A Fate of Wrath & Flame

by K. A. Tucker

  His head rolls to the side to regard me.

  “Do you normally have an audience when you bathe?” I ask.

  “If there is a female in my bathing chamber, she is not sitting in a chair beside me.” He smirks. “What did Kaders forget to mention last night?”

  “That there was also a seer on his ship.”

  The amusement slides off Zander’s face. “A seer. Here in Cirilea?”

  “Yes. She was traveling with the elemental. They climbed into a wagon and disappeared.”

  A flurry of thoughts fly through his gaze. “I’ve always wondered what it’s like to speak to one.”

  “It’s confusing, sometimes disturbing.” I rush to add, “That’s what Wendeline told me. We stopped by the sanctum on the way back.” But I also know firsthand, another stunning truth I need time to process.

  “Did you tell Wendeline what Bexley told you?”

  “I figured you would if you wanted her to know.” I study Zander’s chest intently to try to mask my lie.

  He nods. His expression is pensive. “I’ve heard they can see things that we can’t.”

  Find the gilded doe.

  What has my father seen? Something about me, obviously. He said the gilded doe was looking for me. But Wendeline also said their visions aren’t rooted in reality.

  “What else did Bexley say?”

  “Nothing important.”

  Those piercing hazel eyes shift back to me, and I know that even news of the seer isn’t distracting him anymore. He must sense the tension coursing through me with my lies. But which secret is weighing me down more? That I’ve tasked Bexley with finding Ianca, or that I’m a key caster sent to open a door and possibly tear a dimensional fold that will release a fresh army of monsters, or that Wendeline has been scheming with Mordain because of some prophecy that would see us together?

  I do the only thing I can think of to distract both of us from too much consideration. I drag my chair closer, reach for the washcloth, and dipping it into the water, smooth it over his neck.

  A sharp inhale slips from his lips.

  “She told me not to trust anyone.” I smooth the soft material over his collarbones and his shoulders, focusing only on the feel of his body beneath my fingers, keeping my thoughts shallow. It’s not hard to do. In fact, it’s impossibly easy to focus on nothing but Zander when he’s around.

  “That’s rich, coming from her.”

  “That’s basically what I said. But the more I learn, the more I understand why you don’t trust anyone.” His chest is a canvas of smooth, unmarred skin, perfect in its sculpture. Warm water sluices over it as I wash away all evidence of sweat and dirt and dried blood.

  “Everyone has given me a reason not to,” he admits after a moment.

  “What about Elisaf?”

  “Except for him. I trust him.”

  “Completely?” I echo his question regarding Wendeline yesterday.

  “Yes.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  My fingertip grazes his bare skin against his rib cage, and he inhales deeply again. “Because I am the one who made him what he is.”

  My hand stalls. “He told me he was attacked by an immortal in an alleyway.”

  “He was. He’d been in the Knoll that night and allowed someone on his vein. We can only take so much before it becomes hazardous. But then the male who accosted him took more, far too much. By the time I came upon them, Elisaf was nearly gone. I knew he wouldn’t survive. So, I used my venom on him.”

  “But you blamed the attacker for turning him. He was executed for it.” Zander is the one who told me that turning mortals was punishable by death no matter what the reason.

  “Yes.” He studies my face a moment, as if waiting for my reaction to that admission of guilt.

  I make a second pass over his prominent collarbones. “I’m sure you had a good reason.”

  He smirks. “Besides not wanting to die?”

  “You were the prince, and Elisaf was attacked. Neither of you would have died.”

  “Maybe not. But my father would have felt the need to make an example of me. As it was, I had to fight to keep him from executing Elisaf.” Zander’s eyes shift from their intense scrutiny of my face back to the ceiling. “Humans are the literal lifeblood of Islor. We need them to survive, and the fear that the blood curse will take all of them from us runs deep, all the way back to the days of Ailill and Isla. Turning a human for any reason is forbidden by the crown. So Elisaf and I lied, and his attacker received the punishment he deserved.”

