by K. A. Tucker
This impromptu visit must be about the murders in Hawkrest.
“I just keep playing over and over in my mind how you would smile and wave, and the whole time, you and your brother had these grand plans to murder us all when we’re most vulnerable.”
“I’m sorry.” There’s nothing else I can say.
He tosses the book back to the table and does a perfunctory scan around us, I assume to make sure there are no eavesdroppers besides Elisaf. He’s intelligent enough to know my guard will hear the entire conversation, now or later. “My brother is making enemies.”
“Isn’t that what kings do?”
“Not this many, this fast.” He picks at a loose thread on the rose fabric on his chair. “This idealistic dream of his to end the tributary system and give mortals a place in the court and land for villages … it will never happen.”
“Why not?”
“Because it would require overwhelming support from Islorian’s immortals, and he doesn’t have it. And he underestimates his adversaries’ conviction.”
“I guess it’s a good thing he has such a competent brother leading his army, then.”
“Yes. Full of soldiers who need their tributaries as much as men like Adley and Stoll. How far do you think they’ll follow before they turn and start fighting for the other side? How far would you, if someone told you that you were risking your life in battle for people who wish you to starve?”
“There can be a new system. One of free will and compensation. There are humans who will offer it still, who enjoy offering it. We saw it at the Knoll.”
His pristinely white, perfect teeth flash with his mocking laughter. “I see you’ve been bitten by the same bug.” His intense gaze lands on me. “This idea that our king has been entranced by the Ybarisan princess who wants to end Islor’s immortals is gaining momentum among the people. Whether it is true or not won’t matter soon, but I’m beginning to fear that it is, and it is steering all his decisions. It would explain what stayed his blade that night, why he guards you like a precious jewel.” He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “And why he has placed a murderess next to him on the throne.”
“You know why. He wants to find out who conspired with her.”
“With her. Not with you.” His lips twist with bitterness. “There was no conspirator within our walls, not in the way Zander has painted it. Not in a way that might lessen your blame. But I’m not sure he sees that. I’m not sure he sees anything anymore, beyond his keen focus on all things Romeria.”
“That’s not true.” Even with Atticus’s chastising words, warmth spreads through my chest.
“What I witnessed the other night in the alleyway—”
“There were guards around, and we looked suspicious.”
His flat expression says he doesn’t believe a word. He studies his hands for a long moment. “They will never allow you to be queen, not after what has happened.”
“It’s a good thing I don’t want to be.”
“You two are quite the pair, then, because I’m not sure Zander wants to be king.” He slides from his seat and leaves without another word.
I watch him stroll away, his shoulders sagging.
“Did you hear any of that?” I ask when Elisaf returns.
“I did, Your Highness.”
“And I assume you know what Zander suspects happened on that escort to Cirilea?”
Elisaf’s brown eyes flash to me, understanding in them. He confirms it with a nod.
“So he just lied to my face.”
Elisaf frowns. “What should he have said? The truth?”
“I guess not.” Not if he thinks no one knows of his indiscretion. I sigh. “I don’t trust him. I think Atticus wants to be king.”
“Of course he does. He is King Eachann’s second-born son. He has a claim to the throne, should something befall Zander.”
“Exactly.”
“That does not mean he conspired to take it.”
Clearly, Elisaf holds Atticus in high regard, too. “So then what was this visit about?”
“He is frustrated by his brother’s choices, and I believe he was taking your measure.”
“For what?”
“That, I do not know.” He settles into his chair and returns to his book.
But my thoughts wander to my memories. To Tony, contemplating his options as his brother lay dying on the floor. While the big oaf may not have had anything to do with orchestrating Korsakov’s demise, he saw the opportunity to rule the crooked little kingdom.
What would a brother do to rule an actual kingdom?
“The only time the little urchin stops talking is when he’s hiding!” Corrin glowers as she yanks the silk coverlet over my bed. “It took us over three hours and the help of a guard to find him earlier!”
