A Fate of Wrath & Flame

by K. A. Tucker

  “What’s your affinity to, Atticus?” I ask.

  He peers over his shoulder at me. “I don’t have one.”

  I frown. “But I thought all the nymphaeum-born immortals did. Annika does.”

  “Yes. She stole mine in the womb,” comes his wry response. Is there bitterness in his tone? I can’t tell.

  “Atticus does not need an affinity,” Zander says. “He has a king’s army to swell his ego.”

  “Yes. An army that I should be leading into battle instead of escorting my fool brother on some hunt for useless information.” He taps his heels against his horse, and it speeds up.

  We’re moving away from the industrial area now and closer to the water’s edge. Raucous voices filled with laughter tickle my eardrums. I assume this is Cirilea’s nightlife that Elisaf suggested I experience.

  Two royal guard members on horses linger at a street corner. We pass them without slowing. They don’t seem bothered by three cloaked figures.

  Atticus stops where our lane meets a broader street. We sidle our horse next to him. Straight ahead, the silhouette of an enormous ship stands solemn, its mast reaching into the indigo sky. A sliver of an ordinary, meek moon glows above, and I find myself wishing for a blood moon to cast its brilliant light across the span of ocean.

  “We’re going this way.” Zander steers Tripsy to the left.

  I take in the view with unbridled fascination. The street is lined with establishment signs for a myriad of taverns and inns, and judging by the scantily clad women perched on the balconies tempting the crowd with their exposed skin, brothels. Everywhere I look are revelers, some stumbling out of doors from too much drink, others gathered in small groups, their giggles and shouts hinting at an enjoyable night. Mixed with the ocean air are faint wafts of spilled ale and stale urine. Three men stand in a corner with their backs to us, relieving themselves on the side of a building.

  A busker sits on a wooden crate ahead, strumming an energizing melody on his banjo for a crowd, the tune and his lively voice blending with the street buzz to create a friendly atmosphere.

  When Zander spoke of thieves and unsavory folk, I assumed dark alleyways and cutthroats waiting in the shadows. This looks more like the evening festivities after a city parade.

  We stop where several horses are tethered to posts ahead. Zander hops off and guides Tripsy into a vacant spot.

  “Is it always like this?” I ask.

  “When a large ship arrives at port, yes. And the Silver Mage is a large ship. But also, the market fair has brought many to the city.” Zander pats my thigh in a wordless gesture for me to dismount. He’s doing that far more often as of late—familiar touches, little grazes. The days of being repulsed by the sight of me appear to be over.

  I find the stirrup with my foot and ease myself down. Getting off a horse is easier than climbing on, and yet Zander seizes my hips to guide me down. My feet hit the cobblestone and his hands linger a moment longer, tightening their grip, his body nudging me suggestively from behind. Maybe that’s just my mind making those suggestions.

  Or the bastard enjoys coaxing those reactions from me.

  He releases me only to entwine his fingers with mine.

  “I thought we were incognito down here. Is there a need to keep up this act?” I lift our conjoined hands.

  “I told you I would keep you close.”

  “You’re afraid I’m going to run.”

  “I’m not afraid, but I would not put it past you. Besides, is this so insufferable?” Humor dances in his eyes.

  He knows it’s not. “Are you testing me?”

  “I’m always testing you, Romeria.” Quietly, he adds, “And you are always testing me.”

  Atticus drops coins into a boy’s hand to mind the horses, and then we set off along the street, Zander hiding deep within his cowl, his hand a viselike grip around mine, but not unpleasantly so. It’s difficult to steal glances from beneath my cover, so I rely mostly on my ears, catching accents like Elisaf’s, though thicker. They must be Seacadorian ship hands and sailors, enjoying Cirilea’s nightlife before they disembark for the next leg of their journey.

  That these Seacadorians mingle freely, that they’re not afraid of the Islorian immortals is fascinating to me.

  A man and woman spill out of a door, the man’s arm slung over the woman’s shoulders for support, their laughter hysterical as they stumble across the street and disappear into an inn.

