A Fate of Wrath & Flame

by K. A. Tucker

  A shout calls out, followed by a clash of metal. I seek out the source. Nimble bodies are sparring with swords in a courtyard to my right. Many are men, though I spot the feminine curves of several women. Back and forth, they parry in pairs, an intricate, skilled dance, their blades gleaming in the sunlight, proving they are not mere wooden props.

  I smile as I admire their proficiency and fearlessness. That takes so much more talent than pointing a gun and pulling a trigger, and can be just as deadly, if Sofie proved anything in the warehouse that night. While I don’t envy her talents as a cold-blooded murderess, learning how to throw a dagger to stop a threat is a skill I wouldn’t mind acquiring.

  These people must practice often. Are they the royal guard? Or maybe nobility? Do they live within these grand walls? Someone other than Zander and his two siblings—and unfortunate prisoners such as I—must occupy these rooms. Just one of these wings could house multiple families.

  My gaze sweeps across the castle again. There, on the palatial balcony overlooking the sparring courtyard, a man with hair that gleams gold in the sunlight, dressed in all black, leans against the railing.

  Even from this distance, I know it’s Zander, and while it appears he’s watching the action below, my gut tells me his attention is not on them.

  Wendeline said there would need to be a reason to let me out of my rooms, to let people know I’m still alive. I’m being escorted somewhere, which means people will see me. What does he have planned for me?

  The brief excitement over my window victory fades. I skulk inside to prepare for what is to come.

  My fingers are occupied with the tiny, embroidered flowers on my skirts as the guard leads me down flights of stairs and along the seemingly infinite corridors of the castle. I struggle to remain composed as I take in the opulence. Floors of marble in tones from a rich charcoal to a bottomless black gleam beneath the candlelight of enormous candelabras, lit to counter the moody darkness inside, a stark contrast to the gushing sunlight outside the windows. Gilded pillars reach to the domed ceilings, where a vast and endless mural begs for attention.

  Footfalls and voices echo, and everywhere we pass, people stare and whispers follow. At least the servants are more discreet. The nobility—I assume, based on their richly colored silk clothing and gleaming jewels on their sword hilts—openly gawk.

  I guess I’ve earned that notoriety, given who they think I am and what they think I’ve done. Or, more likely, it’s because they thought I was dead. I’m suddenly thankful to Corrin for ensuring the dress she brought did an adequate job of hiding my scars. The foul-smelling salve did wonders, slogging away through the night as Wendeline promised, but the dragging claw marks on my shoulder are far from invisible, and it will take time for my confidence to come to terms with them. I don’t like this attention, but I can’t avoid it, so I hold my chin high and return the favor of staring.

  What are they?

  Human?

  Caster?

  Elven?

  How am I to know? They all look just like me.

  And what is it about the Islorians—elven by blood—that would make the Ybarisans hate them? What would make Ybaris cast them from their lands? Does it have something to do with their church and the gods they bow to? It’s far from unheard of, for a belief system to cause friction and war. A Great Rift, as Wendeline called it.

  Some of the servants bow as I pass. I note that they all wear the same jewelry Corrin wears—an inner conch piercing that loops around the cartilage of the right ear in a gold cuff an inch wide. The metal is engraved with a symbol, but she has never come close enough for me to decipher it.

  It isn’t just the servants who wear them, I note. Several young women and men in fine clothing also have their ear pierced in the same manner.

  The guard accompanying me—a tall, slim man with dark curls and tawny brown skin—reminds me of a volunteer at one of the soup kitchens. Becks was a bank manager who doled out food to the needy the first Sunday of every month. He always had a broad smile and a second helping for me.

  This guy hasn’t smiled once, though, and keeps his hand on the hilt of his sword at all times, watching my every move from the corner of his eye, as if expecting me to bolt or attack.

  Is he human or elven?

  His rich brown eyes flash to me, and I realize I’m staring at him.

  “How much farther is it?” Half of me could walk forever without reaching our destination. The other half would prefer to get this audience over with.