I laugh as I finish off some shading on my sketch. “I assume they’re settling in?”
“A family suite in the servants’ quarters. Oh yes, I should think so. I have half a mind to lock the room from the outside until she can chase after her own youngins.”
“Please don’t. I can speak from personal experience when I say being locked in a room for a month sucks.”
“You deserved to be locked up,” she counters.
“You’re right, I did. But they don’t. They’ve been through enough. Did you see her swollen ankles? And how tired she looks? That table was literally covered in food that she made herself. Their keeper is a monster. He’s likely been abusing them for years. Who knows how many others there are?” Just thinking about that smug face makes me grit my teeth.
“I was helping her into the bath, and I noticed marks on her body. She told me he’s been feeding off her and allowing others to do the same. Regularly. That kind of strain on a pregnant woman …” Corrin shakes her head as she fluffs my pillows.
“See? I think I’d pull up a chair and clap if he were in the death square.”
Her lips twist. “I’ve already had their markers exchanged for the royal ones. She’s been trying to get into the kitchen, you know. Said she wants to earn her keep and prove ‘Queen Romeria didn’t make a mistake.’” She air-quotes that last part with her fingers. “Everyone’s calling you queen. I don’t know what you two are waiting for anymore. You might as well get married now.”
My heart flutters. “Because this isn’t real, remember? Zander’s on a conspiracy theory kick, and I’m going along for the ride so I’m not locked in a room for the rest of my life.” Atticus’s words still linger in my mind a day later, a somber echo of what I, too, have speculated, about this possible accomplice within these walls. And if I have questioned, and Atticus has questioned, surely Zander has doubted it too. Yet, he keeps me at his side, stoking flames of discontent among aristocrats who do not wish to see a Ybarisan as queen, let alone one shrouded in such dark whispers as murder.
Corrin snorts and gives me a knowing look that makes me wonder if she’s somehow privy to our intimate moment in Zander’s bathing room yesterday. That moment, however fleeting, certainly felt real, but I haven’t seen a hint of him since. It’s as if the vampiric king of Islor is hiding from me. “Dagny said your gown will be ready in time for tournament day.”
“Great.” The day is approaching quickly.
“If there’s nothing else, then? The kitchen is busy preparing for the hunt, and I have plenty to do, including attempting to fix a lavender dress I found in a sodden, torn heap.”
I avert my sheepish smile and thrust the page toward her. At least she’s not pressing for details on how it happened.
Her forehead creases as she collects it. “This is me,” she states with surprise.
“Yes.”
Her perpetually hard eyes soften as they scour it. “I’ve never had a portrait of myself. Thank you, Romeria.”
It’s the first time she’s ever used my name. “And thank you for your help with Gracen and her kids. I know it was probably a lot to dump on you, but I couldn’t leave them there.”
“Is that an apology?”
“From Corrin? Impossible,” comes Zander’s voice from behind me.
He stands in the doorway of my terrace. Nervous excitement rushes through me at the sight of him, and at the flood of memories of our last encounter. Somehow, he becomes more attractive every time I see him.
I attempt a cavalier attitude as I say, “Now I know why you moved me so close. It’s so you can show up unannounced, any time you please.” It won’t be long before my racing pulse gives me away, if it hasn’t already.
“Your Highness.” Corrin curtsies and then, with a smirk my way, departs.
I set my pencil down on the coffee table and steady my breathing as I regard the king, wearing his usual simple tunic—today in white—black pants, and black jacket, tailored to a carved body I’ve seen and felt unclothed.
Will we pick up where we left off?
Just the thought makes me dizzy.
Zander strolls in, stops at the threshold to my sitting room, and leans against the door frame casually, his arms folded across his chest. “Could Corrin’s apology have anything to do with a certain baker and her soon-to-be three children you confiscated from their keeper?” he asks evenly.