  “Where exactly are we going?” I ask.

  “To the best source of information in Cirilea.” Zander nods to where Atticus holds open a door. The sign above his head reads The Goat’s Knoll.

  “This is where Elisaf was attacked.” I didn’t mean to say it out loud.

  Surprise flashes in Zander’s eyes before he smooths it off. “You retain a startling amount of information.” His hand slides over the small of my back. “And that happened outside, in the back alley.”

  “Not comforting.”

  “No one in here will touch you.”

  No one but Zander.

  Darkness swallows us whole as we step inside. I take quick stock of our surroundings. The Goat’s Knoll is not a place a king and queen would frequent. It’s a rustic tavern that smells of body odor, tallow, and ale, lit with just enough lanterns so mortals don’t stumble over tables. Two men sit on a tiny stage by the bar, one playing an accordion while the other claps and sings, the bawdy lyrics stirring laughter from those listening.

  A woman in a ruffled burgundy silk dress approaches Atticus. “You’re late,” she scolds in a sultry voice, reaching up to toy with strands of her strawberry-blond hair that rests against her collarbone. The simple act draws my eyes to her plummeting neckline.

  Atticus collects her hand and presses a kiss against it. “I apologize, Bexley. We were delayed.”

  “Hmm.” Her violet eyes drift to Zander and flash wide. “Interesting company you keep tonight, Atti.” She dips her head ever so subtly, a sign that she recognizes the king but is respecting the discretion he obviously seeks. “Are you sure you would not be more comfortable in my private office upstairs?” Her chest rises with a deep inhale as her eyes rake over me, settling on my neck.

  A chill skitters down my spine. She’s an immortal, and her thoughts are clear.

  “A booth in the back near an exit will be sufficient,” Zander says evenly.

  She dips her head a second time and holds out her hand. Atticus drops several gold coins into her palm. Only then does she lead us forward.

  We walk in single file—me sandwiched between my towering male companions—and I scan my surroundings from beneath my cowl. The crowd is a mix of Seacadorian sailors and Islorian commoners, the women in flirty dresses, the men in splayed tunics. At nearly every table we pass, people are in deep conversation with their companions while sipping from copper mugs of ale. Some wear the cuffs of slaves on their ears, but they appear nothing like the docile, obedient servants I’m accustomed to seeing within the castle walls.

  Zander ushers me through quickly, but still, I note curious glances and wide eyes of surprise. He leans in to whisper in my ear, “You were going to keep your distance, were you?”

  I resist the urge to elbow him in the gut. He’s right. Everyone knows the future queen of Islor is Ybarisan. There is no way for me to remain hidden among these people—a reality that leaves me feeling as exposed as if I were standing naked in front of them.

  “I assume this will suffice.” Bexley gestures toward a small booth framed by a heavy curtain. Many more like it run along the wall, some curtains drawn closed, others left open to reveal amorous couples tucked away.

  Zander urges me in first and then slides in beside me. The wooden bench is small, and his thigh nudges against mine.

  Bexley settles across from us. “Atti, are you not going to join us?” she taunts.

  “Not this time, Bex.” Atticus draws the curtain, closing us into the dark nook.

  The flame within the lantern flares, boos
ting the light. Zander’s doing, I’m sure.

  Bexley’s observant eyes dart from it to Zander and me. She folds her hands on the table in front of her. “Atticus said he had two friends who would like to meet me, but I do not believe this is the sort of encounter I was hoping for.”

  Zander smiles. “Unfortunately not.”

  “Pity.” Her gaze settles on me. “The infamous Royal Slayer is far prettier than I expected.”

  “Romeria has been exonerated of all charges,” Zander says smoothly.

  “Yes. For whatever reason,” she murmurs, and it is obvious what she thinks of Princess Romeria’s innocence.

  Zander sizes her up. I doubt he’s used to being spoken to with such cavalier distrust, especially by a barkeep who knows who he is. “We have need of information,” he says after a long moment.

  Bexley sighs. “Doesn’t everyone?”