  “And now you and Elisaf are bound by this secret?”

  “We’re bound by the simple fact that I created him. I am his maker. He cannot help his loyalty. It is ingrained in his being. An odd side effect.”

  “You’re his master.”

  He snorts. “Don’t ever let him hear you say that.”

  “He said you took pity on him after. Helped him survive and made him a soldier.”

  “We helped each other survive. Another side effect of the venom is the euphoria of releasing it into a vein. It’s an exhilarating feeling, and when you give in to it once, it’s difficult not to keep giving into it.”

  “You’re saying it’s addicting.”

  “Yes. Addicting. Highly. Another reason why the act is banned within Islor. It took months to get the urge out of my system. Elisaf and I went into the mountains north of Lyndel, under the guise of helping him transition. Really, it was both of us battling our urges.”

  I feel him exploring my face as I squeeze the cloth and watch the water pour down over his chest. “So, you trust him completely, then.”

  “More than anyone else I know.” He pauses. “And now you know one of my deepest secrets.”

  I sense the question hanging in the air. Tell me your secrets, Romeria.

  The relief that I feel with Wendeline knowing is staggering, but I can’t assume the reception of my news will be as welcomed by the king, nor will the glaring proof that yet another of his trusted people have lied to him.

  “You have a cut,” I whisper, stalling a moment to study a thin red line across the ball of his shoulder.

  “It’s already healing.”

  I slip my hand below the waterline to travel over his abdomen, the ripple of muscle against my palm mesmerizing. I’m exploring far more than is probably smart. His body tenses as I lean forward to reach even farther. “You really should wear armor when you swing around that sword of yours.”

  He seizes my hand, halting it, his chest heaving with each breath. “We’ve played this game before, haven’t we?”

  “I don’t know. Have we?” I lock gazes with him. Now that I know what I am, I can never step foot near the nymphaeum on the blood moon, which means I’m never leaving these lands, a reality that has not yet sunk in. What will happen to me? Wendeline thinks I have an important path to take, and it involves this man.

  This king, who believes himself under some spell.

  Maybe he is.

  But how then do I explain what I’m feeling for him?

  “Maybe this time, it isn’t a game,” I whisper.

  His shallow exhale skates across my cheek. “Should we find out?” He pauses a few beats and then guides my hand downward, along his abdomen, farther, releasing it just shy of the assumed target, his gaze fixed on mine as he waits for me to make the next move.

  Beneath my palm, his taut muscles tense with anticipation. But it’s in his bright eyes that I see the truth—he’s as confused and conflicted as I am, but he wants it to happen just as badly as I do.

  My blood races as I curl my fingers around the hard length of him, the skin velvety soft against my palm. Whatever else he is with me—angry, resentful, frustrated—he cannot hide his attraction.

  His head falls back against the tub, a pained look on his face. “I did not think you would do it.”

  “Did you not want me to?” I slide my hand down as I touch him thoroughly, memorizing the feel and weight of hi
m against my palm. “Should I stop?”

  His throat bobs with a hard swallow. “What I want right now is for you to climb into this tub.”

  “With you?”

  He smirks. “If you dare.”

  I call his bluff, but not in the way he expects.

  Kicking off my shoes, I climb into the warm water. Zander’s eyes flash wide as he shifts, his legs slipping between mine to make room for me. Water splashes over the sides and onto the marble tile as I settle onto his lap, my violet dress billowing for a second before sinking beneath the surface.

  The surprise fades quickly as our mouths crash into each other in a tangle of lips and tongue and teeth and our hands frantically wander as if attempting to touch every inch of each other all at once. I can’t help myself. The tip of my tongue slides over his teeth.

  With a deep chuckle—he knows what I’m searching for—he yanks off the capelet with a jerk of his fist, tossing it aside. “Those are annoying,” he whispers, burying his face in my neck while his hands tug at the top of my dress, slipping the capped sleeves off and dragging the bodice down to my waist.

