A Fate of Wrath & Flame

by K. A. Tucker

  “Can’t wait. The naive princess will have a new dress for it and everything,” I say with mock excitement.

  His attention drifts to the flames in the hearth where it lingers a moment, a pensive look on his face. “I am willing to release you once we’ve uncovered the traitor who aided in killing my parents. You will be free to leave Islor and return to your kind, if that is what you wish. I will even attempt to coordinate a peaceful transfer across the rift for you.”

  “You’ll let me go? Just like that? After what I’ve done?”

  “Now who is thinking in angles?” He smirks. “You have my word. Good night.” Zander strolls onto my terrace and disappears into the rain.

  I had big plans to scour every corner of my rooms again, but I take a moment to curl up in the settee and watch Zander’s flames dance as I pick through the decidedly civil conversation between the king and me.

  And that is where sleep claims my body.

  “Smells of soot in here!” Corrin marches into my bedchamber with a breakfast tray, waking me from a deep slumber. I groan and struggle to orient myself as she draws the curtains and pushes open the terrace door. Blinding sunlight streams in. It looks like it will be another sunny, warm day.

  “What in the fates are you sleeping in?”

  I look down at my peach dress, the one I wore yesterday. It takes me a moment to remember—I drifted off in it, on the settee.

  And yet now I’m beneath the covers in my bed.

  I do not remember getting up in the night.

  “Never mind. I’ll find you a proper gown,” Corrin mutters. “You are to walk the grounds with Annika today. Make yourself known. Ideally without causing trouble.”

  “I don’t cause trouble.”

  “You’ve caused nothing but trouble since you arrived.” She pulls a roll of paper from beneath her arm and holds it up. “I managed to scrounge up four more sheets to keep you busy. And some fresh graphite.”

  Warmth spreads through my chest. “Thank you. That was kind of you.” And unexpected.

  “It’s the king’s kindness. Thank him. I ran around half the castle trying to find it. They’ve been sending out so many messages lately that our supply is dwindling. Paper takes time to make. It cannot simply be churned out …”

  Corrin prattles on about paper and pigeoneers and spies, and my eyes dart over to the settee where I fell asleep, to the table where I left the sketch of Sofie.

  It’s no longer there.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “Must you keep looking at me like that?” Annika says crisply. She twirls the vibrant pink cosmos between her fingertips before tucking it into her curls to join the others. She looks especially radiant today, in a silk gown of deep fuchsia that matches the shade of the petals precisely, her hair flowing loose down her back.

  “Like what?” I feign innocence, which earns me a flat glare.

  Like she drinks human blood.

  My awareness of this fact comes in ripples—a little voice that speaks up now and then, a strange disquiet along my spine that flares every so often. But then I remember I am safe from those hidden fangs, and besides, these Islorians aren’t anything like the parasitical creatures of fiction.

  We’ve ventured to a different section of the royal grounds on our walk today, to where paths amble through endless beds of cutting flowers. Workers are clipping spent blooms and yanking thistles that have wormed their way between the dense foliage while servants fill baskets of freshly cut roses and dahlias and a dozen flowers I do not recognize. Some of those will no doubt find their way into my room before tonight.

  After a long and uncomfortable silence, Annika says, “I truly relished the look of misery upon Saoirse’s face.”

  “You don’t like her either?”

  “I dislike her more than I dislike you, if that says anything.” Her attention skims over the gauzy cream gown Corrin fished from my closet and paired with the capelet Dagny delivered yesterday. I’m beginning to see that lady maid’s insistence on dressing me is a matter of pride rather than chore.

  “Wow.” I grimace. “That bad, huh?”

  Annika’s unexpectedly deep, husky laughter carries along the stone path, and I could swear the nearby blooms pivot toward her. “Your act with Lord Adley left my brother more conflicted than I have ever seen him.” Her blue eyes twinkle with delight. “He didn’t know whether to laugh or scream. I was waiting for smoke to drift from his ears. Right, Elisaf?”

  “The vein in his forehead was pulsating, Your Highness.”