  Zander cocks his head. “And who else has been in here looking for information from you as of late?”

  “Oh, you know, soldiers, the occasional aristocrat …” She leans forward to rest her elbows on the table, the move stretching her dress so low that a hint of nipple peeks out. “The usual distasteful lot.”

  Zander doesn’t fall for the bait, his eyes locked on her face. “Anything I need to be made aware of?”

  She pauses as if weighing how much truth her answer should include. “There are whispers that more of the poison that killed King Eachann and Queen Esma is traveling through Islor.”

  Zander’s jaw tenses. “Yes, we have heard that rumor.”

  “It is not so much rumor, is it?”

  He stares at her. He didn’t want anyone else aware of these vials of poison making their rounds. A foolish wish, surely.

  I will give Bexley credit—she matches his look, doing no more than blinking once.

  “Have you heard of any casters arriving by way of Skatrana and Seacadore in the last few weeks?” he asks.

  Her sculpted eyebrow arches. “Casters?”

  “Yes.”

  “Aside from the wind casters that always come with the ship … no.”

  “Your establishment caters to many Seacadorians, from what I’ve seen. Would anyone in here be of value in answering that question?”

  She toys with a lock of hair. “You mean, like the captain of the Silver Mage?”

  “Are you saying the captain is here tonight?” Zander asks.

  She pauses, licking her lips. I sense a slight hesitation. “The Goat’s Knoll is known for its prudence. I’m sure you can appreciate why Kaders would not welcome questions about his cargo, even if he knows it’s the king who’s asking.”

  “I do not care who he has been smuggling out. I want to know who he has brought in.”

  “Still, what you’re requesting has a steep price.”

  “And how many gold pieces is required to pay that price?” Zander asks calmly, reaching for the leather satchel tied to his hip. He expected this.

  “Kaders is of both Seacadorian and Skatranan blood. He’s an especially grim sod, but he can be bought with sufficient gold. My fee requires something else.”

  “And what is that?”

  Her eyes flip to me, and her stare is nothing short of predatory. “I’ve never had the pleasure of tasting a Ybarisan, and she smells delectable.”

  My stomach drops.

  “No,” Zander growls, his hand clenching the bag of coin that now rests between his thighs.

  Her jaw sets with determination. “Then I don’t know that I can help you.”

  “You are refusing your king?”

  “I was under the impression that you were another commoner tonight.”

  He pauses to study her. “If this captain provides pertinent information, I can arrange for prime seating at the royal repast, and you’ll get your taste of Ybarisan blood there.”

  Delight dances in her eyes. “Not royalty, but I suppose it will do. Give me a moment.” She slips out between the part in the curtain.

  “Do you trust her?”

  “Completely, and not at all.” He tracks her swaying hips through the small slit. “Bexley is one of the most connected people in all Cirilea and a friend of Atticus’s who has proven herself valuable time and again. She is an ear to the ground—and to the underground.”

  “But …” I’m sure I already know where this is going. There’s a man like Bexley back home. They call him Mule. He’s a little league player with big league aspirations and an impressive network of ears and eyes. When Korsakov wanted information he couldn’t readily find, he’d track down Mule. The intel was always reliable, but he knew Mule was also giving it to anyone else willing to pay.

  “Bexley knowing what is important to me means that, for the right price, my enemies might also know.”

  “And knowledge is power.”

  “Whether you sit upon a throne or you are trying to steal it. But hopefully she shows prudence, given who I am.”

  I can understand his hesitation. “So the royal repast is officially happening?”

  “Yes. There is already talk of it through the city. Immortals everywhere are salivating at the opportunity. But we’re down to three prisoners now.”

  “Three?”

  “One died today, and Tyree is too valuable to execute, so I will keep him in the tower.”

  “Someone died during questioning?”

  “With the help of Abarrane’s blade across his jugular, yes.”

  I cringe. “Why did she do that?”

  “I needed a way out of that little lie you and Annika stirred up with Saoirse. The source of the accusation can’t be questioned by the court if he’s not breathing.”

