by K. A. Tucker
But I would no longer insist on waiting.
By the piercing look he casts over his shoulder, he senses that. “Sweet dreams, Romeria.”
I catch his chuckle as he pulls the terrace door shut behind him.
Darkness creeps toward dawn before my tumultuous thoughts allow me some rest.
“How in the fates …” A concentrated frown mars Dagny’s forehead as she plucks at a piece of straw clinging to her dress. Brushing it away, she returns to her stiff, upright position. Her beaming smile is genuine. It would be contagious, if not for my exhaustion this morning, made worse by Corrin’s nattering about all the reasons she is against this silly outing.
“The clothiers should bring their spools of fine silk to the castle for the future queen’s perusal!” she exclaimed while shaking me into my gown, a delightful violet silk that swirls around my ankles and pairs nicely with a capelet with silvered embroidery.
“I’ve never been in a carriage as fine as this, Your Highness.” Dagny smooths her stubby fingers over the red velvet interior.
“It is nice, isn’t it?” When Elisaf led me to the courtyard and I saw the elaborate ebony-and-gold chariot, and the twenty soldiers who would accompany me, I nearly turned back, given the attention this would draw. But Dagny was so excited for the opportunity to ride to the market with the future queen, I climbed in, unable to disappoint.
I’ve made use of the excursion, keeping an eye out the window and memorizing markers while Dagny babbles. It’s a linear path as we navigate our way down to the market, save for two turns. I spy the top of the ominous tower at my right.
She clears her throat several times, dipping her head to peek past the curtain. Elisaf and Dorkus bank either side of the carriage. “I was lookin’ into that special wool you asked me about. Talked to a few weavers I know.” Her eyes widen with meaning. “None of them have heard of it, but we’ll keep lookin’ for ya. Bound to turn up, eventually.”
Her search likely won’t return anything if Ianca is going by another name, but I smile. “Thank you.”
“Of course, Your Highness. Anything for you.” She unfolds and then refolds her hands in her lap. “I suppose you must be excited about your upcoming wedding? Not too far off now. I know it would be the second time through this circus for you, and what with the first one bein’ tainted by murder and all, but surely this time will go smoothly. You two will be married, and we can finally put all this bloody business behind us.”
Unless I somehow find myself in that nymphaeum on a blood moon, in which case I have no idea what new bloody business will be in front of us.
I change the subject. “I never asked you, how old is your son Dagnar?”
“Seventeen! He’s a big, strong, strapping lad like my Albe. Handsome, too, if I do say so myself, being his ma and all.” She nods, pride clutching her words, more heavily accented when she’s excited.
“Will he be auctioned off soon, then?”
Her smile wavers. “Next Presenting Day. I suppose so, yes. It will be a challenge for Albe and myself, to say the least, but it is the way of Islor.” She nods resolutely. The distress in her eyes tells a different story, of a mother dreading the day she loses her son to obligation.
My own upbringing began ordinary and loving until it took a dark turn that soured any fond memories. I have little to call upon to draw sympathy from, but I can sympathize as a fellow human. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think it’s fair how you’re all forced into the tributary system.”
“No, Your Highness, it doesn’t seem so, does it?” She hesitates, picking at a loose thread on her dress. “Is it true that the mortals live free in Ybaris? With villages and farms and whatnot?”
I can only answer that because Zander said as much last night. “Yes.”
“You know … lots of folks were wishin’ that once you two were married, they might open up the rift and let some of us through. Don’t suppose that’ll happen now, even with a weddin’.”
Some of us. She means the humans. “Were a lot of people hoping for that?”
“Aye. There’s no way out of Islor short of payin’ a captain a hefty price to smuggle us out. Far more than any of us will ever see in our lifetime unless we rob our keepers. And even then, we’re usually caught in the ports on the other side, and if there’s anythin’ hinting at a cuff in our ear, we’re sent back.” She nods. “Seemed an omen, a Ybarisan queen comin’ to rule. A sign for the change of the times. There’s been plenty of talk over the years, about how the king might be wanting to change the way things work. Is that true? Have ya heard of such a thing happening, or is that just rumor?”