  He pulls me flush against his body, his deft hands gripping my thighs tightly. Mounds of sopping silk bunch between us, but I can still feel him there, pressing against my thigh.

  I close my eyes and let my head fall back, and I revel in the feel of Zander’s hands searching the material as his lips trace the curves of my breasts with slow, precious sweeps of his tongue.

  Releasing a curse laced with annoyance, he grabs hold of my skirt and pulls. A tearing sound fills the dark, heady bath chamber. Beneath the water, his hands explore my bare thighs, then between them, his touch oddly gentle compared to his frustration a moment ago as he caresses and teases and probes. His eyes burn as he watches the enjoyment unfold over my face. “Does this help with your dissatisfaction from last night?” he quips softly.

  I rummage for words between shallow breaths. “Yes. Though do you know what would help more?” I roll my hips against his hand, earning his guttural groan.

  Tearing the front of my dress the rest of the way, he grasps my thighs and pulls me forward.

  My body tenses with anticipation.

  “Your Highness!” comes Boaz’s deep voice from the sitting room, startling us.

  Zander’s lips part with a long, slow draw of air, as if he’s struggling to regain his composure. “What is it?” he snaps.

  Heavy footfalls approach, and my arms instinctively curl around my exposed chest.

  “Lord Stoll is eager to speak with you. He’s received a message from—” Boaz’s words falter when he rounds the corner.

  “A message from …” Zander prompts, as if the two of us aren’t in the tub together. There’s nowhere to hide, and he isn’t the type to duck.

  Boaz’s eyes flicker to me before shifting away. “From his steward in Hawkrest. There have been cases of poisonings. Six of them.”

  Zander’s head falls back. “So, it has begun.”

  “The tributaries were caught while trying to run. They are being held, but he needs guidance on how to punish them accordingly, given they are mortal. His people are terrified. Word is spreading.”

  “I guess that ends that.” Zander gently eases me back from his lap and pulls himself out of the tub, giving me an impressive eyeful before he steps out. He leisurely wraps a towel around his waist and exits to dress in the adjacent room.

  Boaz scowls at me, my arms still wrapped around my bare chest. “He has not learned his folly,” he mutters under his breath before disappearing.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  “This is the library?” My mouth hangs as my eyes rake over the lush conservatory, alive with mossy trees and weeping vines. Countless lanterns cast a moody glow despite the afternoon sun streaming in from the glass dome above. A stream trickles along next to our stone path, providing just enough space for a few iridescent fish to pass.

  “The aisles for books are around the outside,” Elisaf explains in a whisper, pointing out the multiple levels above us. “The core is where people come to read, and sometimes to talk.”

  Several people look up from their books and turn from hushed conversations. A few rise to bow as I pass, their seats in alcoves cocooned by vines and in stylish high-backed chairs that remind me more of a club lounge. They gape as if the last place they expect the soon-to-be queen is in a library.

  Four ornate black-iron spiral staircases lead up, one to each floor.

  “All these books, and you guys couldn’t bring me even one when I was locked up and begging?” I offer Elisaf a flat look.

  “Evil Romeria did not deserve entertainment,” he whispers, humor lacing his voice. “Was there something in particular you are looking for?”

  “Yes.” If I’m stuck here, I need to arm myself with as much information as I can, rather than waiting for everyone else to feed it to me. “Anything on the history of Islor and the fates.”

  Elisaf bows and gestures toward the tallest staircase. “I believe we can find something that way.”

  Nearly an hour later, my arms are laden with books, and he leads me to an elegant chaise beneath a pergola draped in lavender blooms. “I assume this will do?”

  I sigh dramatically as I set my stack on a small, round table. “I suppose.” The bold flowers cascading down are vibrant shades of fuchsia and sapphire, enormous, and like nothing I’ve ever seen before anywhere, let alone inside a library. I gingerly reach for a tendril to measure it in my palm, and the petals suddenly snap closed over my finger. I jump back in alarm.

  A deep cackle sounds nearby.

