by K. A. Tucker
At the opposite end, fifteen steps lead to a dais and two thrones, their forms cast in entwined ebony horns like the ones on Malachi’s head. Behind, a canvas of decorative windows reaches from dais floor to vaulted ceilings, allowing daylight to stream in.
To my right, at floor level, are two stately chairs. Annika and Atticus occupy them, their faces reserved and revealing nothing. Now that they sit side by side, I see how similar in appearance they are.
I spare them one more second of attention before shifting my focus to where it should be—on the king.
Zander’s expression is even as he watches me approach, his posture oddly casual, his elbow resting on one armrest, his chin braced by his palm. He’s not wearing a crown, I note. Perhaps his throne is enough.
I stop at the bottom of the stairs as Elisaf instructed and curtsy as Corrin taught me, keeping my back stiff and dipping my head only slightly. You are the future queen, not his wench! she had barked. I steal a glance to my left to where Boaz stands, his hand on the hilt of his sword, his face steely. I’m trying to picture the glowering captain on his knees, begging to be executed, and I can’t. At least he appears satisfied by my efforts, so far.
A hush falls over the room as everyone waits for the king to speak.
Zander allows that deathly silence to stretch, until every cleared throat cuts like the whir of a chainsaw in a still morning, every whisper like a howling wind passing through a cracked window.
I fight the urge to squirm. Has he changed his mind about this scheme? Decided he can’t go through with it? Maybe I am to be sentenced to death instead.
“There have been many rumors traveling through Islor as of late that I would like to lay to rest once and for all.” His voice is deep and commanding, carrying through the hollows of this massive room. It doesn’t waver from nerves or a heavy heart. “I have summoned you all here on this day to bear witness to the truth. Princess Romeria of Ybaris is as much a victim to Queen Neilina’s duplicitous scheming as I am. She traveled here to fulfill the agreement made between King Barris and King Eachann for our union, and she did it with honor. At no time did she conspire against Islor.”
Zander pauses, barely concealing the foul taste of those words. This must curl his insides to say out loud. “While the obligation to Ybaris is now forfeit, Her Highness wishes to remain in Islor, at my side, in hopes that our union will bring future peace between our realms. I am amenable to that arrangement.”
A mix of gasps and soft murmurs flares behind me.
Zander raises his hand, cutting off the sound instantly. “Queen Neilina is at the root of all evil. Through her sycophants, she persuaded the High Priestess Margrethe to summon Malachi for the purpose of unleashing chaos on us. Neilina assassinated her own husband and now she tries to amass an army based on a web of lies, including one that claims Islor murdered the heir to their throne.” He smirks as he gestures toward me. “As you can all see, we did no such thing.”
I steal another glance at Boaz.
His eyebrow twitches, the only response to that lie. But it is not the only falsehood Zander just told his court, not if what Annika said about Margrethe summoning Malachi to bring me back to life is true.
I suppose this is all one big, bloated lie, though.
“Her Highness is alive and well, despite being attacked while trying to stop the insurgents. She has chosen Islor, and we will make sure that news reaches the farthest corners of Ybaris. It will make a compelling declaration against her mother’s treachery, and should we face our foes again in battle, we will make sure they question their own allegiances.” His gaze roams the faces in the standing-room crowd, as if daring any of them to challenge him.
No one utters a word.
Would they ever speak out against the king? How would Zander react? Would his carefully crafted composure break? Would he roar his displeasure? I’ve felt that rage before, directed at me. But it was fueled by emotion, by heartache and agony.
Here, he leads with a commanding calm. I can’t decide which is scarier.
Shifting his attention back to me, Zander dips his head once, ever so slightly. It’s followed by Elisaf’s barely audible throat clear. A signal that this political display is—thankfully—over already.
I stifle the urge to sigh with relief, offering Zander another tempered curtsy and a murmur of “Your Highness” without any bite in my tone, counting to three in my head so I don’t appear as though I’m bolting out of here.
