by K. A. Tucker
“What do you want?” Annika cuts her off sharply. “You are ruining an otherwise lovely walk through the grounds with your chatter.”
I barely stifle my laugh. Annika is nothing if not blunt.
Saoirse’s responding smile is smug. “I was giving the others a history lesson.”
“Still not exciting.”
“We have an outstanding library in Kettling. Even better than the one in Cirilea.”
“Thank you for informing us. I’ll be sure to tell Zander, so he can appropriate the best of your collection.”
Saoirse’s lips tighten with annoyance, either because of Annika’s constant interruptions or the clout she casually tosses around. “Anyhow, there is an entire section dedicated to King Ailill and Queen Isla, some of the texts written by my own ancestors. I was perusing the oldest of them not long ago—”
Annika rolls her eyes.
“—and there was mention of a gift given to King Ailill by Malachi himself. A set of cuffs made from a token to entrap the key caster Farren and suppress her power. They were assumed destroyed when she died.” Saoirse’s eyes flash to me, then to my wrists. “Those are Ailill’s cuffs that you are wearing, are they not?” she asks with mock innocence.
“You will address Her Highness suitably,” Elisaf says, cordial but with a rare edge to his tone.
She curtsies formally, but her lips curl with disdain.
I hesitate, fighting the urge to check Annika’s face for the right answer. Wendeline said most people would have no idea what these cuffs were, but it’s not surprising there would be books written about them, or that someone with aspirations for the throne would educate herself. “They are,” I say evenly. Lying is pointless when you are caught.
She makes a point of flashing a shocked glance at her friends. “It’s odd that the king would feel the need to restrain his betrothed, if she is innocent of the high treason she was once accused.”
Clever. She’s planting seeds of doubt. Her hens will run off and scatter that whisper in every direction.
Annika’s eyes narrow. “How dare you—”
“Zander did not require that I wear them. I suggested it,” I cut off Annika’s admonishment. While it might feel good to berate Saoirse, it’ll only give whatever rumors she’s cultivating faster legs.
Saoirse’s eyebrows arch with surprise. “You chose to weaken yourself in such a way?”
“Yes.” My mind is working fast over my story. We should have had one already. Then again, I wasn’t supposed to engage with this serpent. Oddly enough, my heart rate is not spiking with panic as it usually does. Instead, I feel a surge of courage channel through me, much like what I feel whenever I’m reaching for a necklace. “As a testament to my loyalty.”
She presses her palm against her chest. “So you are admitting that the king doubts your loyalty?”
She deserves an award for her display, and for putting words in my mouth. “Zander does not doubt me for a second. But I’m sure there are those in the court willing to believe all sorts of unflattering lies about me, especially those who are trying desperately to take my throne next to his.”
Anger flares in her eyes, as I expected it to with those words. I’m an outsider, a Ybarisan taking an Islorian’s seat of power. I tamp down the urge to smile.
The women surrounding Saoirse exchange nervous glances. It can’t be a surprise to them or anyone in this court what Lord Adley or his daughter are after.
Saoirse lifts her chin. “I haven’t heard of someone suggesting such a thing.”
Beside me, Annika chortles.
“I guess your sources aren’t reliable.”
“Dare I say, I think they are quite so.” Her gaze darts to my shoulder.
Does she know the truth about the daaknar attack? Or is she trying to con me?
I was proficient at swindling people in my old life. It went hand in hand with thieving—assuming fake identities, gaining people’s trust. There was always an endgame with dollar signs. Here, it’s about gaining information, about seeing a person’s cards without them realizing it. Regardless, the fastest way to force someone to show their playing hand is to bluff. Maybe that’s what she’s doing.
Unfortunately for her, I have a bit of practice with that as well. “Then I guess they would have also confirmed that an esteemed member of the court was seen with a Ybarisan, and given the only source of deliquesced merth would be from the Ybarisans, it would stand to reason that we should suspect that court member of having a hand in poisoning Lord Quill. Isn’t that right, Annika?”