Elisaf said Zander hasn’t been silent about his hopes for a progressive Islor. I shouldn’t be surprised that it’s a topic of conversation among the humans. “It’s not just rumor.”
Dagny’s eyes light up. “Wouldn’t that be somethin’? We’ve prayed for it, ya know. Every Friday afternoon in the sanctum and with our morning devotions, without fail. Dagnar could recite the Fates’ Prayer when he was a wee one. ’Course it took him some time to get their names right. I doubt the fates minded much, though.” She chuckles, her anticipation bubbling.
I realize my mistake. I don’t want to get her hopes up. “It’s not something that can happen overnight, or even in a few months,” I say slowly. Maybe not in her lifetime, I fear, the more I learn. “Dagnar won’t avoid Presenting Day.”
Her brow furrows deeply as her head bobs. “Aye! Of course! Surely, there are a great many things that must be considered. I wouldn’t begin to assume I understand any of it, being the simple commoner that I am,” she blusters.
“I don’t think you’re simple at all, Dagny.” She does that often, puts herself down. Somewhere along the line, someone convinced her that it was true. “And you know what? Corrin admitted to me that there’s no one else with your talent for stitchwork.” I add in a mock whisper, “Don’t tell her I told you that, though.”
“I wouldn’t dare.” She giggles. There’s a moment’s pause before her thoughts and her mouth are working again. “Ya know, people around Cirilea talk a lot. About a lot of things. I heard them talkin’ the other day about how you and His Highness walked through the rookery handin’ out coin.”
I’m not surprised that made the gossip mill. “They look like they could use it.” I saw Elisaf with a velvet bag strapped to his hip, and I casually mentioned making another trip through there today after the market.
“Albe and I have been fortunate. I started out as a laundress until the last royal seamstress passed on. Albe’s been a herdsman all his life. You know, after our other service.” She says it quietly, like she doesn’t want to admit to their time as tributaries. “Many of those folks in the rookery have run from dreadful situations that I can’t imagine.” She frowns. “But no king or queen has ever done that before. Walked through the rookery, handin’ out coin. Talkin’ to people. Actin’ like they care.”
“Are you saying we shouldn’t have?”
“I’m sayin’ you should. It’s good for them. Gives them hope. A lot of folks are scared. All kinds of whispers of unsettlin’ things lately.”
“Like what?”
“Oh, I don’t want to trouble you with their foolishness.” She waves off my question with a swat of her hand. “But it’s good for the people to see yous both out there. It’s important for them to see the good in you, Your Highness.”
I’m sure she’s referring to all the rumors that I murdered the last king and queen. I don’t want to tell her that they’re not wrong.
The carriage rolls to a stop. Elisaf’s boots land on the cobblestone with a thump, and a moment later, our little door creaks open. “We’re here, Your Highness,” he announces with a gracious bow, holding out his hand to help me climb down.
The morning sky is painted a soft blue, the air a few degrees cooler than I’ve grown accustomed to. A breeze kisses my cheek as I take a moment to smooth my skirt and scan our surroundings while Dagny disembarks. We
’ve stopped in front of a small shop with a sign that reads Apothecary. I inhale, remembering the horrid salve Wendeline smeared on my shoulder. The faint waft of chamomile and lavender lingers in the air here.
Beyond the shop, the street runs toward the water. Only a sliver of the bay is visible from this angle.
“Would you like my arm?” Elisaf offers, holding it out.
“How debonair. Where is my usual guard?” I tease, curling my hand around his biceps. The leather beneath my fingers is deceptively soft. It feels odd to be holding on to anyone other than Zander when we’re in public.
Elisaf leans in to murmur quietly, “I can tell you where he is not, which is gallivanting through Port Street with the captain of the royal guard nipping at his heels.”