  She cackles again.

  That they are finding amusement at Zander’s expense is oddly comforting. “I thought he hid it well.” Until we were in private.

  “Zander is not used to people ignoring his demands. He was born to be king, after all.” She shakes her head. “I don’t know if his efforts are worth it. Though, if this traitor among us was bold enough to betray us once, there is nothing to stop them from betraying us a second time.”

  “That’s what I told him.”

  “At least no one else seemed to notice my brother’s annoyance. They were all too enthralled by this new, feisty Princess Romeria of Ybaris. That’s all I’ve heard about through the court. Well, that and Lord Quill’s unfortunate departure.” If she’s bothered by the murder, she doesn’t show it. Annika could challenge Sofie in the “impossible to read” department.

  “Who do they think did it?”

  “The court? No one has outwardly accused anyone yet, but there are plenty of murmurs.” She shoots a knowing look my way, and I know at least some of the murmurs are directed at me. It’s to be expected, I guess.

  “What else did you hear?”

  “Mostly gossip about you two. That you weren’t as friendly with each other as you once were.”

  “We spent the entire time attached.” Whispering about scheming noblemen and setting fire to things, but they wouldn’t know that.

  “Yes, but they’re used to seeing you cling to him like a second skin.”

  An odd flutter stirs in my chest at the thought of getting even closer to Zander than I already have. “So, they’re not buying his declaration that I’m innocent?”

  She shrugs. “Some say you are guilty of every suggested crime against you, but that you’ve somehow conned Zander. Others think he’s forcing you to marry him as punishment. The most prevalent rumor, though, is that he was bewitched by the casters to fall all over himself for you.”

  My jaw drops. “Do you mean like some sort of love spell?”

  “Consumed by your beauty and blind to your treachery.”

  “Can they do that with caster magic?”

  “Not with caster magic. Something like that would require a summons, and Neilina collars her fates to ensure that does not happen.”

  “Unless she had one of their collars removed and demanded they summon the fates on her behalf.” As Isla and Ailill once did. “Would she do that?”

  “It would go against everything the Ybarisans have stood behind for two thousand years, her most of all. But we don’t know Neilina. Not like you do. Or did. So, who knows? Regardless, none of those scenarios reflect well on Zander as a ruler, making sound decisions for his people. And I’m certain Saoirse is behind the one that marks him as under a Ybarisan spell. I do not know what advantage she seeks to achieve in stoking that rumor, other than in hopes of it getting inside Zander’s head. She’s constantly scheming to get her bony behind seated on the throne and her spindly legs wrapped around my brother. It will never happen. Zander will never marry her.”

  Not based on what Zander has told me of Kettling. But if her father is behind Quill’s death, then I can assume she has influential allies in her corner, working to make this happen. “What’s her affinity?”

  “To Aoife, like yourself, though nowhere near as powerful. Another burn of jealousy, I’m sure.”

  And yet, with these cuffs on my wrists and my complete ignorance of what this body can do, I’d say Saoirse has the advantage.r />
  Patrons mill the royal grounds today as if the murder never happened. If anything, they seem energized, either by the perceived threat or the swirl of gossip. A couple bow before us, and I note how their reverence is no longer centered on Annika. Their greetings are aimed at me. I want to tell them to stop.

  Farther down the path, a sparkle catches my eye, drawing my focus to our left to where the gardens part and the sun shimmers off a small lake. A family of swans float on the water’s surface.

  “Your Highness?” Elisaf prompts. “Is something the matter?”

  I realize I’ve stopped dead. “Wendeline said the nymphaeum was by the lake.” I look around me. “Is this it?” I see nothing but trees and cutting gardens and hedge. There are no statues or stones. Nothing that appears sacred. I don’t know what nymphs look like, but I don’t see anything that might hint at them.

  “Here?” Annika laughs. “No. It’s up ahead. Come. I will show you.” She beckons with a nod. “This way.”