Annika’s eyes widen, but her blond head bobs. “My brother the king was suitably appalled when he heard who was conspiring against him.”
“Who is it?” a willowy brunette whispers, and then clamps her lips as if having forgotten herself.
“Oh, we couldn’t possibly share names. Not yet anyway.” Annika’s frown is masterful. “Could we, Romeria?”
I mimic her expression. “No, certainly not until the king decides how he wishes to proceed. And we wouldn’t want to take that pleasure away from him.”
“Unlike Ybarisans, Islorians do not govern based on hearsay.” Saoirse holds her chin especially high, but in her coal-black eyes, I catch the faintest, fastest flicker of something.
“I wouldn’t call it hearsay, given it’s coming right from the source.”
Her eyes bulge with shock before she smooths her expression. “The prisoners have broken their silence?”
I hesitate, wondering how far down this bluff I should go.
“I believe the king has requested your presence at this hour.” Elisaf’s voice cuts through the tension as surely as if he’d swung his blade through the air. Bells toll in the distance.
“Always a delight, Saoirse.” Annika strolls on, and I quickly follow, not daring to steal a glance over my shoulder.
“Did Zander actually want me for something?” I whisper.
“He did not summon you.” Elisaf’s lips curve. “But I imagine he will want to learn of the trouble you and his sister have concocted.”
I replay the conversation in my mind, trying to find holes I might have inadvertently stepped in. “I just wanted to find out what she knows. And shut her up.”
Annika cackles. “I think I dislike this version of Romeria less than the other one.”
“Thanks?” Worry edges into my thoughts. “Is that vein in Zander’s forehead going to throb again?”
Elisaf’s smile widens. “I imagine so, Your Highness.”
Blades clang and shouts ring as I’m sketching Korsakov’s left eye—slightly higher than his right, the outer lid drooping thanks to a four-inch scar at the corner. I always wanted to ask where he earned that mar, but I never had the nerve. Korsakov didn’t like being questioned.
My ear catches approaching footfalls from the direction of Zander’s terrace. Zander normally moves like a wraith; he never makes a sound. But I know without looking that it’s him. I’ve been waiting for him since Elisaf deposited me into my room an hour ago, my anxiety growing with each passing minute as I pondered how angry he might be with me for provoking Saoirse. That I hear his slow, measured footsteps now must be intentional on his part, and it means one of two things—he doesn’t want to frighten me.
Or he does.
“How was your walk through the grounds today?” His voice is crisp and laced with irritation, and still it makes my heart skip a beat from nerves that I fear have little to do with my unease.
“Lovely, thank you for asking.” If he’s angry with me, then my answer will only antagonize him, and yet I can’t help it.
He stops at the rail, peering down at the sparring court. “Anything interesting?”
Besides discovering that Malachi expects me to offer myself up to you on your sex stone under the blood moon for all to watch? I fight against the visual that threatens to consume my thoughts. “The swans.”
“The swans,” he echoes.
“Yes. You know, graceful, long-necked
white birds that float.” I feel Zander’s steady stare as I outline the hump of Korsakov’s crooked nose. I’ve barely thought of the man since I left, and yet when I sat down with pencil and paper, I felt the compelling need to draw his face. A connection to my past life, maybe to remind me of what once was. I can’t decide if this situation I find myself in is better or worse.
“That’s odd. I was so sure you’d say you most enjoyed the part where you fabricated a story accusing a court member of conspiring with the Ybarisans to murder Lord Quill.”
At least we didn’t have to dance around it too long. “It’s the truth, isn’t it?”
“This is the Islorian court. We do not deal in truths unless it serves us well.” His tone is eerily calm. I think I’d prefer it if he snapped at me. “We have no proof of conspiracy with the Ybarisans. Especially not from the prisoners who haven’t said a word.” He folds his arms across his chest as he towers over me. “But now several members of the court are insisting we bring them forth for a public trial, so they may name the accused, and that court member has fair opportunity to defend themselves against such a heinous charge.”