I giggle. “You heard about that?”
“Who do you think arranged for the horses?”
“This way!” Dagny exclaims in a singsong manner, her hips swinging as she marches forward.
Dorkus and eight other soldiers flank us, giving us a few feet of space, thankfully. The rest stay with the horses and carriage.
The market is already teeming with early risers. I feel their surprised stares and hear their whispers of shock as we make our way toward the booths.
“Interesting place, your Goat’s Knoll.” I level Elisaf with a pointed look.
His responding smile is wry. “It is.”
“What were you doing there all those years ago? Enjoying a pint of mead, was it?” I ask with mock innocence.
“I was young and enjoying many adventurous things. Do you wish to travel down this path, Your Highness? Because I heard of a certain alleyway that was far more interesting—”
My elbow shoots out, aiming for his ribs.
He deftly blocks it with a laugh.
“Was that actually a topic of conversation for you guys?” A surge of nerves floods my chest at the reminder of that stolen moment between Zander and me. A moment he deems a mistake, obviously.
“Everything Zander does is a topic of conversation for his brother.”
“Atticus told you the sordid details.” Not Zander. I shouldn’t be surprised by that.
“Atticus is worried his brother’s head is not where it should be. Again.”
We’ve entered the throng where this discussion is no longer possible. I see much of the same in the crowd as I did that day with Zander—servants, tradesmen, farmers, and all types in between that make up Islor’s common class of immortal and mortal. They’re setting up their products and chatting with those nearby, preparing for a busy day of earning money.
What is it like to be these people, to live outside these castle walls?
The friendly buzz dulls to a simmer with stares and bows. People gather their children and scuttle away from my guards, as if afraid of being caught on the sharp end of a sword. I smile at them, hoping the simple gesture will ease the growing tension that clogs the air as we pass through.
Elisaf attempts a steady pace but is forced to slow as I linger, admiring the many wares. The stalls are plentiful and diverse, with everything from baskets of fresh fruits, eggs, and vegetables to honey and wax, barrels of grain, and cast-iron cooking utensils.
My nose catches an aromatic scent, and I steer us toward a booth where strips of dried salted meat dangle from hooks. But then I remember that my kind is strictly vegetarian, and anyone watching might find it odd that the Ybarisan princess is salivating at a meat counter, so I veer past it to the next stall—a table laden with various tarts and wafers and small cakes.
Elisaf leans in to whisper in my ear, “The queen does not graze at the market stalls. The castle has its own kitchen for these sorts of things.”
The woman standing behind the table stares at me, her blue eyes wide with shock. Two scrawny children with curly mops of brown hair are tucked into either side of her skirts, the boy resting his head on her pregnant belly, the little girl sucking her thumb. They all wear the telltale cuffs of ownership in their ears.
Something in their haunting gazes holds me in place. “It’s a good thing I’m not the queen, then. And besides, the castle’s kitchens don’t help me when I’m hungry now.” I offer the woman a smile. “I’d love something from your table, please.”
The woman gives her head a shake and then curtsies deeply. “What would you prefer, Your Highness?” She has a timid voice.
“I don’t know.” I can only guess at what I see. “What would you recommend?”
“The bread pudding always sells out first. And people like the marzipan turnovers. Your Highness.”
“Did you make them?”
She dips her head. “Yes, milady. I mean, Your Highness.”
“All of them.”
“Yes.”
“On your own?”
The dark circles beneath her eyes tell me as much before her nod confirms it. My attention drifts to her swollen belly. She must be near due.
The little boy on her left points to a stack of tarts with a curled finger. “These are my favorite, Your Highness,” he offers in a high-pitched voice. His mother shushes him.
“No, it’s fine. Let him speak.” I smile at the boy, stealing a better look at the puckered skin on his hand. He’s been burned. “And why are they your favorite?”
He grins, showing off prominent gaps from missing front teeth. “The fruit filling.”
“Those are my favorite too. Can I ask, what happened to your hand?”