  His words are like a punch to my chest. “He’s dead because of me.” Because of my bluff.

  Zander studies me a moment, as if weighing the wave of guilt surging through me. “He was dead the moment Abarrane captured him. In truth, he got a more merciful death than the others will face. You helped him in that way.”

  “Why don’t I feel better, then,” I mutter.

  “Would knowing he killed the tributary bring you comfort?”

  “Did he?”

  Zander shrugs. “I do not know, but he was an accomplice, at minimum, and surely he has blood on his hands.”

  Don’t we all. “Why is Bexley so anxious to feed off a Ybarisan, anyway?”

  “Because Ybarisan blood is intoxicating. Most Islorians have never had the opportunity to taste it.” He turns to meet my gaze. “She can’t harm you.”

  “I know. But it’s weird, having someone openly lust over feeding on me like I’m a slice of chocolate cake.”

  “Is it any different from having someone openly lust over you in other ways?” he asks quietly, his eyes dropping to my mouth. We’re sitting so close I can pick out the gold flecks in his irises within the lantern light.

  I assume he’s testing me again, but even being aware of that, my heart instantly races. The air in our private cubby thickens, the sounds of laughter and muted conversation surrounding us heady.

  Something drastic is shifting between us, and quickly.

  Zander swallows. He senses it too.

  But then his attention snaps toward the drawn curtain. “I do not know what methods Bexley will employ with this man, but keep your composure and tell her nothing.”

  Atticus draws the curtain back, and Bexley slides in with feline grace. Alongside her is a sturdy man of about forty with striking pale-blue eyes and golden skin, weathered, likely by years of sea and sun. He offers nothing, not even a stiff smile, as he eyes first Zander and then me, lingering on my face a beat too long for my liking. But there is no flare of shock, no nervous fidgeting. It doesn’t seem he recognizes—or even suspects—who he’s sitting across from. That’s a welcome relief.

  A server sets three mugs of ale on the table—one in front of the captain, the others in front of me and Zander—and then quietly vanishes.

  Bexley winks at me. “On the house.”

  “What do ya
want?” The captain’s voice is deep and gruff and laced with a heavy accent.

  “Now, Kaders, that’s no way to behave with my friends,” Bexley croons, resting her arm against the back of the bench so she can twirl one of his sun-kissed curls with her fingers.

  “Every time you ask me for a favor, I’ll wager it somehow ends up costin’ me more than it does you.”

  “And I’ll wager you don’t mind paying the price,” she retorts.

  His focus drifts down the front of her dress—half her nipples are still on display—but he doesn’t respond.

  “They have some questions about your passengers, particularly any casters you might have had on board.”

  “Through Skatrana,” Zander adds, his hands folded tidily beside his mug of ale. He hasn’t reached for it.

  “Aye, I always have a caster with me to keep wind blowin’ in our sails and tame those dreaded sirens.”

  “Not the casters under Seacadorian employ. Passengers seeking voyage to Cirilea.”

  Recognition flickers in the captain’s eyes. It’s fleeting, but it’s enough that my heart skips a beat with excitement.

  But he says nothing.

  Zander casually reaches down to fish out a handful of coins from his money sack. He stacks them in a tidy pile between the ale glasses.

  “Aye, there was a caster who came into port with me. She stayed below deck and didn’t bother much.”

  “Just one?”

  Kaders dips his head.

  “What did she look like?”

  Kaders’s eyes flitter to the stack of coins in front of him before he collects his ale and takes a long, drawn-out sip.

  The softest exhale slips from Zander’s lips as he digs into his money purse again, pulling out another equal stack.

  “Woman with long hair as dark as ink and eyes like green jewels. Pretty thing.”

  “Did she give you a name?”

  Again, Kaders takes a long sip, waiting.

  But Zander isn’t so quick to dole out more coins this time. He leans forward and through gritted teeth, repeats, “What was her name?”

  Kaders glares at Bexley and with a sweeping gesture collects his coins and dumps them into a leather satchel at his hip. He makes to slide out of the booth.