by K. A. Tucker
“But there are some who mourn you, who are certain you didn’t have any knowledge of your mother’s hand, that you were duped as surely as the rest of us.”
A spark of hope unfurls in my chest. “Is that possible?” Could I have been framed for all this?
“Your first lady was found with the vial of poison hidden in the seam of her dress, and your guards sang like songsters upon questioning, their stories about your duplicity all the same. So, no, I would say it’s highly unlikely.”
I swallow. “And the king? I mean, Zander. Was he ever suspicious of me before that night?”
“He was.” There’s a lengthy pause. “But he fell for your act harder than anyone.”
“That’s what he likes? A mindless woman who wears pretty dresses while smiling incessantly, and who will warm his bed?”
There’s no response, and I suspect that’s all I’ll get about Zander. I smooth my fingers over the cuffs on my wrist. “What’s your elemental connection, Elisaf?”
“I do not have one.”
I frown. “Why not?”
Voices carry somewhere in the hall. “Sleep well, Your Highness.”
“Wait!” I know that’s his polite way of telling me he’s done answering questions, and I appreciate the details he’s offered, but I have one more question that burns for an answer. “What about the king? Does he have one?”
“He does.”
“To what?”
There is a long pause, and I assume I’m not going to get a reply.
“Fire.” Elisaf moves away from my door.
Chapter Thirteen
Corrin sets the food tray on the desk with a clatter. “You cannot wear that,” she scoffs at my gown.
“What’s wrong with it?” It’s pleasantly simple in style, the pale yellow reminding me of duckling’s feathers before it molts. It will be perfect for a walk through the grounds with Annika, which I’m desperately hoping will happen today, after three days of waiting. “This is the one you left me to wear. And it’s the only dress I have.” It’s either this or my nightgown.
“Yes, well, that was before you were summoned by the king.” Corrin disappears into the sitting room.
“Again?” It’s been ten days since I saw him. What does he want now? Is there news from Lyndel? Am I about to be accused of lying to him? My anxiety flares.
Corrin returns a moment later, her arms loaded with a flowing sage-green gown, its chiffon skirts puffy around a cinched bodice. “This will be more suitable for your day.”
“Which includes what? A royal ball? Where do you keep finding these dresses, anyway?”
“That is not your concern. All you should be concerned with is that it fits,” she retorts.
I note the sleeves and collar. The material is sheer and embroidered with delicate gold flowers that will mask my scars. “Where am I going?”
“Wherever His Highness says you are going. And eat quickly.” She gives the tray a small push. “We haven’t much time, and the king has insisted we not make him wait again.”
I groan, wandering over to the table. Everything with Corrin is always rush, rush, rush. She’s grown bolder as the days have passed, chastising me every chance she gets. In return, I’ve grown surlier, not bothering to hide my irritation. “Fine. But is it going to be as difficult to put on as this one was? It took me forever to figure it out.”
Corrin huffs. “Eat. And turn around.” She sets to unfastening the back of my dress as I pick at the apple slices and watch her in the reflection of my dressing mirror. The gold ear piercing is the first thing I notice every day, now that I know what it means. Does it bother her that she is tagged like a stockyard animal?
“You were going out like this? Three of your buttons are still undone!” she ridicules.
“I don’t have rubber arms and eyes in the back of my head. And no, I was going to ask Elisaf to help me.” I’m only half kidding. Elisaf already finished his shift by the time I was dressing. The foot-dragging guard is back on duty.
The appall on Corrin’s face in the mirror makes a bubble of laughter climb out of my throat. I choke on the fruit in my mouth, and it takes a few coughs to clear it. “What? Isn’t this why you chose this dress for me in the first place? To torture me? Because it’s impossible for a person to do up on her own.” I cursed her name a half dozen times this morning, picturing her smug smile as she hung it on the dressing hook.
She scowls but says no more, her nimble fingers flying over the buttons.
My day guard, the foot dragger—a stone-faced man with bland chestnut-brown hair and small, squinty eyes who told me his name was Guard when I attempted conversation—walks behind me and barks orders of “left” and “right” as he escorts me through the castle’s vast halls.
I note the statues and vases on pedestals as we pass, marking them as I mentally map out the castle while trying to ignore the countless stares from every direction. I can’t tell if the attention is because I’ve risen from the dead—more literally than they probably realize—or if it has to do with my extravagant appearance. After Corrin practically chased me into this dress, which fits as if tailored for my body (I can only assume it is part of Princess Romeria’s wardrobe that Corrin is hoarding somewhere), she pushed me into the vanity chair, muttering about my unkempt mane. Her fingers moved quickly, winding and twirling and pinning until the bulk of my hair was fastened in an intricately braided weave. I caught the fleeting appreciation on her face, but when she saw I was observing her, her expression morphed into that of haughty disdain.
After a lengthy walk, we step through a set of doors and enter a courtyard. A dozen horses clad in the royal black and gold wait next to their respective soldiers. Behind them, more horses loiter in stalls, chomping on fresh hay that the stable boys are delivering with pitchforks.