But then Zander does something that catches me off guard. He smiles. A lip-parting, eye-twinkling, dimple-popping smile that promises mischief, transforming his handsome, albeit severe, face to one of boyish charm. It appears so genuine that even I’m having a hard time reminding myself of the loathing behind it.
We have a secret, the king and I—and a few trusted others.
I feel my own face transform with a smile that is for once not forced but relieved and maybe even a touch giddy. For a moment—a split second—the throne room, the audience, our sordid history … it all vanishes from my mind. How did Princess Romeria meet that smile time and time again while plotting his murder and not waver in her plans?
Surprise flashes in his eyes. I swear, sometimes I think he can read my thoughts. But if he could, he would know my secret.
“Your Highness,” Elisaf whispers behind me, and I realize I’ve been gaping openly at Zander for far too long.
We’re playing a part, I remind myself, my cheeks burning. And by the heady buzz of titters and whispers growing behind me, we’re doing it well. They all think me dim-witted, so I suppose this works.
I keep my head up as I turn and stroll past Elisaf, who waits to follow me out. I feel oddly lighter than when I came in, despite that spectacle. Or perhaps it’s the vibe in the room that is lighter, the faces staring back at me reflecting more curiosity than animosity.
Not all faces. I spot the woman from the royal grounds, the one with coal-black eyes and a visible hatred. Even now, her jaw is set firmly as she watches me pass, her attention shifting downward to my ring or my cuffs, I can’t be sure. I need to figure out who she is.
The moment the doors seal shut behind me, I release my heavy sigh. “Bloody hell, I’m so glad that’s over.”
Elisaf frowns strangely at me. “I fear it is only beginning, Your Highness.”
Chapter Sixteen
“Is there anything else tonight?” Corrin asks from the threshold of my terrace, the usual bite in her tone absent.
I pause in my nightly ritual of spying on courtesans to spare her a look. Her eyes wear the dark circles of a woman who has been on her feet all day, preparing my accommodation, making sure I have everything I could possibly need in addition to whatever other responsibilities she has in the castle. Me, the woman who caused the death of her beloved queen.
I once joked to Wendeline that Corrin would one day poison my meal. Now that I know more about the lady maid, I can’t believe she hasn’t. “No, I’m good.” I hesitate. “Thank you. For everything you’ve done for me so far.”
Her mouth falls open a moment, as if taken aback. “I only do what is required of me.”
I highly doubt Zander required her to go down to the port and fetch those prized grapes, and even if he did, it wouldn’t have been for his prisoner. But I also suspect Corrin will never admit to that unnecessary benevolence. She likely considers it a betrayal to the memory of Zander’s mother to show me any kindness. I know I would wrestle with that guilt, if I were in her shoes. “Regardless, thank you. I know this can’t be easy for you.”
“Yes, well …” She presses her lips together. “I suppose it’s not effortless for you either, not remembering who you are.”
“And yet the more I learn about that person, the more I despise her.”
Corrin grunts. “Her Highness said your tongue was forked like a serpent and silvered like a siren’s song. She was concerned her son could not think as a king should when you were around. He was too busy chasing your skirts.”
Her eyes flicker over the rose-colored robe and nightgown set I found in my closet. The robe’s hem sweeps the floor, the lace trim at the edges a delicate accent that balances out the sheer tulle sleeves and oversize sash ties at the center. The silky nightgown beneath is subtle but provocative—more in line with what I might choose for myself if I were shopping back home in New York.
I brace for her mocking remark—something about me strolling around in my underwear, no doubt—but she only says, “Do not spend all night out here. You are to meet the priestess in the sanctum early.”
I groan.
“It’s important that you understand their ways if you are to survive around these—” Her lips press into a thin line. “With the court.”
I detect a hint of animosity, but it’s Corrin. Animosity laces most of her words. “I know. I just don’t have fond memories of that place.”