“You’ve heard.” Is he angry? I can’t tell. He’s guarding his reaction well.
“I believe you threatened to have Elisaf maim Lord Freywich, and quite viciously.”
“Not to his face,” I counter. “He tortured that little boy, he’s been breeding Gracen, and Corrin just confirmed he was loaning her out—”
“You did the right thing,” he cuts off my rant.
A wave of relief washes over me.
“Those are exactly the kind of immortals who have gotten away with their cruelty for too long.”
“Yes.” I falter, waiting for the “but that’s not how we do things in Islor” lecture. After a few beats, I realize it’s not coming. “So, that’s all?”
He frowns. “What do you mean?”
“I figured I’d get at least one threat of a whip out of this.”
“Again, with this whip,” he mutters.
“But you’re not angry with me?”
“My life would be so much easier if I were.” He sighs heavily. “Come with me.”
I eye his outstretched hand with equal parts wariness and thrill. “Where?”
“To divest me of more of my gold for the people. A favorite pastime of yours, apparently.”
“Thank you, Your Highnesses. Thank you. May the fates bless you.” The woman with the liver-spotted hands that I remember from our last trip through the rookery curtsies deeply. The man behind her—I assume, her husband—leans heavily on his cane today. I recall the torn shoes he wore last time. They’ve been replaced since by a fresh pair. But I note the bandaging above his ankle.
“Can I ask what happened to your leg?”
“Just an infection, Your Highness. I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about. It’ll run its course.” He waves off my concern with a smile, followed by a wince as he leans.
“I’m afraid of what that course may be.” Especially when the man is already in this state. “Have you been to the priestess at the sanctum?”
“I didn’t think we … I meant …” His gray eyes dart to Zander as he fumbles, “I don’t want to be a bother.”
I read his reaction to mean Wendeline’s services are not available to people of the rookery. I suppose it makes sense—she can only tend to so many—and yet her talents are being used to patch up sword fights for immortals with unnatural healing abilities when people like this man are suffering. My anger flares.
“Go in as soon as you can and ask for Wendeline. Today, ideally. Tell her Romy sent you.”
“You should listen to her. She’s pushy. She’s liable to come back tomorrow and check,” Zander adds with a smirk.
The man promises he will, and they hobble off back to their shack.
We’ve reached the end of the rookery. In my grip is one of two velvet bags holding the meager remains of the gold we emptied into the palms of humans cast aside by Islor’s cruel system. It doesn’t feel like nearly enough.
I pause for a moment to take in the water. Dilapidated skiffs creak and thud softly against the rickety docks to the rhythm of the waves. The approaching sunset bathes the bay in shades of coral, auburn, and gold, the colors bleeding into the evening sky. Despite their squalid circumstances, I envy these people for their view.
While we quietly linger here, laughter and revelry carry from the busy city streets, hinting at the influx of people who flood the gates each day for the market to peruse the wares and enjoy the vibrant atmosphere. Corrin said more come in anticipation of the tournament day.
The sounds of hooves against stone draw my eyes down the street. More soldiers on horseback trot along. Cirilea is crawling with the king’s army. Their uniforms are not the polished matching armor of the royal guard, but a varying medley, men pulled from various lords to serve at the king’s behest. Or Atticus’s, according to Zander’s bitter words the other day. At the helm of this cluster is his brother, sticking out in his shiny gold breastplate.
One of the men says something, and Atticus barks with laughter.
“He gets along well with them,” I note, even as my body tenses with an odd mix of confusion, apprehension, and guilt. Whatever happened between us, it was not me who was a party to it.
“He is a strong leader. I hazard many of them would follow him into the depths of the Great Rift. They respect him greatly. He does not take sacrificing their lives easily, nor in vain.”
Who, once upon a time, slept with your future wife. Despite everything Princess Romeria did, that must burn Zander’s pride. “He came to me yesterday, in the library.”
