A Fate of Wrath & Flame

by K. A. Tucker

  “This is real.” At least it is for me.

  He reaches up to stroke the wayward hair off my face. “Whatever Aoife might have done … I will be a better king with you by my side. I will be the king that Islor needs. It becomes clearer to me with every day that passes.”

  Flutters stir in my chest even as my trepidation grows. Would he still say that if he knew what I was?

  “You don’t want to be queen?” he asks quietly.

  “That’s not it.” Though I’ve professed it many times, I’m beginning to see the good I can do here. The urge to tell him the truth is overwhelming, but my dread holds me back. Just a few more days of this, at least. More time so I can prove that he has nothing to fear from me. “Atticus said they’ll never allow it.”

  “They have no choice. These noblemen have gathered power they have no right to wield. That changes now. They do not have a say in who I marry or who I love.”

  An ache stirs in my chest with his words.

  Concern carves into his face. “But what if she comes back?”

  I assume he means Princess Romeria. I trace his hard jawline with my fingertip. “I don’t think you need to worry about that.”

  “No?” His sleepy, docile eyes roam my face. “How do you know?”

  “I don’t for sure, but I think you’re stuck with this version for good.” It’s the closest to the truth I can give him. “But if she does come back, please do me a favor and kill her.”

  He snorts. “I think Corrin will before I get the chance.”

  “Speaking of Corrin, she’s going to storm in here any minute.”

  “No, she won’t. Elisaf will warn her off.”

  “You assume he knows what happened in here last night?”

  Beneath the sheets, Zander’s hand grazes my hip and my belly, before shifting lower, between my legs.

  His penetrating touch pulls a deep moan from my lips, unbidden.

  Zander’s gruff laughter carries through the chamber. “Yes. I’m going to assume he knows.”

  The cloud cover and threat of rain brings with it a damp chill in the morning air. I huddle within my cloak as our company travels across the bridge at a steady canter, heading for the crown hunt. Beneath the grace of daylight and calm, I can appreciate the detailed masonry and the span of the construction, requiring five yawning barrels to reach from one side of the river to the other.

  An eerie sense of déjà vu courses through me, and my attention drifts to the shoreline where I dragged Annika to safety. I vaguely remember slick mud that night, but now there are only patches of lush, clover-laden grass. It was in that same place that I was seconds away from being stabbed to death by the man whose thighs hug my hips.

  We leave the bridge behind and follow the road into the dense forest, and I think about how dire things were that night and how drastically they have changed. And how drastically they still will, likely. My life is here now, a Ybarisan among the Islorians. As their queen, if Zander’s bedroom whispers translate into reality.

  But also as one of these key casters—a creature that no longer exists in this world, and that many will demand die, if Sofie and Wendeline are right. I have to assume they are.

  At some point, I will have to tell Zander. What will he say, knowing his queen could bring ruin to his kingdom? Is that news better received before or after the wedding ceremony?

  I have struggled to find guilt over Princess Romeria’s misdeeds, but these lies are all my own.

  We reach our destination a half hour later, as the dense forest opens into a clearing.

  I try not to gape. “All this to chase a wild pig?” Elegant marquee tents in shades of ecru, green, and gold stand in a line, servants sweeping through with platters of food and pitchers of drink, preparing for the king’s tardy arrival. Soldiers in full armor mill around the horses at the outskirts. String music and laughter carries. Somewhere within are Lords Sallow and Telor, and unfortunately, Adley.

  “The crown hunt is tradition, just as the tournament day, and I wouldn’t discount nethertaurs as mere wild pigs.”

  “I’m sorry, a nether-what?” This is the first I’m hearing of such a beast.

  A smirk laces Zander’s voice as he explains, “A residual of the sort of beast Caster Farren released when she tore the fold. It is three times the size of a boar and far more grotesque. They go to ground for years, only surfacing every few decades. We’ve killed many but can’t seem to rid ourselves of them. There have been rumors of one in Eldred Wood as of late, devouring stag and boar. The gamekeepers found three half-eaten mortals a few weeks ago. Nethertaurs prefer immortals, as do most of the beasts that were released,” he adds as I grimace.