  We continue along the cobbled path, and I struggle to contain my exhilaration. It comes with a pinch of trepidation. “Can you read me like Zander does? My pulse, I mean.” Can Elisaf?

  “He’s finally told you about that.” She twists a fat corkscrew curl between her fingertips. “Interpreting a Ybarisan immortal’s pulse is particularly difficult for our kind, nowhere near as easy as reading a human. I cannot read you. That my brother can, though … that is something peculiar.” She smiles secretly, as if she has thoughts on that but either doesn’t want to share or isn’t permitted to. “Did you know that my mother arranged a marriage for me as well?”

  Her words temporarily distract me from the topic of reading pulses. “I didn’t.”

  “Yes. I fought with her about it, many times. The last conversation I had with her, we argued.” Annika’s eyebrows gather, the only sign that she is bothered.

  “Who are you supposed to marry?”

  “A human prince from Skatrana.”

  “And that’s bad?”

  She sneers. “Their lands are nothing but an abyss of trees and mountains and frigid temperatures. Their capital city, Shadowhelm, is built within caves. Caves! Me, with my affinity to this”—she casts her hands toward the hedges and flowers—“living in a cave with those primitive mongrels.”

  “Have you met any of these Skatranans?” I didn’t think there was much travel between the countries.

  “Well, no, but I’ve heard about them. Did you ever meet anyone from Skatrana in your sails as a Seacadorian, Elisaf?” She doesn’t look back. She assumes he’s listening.

  “I did sail that way once, yes. We docked in Westport, Your Highness.”

  “And how would you describe them?”

  I glance over my shoulder to find his mouth curved in a thoughtful frown. “Fierce warriors. Adapted to a humble lifestyle.”

  She grunts as if his answer is proof of her claims. “I doubt they’ve ever even seen a rosebush. They’d probably eat it if they did. Mother was corresponding with the king for years through letters couriered by Seacadorian ships. My betrothed is to come of age next year, and with your union to Zander, she was hoping to secure safe passage for me through Ybaris. Then, all Islor would need is for Atticus to flash his dimples at a Kier princess, and our family would have its fingers touching four thrones.”

  “Will Zander make you honor the arrangement?”

  “Even if he wanted to, they will want nothing to do with me given what happened in Cirilea. Islor is too volatile. Besides, I cannot sail to Skatrana. The sirens do not allow immortals to pass in the waters, and I’d prefer not to spend the rest of eternity at the bottom of the sea.”

  I file these sea sirens under “more monsters to learn about.”

  “I guess we’ve all avoided marriages arranged by our parents.”

  She purses her lips. “Does my brother not appeal to you at all?” There’s genuine interest in her tone.

  He appeals to me more with each encounter I have with him, but I’m not about to admit that to his sister. “Forgetting Zander’s utter hatred for me for a second, since I woke up in the hedge that night, he has sliced open my hand, locked me in a tower and condemned me to death, then imprisoned me indefinitely.” I use my fingers to mark the many ways Zander has made my life hell so far. “Oh, and now I’m being forced to play his future queen.”

  She smiles. “Is that all?”

  “Actually, no. There’s the whole ‘bringing women to his bedroom to feed on them’ issue. I’d say we have a few too many hurdles to overcome.”

  “He does not enjoy it, if that makes any difference to you.”

  “He sure looked like he did,” I mutter before I can stop myself. But I’ve seen and heard enough to suspect that what she says is true. “Why are you asking, anyway?”

  She shrugs. “Most would scheme and kill and trip over themselves to be in your position, even if it’s nothing more than a farce.”

  “I’m not like most around here. I don’t have any interest in being a queen. And besides, Zander likes obedient women, remember? I can’t even pretend to be that.”

  “That is not the woman for Zander.” She shrugs. “For what it’s worth, I do not think my brother hates you any longer. Or at least, he’s beginning to separate this incarnation from the previous version.” She gestures ahead of us. “Here it is. The nymphaeum.”

