by K. A. Tucker
“I assumed you would. You’re excellent at it. In fact, you’ve convinced me—I’d also like a few apple tarts.” I nod to Elisaf, who adds another coin to the pile. “That should buy us as many as can fit in the children’s hands, I think. Don’t you?”
Whatever hostile response is stirring within Danthrin’s mind, he scans the soldiers behind me and the crowd, and he must think better of it. He nods to Gracen, capping it off with a scathing glare.
She sweeps in, handing two to each child before ushering them around the table.
“Do you have all your belongings?” I ask quietly.
She puts her hands on her children’s shoulders as she blinks away tears. “I have everything I need, Your Highness.”
Mika’s mouth is occupied by a tart as one of my guards ushers them away.
I turn back to the despicable keeper, whose jaw is clenched so tightly, he might crack his teeth. “It was lovely to meet you. The king and I will be sure to visit Freywich the next time we have the opportunity. I’d love to see these prized apple trees you guard so viciously.”
His eyes flash with understanding. Good. Yet something tells me it’s the least of his crimes.
We continue down the lane, trailing Dagny who keeps peering over her shoulder to beam at me.
But my rage is simmering. The rookery, and now this market. Aside from Port Street—which may ring of sin to some but to me hints of choice—my first tastes of Islor outside the castle walls are as foul as that wormy apple. “Did you see what he did to that little boy? The kid was probably starving.”
“A fair assumption.”
“He shouldn’t have land or a lordship. We should take it away from him. Who gave it to him, anyway?”
“I thought you didn’t have any interest in being queen,” Elisaf murmurs, a smug smile touching his lips.
“I don’t. Zander can take it from him. Who is this Lord Danthrin?”
“A minor lord from Freywich, a town about three hours’ ride outside of Cirilea. And now, your newest enemy.”
“I’ll add him to my growing collection.” But unease slips in. “I assume there is court etiquette or protocol I’ve just trampled over.”
“Yes. Very much so.”
I hesitate. “How annoyed will Zander be with me for this?”
A secretive look passes over Elisaf’s face. “We shall see.”
The textiles section of the market is nearest to the water, and vast. Rows of stalls offer cloth stacked in piles and draped from lines. Silks, linens, and cotton billow in the slight breeze, reminding me of sheets drying outside on summer days. There are hundreds of options. Maybe thousands. I wouldn’t know how to choose.
Thankfully, between Dagny and Odier, I’m sensing I won’t be a part of any actual decision-making.
“I want to see your finest silks and linens in your most vibrant dyes. Nothing less will do for Her Highness,” Dagny demands, standing as tall as her stout frame allows.
“All of my cloth is the finest. My silks? The finest. My linens? The finest. Wools? The finest. I have brought the most sublime fabrics with me on this voyage. Cloth that Empress Roshmira herself has requested. You will find nothing else like it among those rags over there.” The Seacadorian clothier is a heavyset bald man who speaks in baritone, bows with a theatrical twirl of his hand, and does not hide his disdain for his competition. “Nothing but the finest cloth should touch Her Highness’s most exquisite body.” He offers another dramatic bow, giving me a chance to steal a wide-eyed glance at Elisaf.
“It sounds like we’re in agreement, then! Show me the best of your best, Odier,” Dagny demands with far more assertion than I’ve ever heard from her.
“They are all back here, for Her Highness’s perusal …” The two of them disappear into the throng of fabric, leaving Elisaf and me on the outskirts, my soldiers loitering.
“Did you not want to see what he has?” Elisaf asks.
“I don’t think my opinion matters here.”
He chuckles. “That may be true. Besides, I think someone wants to speak with you.”
I follow Elisaf’s nod. Bexley hovers at a stall, testing the weight of a material between her fingers, the ginger and gold in her hair glimmering beneath the sun. She rounds the table, her eyes lifting and zeroing in on me for three beats before she refocuses on the cloth.