Her face softens a touch, her gaze flickering to my shoulder. “I will wake you in the morning, if you are not already up. Your Highness.” She curtsies and turns to leave.
“I don’t think I looked like a peasant in the throne room today.”
“I heard your performance was exemplary and sufficiently to task. You’re welcome,” she calls over her shoulder as she marches away.
I smile as I turn back to take in my view. The same one, and yet from a different angle than what I woke to this morning. I’m still technically an inmate, unable to come and go as I please, but it’s a much more comfortable disguise. My eyes drift over to the darkened wing where my prison walls remain. What will they do with those rooms now that I’ve vacated them? Do they accommodate guests there as readily as prisoners?
A flicker of light draws my attention to Zander’s terrace. Someone has lit a candle inside his rooms. Is he in his suite for the night, or is a servant preparing it for him? I returned here after that public spectacle in the throne room and had a quiet dinner while the court gathered and reveled somewhere beneath. I was happy for the solitude after such a long day. I need time to learn all that I can before I tackle this role of Princess Romeria.
But I’ve found myself glancing at my door, listening for footsteps, for a firm knock, for Zander to stroll into my sitting room once again. I’m anxious to hear what he thought of today’s declaration.
But if I’m being honest, I’m also interested in catching another one of those smiles he produced as part of this ruse.
Without considering it too much, I take the narrow path between our terraces, my bare feet soundless as they pad against the cool, gritty stone floor. I pause, my heart racing. This might be a foolish decision. Though, if he were worried about me trying to kill him, he wouldn’t have moved me where he did. Still, I’m creeping over to his room as if I’d be a welcomed visitor—in my robe, no less.
I take a deep, calming breath and then poke my head around the corner.
A woman with long, blond hair the color of corn silk and skin so pale I might doubt it’s ever been touched by the sun sits on the edge of the bed. She’s wearing a burgundy cloak over a white gown. A candelabra on the nightstand casts a healthy glow over her high cheekbones and smooth, youthful complexion. Her hands are folded in her lap, her fingers toying with each other.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I mutter, cold realization sinking my stomach. It’s not a surprise she attracted his attention. She’s stunning, in an innocent, wholesome way. But on the same day Zander announces to the court that we’re back together and moves me into the suite beside him, he brings another woman into his bed? Is he a fool or a bastard? Or is this simply the way of a king?
Regardless, how can these optics not work against us?
Zander walks into view from another room, and a sharp intake of breath sails through my lips. He has removed his jacket and loosened his tunic, the light, white linen unlaced at the top to hint at a chest padded with muscle. He walks with a casual swagger I’ve never seen from him before, and the smile he offers the woman is genuine and soft.
She looks up fleetingly, long enough to smile demurely before her focus drops to her lap again, as if afraid to meet his eyes.
Who is she? Another courtesan who strolls the grounds during the day? There’s something different about her, though. She’s far less poised than those I’ve seen. Did he have a few glasses of wine and decide to work out his frustrations here rather than in the sparring court? Does he even drink? I know nothing about Zander.
But I hate this tight feeling in my chest as I watch this exchange. I can’t pinpoint what is causing it. It can’t be hurt, because this is all a charade. It can’t be jealousy, because aside from that devastating look he laid on me this afternoon and a few desperate moments in the tower that first night while he was threatening my life, he’s never been anything but the king who holds me captive.
He pauses in thought, a strange look skipping across his face. I ready to jump back the second he turns toward the terrace, even if there is no way he can find me within the shadows.
He says something to her. She nods and reaches up to unfasten the clasp on her cloak. The material slides off to pool on the stark white bedding, revealing a simple dress much like the nightgown I used to wear, except this one has a plunging neckline and wide collar, the linen fabric settling off her shoulders. It’s seductive in design, exposing plenty of skin and the swell of the woman’s full breasts. She may be playing demure, but she is not prim.
