by K. A. Tucker
Atticus doesn’t agree with his brother’s plan to use me to draw out the traitors in their midst and hold back Queen Neilina’s advance. Would he enjoy watching it all fall apart so he has an excuse to go to war? He seems the type—arrogant, and with enough clout to be dangerous.
Zander frowns deeply. “Until then, you had better hope Abarrane manages to kill them in her interrogation. Otherwise you’ll get the pleasure of a royal repast.”
“What is it, anyway?”
“It’s where the prisoners are paraded through the square before being chained up, and anyone who feels obliged has the opportunity to take their vein. The court first, of course. And it’s not often done gently, as we might with a tributary. I imagine you will get to watch it all with Adley standing beside you. It is a lengthy process, aided by the power of the priestesses when we are fortunate to have one. They can help slow the flow of the prisoners’ blood for hours. And when it’s time, what’s left of them is sent to their afterlife by fire.”
My face blanches. “I thought you lived off mortal blood.”
“It’s not about survival. It’s about control, dominance, and humiliation.” And by the bitter twinge in Zander’s voice, he doesn’t approve or enjoy it. That is some small comfort.
“It used to be a common practice in Islor, with prisoners of war. It hasn’t been done in centuries, much to the dissatisfaction of some,” Atticus adds soberly.
“We had Ybarisan prisoners after the last attack. The court pushed for a royal repast then, but I refused, executing them swiftly instead. Mercifully. But I will not be able to avoid it again, thanks to my darling betrothed. It will be quite the event, given it is to happen during the city fair, when half of Islor has journeyed to Cirilea. And I do not see a way for you to avoid it, not without making yourself look weak, and the fates know how much you do not want that.”
My gut churns with dread. I should have kept my mouth shut. Adley took advantage of my ignorance without realizing it. “What was that guy demanding? A parley?”
“A meeting to discuss our dispute. It is intended to find diplomacy in the threat of war. But I’d say we are long past mediation.” Zander snorts. “Besides, anything he says will no doubt be a lie.”
Atticus cocks his head at Zander. “You didn’t tell her who Abarrane captured, did you?”
“I thought her ignorance would be more effective. Otherwise, she might give him too much attention.”
I frown. “Who is he?”
“Prince Tyree of Argon.” Atticus smiles. “Your brother.”
My mouth drops. No wonder the man looked at me the way he did. “He knows things.”
Atticus’s head tips back, and he bursts with laughter. “Dare I say, he knows everything.”
“I mean, Princess Romeria’s brother would know who within the castle helped her.”
“I like how she talks about herself in third person. It’s as if they’re two different people and she takes no responsibility for what she’s done,” Atticus muses.
“Welcome to my world.” The muscle in Zander’s jaw ticks. “And Abarrane could pull Tyree’s arms off and he wouldn’t tell us anything.”
I grimace at that gruesome image. “What if I talk to him? He might be willing to tell me things, thinking I’m his sister. I could make it look like I’m sneaking down there—”
“No.”
“That’s not a bad idea,” Atticus says. “Why don’t I take her down?”
“No.” Zander glares at his brother.
“But he doesn’t know that I don’t remember who I am—”
“You are not going anywhere near him or any other Ybarisan!”
I steal a look at Atticus, who shrugs nonchalantly. If he’s bothered by Zander’s stubbornness, he doesn’t let on. “We have both of Queen Neilina’s heirs. What do you suppose she’ll do when she discovers that?”
But Zander isn’t sharing in his brother’s amusement, his jaw rigid as he weighs me beneath a calculating gaze. “By the time she hears of it, one of them will already be dead. I’ll be sure to send along his remains for her this time. Elisaf!”
My guard pokes his head in almost immediately. “Your Highness.”
“Romeria wishes to return to her rooms for the rest of the day. I believe she has some garments to burn.”
I guess that means no afternoon walk with Annika. That’s fine. I think I’ve had enough of this place and these people for the day.
“Lovely, Your Highness.” Dagny’s words are muffled around brass pins held between her pursed lips.