“Is it safe?” The last time I saw her, she was straddling Kaders’s lap with her teeth in his neck, likely wishing she could sink them into mine.
“She would be a fool to try anything, and she is no fool. Regardless, I will be within reach and watching closely. But when someone like Bexley wishes to speak … you always listen.”
So she has something important to tell me. “What would I do without you, Elisaf?”
His smile is easy. “Somehow I think you would manage.”
Before Dagny returns, I stroll over to the next stall.
“You make a lot of noise,” Bexley says by way of greeting, testing the frayed edge of a silk between her fingertips. “It has spread through half of Cirilea already that the future queen is out buying pastries and servants in the market.”
“I’ve had a busy morning.”
“And with such a faithful guard too.” Her eyes dart to where I came from. “I remember Eli before. He was a regular at my establishment. A favorite of mine.”
Eli? “I guess I don’t have to ask how you two know each other.”
She smirks. “Not unless you’re in the mood for sordid details.”
“Not especially.”
Bexley wears a modest gown the color of pistachio sorbet, no hint of nipple to be seen. Still, she carries herself with an effortless confidence that I admire. No one tells her what to do.
Her sharp focus drifts over my neck, and I know what she’s thinking. A shiver runs along my spine. “You wanted to tell me something?”
“I was going to wait until I saw you at the repast, but when I heard you were here, I thought the sooner, the better.” She holds up a rich indigo silk against my cheek. “This would be a stunning color on you.”
“Careful. You’ll give Odier a coronary if he sees anyone else’s material touching me.”
She tsks. “Dear, dear Odier. He thinks so highly of himself. He would never step foot in an establishment such as mine.”
“I don’t have a lot of time before my seamstress returns.”
She sighs. “Kaders withheld a few details from you last night.”
“How do you know?”
“Because that’s what happens after Kaders spills his seed. He spills his secrets.” She smiles coyly. “I could have pried the information you obtained from him without you casting a single coin, if you’d stayed long enough.”
And watched the full sex show, she means. “You’re saying I’ve already paid up front for whatever you’re about to tell me.”
Her eyes narrow as she studies my face. “I heard you were meek and subservient.”
“Rumors are never entirely accurate, are they?”
“Or in this case, not at all.” She pauses. “The caster going by Gesine was not alone. She was traveling with an older woman. She also had a collar around her neck, but Kaders’s wind woman told him she was a seer.”
Wendeline mentioned the seers before. “Did she have a name?”
“I’m sure she did, but it wasn’t one that was used. The caster Gesine was protective of her. Kept her in their cabin and wouldn’t let anyone near, including the wind woman.”
I search for value in this new information, but there are still too many holes in my knowledge of this world. “And he didn’t say where they went when they got off his ship?”
“No, though they were met by a wagon. The older woman seemed confused, he said.”
“They easily could have left the city by now.”
“Perhaps, though there are many places to hide within, if you know the right people.”
And if there is anyone who knows the right people, it’s Bexley.
“I have a favor to ask you,” I say before I can talk myself out of it. I can’t rely only on Dagny’s network, especially not when I have the ear of Cirilea’s most resourceful, and I can’t wait for Boaz to show up in the throne room with a collared elemental.
Bexley’s eyebrow arches. “A favor for the Ybarisan princess that she dared not ask in front of her betrothed? I will not lie, I am intrigued.”
“I need you to find these women for me.”
Incredulous laughter sings from her lips. “Is that all?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I thought you would be capable of something that straightforward. Was I wrong?”
She smirks. “Have you questioned the priestess Wendeline at the sanctum?”
“They’re not there.” At least, not yet.
“You seem so sure.”
“And you seem to know something I don’t.”
“I know many things you don’t.” Her lips twist with thought. “What are your intentions with these women? Will it earn me a place on a pyre next to you?”
So she does have thoughts for self-preservation. “I need information from them. That’s all. I have no intention of hurting anyone in Islor.” In fact, I’m desperately trying not to.
“What you’re asking will cost you.”