How he likes his women, based on what I’ve heard.
And now that her hair has fallen back, I see the thick gold band on her ear. She’s a royal servant. A human.
The king is bedding a slave?
He says something else, and she nods again, and her throat bobs with a hard swallow. She’s a servant who’s nervous to lie with the king. I don’t blame her. Zander is intimidating in regular conversation. Sitting on his bed with him looming over you like that?
Did Princess Romeria ever sit on his bed like that, waiting for him? A strange feeling stirs deep within me at the thought. Corrin said he was busy chasing her skirts. Did she let him under there? Or did she play her game like a pro, giving only so much that he wanted more while she ensnared him in her web?
Zander reaches out and slides a finger along the servant’s cheek, shifting a wayward strand of hair off her face. It’s a tender gesture, and one that is about to lead to more as he kneels on the bed beside her and grips her chin, pushing her head back to expose her long, slender neck.
I should turn around and head back to my rooms—
He parts his lips and, with a slight wince, two white, needle-thin fangs descend from his upper jaw.
I blink several times.
This can’t be right. I must be hallucinating.
My hands muzzle the scream that threatens to escape my mouth as I watch Zander lean forward and sink his teeth into the woman’s jugular, while easing her back on his bed. She doesn’t fight, flinch, or recoil.
He’s feeding off her.
Just as the daaknar tried to feed off me.
My head spins as I struggle to absorb what I’m seeing, my mind unable to form a coherent thought. The woman’s chest heaves with deep breaths; her hips curl toward Zander’s body. She reaches up to smooth her hand over his shoulder and along his back, the gentle stroke one of affection. Though I can’t hear anything through the closed doors, I can imagine any sounds she’s making are of pleasure.
She’s enjoying what Zander’s doing to her. How is she enjoying this? Even now, the excruciating burn of the daaknar’s teeth where it bit into my flesh is still fresh in my mind.
Zander suddenly pulls away from the woman’s neck, and his head reels toward the terrace. His heavy-lidded eyes meet mine as surely as if he can see me in the darkness.
As if he knew I was there all along, watching this horror unfold.
I jump out of view and rush back to my side, my feet slapping on the stone, my heart pounding in my chest. I dart through my bedchamber and keep going, running through the vacuous sitting room, p
itch-black save for the light of a lone lantern, all the way to the door, my robe a billowing mass around me. I test the handle with a frantic jiggle. As usual, it’s locked from the outside.
“Elisaf?” My voice is hoarse and brimming with panic. “Elisaf!”
Silence answers.
I lean my forehead against the wood with a soft thud. I’ve spent five weeks confined and yet I haven’t felt this trapped since the night of the tower. “Please, I know you’re out there.” I don’t, and the door is flush with the floor, offering me no glimpse of anyone beyond, but he’s always out there. I hold my breath and listen. A boot scuffs against the marble. “I don’t understand what’s happening.”
But I think I do. This is what Wendeline was talking about when she said she was afraid to come to Islor. She was afraid because Islorians are … what are they?
Vampires?
A version of elven who drink blood?
It dawns on me. This is the difference between two people who once shared the same ancestry. At some point, Islorians began feeding off humans like bloodsucking vampires.
And King Barris shuttled his own daughter off to marry one of them. Princess Romeria didn’t want to marry Zander because of this. It’s all beginning to make sense, finally.
Wendeline, Elisaf, Corrin … all of them know.
It is a requirement. That’s what Elisaf said about the human slaves, how almost all households have them. He said so many things that I now see through an entirely different lens.
“Elisaf?” Still no answer. Is he truly not there, or is he ignoring me? I hesitate. “Are you one of them?” He said he was from Seacadore, which means he isn’t fully Islorian. So maybe he—
“He feeds off mortal blood, if that is what you’re asking. We all do,” comes Zander’s chilly voice behind me.
I let out a yelp as I spin around, pressing my back against the door.