting Princess Romeria sometimes donned something other than silk and lace.
“You were proficient at riding.” A secretive smile makes me wonder if his thoughts are somewhere far less wholesome. “And now apparently you are an artist.” He nods toward Sofie’s face. “It’s almost like you’re a different person.”
I take a deep, calming breath, struggling to steady my heart rate as I meet his
penetrating stare, my panic threatening. “I am a different person than the Romeria you used to know. She’s gone.” At least for now. What will happen to her when Malachi pulls me out of Islor? Will this body crumble like an empty shell, or will the sadistic, evil version return? I hope not the latter, for everyone’s sake.
“Yes, that is becoming more apparent with each day that passes,” he says quietly. “But, as talented an artist as you may be, it won’t protect you. You should join the children for their staff lesson next time.” Humor laces his voice.
“With Abarrane? She’s almost scarier than the daaknar.”
He chuckles. “Perhaps with a different teacher, then?”
“And who would that be? You?”
His gaze touches my bare shoulder before meeting my eyes again. An expression passes across his face that I can’t read, but it reminds me that we have a past, full of heated looks and intimate promises that I don’t remember but he does, no matter how much he may not want to. The bit I do remember—in the tower, pressed up against the wall—is enough to make my cheeks burn now. Knowing he can sense lustful thoughts makes them flame even brighter.
I swallow. “What did Wendeline want to tell you?”
“That’s between the priestess and me.”
“But you were talking about me.”
“Yes.” No hesitation in admitting that.
“You seemed bothered by something.”
“You and I held hands and whispered in each other’s ears in front of a crowd yesterday, and you think you know me deeply now? That you’re privy to my thoughts and conversations?”
“You’re right. I’ve changed my mind back already. You’re an asshole.”
He responds with a deep laugh, unbothered by my insult, and I find myself grinning.
He hauls himself out of the chair and moves toward my terrace.
I feel the unexpected twitch of disappointment that comes with the realization that he’s leaving. “When is that royal repast happening?”
“The fair begins day after tomorrow and runs for ten days. We have a tournament of skill within the square during this time. Adley and the others have propositioned ending the day with the royal repast. A grand finale of sorts. I do not see us avoiding it.”
