by K. A. Tucker
“But if there is a way to leave out mention of our discussion, that would be best for the time being. For all our sakes.”
“He can read me, Wendeline. He knows when I’m lying.”
“You’re clever. You’ll figure out a way.” She smiles. “I know it may appear like a bad thing, but there are positives to that ability too. He will begin to see the real you and rely on you and confide in you. You must find a way to trust each other. That is how you will survive what will come to pass. Tell him only what he needs to know, for now. Eventually he will learn that I have deceived him. I will accept the consequences accordingly.” She reaches over to set her hand on mine. “But please know this, Romeria. Everything I have done has been for the future of Islor that the king wants.” She squeezes. “Go now. You must go. And tell no one what you are.”
I leave Wendeline sitting in the pew, her eyes closed as if in prayer.
Corrin is pacing in the courtyard when the carriage rolls in. She marches forward to meet me the second my shoes touch the cobblestone. “Where have you been? I expected you back two hours ago!”
I force down the conflicting swirl—relief, panic, dread—that has gripped me since leaving the sanctum and feign a glib tone. “Were you actually worried about me?”
“Hardly,” she scoffs. “Your Highness.”
I’m beginning to appreciate Corrin. In a place where everyone lies or evades the truth, she’s easy to read. “It took longer than expected. Odier had a lot of options to consider, and there were a few delays.”
“Yes, well, I’m sure the king will also be …” Her words drift as Mika hops out and tumbles to the ground. He tucks and rolls before scampering back to his feet. “Why is there a little boy with—” She grabs him by the ear and holds him in place to check the marking on his cuff. “I don’t know this house. But why do you have someone’s child? What have you done?”
“I found us a new baker.”
“We already have one!”
“And now we have two. Corrin, this is Gracen,” I introduce as two guards help her out of the carriage, her pregnant belly somehow looking more swollen as she climbs down the step. Dagny follows with the toddler in her arms. “And her daughter Lilou. You’ve met Mika. They’re going to live here with us.”
Corrin stares at me as if I’ve suggested we set fire to the carriage.
“They were with Lord Danthrin of Farywich—”
“Freywich,” Elisaf corrects quietly.
“Wherever. Anyway, we came to an arrangement that avoided me asking Elisaf to chop off the lord’s balls and shove them down his throat. Everyone wins.”
Beside me, several guards shift.
I switch to a more conciliatory tone. “Please help them get settled. Gracen could use a few days off, and all of them could use a good meal.”
“The priestess fixed my hand!” Mika waves it in front of Corrin.
It’s a moment before Corrin manages to wipe the shock from her face. She scowls at the puckered skin. “This is better than it was?”
“Yes, milady. I could barely move these two fingers before.” He waggles them as proof.
She harrumphs, but her initial bluster has died down. “Best you get to your suite while I deal with this. I’ll have your meal brought up shortly, Your Highness.”
As much as I’d love to hide in my room, Zander will expect me to tell him what I’ve learned from Bexley, and if I delay, he’ll become suspicious. “Maybe wait on that for a bit.” I turn to Elisaf. “Can you take me to the king? I need to speak with him.”
He bows. “Yes, Your Highness.”
With a wink at Mika, I trail Elisaf, my insides churning.
The sparring courtyard is much larger from ground level than from my bird’s-eye view above. At the moment, it’s crowded with spectators—Legion soldiers, royal guards, and nobility alike—cheering and hollering at the two men occupying its center.
“You’ve gotten slower in your old age,” Atticus taunts, twirling his blade in the air with ease as he squares off against his brother, the metal glimmering beneath the blinding sunlight. Anyone can see the prince, commander of the king’s army, is highly skilled.
“And your mouth has grown more tedious,” Zander counters with that unnerving edge of calm that he used with me in the early days.
Neither are wearing armor, and both are drenched in sweat, their white tunics clinging to their muscular forms, several spots of deep red where blood from nicks and cuts have soaked through. They’ve been sparring for some time, though their breathing shows no sign of labor.