“What do you want?”
Her eyes settle to my neck before meeting mine again.
I swallow against my apprehension, though I was prepared for this the second I asked for the favor. “The king already gave you his answer on that.”
“And is the king your keeper?”
“No.” Technically, yes.
“I’m sorry, I thought you weren’t the meek and subservient Ybarisan princess you once pretended to be. Was I wrong?”
She’s persistent, which I expected. “You’re already getting your Ybarisan blood.”
“Yes, at the trough, like a barn animal.” Her nose wrinkles with scorn. “I would prefer yours.”
I really don’t think you would. “Fine.”
Her eyes flash with enthusiasm. “Are you saying we have a deal?”
“Yes.” Just not one she’ll be expecting. For the first time since Corrin insisted on hiding my scars to keep the truth of the attack secret, I can appreciate the benefit of guarding that knowledge. If Bexley knew the truth, I wouldn’t have anything to barter with now. “In private, and only after you bring me info that leads me directly to these women.”
“That is a reasonable request.”
“It’s urgent, Bexley. The sooner, the better. And let her know the royal guard has the description Kaders gave us. They’re looking for her.”
She licks her lips. “Is there anything else you can tell me to help guide my search?”
“Your Highness!” Dagny bellows. Beside her, Odier stands with his hands on his hips and his eyes wide with horror, and I realize my fingers are still grasping the indigo fabric.
I release it as if the cloth burned me. To Bexley, I whisper, “One of them may go by the name Ianca.”
“That is helpful.”
“Be tactful.”
“I am not some prattling servant,” she snaps, anger flashing in her eyes. “You would not believe the secrets I keep. Secrets that could sink a great many influential people if I had aspirations for playing the games of these fools who call themselves noble.”
“I didn’t mean to offend you.”
She sniffs, but my apology seems to calm her. “I imagine finding her won’t be as difficult as getting a message to you without notice. But I will think of a way. And I would suggest you be very careful who you trust within the walls of that castle.”
“Funny. I was told to not trust you.”
“And you shouldn’t, but at least I will never deign to wear the skin of a devoted ally to hide the fact that I am your foe.” She curtsies. “I look forward to seeing you at the royal repast, though for whatever game you two are playing, I hope you and the king can put on a better show than you have thus far.”
Mika is hanging out the window, stroking the muzzle of a horse within reach when we arrive back at the carriage.
“I don’t believe a stroll through the rookery as you requested is advisable, Your Highness,” Elisaf says.
“Maybe not, given our passengers.” I’m sure Gracen is feeling as discombobulated as I was the night I woke up on the royal grounds.
“Also, because you’ve spent all our coin. We wouldn’t have much to dole out.”
I struggle to suppress my smile at the guards trailing us, their arms laden with bolts of fabrics—all of them necessary, according to Dagny and Odier. “Maybe tomorrow, then.”
“The king will be pleased to hear it.”
I snort. “I’m sure.”
Elisaf glances to the nearest guard, and he lowers his voice. “What did Bexley want?”
I falter over the truth. Surely, whatever I tell Elisaf will make its way back to Zander as it has so far. But Zander also insisted on keeping what we learned from Tyree between us. Who is it among them that he doesn’t trust? It can’t be Elisaf, could it? If that were the case, why would he assign him to my protection?
And yet Bexley’s warning has slid under my skin and taken root, and I can’t shake this sense of foreboding that she knows far more about my situation than she’s letting on. “To make sure I call you Eli from now on.” Zander’s conspiracy theory is making me as paranoid as him. Still, if Zander wants Elisaf knowing about the seer, he can tell him.
He shakes his head and chuckles, but he doesn’t press.
Mika sees me and waves his misshapen hand emphatically, as if we’re old friends. It’s comforting to know that Danthrin might have abused him but he didn’t steal his ability to still be a child.
An idea strikes me. “Do you think Wendeline could help him?”