I had barely sat down to my bowl of potato and parsnip stew when the seamstress arrived for a fitting, her arms laden with silk and chiffon, already cut to size in a gown. I didn’t mind the interruption, though. The woman’s jaunty personality is a welcome reprieve from boredom.
Corrin was right, I admit, as I peer in the full-length mirror and take in the tangible version of my sketch. Dagny is a marvel, and she works quickly, her nimble fingers adjusting the seams to better fit me. The cinched waist, the sleek, delicate sleeves that reach to the marble floor, blending in with the skirts in a cape-like fashion. The material covers all my scars without mummifying me, and the color—a pale bluish-gray shade I never would’ve chosen for myself—flatters my eyes and skin and contrasts well with my hair.
“Just how you wanted it, yes?” Dagny’s muted green eyes are dazzling with excitement as she steps back.
“It’s incredible.” I shift my leg, watching the material part on my thigh.
“It might be my greatest piece yet. No one has seen anything like it, you can be sure of that.”
No one here has seen anything like it.
“You will be the talk of the court, Your Highness.”
“I’m already the talk of the court.” I smooth a finger over the seam at the waist.
“Oh, don’t worry. That will flatten out when I stitch it properly.” Dagny waves my hand away. “Well?” She turns to Corrin, who has been oddly quiet. “Don’t you think Her Highness looks radiant?”
“If attention is what she wishes, she will certainly succeed. You’ll be showing off your undergarments.”
She’s referring to the high slit, no doubt. “I won’t wear them.” It wouldn’t be the first time I avoided seams by leaving my panties at home.
Corrin’s mouth gapes and she mutters something I—happily—don’t catch.
“Oh, one more here.” Dagny reaches for another pin, tucked into a small tin that sits on a side table. “Yes. That’s better.” She nods with satisfaction. “I’ll have this finished up in time for the royal repast.”
“Can’t wait,” I mutter. A new dress for a torture celebration.
“I suppose those Ybarisan monsters will get what’s deserved.” Dagny flinches. “Begging your pardon, Your Highness.”
“No, it’s okay. They are monsters.” May as well play the part convincingly. Though I don’t know if being chained up and fed from is what anyone deserves.
“I hear those brutes killed one of Lady and Lord Rengard’s tributaries. Slit her throat from ear to ear.” She tsks. “Just terrible.”
“Those men killed a mortal?” Nobody mentioned that.
“You be careful removing that gown. It’s full of pins. You’re liable to bleed all over that light material and ruin it before you get to strut around without your underthings,” Corrin answers curtly, steering the conversation away from talk of murder and gossip.
“Oh yes.” Dagny’s head bobs. “We wouldn’t want Her Highness poking herself needlessly.”
I shimmy out of the gown and into a sleeveless peach dress from my closet, returning as Dagny is gathering the last of her things.
She scowls at the scars on my shoulder, as if they somehow harmed her personally.
Ignoring her pity, I slide on the capelet she brought with her—a creamy gossamer material trimmed with gold embroidery and scalloped to look strangely like wings, though not at all silly. It ties with gold ribbon in the front a
nd covers the scars on my shoulder impeccably. “Thank you for this.”
“If Her Highness finds it pleasing, I will surely make a dozen more, in every color imaginable.”
“Please, Dagny.” It would make something as simple as getting dressed in the morning far less difficult. “If I ever have to wear another dress like the one I wore yesterday, I might die.”
Corrin rolls her eyes.
“Oh goodness, Your Highness, don’t say such things.” Dagny curtsies and then bows, and then curtsies again, as if she can’t decide which is more appropriate. “Before I forget, I brought ya some things to draw with.” She nods toward the graphite pencil and sheets of paper sitting on the table and then lowers her voice conspiratorially. “I was thinking, if Her Highness has any ideas for more gowns she may wish me to sew, I would be delighted.”
I steal a wary glance at Corrin, expecting her to bluster about my jam-packed schedule not allowing for frivolous things such as art, but she doesn’t seem at all concerned by Dagny’s kindness.