  “About thirty paces, Your Highness,” he answers civilly, his voice hinting of his accent. Maybe not everyone despises me as Corrin does. I decide to test that out. “How did you get so lucky?”

  He frowns. “I do not understand the question.”

  “You’re at my door every night, for at least twelve hours. You normally change your shift at the sevens, except you’re still here, escorting me. That’s a long day. Does the king not believe in sleep?”

  His steady march falters. “How did you know it was me?”

  “You have a slight spring in your step, and you’re better at polishing your boots than the day guard.”

  Another beat passes and then the corners of his mouth curl. Is he picturing me with my face pressed against the floor? It’s the only way anyone could pick up on something as minute as footfall pattern and basic cleanliness while locked inside that room. He dips his head. “Not to worry. I will have my rest soon, Your Highness.”

  We stop where two grim-faced guards secure a hall. The one on the right spins and leads us down. At the end is a set of double doors, and loud angry voices behind it.

  My blood pounds in my ears as the guard pushes open the door.

  “—someone give me a name!” Zander roars. “How are we not capable of even that much!”

  I find myself standing in a tall, circular, windowless room, surrounded by hostile faces.

  “We will have it soon, Your Highness.” Boaz bows his head, his voice apologetic even as his words make promises.

  The king of Islor is hunched over a round table, his palms splayed on either side of an enormous map, his golden-brown locks falling in disarray, his jaw tense with fury and frustration. When he lifts and affixes that probing gaze on me, I struggle not to squirm. It’s been weeks since I’ve faced him, and the swirl of fear, confusion, and anxiety that instantly rises threatens to stall my lungs.

  My guard bows once and ducks out, leaving me to face two people I’ve never seen before and two I wished I didn’t have to see again.

  I force my shoulders straight under their hard eyes. This must be his war council, as Annika called it. There are three others present in addition to Zander, and all are dressed in various versions of a black-and-gold, save for the woman who wears head-to-toe russet-brown leather. Hair the color of ripe wheat is pulled into three thick braids that reach to her hips. A long, thin scar follows her hairline, from the center of her forehead down to her right earlobe.

  A man with a brawny frame and cropped golden-blond hair that hints of curls stands to her left. He looks young, only a few years older than I am.

  None of them appear pleased to see me.

  “Princess Romeria, how nice of you to grace us with your presence.” Zander pulls himself up to his full height. He’s at least a head taller than everyone in the room, save for Boaz. “I trust your accommodations are to your satisfaction.” The corner of his mouth twitches.

  If Wendeline repeated my plea that she continue visiting me, then he must suspect I’m pacing my “accommodations” like a feral animal in captivity. He’s toying with me for his amusement. That makes him an ass. He did have the locks on the windows and balcony released, though.

  And he can have them put back in place.

  I quell my natural urge to respond with anything but courtesy. I’m not dealing with Tony or any of Korsakov’s other brutes. “They’re fine. Thanks.”

  “You will address the king with respect!” Boaz snaps, his face turning re
d with anger. I haven’t seen him since he threw me into the tower. I would have happily avoided him for eternity.

  Zander waves a dismissive hand. “At ease, Captain. She has forgotten proper decorum, what with her recent bout of total memory loss. Rumor has it she’s taken to wandering around her balcony in her nightdress.”

  Derisive chuckles carry through the room, and I feel my cheeks flush. He’s mocking me, making me look the fool.

  “And the servant I selected for you, I hope she’s meeting your needs? She’s one of our finest.”

  He handpicked the saltiest woman in the castle and probably gave her carte blanche to treat me like a pariah. “She’s an utter delight, Your Highness.” I don’t mean the address to come out sounding hostile, but I realize how satisfying it is. No wonder Corrin is always doing it to me.

  Something dark flashes in Zander’s eyes, and I instantly regret my cheekiness.

  Boaz charges forward.

  “Leave it.” Zander’s sharp tone slices through the air, stopping him dead. “We have more pressing matters.”