Elisaf scratches his chin in thought. “It might be too old a wound, but it is worth her looking at. I will call for her to meet us at the castle.”
I have a better idea. “No need to drag her all the way out. Let’s stop at the sanctum on the way.”
“Try that.”
Mika holds his injured hand in the air in front of him and extends his fingers as far as he can. While they’re not entirely straight, they’ve certainly improved. He grins.
To Gracen, Wendeline says, “I was able to fix the nerve damage, but I can’t do much for the scars. Mortal skin is more delicate, and it’s been too long since it happened. But, with some daily stretching exercises, he should have full use of it again.”
“Thank you, Priestess. This is more than we could ever have prayed for.” She smooths her hand over her swollen belly.
Wendeline tracks the move with a tired smile. “How far along are you?”
“Eight months. This one has been particularly difficult.”
Wendeline reaches forward, but then hesitates. “May I?”
With a wary glance my way, Gracen nods.
Wendeline presses her hand against Gracen’s belly and closes her eyes. She’s been picking at her fingernails since she healed me yesterday. For many hours, I would guess. They’re down to the quick, and in one spot, painfully so. That’s the sign of a person who is nervous, conflicted.
Bexley’s warning has rattled me.
“I’ve never met a priestess before,” Gracen admits. “Not a real one, anyway.”
I’m unsure what she means by that, but now is not the time to ask.
When Wendeline opens her eyes again, they’re shining. “You have no reason to worry. Your baby is healthy and strong. She will be born soon.”
“She?” Gracen lets out a breathy laugh. “Another girl. That’s … wonderful news.” Her smile falters, as if it’s not.
A low wail carries through the sanctum, turning the few heads of people who are here for midday prayer. Lilou fell asleep in Dagny’s arms on the carriage ride and was content to stay asleep while the sturdy seamstress strolled the aisles, but she’s awake now and searching for her mother. “I should get
her before she begins to shriek.” Gracen heaves herself out of the pew and waddles away. Mika trots closely behind, closing and opening his hand with fascination.
“She doesn’t seem particularly thrilled about another girl.”
Wendeline’s gaze trails mine. “I sense she has seen great hardship in her young life, and she fears her daughters will face the same.”
“Not anymore. At least, I hope not.” I’m not sure how much better a life she and her family will have under Zander’s employ, but I am sure it will be infinitely safer than the one Danthrin offered.
Wendeline stares at me a long moment before startling, as if catching herself. “I cannot believe you marched up to the lord’s booth and demanded to take them all.”
Neither can I, after the fact. I shrug. “If I’m playing this role, I might as well get some enjoyment from it, right? Hopefully that monster is suffocating in the bed of tarts and pudding cakes he made for himself.”
Elisaf is far in the back, waiting patiently; the other guards are outside. But I sense my time here is limited. Too long and I might be testing the lax leash Zander released me on. Regardless, I’ll have to provide an explanation for our conversation.
Three priestesses kneel in front of the altar. They haven’t moved an inch since we sat down. There are no wary looks, no secretive stares, nothing to suggest they’re hiding anyone within these walls.
“Is something the matter, Your Highness?” Wendeline asks.
“I don’t know.” I’ve spent years looking at everyone through a lens of suspicion. I didn’t want to use it on Elisaf and Wendeline. But maybe that will be my downfall.
I study the priestess intently as I ask, “What reason would a seer have to come to Cirilea?”
She can’t hide the flash of surprise in her eyes fast enough. I think that’s the trick with Wendeline—she’s always given the opportunity to slip on her invisible armor before facing anyone. But my impromptu visit here with Mika in tow didn’t allow for that.
Her reaction brings a conflicting surge of satisfaction, and a sting of betrayal. Bexley was right, and I’ve been far too trusting. “You knew.”
Her gaze shifts to the kneeling priestesses, and then to her peripheral, to make sure no one is behind us. She releases a sigh that seems to carry the weight of a heavy burden from her chest with it. “They arrived two days ago. But I knew they were coming.”