My nose curls at the stench of fresh droppings on the stone nearby, but I try to ignore it, and the wary looks from the soldiers. “Where are we going?” I ask Guard, hoping he’ll at least answer that much.
“For a ride through Cirilea.” Zander strolls past me without a glance my way, looking as tall and fearsome as usual, his golden-brown hair swept back, his tailored, knee-length jacket a rich forest green today. He slides a polished leather boot into a stirrup and pulls himself onto his horse with grace.
The soldiers take that as their sign and rush to mount. A stable hand—a boy of maybe fourteen with a gold cuff in his left ear—carries a wooden step stool over and places it beside Zander’s sleek black stallion.
Zander turns to stare at me.
I finally clue in. “You want me to ride with you?”
“I’m certainly not giving you a horse of your own to barrel through the city streets on.”
I eye him cautiously, perched in the saddle, his thighs that look lean but muscular in black pants waiting to bracket mine.
He gestures to the piebald ahead of him where Boaz waits, glowering. “Unless you’d prefer to ride with the captain—”
I march straight for the step stool, gathering the layers of my dress so as not to trip on them. I ease up the two steps, cursing Corrin in my head the entire way. Who rides a horse in a fucking ball gown? She couldn’t have found me suitable pants? The yellow dress would have been more appropriate for this.
With a sigh of reluctance, Zander holds out his hand.
As much as I’d like to rebuff his offer of help, the chances of me humiliating myself without it are high. After a moment’s hesitation, I rest my small hand in his much larger one, feeling his smooth skin beneath my palm. How many times has he held this hand? How many times have his hands—those strong, long fingers—touched this body I inhabit? How intimately?
Zander’s gaze settles on my ring. His jaw tenses as his grip tightens, supporting me while I swing my leg over the saddle and settle down in front of him. The layers of chiffon bunch around me like the walls of a deep nest. I do my best to smooth down the fluffy material, only to graze Zander’s inner thigh. The muscles in hi
s leg visibly flex in response.
“Sorry,” I murmur. I lean forward, my back ramrod straight as I try to put distance between us, praying this is a short ride. The dress does offer one positive: it’s an effective barrier between us.
Zander reaches around to collect the reins, effectively caging me in, that sweet woodsy scent that I’m coming to recognize as him tickling my senses.
I curl my arms closer to myself in response.
Boaz gives a command, and the horses shift into formation—two lines, save for the additional soldier flanking us on our right. It’s Elisaf.
I smile at the sight of him, relieved for a friendly face.
The head dip he offers in return is barely noticeable, but I catch it all the same.
We move through the castle courtyard, hooves clacking against the downward slope of stone in a steady clatter, the soldiers, save for Elisaf, giving the king a wide berth. My body jolts continuously.
“Elisaf, have you ever seen anyone look so awkward on a horse?” Zander asks, his tone taunting.
“No, Your Highness. Can’t say that I have.”
“Have the fates taken your ability to ride as well?”
I had never been on a horse until I came here, I want to say, my cheeks flushing. “I’m trying not to crowd you.” Your Highness. I hold back the acknowledgment, mainly to see if he’ll remark on its absence.
“You’re going to be in great discomfort by the time we reach the lower streets.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“You can relax. I won’t bite.” Zander adds with a touch of grim humor. “We all know what happens to the wretched creatures who dare.” When I don’t respond, he urges, this time more commanding and annoyed, “Sit back.”
I realize I’m holding my breath. I release it and loosen my muscles a touch, but not enough to make physical contact with my co-rider.
We move toward the stone wall and a set of heavy iron gates flanked by guards. None of this side of the castle property is familiar to me, but I wore a blanket on my head the night they brought me here, and then I used tunnels to escape with Annika. To my right, a tower stands alone. It must be the one Boaz threw me in. Somewhere below it is the square where they executed Princess Romeria’s servants and guards while I lay unconscious in a bed. Were they truly deserving of such doom, or were they simply following their princess’s orders? Was the execution a big event? A celebration? What even earns a person an execution in Islor? Is it only the most treasonous of crimes or is it anything that annoys the king?
“Go ahead, speak freely,” Zander prompts. “Say what you want to say.”
“Why? So you have an excuse to flog me?” It slips out before I can stop myself.
“You are fixated with being flogged.”
“I’m not.” More like terrified, but I push down my fear.
“I wouldn’t have to search for an excuse. I’m the king, and your list of infractions is long.” There’s an edge to his tone. “Are your thoughts worthy of punishment too?”
I clamp my mouth shut.
“Come now. You spent weeks guarding your tongue and saying all the right things. Believe me when I say I’d much prefer you speak your mind and say all the wrong things. Especially now that you have not a hope of earning my trust or my gaze again, no matter how much effort you put into it.”
“You think I’m …” My words fade. Effort? What effort? I look down at the layers of chiffon and realize he means my appearance. “I didn’t choose this absurd dress. My charming attendant that you handpicked forced it on me.”
“The dress is absurd. At least, for horseback,” he mutters, gathering the reins in one hand to fuss with something behind me. “I’m sure Corrin meant well.”