Atticus lunges with a swing and Zander parries, their swords clashing, the clanging metal reverberating through the air. I feel it in my teeth.
The crowd watches with eager anticipation as the king and prince trade blow after blow, rarely slowing to take measure of each other, their boots skimming the sandy ground as they dodge close calls that have people gasping and my own heart stalling at times.
They should be wearing armor. That they are not is foolish and arrogant, even if they benefit from their nature and Wendeline’s healing power. But there is something in this exchange that feels overtly dangerous. Maybe it’s simply the act of swinging weapons meant to cleave into flesh, but I’ve watched plenty of duels from above, and none are fraught with the fury swirling around this one. Atticus keeps pressing forward, and Zander refuses to give ground. It’s as if each would be satisfied with harming the other today.
Annika sidles up beside me. “Anything exciting in the lower streets?”
I sense perked ears around us. Everyone is listening. “Not particularly,” I lie with feigned boredom.
Zander’s blade stroke catches Atticus’s shoulder, earning my sharp inhale. A bright bloom of crimson stains his white linen, and I hazard it’s a deep cut. With nothing more than a hiss, Atticus charges his brother in a burst of anger that has me holding my breath, fearing the idea that Zander might be slain in moments. But Zander deftly blocks the barrage of swings with the same grace and balance that Boaz uses during his morning routine.
I nod toward them. “What’s with them?”
Annika shrugs. “It’s how they work through brotherly disagreements.”
“Must be quite the disagreement.”
Zander and Atticus’s savage dance drags on, until their chests begin to heave from exertion and Atticus’s swings are a little wider but no less ferocious, his handsome face cracking with frustration.
It’s Zander’s impeccable footwork and angled parries that finally gain him an edge. The moment happens in a blink—easily missed if a person weren’t riveted to the battle—with a measured last-minute sidestep that throws off Atticus’s balance. Zander delivers a swift kick that Atticus cannot recover from. He lands on his stomach with Zander’s sword point against the base of his spine.
The crowd falls silent.
“Do not presume to tell me where to order my army,” Zander chides, his jaw taut as he holds his blade there for three long beats before relenting. He turns and walks away, marking the end of their duel, his victory clear.
Atticus rolls onto his back but remains where he is, chest heaving.
The moment Zander’s attention shifts to me, my heart races with nerves. I don’t know how to begin to wrap my mind around the idea of prophecy, but there was a time I didn’t believe in magic and monsters and gods. Are the seers right? Were Zander and I meant to find each other?
He approaches with a small smile that must be for our audience’s benefit because it does not touch his eyes. In those, I see the weight of whatever has him so bothered.
“How was your morning?” Zander asks through ragged breaths, his gaze roaming my face. His shirt is unfastened around the collar and drenched, but it smells of him, only more fragrant.
“It was interesting.” Curious looks touch us from every angle, even as spectators drift away and soldiers collect their weapons and move onto the court. I step forward even closer until we’re almost chest to chest and I’m forced to tilt my
head to meet his eyes. I reach out to pinch his soiled shirt. A small and relatively innocuous gesture of intimate affection, and yet it feels bold. “Have you ever heard of Freywich?”
He falls into the part seamlessly, his hand sliding against my side, the heat of it burning through material to my skin. “Freywich.” He frowns. “Small town near Eldred Wood, I believe.” He pauses. “Why?”
“Just curious.” Maybe he’ll never hear about today’s mischief. I reach forward and toy with a loose string on his tunic. A distraction tactic to keep my thoughts shallow and my pulse guilt-free.
But the leveled gaze he settles on me tells me it’s not working.
“Can we talk? In private.”
Zander’s eyes drift to my mouth. Is he thinking about last night as well? “Is it important?”
“It might be.” Would he even care that Ianca is a seer and she’s in Cirilea? I know he would care that Wendeline has lied about knowing.