“I might have a few. Thank you, Dagny. That was thoughtful of you.”
Her eyes twinkle. “’Specially one for next Hudem. Something the king might fancy. We should get started on that soon. Those gowns always require much labor. All the stitchwork and the detail.”
She means a wedding dress for my marriage to Zander. I feel a flicker of guilt that this woman might slog over something I’ll never wear. “I guess a replica of my last one would be in poor taste?”
She titters, though her nervous gaze flips to Corrin. “It would be too revealing, surely, Your Highness.”
“Right.” I sigh. The scars.
“There’s a ship comin’ in from Seacadore any day now, in time for the fair. It promises bolts of the finest fabrics we’ve ever seen. I’ve demanded the port master inform me the moment it arrives, so that I may secure the nicest of the lot. No one should be privy to them before they are offered to the future queen. Until then …” She holds up the dress, beaming. “I’ll get finished with this one straightaway, Your Highness.”
When she leaves, Corrin taps the paper. “I’ve already counted. There are five sheets of equal shape and size.” She gives me a look.
“So, no secret messages to my accomplices who I can’t remember? Is that what you’re saying?”
“Not unless you’d like to earn the king’s mistrust,” she retorts, ignoring my sarcasm.
“I have that.” And I’m guessing it’s worse after yesterday. I haven’t seen him since. I shake my head. “Who am I going to send messages to? Honestly, Corrin, you could have been conspiring with me, and I’d have no idea.”
A startled—and horrified—look flashes across her face. “Enjoy your afternoon, Your Highness.” She spins and marches out.
I sigh. I need to learn to keep my mouth shut.
If someone had told me that listening to deadly blades clashing would be soothing, I would have thought them crazy. And yet here I am as the sun wanes and the air cools, settled in my makeshift patio furniture—a chair and table I dragged from my bedroom—discomforted by the silence that blooms below me after hours of melees and shouted instruction.
I set the dulled graphite pencil down and stand to stretch my legs. An array of people have occupied the square all afternoon—noblemen and a few women, royal guards, their skills varying greatly, and soldiers dressed like Abarrane who fight with incomparable speed and grace.
Now a group of ten children line up in the square, gripping wooden staffs in two hands, waiting eagerly as their instructor approaches. They can’t be more than seven years old.
Abarrane is rigid and purposeful as she strolls toward the weapons rack to collect her staff. She has bathed since I saw her in the throne room and swapped her brown leather outfit for a similar one in all black. Her blond hair is freshly plaited in three thick braids.
She looks no less fierce standing before these children. Are they her elite soldiers of tomorrow? Her future Legion, here for their training?
“Stance!” she barks, and her pupils jump, repositioning their feet and their grips, holding their staves in the air before them.
“One!” she commands, jabbing with a measured thrust, the muscle in her arms honed to perfection, her form taut.
The children mimic her, though less gracefully.
“Two!” She spins and stabs the air. “Three!” She continues counting and working through thrusts and spins and pivots by rote, and the students follow, some clumsily, others with surprising skill for ones so young, all with potent enthusiasm.
They’re immortal children, I’m assuming, if Abarrane is training them to fight. Born courtesy of the magic in the nymphaeum. I still know little of these elven and even less about the Islorian version, but I’m piecing bits together. Zander said this body just passed its twenty-fifth birthday, so I assume these children will develop as humans do up to a certain age. In as little as ten years, these kids could be full-grown soldiers.
But do they feed off humans? Do they have the same bloodlust that Zander and the others do?
“You’re slow today, Abarrane!” a familiar voice teases.
My smile falters as Zander comes into view, but it’s quickly followed by a heart skip that I can’t explain. I should despise him. I should be repulsed by what he is. And yet I’m not.
“I would like to see how fast His Highness moves after three days without rest.” Abarrane pauses her instruction to bow—no curtsy from this warrior—and the children rush to do the same, tripping over their feet, two dropping their staves.