I dare glance over my shoulder to see him swatting at the sage-green material that puffs halfway up his chest between us. I press my lips to stifle the laugh, and it escapes in a snort.
But then I make the mistake of looking up, and the fleeting humor dies in my throat. From this proximity, it’s easy to pick out the deep flecks of gold woven into his hazel irises and measure the length of his thick fringe of lashes.
His eyes probe mine, searching for something.
I shift back to face forward. “You wanted to execute me. Trust me, I’m not trying to earn your trust or your gaze. You’re a stranger to me.”
“And yet you still wear my ring.”
I look down at the smooth, white stone. It must seem odd to him that I do. “I can’t explain why, but it feels important to me.” As vague and as close to the truth as I can get.
To that, he says nothing.
We’ve passed the looming inner wall. Beyond it is a narrow street banked with steeply gabled houses, much like I remember from that first night. Only now there are no buildings smoldering, no wagons full of bodies, no children crying over fallen parents. The azure sky is smeared with wispy white clouds, and a warm breeze disturbs the stray hairs around my face.
The procession swerves right where the street splits off to another, and suddenly the vista opens to the broad expanse of water beyond the city’s limits below. On the far horizon, a faint line hints of more land. I try to recall the map in Zander’s circular room. Is that more of Islor? Seacadore? I committed all the names to memory as soon as I returned, and yet I know nothing of them.
I inhale the slight waft of brine from the sea. It’s calming.
“You don’t feel any pull from the water?” Zander asks, and there is genuine curiosity in his voice.
He knows Annika told me. Of course. Wendeline warned me that all my conversations would reach his ears. “I’m not supposed to, am I?” I hold up my arms to show the cuffs. “What could I do if I weren’t wearing them?”
“Besides wreak havoc on my city again?”
“How would I do that?” Other than exploding water fountains, what can this elven body I’ve inhabited do?
“You think I’m going to give you detailed instructions?”
“As if they’d be of any use to me.” I have no interest in attacking Cirilea. I just want to better understand how it all works. “What about you?”
“What about me?” A pause. “Oh, that’s right, I heard you’ve been interrogating anyone who might listen,” he says dryly.
I steal a glance Elisaf’s way and find his focus ahead. Do they all repeat everything I say to Zander?
I change the subject. “Where are we going?”
Zander gives the rein a tug to guide the horse to the right, the move causing his biceps to brush against mine. “To parade the princess of Ybaris around Cirilea. It’s time everyone knows you are alive and well, and the best way to do that quickly is by allowing the people to see you.”
“And why do you want them to know? Why do you care if people think I’m dead?” What use does Zander have of me?
“Because I want people to see that you are still here, within the royal court, and close to me.” I’m acutely aware of him leaning in, his voice dropping an octave. “Few know what happened, and of your memory affliction. Only those I trust with the truth. We’ve heard that Queen Neilina has been frantically searching for proof of your survival, so perhaps your dear mother does love you after all. We are assuming she is ignorant to the fact that you no longer remember who you are.”
“You believe me?”
“I believe Wendeline.”
And she’s mostly right, I feel the urge to say but bite my tongue. She doesn’t have all the details. “And what happens after word spreads that I’m alive?”
“I am expecting those who helped you before will believe you’ve convinced me that you are innocent of any wrongdoing, that you were merely a scapegoat for Queen Neilina.”
It clicks. “You want to draw them out.”
“Eventually, they will find a way to contact you again. When they do, we will punish them accordingly.”
A thought strikes me. “Did your soldiers find anything at Lyndel?”
“Yes. Lord Telor’s army, ready to de
fend us against Ybaris.”
I feel my shoulders slump.
“Were you hoping for another outcome? Perhaps to find one of my strongest allies had turned on me?” he asks. He senses my disappointment, but he has misread it.
“No, it’s good. I just … with everything I’ve heard about what happened that night, and what Princess Romeria did to you—”
“What you did to me,” he corrects.
“Right.” Leading him on, making him think she was in love with him. “I was hoping that what I remembered might have been helpful. For you.” Which, in turn, might be helpful for me.
He’s quiet for a long moment. “There are mountains north of the stronghold that the Ybarisans could be using without Lord Telor’s knowledge.”
“So, you might still find them there?”
“If we looked. We could expend efforts trying to ferret them out, but we are otherwise occupied with protecting the border from an invasion from Ybaris in retaliation for killing their princess and their king.”
Even though I’m alive, and Queen Neilina killed her own husband. “Do you think they’ll invade?”
“I think your mother is desperate for our land, but if she can find a way that doesn’t guarantee mass casualties in battle, she will be searching for it. Our best plan is to wait for your kinfolk trapped within Islor to make their next move. They cannot get back across the rift, and with no more than two hundred of them left, they cannot win against my army on their own.”
He sounds so confident, but is it an act?
Ahead of us, the street we’re traversing meets another livelier one where the buzz of voices carries and pedestrians mill about, their arms laden with breads and flowers.
“What is that?”
“The market. Those within the city and neighboring towns gather here to buy and sell produce from their gardens and wares from their forges and such.”