  The captain stops abruptly, but with a withering glare and clenched fists. I’ll bet he’s imagining putting another arrow through me. He despises me. The feeling is mutual.

  Zander collects a tiny roll of paper from the table and stretches it out between two fingers. Unfurled, it’s much longer than it first appears. “‘King Barris is dead,’” he reads out loud.

  They’re all staring, waiting for my response. Clearly, it’s supposed to mean something to me. “That’s … unfortunate?” I offer.

  Zander’s head cocks, his expression turning curious. “I tell you that your father is dead, and your answer is ‘that’s unfortunate’?”

  King Barris is Princess Romeria’s father. The king of Ybaris. That makes sense.

  “Heartless,” Boaz mutters.

  My father is likely curled up on a grungy street in New York, warning everyone about demons, I want to say, but I bite my tongue and wait, hoping to glean more information from whatever they’re about to accuse me of. That’s how our conversations always unfold.

  “I guess the rumors of your dislike for him were true, despite what you once told me.” The king tosses the paper to join a collection of others of varying sizes. “Aren’t you the least bit curious to know when he died? How he died? Or should I assume that’s old news for you?”

  “No. I mean, yes, please tell me.” Any snippet could be useful in figuring out where I am and how to get out of here. I can practically hear Boaz’s molars grinding, so I cap my request with a delayed “Your Highness,” more conciliatory this time.

  “He died the same day of the attack on Cirilea. A fatal blade to the heart. Much faster than being poisoned with deliquesced merth.”

  That silver rope that was bound to Annika. That’s what she called it: merth. I take it that’s how the princess killed Zander’s parents. Did they eat it? Drink it? Was it a tainted dagger tip that did them in? I guess it doesn’t matter. Any one of those versions is terrible.

  “This news, of course, sheds new light on the situation.” His footfalls echo through the chamber as he paces around the table. “The fact that King Barris, who forged this alliance between Ybaris and Islor, died in such a tragic and intentional manner on the same day as the king and queen of Islor, and yet Queen Neilina remains unscathed, suggests that your father had intentions of honoring the arrangement. Your mother, however, had other plans.” My nose catches a sweet woodsy scent as he approaches, stopping just before me. “Did you scheme together, or were you simply carrying out her mission?”

  The wall of chest, much too close for my liking, forces my eyes upward. I meet his frosty gaze.

  “What was the plan, for her to rule Ybaris, and you, Islor? Or would she insist on ruling both, being the power-starved tyrant that she is?”

  Behind him, Boaz shifts his weight, his hand on his sword, as if he might need to spring forward and protect his king at any moment against me, the unarmed woman in the pale blue dress.

  I swallow against the growing tension in the room. “I can’t—”

  “Yes, yes. You can’t recall. That part, I remember,” Zander cuts me off, his tone bored, dismissive. He pivots and continues his pacing. “Of course, your mother has claimed that Islor are the perpetrators behind their beloved King Barris’s death, that we somehow crossed the Great Rift into Ybaris and assassinated him as a means of ending an alliance we did not want. She’s claimed we’ve murdered you.” He snorts. “Ironic, no? And according to rumor, we have refused to deliver your body for proper burial, as would be civilized. But of course, Islorians are so brutal and uncultured, we’ve done unspeakable and savage things to your body. She’s using her vast network of spies and messengers to spread these falsities through Ybaris like a virulent plague, flaring a fresh wave of hatred for everyone and everything south of the rift. No doubt her army will be double before long.”

  What he’s alluding to finally clicks. “You think the queen had the king killed.”

  “Neilina has been described as cold and cunning. Dare I say that’s a tree whose fruit hasn’t fallen far.” He shoots a dirty look my way. “It would certainly explain why the commander of her royal army is now warming her bed, barely a fortnight after her husband’s death.”

  My eyes widen at that salacious morsel. Dear queen mother was having an affair with her war leader behind her husband the king’s back? “Please tell me he’s not her twin brother,” I murmur under my breath.

  Zander’s eyebrows arch. “Pardon?”