  “That’s one of her favorite games,” Elisaf says as we watch Annika stroll past, her arm hooked in a young, attractive man’s. A lantern flame glints off the man’s cuff.

  He’s a tributary.

  She winks and continues. I guess not all of them have the same qualms as Zander.

  “Is there anything else you might need, Your Highness?”

  I sink into the seat. “No, this is perfect. Eli.”

  He pulls his own book from beneath his arm and settles into a nearby chair, a playful smile curling his lips.

  Princess Isla of Cirilea was known for her difficulties harnessing her elemental affinity. As a gift to his betrothed, Caster Ailill forged a ring using a token from Aoife, designed with the sentient ability to amplify the wielder’s affinity based on need. While wearing the ring, Queen Isla could manipulate water with a thought, making her use of her affinity effortless and effective.

  Known to be a devout student of Mordain’s scribes during his tenure in Nyos, Ailill forged the ring in the likeness of the one that graces the hand of Aoife, Fate of Water, as seen in the visions from the seers. While never confirmed, scholars believe the undetermined white stone has ties to the ancient nymph.

  I smooth my thumb over the odd, dull white stone. The ring matches the one in the illustration. Is that how it came to life the night I searched for Annika in the water? Did its sentient abilities answer my desperate plea for help with the drowning woman at the bottom of the river?

  Sometimes the urge calls to me to slide off the ring and see what happens. Now that Wendeline has told me what Sofie did, that urge is stronger. But while I’m wearing Ailill’s cuffs, I guess there is no point.

  “Filling that devious mind of yours with information?”

  I startle at the sound of Atticus’s voice. My heart hammers in my chest as he strolls up the path to the pergola. He’s cleaned up and changed since I last saw him, lying in the dirt in the sparring court.

  Princess Romeria slept with this man.

  Was she genuinely attracted to him, or was she simply stirring up trouble?

  He is striking, and they spent weeks traveling from the rift to Cirilea before she ever laid eyes on Zander, so I guess it’s not the most unbelievable thing to happen, and yet she was heading here to marry his brother, the king. Though, I suppose the plan wasn’t for a lengthy marriage. It was only supposed to last hours
, if that.

  But for the two of them to share whatever they did during that journey, for him to then learn she was planning on killing him …

  Atticus must hate me.

  And I can’t let on that I know any of this.

  I take a calming breath as I shut my book. “How’s your arm?”

  Atticus pats the spot with his palm. “It got a little tender loving care from the priestess.”

  “Wendeline spends her days patching us up.”

  “Nothing compared to the merth bolt through it six weeks ago. Remember that day?”

  “Some parts are a little foggy.”

  He smirks, but then looks to Elisaf and jerks his head. A sign for the guard to leave us.

  Elisaf slides from his seat and vanishes down the path.

  Atticus watches him go and then takes his place, leaning back, his powerful thighs splayed, his arm slung over the back of the chair.

  He’s far from unappealing physically, but now that I know what kind of brother he is to Zander, any attraction I could have had to him has fizzled.

  I plaster on my best aloof expression. “Is there something I can help you with?”

  He cocks his head. “You really don’t remember me.”

  “And what should I remember?”

  He picks up one of the books I haven’t gotten to yet—a cloth-bound text on Kettling’s history—and leafs through it. “My men and I spent weeks escorting you from the rift down to Cirilea.”

  I know I shouldn’t ask, but I can’t help myself. “And did you and I spend any time together?”

  “Beyond the obligatory? No.” Blue eyes flip to me. If I didn’t know our secret, I probably wouldn’t read anything in them behind the usual mixture of curiosity and wariness. But now that I know what transpired between us, in those scant moments, I see the hints of longing and hurt. Maybe even a touch of guilt.

  Princess Romeria fooled him as readily as she fooled everyone else. She could have used him unwittingly to learn of all the things Zander has accused this accomplice of. Did she make him promises?

  His focus returns to the book. “I imagine that worked well for you, given you were ferrying these vials of poison. Wouldn’t want us to catch on.”