  I study the stone pavilion and its unadorned surroundings—a stretch of meticulously groomed lawn banked on three sides by tall cedar hedges but otherwise, there are no shrubs or flower beds. The open structure itself reminds me of something that might belong in a cemetery, the four corners comprised of pillars with carvings of the fates. In the center is a simple rectangular stone block maybe seven feet long by two feet wide and a foot high. The back is closed off with a wall decorated in an intricate swirling design.

  “This is it?”

  “You sound underwhelmed.”

  “I just expected something … different.” I step onto the base. It’s not a sacred garden. It’s like an open tomb. And it’s small. I doubt it could fit five people. And where are these nymphs that have supposedly been banished here?

  Her musical laughter carries. “Most do.”

  Above the block—an altar, perhaps?—is a circular opening in the roof.

  “To allow the blood moon’s light to shine in,” Annika explains, following my gaze.

  To shine onto the stone.

  I press my hand against its cool, smooth surface. Is this the stone Malachi means? There is no “retrieving” this. It must weigh several tons.

  “You would not believe how many offspring have been produced on that spot.”

  I peel my hand away, earning her tittering laughter. It dawns on me. “When Wendeline said people come to the nymphaeum to be blessed, she meant …”

  “They must take the stone and go through the act of conceiving, yes. That is how children are produced. Do you require lessons on that? I’m sure my brother would be willing to explain it all to you,” she teases.

  “Oh, I’m sure.” I mock. “But right here. Out in the open. Taking turns.” Wendeline said hundreds of immortals beg to use the nymphaeum every Hudem. I study the long path leading here. Is that where they all line up?

  “Their desire for breeding outweighs their need for privacy. And besides, what does it matter? We assume the nymphs are somehow watching it all. They were known to be devilish creatures.”

  “Islorians are strange,” I mutter, circling the sex altar. But Annika’s words trickle down my spine like icy water.

  She said they must take the stone.

  I am supposed to take a stone in the nymphaeum.

  Is this what Sofie meant? Did she mislead me in her choice of words? Does retrieving this stone for Malachi mean lying on my back for one of these Islorians in some bizarre ritual? One that would produce a child?

  No wonder she didn’t tell me. A flare of anger sparks as I realize I’ve likely been duped. And if she was lying abou
t this, what else has she lied about?

  “Something troubles you?” Annika asks.

  I’m scowling. I smooth my expression, refocusing on the stone altar and on the little that I know of this nymphaeum. An eeriness clings to the air—of many years and countless histories untold. “Wendeline said Farren came here to open a door for Malachi.”

  “You are such an astute pupil,” she mocks, but then points behind me. “That is the door.”

  I study the wall of stone and the odd alphabet carved into it in a swirling pattern. For something so old, it is preserved as if etched just yesterday. “What language is this?”

  “The language of the nymphs. We cannot read it. No one can, not even the casters. Believe me, they have tried.”

  The letters are odd, like nothing I’ve ever seen before, a medley of curves and swirls and circles, some converged, others apart. None run in a linear manner. On impulse, I graze my fingertip across the engraving.

  Faint female laughter coils within my ear, as if carried on a breeze.

  I frown curiously and retrace the lettering. More faint laughter echoes, a high, playful giggle like that of a response to a tickle. It’s joined by others. “Can you hear that?”

  “Hear what?” Annika asks.

  “Your Highness,” Elisaf interrupts in a murmur. “Approaching.”

  Annika and I turn in unison to see Saoirse gliding along the path toward us with an air of purpose, a flock of four females surrounding her.

  My disappointment swells. It wasn’t something otherworldly that I’d heard. It was one of them.

  “Just what we need,” Annika mutters, stepping out of the nymphaeum. I follow her, my pulse racing. Zander told me to stay away from this one. “Oh, look. We were just talking about you.” Annika’s smile for Saoirse is thin as the others curtsy. I assume they are all immortal. There are no ear cuffs to mark them as tributaries.

  “I should think you would be more focused on this ghastly murder under your roof.” Saoirse’s voice is in A chord—high and tinny, with that same pretentious lilt her father uses. “To think, another tributary used to—”