“I assume Adley is spearheading this?”
“That would be a safe assumption.”
I set my graphite on the table. “Good. While we’re at it, we can bring up what he’s doing to the human children in Kettling.” I level Zander with a knowing—and scathing—look.
He sighs heavily. “Do you not see the issue with this situation?”
“Besides the fact that the prisoners aren’t talking?”
“Yes, besides that one rather significant problem,” he says dryly. “After several days of personal attention from Abarrane’s temper and blade, if they should decide to speak, what do you think they would say? Who do you think they might accuse of King Eachann’s and Queen Esma’s murders?” He looks pointedly at me.
“Me? But I’m Ybarisan, like they are.”
“And possibly a traitor in their eyes, especially after that compelling speech you gave in the throne room in front of them. We cannot risk that. So, no, we do not want them to speak. Ever. At least not publicly, and certainly not in a court forum.”
I curse under my breath. Maybe my conning skills aren’t as useful as I convinced myself they would be.
“For someone who has a solid grasp of self-preservation, you seem intent on not surviving.”
“But you’re the king. You decide what happens to me.”
“I will lose the faith of many, including Lord Telor, if it becomes obvious that I’m knowingly placing my parents’ murderer on the queen’s throne. They will not care for my reasons.”
“I hate to say it, but I’m beginning to doubt your reasons too.”
“That’s because you do not understand them, and I am not about to explain myself to you.” His jaw tenses. “Your attack on Cirilea proved to my enemies that the royal family can be defeated, even without the strength of an army. It’s given them courage. What will happen if something should befall my seat on the throne? What will happen to you? Adley has no love for Ybaris. He will not set you free. You will face the fate you are so desperately trying to avoid.”
I shudder at the thought of those pyres. “You think Tyree would do that? Name me?”
“I don’t believe you two are particularly close, but that could be another of your previous deceptions. I wouldn’t put anything past him, especially if he thinks you have turned on your kingdom.”
“All the more reason to allow me to talk to him, then. This is what I’m here for, Zander. Use me. Otherwise, this charade is pointless.”
“I agree, which is why we’re going to see him.”
I falter, not expecting that answer. “When?”
His attention flashes to my sketch. A curious frown darts across his face, but he says nothing. He collects the capelet I tossed over the back of the wing chair. “Now.”
My nerves churn as I stand. I reach for the translucent material in his grasp, but he drapes the garment over my shoulders himself.
“Thank you.” I steal a glance at his face to find his steady, unreadable gaze on me as he fastens the gold ribbon. He has an intimidating stare, and it compels me to speak. “I heard you had a library here.”
“We do.” He hesitates. “Is there something you’d like to read about?”
Everything. The fates, the Great Rift, these mythical nymphs and their magic. “More of Islor’s history.”
“I suppose Elisaf can take you there.” His fingertips graze my collarbone, and the simple, fleeting touch sends a shiver through my limbs.
The corners of his mouth twitch.
“Stop it.”
“Stop what?” he asks with mock innocence.
My cheeks flush. “Feeding your male ego. I don’t like it.”
“Then I suggest you learn how to school those reactions.” He offers his arm. “Shall we go to the dungeon?”
After a moment’s hesitation, I curl my fingers around his biceps.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The trip to the castle’s dungeon is long and arduous, along a dozen hallways and down a spiral of lopsided stairs that are nothing short of lethal—one side open to a perilous drop and lit by sporadic torchlight. It’s as if merely getting to the dungeon is designed to kill. I cling to Zander’s arm without shame, no interest in finding out how far down that fall would take me.
“Your Highness.” A guard bows deeply and then yanks the heavy iron door open with a grunt.
My senses are instantly assaulted by the stench of mold, urine, and rusty metal, accompanied by a medley of low moans.