Boaz appears at our side, his boot heels slapping together as he halts. “Your Highness, Abarrane and the others are waiting for you in the Round Room.” His eyes flicker to me and narrow. He still doesn’t like me, and he definitely doesn’t trust me.
“I need to refresh and have a word with Romeria.”
“But Your Highness—”
“They can wait.” He hands his sword to Boaz, and then, settling a hand on the small of my back, leads me into the castle.
“This is the king’s chamber.” I’ve only seen it briefly, from the terrace that one night, and my focus was not on the furnishings. My eyes climb over the Baroque-esque sooty-black décor—everything from the walls to the carpet to the heavy drapery. Much like my room, the molding and trim are gilded.
I assumed Zander was walking me back to my suite, but we continued past my door to the next one. When he led me through the sitting room and directly into his bedroom, my mind started spinning various scenarios and thoughts that I should not be entertaining near him.
I’m hyperaware of the enormous king bed centered against the wall.
Zander disappears into another room, and a moment later, my ears catch the sound of bathwater running.
“You don’t have a Corrin to do that for you?”
“I have servants to ensure my things are washed and tidied and the lantern at the door is always lit,” he calls out. “But I prefer to do things on my own.”
“So do I.”
“I’ve noticed.”
On impulse, I reach out to test the softness of his mattress. Feathers like mine, surely. “But Corrin refuses to show me how to turn my bath on, and I haven’t been able to figure it out. It’s annoying.”
“That’s because she still thinks you might use it as a weapon if you ever get your cuffs off.”
What could I do without these cuffs on? If I knew what to do with affinities to four elements and two different kinds of magic—caster and elven—hiding somewhere within me? “Seriously?”
“She’s not very trusting, if you haven’t yet noticed.”
“I feel like I’m breaking through with her, though.” Just like maybe I’m breaking through to Zander too.
The door to his dressing room sits open. I wander in and marvel at the countless jackets and other livery, illuminated beneath a candelabra overhead. It smells like him in here—a woodsy scent that appeals to me. Against the back wall is his suit of armor. I stop in front of it to study it closer. It’s what he was wearing the night I met him, when he nearly killed me where I stood. I drag my finger along a deep gouge in the breastplate. I hadn’t noticed it before.
“A battle-ax, during a war at the Great Rift, the last time your people tried to invade.” Zander is suddenly behind me.
I tense but force myself to relax. “I figured you’d want something like that repaired.”
“I should. It weakens my armor. But it also reminds me that I am not invincible.”
I watch him curiously as he picks through a stack of shirts, pulling out a white one. His golden-brown hair is damp from sweat and curls at the nape of his neck. He could pass for any other man who just finished a workout and is dressing for a day at the office.
Except he’s not human, and nothing about our situation is average.
“Did you enjoy your time in the market?” he asks casually, shifting to a section of pants, seemingly unfazed that I’m openly staring at him.
“I did. Yes.” I turn my attention back toward his jackets. “What was that about, with Atticus?”
“What do you mean?” he asks, feigning ignorance.
“You two are angry at each other about something.”
“A difference of opinion on whose army it is, the king’s or Atticus’s.” He scowls at a frayed seam on the pants he pulled out. “There have been more whispers of plans for attack in the city this week, given the flood of outsiders coming for the fair. Unsubstantiated and without cohesion, but there are enough that we cannot ignore them. Atticus took it upon himself to order more soldiers to camp outside our city walls.”
“Aren’t more soldiers good in case these rumors are true?”
He sighs heavily. “I suppose.”
“So, the issue is not the soldiers, it’s that Atticus made the call without asking you. And you decided to ridicule him publicly for it, even though you make it sound like the army is his to maneuver. I heard it just last night. Something about his swollen ego.”
“Are you always so blunt with your opinions?”