He looks down at his feet. “Punishment. For taking an apple. It was fallen on the ground and rotten, but still, I shouldn’t have taken it without askin’.”
“An apple.” Someone permanently disfigured this little boy because he took a rotten apple?
He glances up to his mother, who pats him on the back before turning to me. In her eyes, I see raw anguish. I’ll wager she watched it happen.
“Your keeper did that to you?”
He nods. “But I deserved it.”
I glare at Elisaf as my rage flares. “I thought mortals couldn’t be harmed,” I hiss.
“They can’t be killed, Your Highness. And the definition of harmed is murky when there are claims of theft.”
A man appears from nowhere. He shoos the children away with a flick of a wrist as if they’re flies, but they’re already diving under the table. “Your Highness.” He bows before me. His shoulder-length hair is as silver-white as that of an elderly person, such a contrast to his warm olive skin as youthful as mine. “I’m honored to see you admiring my delicacies!” His voice carries. He wants to be heard by the crowd gathering around us, held back from getting too close by my guards.
His delicacies. I scan his ear. No golden cuff. He must be the keeper and an immortal, and the asshole who had this little boy burned for eating an apple that was good for nothing but feeding worms. He looks the part, his jacket tailored and fine, his stature full of arrogant pride.
I force a smile. “I was, yes. Your baker is talented.”
“Dare I say, she is the most talented in all of Islor. Her apple tarts never last long.”
The woman murmurs, “Thank you, my lord,” but I note the way she shrinks from him.
And the way he leers at her. She’s a pretty woman, probably in her late twenties.
“And you are?” I ask him.
“Lord Danthrin of Freywich,” he says loudly. “Your humble servant, of course. Please, help yourself to anything at this table.”
“Anything?”
“Anything at all. After all, you are to be our queen.”
That’s right. I am, even if I’m only pretending.
“I’m glad to hear that.” My heart pounds with apprehension as a plan formulates. “I would like your baker and her two children.”
Gasps sound around us.
Lord Danthrin’s mouth drops open. “Your Highness? I do not understand,” he sputters.
“You said I could have anything I wanted. We’re in need of a baker, and since she is the best in all of Islor, it’s only fitt
ing that she should work for me. So, I’d like this woman and her two children to join the royal household.” I turn to the woman. “But only if you are interested in that position. I am not forcing you. It’s your choice. Would you like to come with me?”
She gapes at me a moment, before offering an almost indecipherable nod, casting a sideways glance toward Danthrin but avoiding his gaze.
Beside me, Elisaf settles his hand on the pommel of his sword, as if he’s expecting trouble. Or warning against it.
“Do you have a husband who should be coming with you?” I ask gently.
She shakes her head. “It’s just us.”
I grit my teeth as I look at her belly. No husband and these can’t be Danthrin’s kids. I’d bet money that he’s breeding her. Corrin warned of his type. It only solidifies my resolve.
Danthrin looks like a fish gasping for air. “But surely you understand I meant—”
“Elisaf, would you be so kind as to reimburse Lord Danthrin for his troubles?”
“Yes, Your Highness.” He retrieves the satchel of gold coin from within his uniform coat and sets a handsome stack on the table. “I believe that should suffice.”
My stomach curls at the thought that I’m effectively buying a pregnant woman and her two children, but if it means getting them away from this man, I will digest the sourness with my head held high. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”
“It’s Gracen.” She looks like she’s been slapped across the face and is still absorbing the shock of the blow.
I try to ease it with a gentle smile. “Gracen, one of my guards will escort you and your children to my carriage, where you can wait for me. I have something I have to do first, but you’ll be safe.”
Gracen doesn’t stall another second. “Mika! Lilou!” she hisses.
The two mops of curly brown hair emerge from beneath the table, both sets of blue eyes wide and confused.
“You’re taking her now?” Danthrin’s face fills with outrage. “But it’s the start of the market. Who will work my table?”