Shifting out of my grip, Zander’s hand settles on the small of my back as he urges me across the threshold. I collect the corner of my capelet and press it to my nose to mask the offensive odor before I retch, and I move forward along the dark corridor. Cells line either side, closed off but for the small, barred windows in the doors. Rattling coughs from deep within make my teeth grind with pity.
What did they do to earn their way in here? Do they deserve it?
I tread lightly down the aisle, not wanting to stir attention and see their wretched faces. Mice scurry along the floors where they meet walls, darting in and out of holes in the stone.
Halfway along, we pass two male guards wearing leather garb similar to Abarrane’s. One has three blond braids like hers; the other’s entire scalp has seen the sharp edge of a blade. They’re her elite Legion warriors, no doubt. They dip their heads and shift to the side but remain quiet as we pass, their expressions yielding nothing.
Zander clasps his hand over my wrist, stalling me. He leans down to whisper close to my ear, “The only advantage we have over him is that he doesn’t know where you stand.”
An advantage we can lose in a blink. Adrenaline surges through me, and I search for my courage. This is what I was good at—coaxing information out of people who didn’t expect my motives. But I was in my element in my own city, a world away—literally. I was a stranger in a swarm of millions, an innocent nobody with a collection of names I could drop to spark either familiarity or fear. I’ve been off my game since the moment Sofie appeared next to me at that bar, and now I’m pretending to be this guy’s sister. I don’t know who Princess Romeria was, what she was truly like. Everything we know about her was a facade.
“He needs to think you’ve found your way here on your own.”
I nod, not trusting my voice.
“Last cell on the right.”
I leave Zander there, holding my breath as I move on. The deeper I go, the quieter it gets. I count nine more cells before I reach the last at a dead end. I peer into the darkness beyond the barred window, looking for its occupant, but it’s pitch-black inside despite the torch glow by the door.
“Tyree?” I call out in a whisper. Nothing. “Tyree—” I gasp as a bloodied male face suddenly appears, familiar blue eyes staring out at me.
“I thought you’d never come.” His soiled fingers curl around the bars, t
he nails bitten to the quick. He peers behind me. Looking for guards or companions. “How did you get in here?”
My heart pounds in my chest. “I still have a friend or two.” A lie that he cannot prove otherwise. He looks relatively well. Untortured. “Have they hurt you?”
“Have they hurt me?” he hisses, holding up his arm to show me a fresh gash across his biceps. “I wake up to that demon every morning, slicing me with her blade to weaken me.”
I wince. “Abarrane. She’s scary.” Empathy is always a quick way to assuage fear, to put people at ease so they’ll talk.
“They took Rodrick and Kieve yesterday, and they haven’t brought them back. Are they still alive?” Tyree’s voice is low, and he speaks quickly.
“As far as I know.” I keep my eyes locked on his, fighting the urge to search out Zander in the shadows. I sense him there, his steely gaze on me, his ears pricked, likely for both information and traces of deception on my part. Zander’s right—if I hint that I’m not alone, Tyree will give me nothing. The trick here is to say as little as possible. “I don’t have long—”
“You must get us out of here. We have too much work to do yet.”
“I’m trying, but it’s not easy. They don’t trust me.”
“It seems you’ve fooled them into thinking you are a victim.”
His words squash whatever shred of hope I might have been clinging to that Princess Romeria was framed. Everything Zander has accused her of, she deserves. “Not all of them believe it.”
“But the king does.”
“Barely, I fear sometimes.”
He leans in, pressing his head against the bars. “You said you had everything lined up that night.”
“I did. And then everything went wrong.”
“Mother sent word. She is displeased with our failure.”
Queen Neilina threw her children into enemy territory to steal a throne. Her son was being hunted and her daughter assumed killed, and yet she’s expressing her disappointment? It’s all I can do to not shake my head. “She killed our father.”