“I heard.” Zander’s sigh is soft.
“He doesn’t agree with this charade.”
“Yes, he’s told me many times.”
And yet Zander does not appear concerned by his brother’s continued disapproval, whereas that sharp prick of worry keeps jabbing me. But maybe disagreements are routine with siblings. I don’t have any experience with that. Or maybe it’s what it means to be king. Disapproval or not, those closest to you will always fall in line and play their roles.
Atticus sees us, and with a quick word, peels away from his group and steers his horse toward us. “Your Highness,” he offers cordially, dipping his head toward me. His black stallion is identical to Zander’s, and the pair of them loom over us.
“Anything of concern in the market?” Zander asks smoothly.
“Plenty of drunks who would cut themselves down with their own weapons before they could cause any harm.”
“Let them.”
Atticus smirks. “My thoughts exactly.” Whatever tension swirled between them on the sparring court yesterday seems to have evaporated.
“It is best we return to the castle. Darkness comes soon.” Boaz dips his head in deference to Zander, even as he attempts to coax him. He has been scowling since I stepped out of the castle. It does not take a genius to see the captain does not believe the king’s time is well spent in the rookery.
“You’re welcome to go ahead with Atticus.” Zander grips my waist to offer support as I hoist myself onto the horse. Even in my dress and heels, I’m beginning to get the hang of it. In seconds Zander is in the saddle, roping his arms around me to collect the reins, and setting off along a street that isn’t familiar to me, one that heads uphill, away from the castle and the market and everything I’ve seen of Cirilea so far.
I take it all in with curious eyes and the unexpected contentment of Zander’s strength against my back. “They’re following us,” I note, glancing over my shoulder to see a line of the royal guard snaking along behind us.
“Of course they are.” I can’t tell if he’s annoyed by that.
The street we�
��re on tapers off to a dirt road, and then something more akin to a path as the horse’s powerful legs propel us onward and upward, through bramble and broad, leafy trees that I need to duck from in places. And then the path suddenly opens to a clearing and a cliff. Beyond is a seemingly endless ocean; behind is a view of the valley below, peppered with tents for the king’s army.
Zander hops off the horse and then guides me down with gentle hands.
“What are we doing up here?” In the far distance, I can just make out the outline of a ship. Closer to us are a few small skiffs. Fishermen, hoping to catch a meal in the calm water before nightfall.
Zander’s eyes scan the water. “I come here to think sometimes.”
I walk cautiously to the edge, marveling at the steep rock face. Far below, waves hurtle themselves at the stone.
From this angle, I spot Boaz and his men standing idly on the path, waiting and watching, but not pestering. Giving him space. If Zander comes here to think, it’s likely to brood. He has plenty to brood over lately.
“What are you going to do about those murdered by the tributaries?”
“The only thing I can do. Execute them. They murdered their keepers. I hear they have not even feigned innocence. We need to make an example of them to deter others.” His jaw tenses. “They are already on their way here. They should arrive on the day of the tournament, in time for a public execution before the crowd.”
I grimace. “A big day of death.” Six mortals plus three Ybarisans.
“More than you realize, I am guessing. We have not executed a mortal in Islor since King Rhionn’s time. We either send them to the rift to keep the border guard nourished, or we use them for immortal children to practice on when they come of age, to learn how to control their feedings.”
Mention of children makes me think of the sparring court, of the little girl giggling as Zander scooped her off the ground. “When do Islorian immortals come of age?”
“The cravings first being around six. We’re wild and greedy little things. It takes time to learn how to control our needs. It’s usually after you accidentally kill your first mortal. I remember mine.” He smiles sadly. “Her name was Erskand. She was a bread maker who stabbed a soldier when they came to escort her daughter to Presenting Day. The soldier lived, of course, the daughter was auctioned off to a lord, and Erskand died at the hands of a child. Or rather, to his teeth and unrestrained appetite. She fought me, which only made things worse.”