  I clear my throat. “Nothing.”

  He opens his mouth but then clamps it shut, his fingers aimlessly flittering through the unfurled papers as thoughts seem to occupy his mind. They’re messages, I realize. Some are folded, with broken wax seals of various colors. Official correspondence to the king. Others are tiny scrolls of paper likely sent by spies that could be hidden in sleeves and pockets or shoes. Or maybe tied to carrier pigeons? I’ve always been intrigued by the idea that birds could be trained to deliver secret messages.

  “Who are your soldiers working with in Islor?” the woman asks, her tone harsh. She’s the smallest of the group but looks no less threatening, her limbs muscular, her leather vest marred with stitches from various tears.

  I pick through my memories. “I thought it was Lord Muirn?” Wasn’t that the man I was accused of conspiring with?

  “And yet our ears tell us that someone is still rallying Islorians against the king,” Boaz says. “They may be working with the Ybarisans. The ones who managed to flee Cirilea that night.”

  My thoughts veer to the man who tried to drown Annika. Is he Ybarisan or Islorian? Human or elven? He was strong. He threw Annika and the boulder over the rail with inhuman ease, so … elven? And how many more of my people are out there?

  This is what Zander was raging about when I entered the room. Someone is still threatening his throne. I guess that’s par for the course—there’s always someone who wants to be king.

  I shake my head. “I have no idea.”

  The woman’s lips curl in a vicious smile. “Perhaps we will find an idea beneath your skin when I peel it from your body.”

  “Enough with the idle threats,” Zander cuts her off with a heavy sigh, though nothing in that woman’s cold stare suggests her threat is idle. “Elisaf!” he barks.

  The door creaks open, and a moment later, my nighttime guard is standing at attention beside me.

  “Her Highness has offered me all the insight she is able or willing. Please escort her back to her prison cell.” Zander turns his attention back to his map, his brow furrowed deeply.

  He’s clearly concerned about this threat and he was hoping I would be able to provide insight where others could not. Though, he could have come to my rooms to ask. There was no need to parade me through the castle, in effect revealing that Princess Romeria is still alive, a card Wendeline alluded to him only playing when it made sense. So, was there another reason to bring m
e here?

  Elisaf bows and gives me the subtlest nod, beckoning for me to follow. Far more civilized than being manhandled by the likes of Boaz.

  But my memory is caught on something. I hesitate, torn between getting out of here as fast as possible and providing information that might earn me some goodwill. “Is there a place called … Lindor? Or something like that?” The name reminded me of chocolates.

  Zander’s joyless gaze is back on me. “Lyndel?”

  “That might have been it.”

  His eyes narrow. “What about it?”

  “That night the man tried to drown Annika—”

  “The sapling?”

  “Sure.” I need to figure out what that means. “Anyway, he knew me, and he mentioned that place.”

  “Why?”

  I shrug. “He told me to go to Lyndel and then he dumped your sister over the rail and ran.”

  Zander looks to Boaz. “I struggle to believe that Lord Telor would betray the crown like that. He has always been supportive.”

  “As do I.” The brooding captain’s mouth curves in a thoughtful frown. “But someone is helping the Ybarisans. Someone is swaying loyalty. We’ve already scoured Lord Muirn’s lands. Our spies have heard nothing in Kettling. Now we must look at those we least expect. Lyndel is close enough to the mountain range. They could be harboring dozens of them in that stronghold for all we know. And his men are formidable. If we don’t have their full support at the rift, it is best we know now.” His eyes cut to me. “It could also be a trap, though the princess would be a daft fool to spring such a thing, given she is imprisoned here.”

  “I’m telling you what I remember.” I clear the shake from my voice. “It could be nothing, or it could be something.”

  “I will take my men there to investigate,” the man with the short golden curls says. He’s been silent up until now, his hateful blue eyes locked on me, watching my every twitch.

  “Telor will be wary of the commander of the king’s army arriving at his doorstep,” Boaz counters. “Besides, you are needed elsewhere, Atticus.”