“You may be surprised to learn I’m ahead of you in that regard.” He shucks his jacket and shifts into the square, rolling up the sleeves of his black tunic to reveal sinewy forearms. “Continue.”
With a secretive smile, Abarrane executes the routine again, her voice sharp and commanding, even as she moves with the grace of a dancer. The children follow suit with more zeal and with frequent glances at the hovering king, their eyes wide. They want to impress him.
Zander walks quietly between them, sliding in to adjust a stance and point out form weaknesses and errors, guiding them on ways to improve. The children listen, punctuating their moves with eager nods.
Again and again, they practice, each time their strikes smoother, their form more fluid, their strength steadier.
Zander’s usually hard face is soft, his words of encouragement sincere. It is an entirely different side of him from what I’m used to. It doesn’t seem possible that he is the same man who stood across from me that first night, wishing me death. Not that I could blame him. And perhaps that’s why I don’t hate him. Even though Princess Romeria would deserve everything he’s threatened to deliver, he hasn’t made good on any of it.
A shimmer of gold catches my eye. Wendeline glides along the path toward the square, pausing long enough to curtsy to Lord Quill, who is arm in arm with … I frown. That young brunette is not his wife. And she’s clinging too tightly to him to be a friend or sister. I watch with suspicious eyes as she reaches up to stroke the hair off his forehead. He collects her hand in his, bringing it to his lips.
Not a sister and surely not a platonic friend.
Is he that brazen to cheat on Lady Quill so openly?
Childlike laughter below pulls my attention back to the sparring court, and I chuckle at the scene unfolding, a boy and girl attacking Zander from either side, trying to best their king as he spins and ducks from their staves with ease, his arms blocking their attempts. He moves fast, as fast as Sofie moved the night she embedded daggers into Tony’s and Pidge’s wrists. This is how Malachi designed King Ailill and his descendants to be: stronger, faster, harder to kill. Rivals to the Ybarisans. Malachi’s demons.
Abarrane’s hand is on her hip, the other propping up her staff, her expression bleeding annoyance. “Is the king here to assist or to pester?”
“Why not both?” He sweeps a little girl off her feet with one arm, earning her squeal and kick before he sets her down, his
soft, musical laughter missing its usual derisive tone. I haven’t heard that sound from him before, and it catches me off guard.
“Perhaps you’d like to help me demonstrate proper technique to our young fighters, then.” She gestures at the rack.
His hands are out to his sides in challenge. “I thought you’d never ask.”
“I would take any opportunity to knock His Highness on his back.” Her responding grin is downright savage. Given what Zander told me earlier of her bodily threats, I can’t help but think there’s a hidden message in those words.
He chuckles. It’s the kind of laugh that would pair well with a gentle finger stroke against a cheek or a whisper against an ear. A completely foreign sound, but I already know he’s capable of that tenderness. I saw it the other night with that woman, just before he revealed his unsettling secret to me.
“Alas, I must decline for the moment. I believe I have a visitor.” He strolls toward the edge of the sparring square where Wendeline stands, wringing her hands.
“Your Highness.” She curtsies deeply. “You summoned me.” Her voice carries a hint of tremor that she always has when he is near. I used to think it was fear, but I’m beginning to see it as the nervousness that comes with her reverence toward him.
“Yes. Priestess. Please.” He motions toward a path.
Below me, Abarrane’s barked orders fade into the background as I watch Zander and Wendeline stroll away, their pace slow, Zander’s arms folded across his chest as he listens. He’s probably demanding that she regurgitate every word shared between us in the sanctum, trying to figure out what had me rattled when I arrived in the throne room.
Her gaze drifts up to my terrace; his follows.
Yes, they’re talking about me, and now they know I’m spying on them.
Whatever she’s saying to him, he’s shaking his head firmly. He doesn’t agree. She’s imploring him, going so far as to reach for his arm. He doesn’t shuck the contact, but he appears bothered by what she’s telling him, his free hand pushing through his hair, sending it into disarray.