“You mean honest? I know that’s a foreign concept to people around here.” I smooth my fingers over the black-and-gold embroidered jacket. The hand-stitched detail is like nothing I’ve ever seen. The thread gleams as if spun with actual gold, and maybe it is. “This is nice. Have you ever worn it?”
He hangs his chosen outfit on a hook by the door. “Yes. To my parents’ funeral and for my coronation. It was made for our wedding. And as far as my brother is concerned, is there a particular reason you’re defending him?” His jaw tenses.
“Besides common decency?”
He yanks his soiled shirt over his head and tosses it into a basket in the corner, giving me an eyeful of curved, hard muscle. “Did you know that upon interrogating one of the lady maids, I found out that you two grew very acquainted with each other during his escort from the rift? Many late-night games of draughts. Some so intense, he was seen sneaking out of your tent just before dawn, and there was telltale blood found in your sheets. I do not recall any of my games of draughts ending like that.”
I peel my eyes away from his body to absorb what he’s insinuating. “Are you saying they slept together? That I”—I point at my body, because it’s this body I’ve inhabited that has done so many unspeakable things—“slept with your brother?” I feel the blood draining from my face. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
“I doubt that reaction would swell his ego.” Zander’s shoulders sink. “I apologize. This was my anger speaking. You shouldn’t have found out this way. Or at all.”
“No, I should have. Sooner, probably.” I glare at him. “If we were together, he’s likely the one who would want you dead.” A thought strikes me. “If you died, who would rule?”
“Atticus,” he admits. “And I might have believed that theory, if his tributary was not also dosed with this deliquesced merth intended for him. And one of your men shot him with a deadly arrow. But no, I do not believe Atticus conspired against me, especially if it meant slaughtering his entire family. He may want to be king, but he would not want to wear a crown drenched in blood. He has too much honor and too much love for Islor.” His attention skates over my lavender dress. “He simply couldn’t resist taking something that was mine.”
Princess Romeria’s virginity, apparently. I don’t know how much honor there is in that.
“Does he know that you know?”
“I don’t believe so, and I’d like to keep it that way.”
“Of course,” I mutter.
He disappears into the bathing room, leaving
me with my hands pressed against my mouth to keep my scream from escaping. This place and its goddamn web of lies and secrets! And after today, I am quickly being pulled into its treacherous weave.
The running water cuts off, and I listen to the clank of a buckle, the rustling of boots being kicked off and pants being shed, and a moment later, a body sliding into water.
Despite the swirl of shock that grips me, a heady tension stirs in my lower belly at the mental image those sounds conjure.
“I don’t have much time. Abarrane is likely cursing me. What did you need to tell me in private, Romeria?”
He’s left the bathing room door wide open. Is that an invitation after last night, or merely efficiency? Or is he testing me? He admitted that he is—always.
At least I have a reason to keep my distance, which makes it harder to read the guilt and panic settled firmly on my shoulders now that I know what I am. “Bexley found me in the market. Kaders left out some details.”
There’s a long pause. “Can we not talk through a wall? Please come in here.”
There goes my strategy.
With several deep, calming breaths, I round the corner and step into Zander’s windowless bathing room—a mirror of mine, other than the black stone tub where mine is copper. It’s illuminated with a dozen flickering candles, no doubt lit with a single thought from him.
Zander rests his head on the back of one end and stares up at the ceiling, his Adam’s apple jutting, his powerful torso on display, the rest of his body hidden below the surface of the water, too dark to catch even a glimpse.
My mouth goes dry. He may be the most desirable creature I’ve ever laid eyes on. And in this case, it’s an advantage, and possibly my saving grace.
Steam coats my skin as I ease in to take a seat in the chair next to the tub. I let myself admire him. I don’t take calming breaths or force my thoughts elsewhere. I stare and think of the feel of him in the alleyway last night for those brief moments until my blood thrums in my veins and my body hums with anticipation of it happening again.
Maybe this is another one of his tests, but if it is, I’ll win it on my own terms.