  “Though, I suppose those mortals deserved what was coming to them for poaching in the king’s forest, but it is still a cruel way to go. If we are lucky, we will rid ourselves of the creature on this day, before it vanishes again.”

  “And when you say ‘we,’ you mean you, right? Because I’ll be waiting by the food table while you go chase your monsters.” I was still picking at a bowl of sour red berries when Corrin chased me to my vanity, scolding me for my late night “activities” that were causing me to drag my behind this morning.

  His chuckle warms me. “I requested paper and graphite to keep you busy. My horse moves faster with a single rider, anyway. As an aside, you will need to learn to ride on your own soon. As much as I enjoy being able to do this”—his hand slips inside my cloak to skate over the bodice, giving my breast a gentle squeeze—“a queen must be proficient in something as basic as equestrianism.”

  “I want to learn.” My thoughts are elsewhere, though. His mention of Farren knocks on a door I feel the urge to nudge open. “How many of these beasts were released when Ailill used that key caster?”

  “Hundreds? Maybe more. I don’t know that there was ever a count. We have a whole section in the library on the various creatures. The nethertaurs were the most docile. There were others, like the winged scaly beasts that pillaged entire villages in the night, breathing fire and consuming entire herds of livestock. The last of those was killed by Mordain eight centuries ago.”

  Dragons, surely. “But there are still beasts here, two thousand years later?”

  “The dredges of them, yes.”

  I hesitate. “Sounds like Farren caused a lot of problems for everyone.”

  “Which is why key casters no longer exist. It is the only thing Ybaris and Islor ever agreed upon.”

  I take deep, calming breaths and focus my thoughts on the bustle ahead to try to keep the gnawing anxiety at bay.

  “Bring me more wine,” Annika demands, waving her mug in the air.

  “Yes, Your Highness.” The servant sets a plate of fruit compote and hard cheeses at my place.

  “Thank you,” I offer. Meanwhile, I’m trying not to salivate at the succulent platter of smoked ham and roasted game bird in front of us, the smell wafting through the main tent.

  The mousy woman with the button nose and brown doe eyes startles as if surprised I’m looking at her, let alone thanking her. With an almost imperceptible nod, she scurries away.

  Annika leans over. “Why do you do that? Thank the servants for delivering your food to you?”

  “You mean, show common manners?” I throw back before I can stop myself, and with too much bite. I’ve been studying the nobility around the enormous U-shaped table, lined with eucalyptus and willow branches and laden with food and drink, so I can better emulate them. However, the more I see, the less I want to do with any of them. The way they wave their goblets in the air to have them filled, snap their fingers to beckon, bark when servants aren’t running … And it’s not just a few, it’s all.

  It’s one thing to slip into a room and impersonate someone for an evening. I can’t play one of these people for the rest of my life, which is a decidedly long one.

  Annika cocks her head, genuinely intrigued. “But they’re servants. What drives that impulse inside you?”

  Beca
use I come from a world where this behavior is not acceptable, I want to say. Except that’s not entirely true. I suppose I can’t fault her entirely. If history books and cinema have taught me anything, it’s that the days of kings and queens were like this. Then, it had nothing to do with immortal versus mortal and everything to do with rich versus poor, nobility versus commoner.

  And while the society I’m from has evolved, there is still a caste system, and it is blinding when you happen to be a street kid who slips into elite parties to steal jewels. I’ve seen fingers snapped and noses upturned, service staff treated like part of a room’s functional décor rather than fellow humans. I once watched some rich prick make a bartender cry because she put too much lemon in his drink, all while the club’s manager prostrated to offer his condolences for the heinous error. I’ve seen enough to know that you put too much ego and entitlement under one roof, and basic decency wanes.

  Unfortunately, in Islor, crying over too many lemons is the least of these mortals’ hardships.

  Regardless, I need to guard my behavior carefully around these people, so I don’t draw more attention than I already do. “What is the priestess doing here?” I watch the woman with wiry white hair hover by one of the tent entrances. Aside from Wendeline, the casters I’ve seen in the sanctum and walking the royal grounds at night are climbing in years, the youngest of them surely close to seventy. How much longer before they all expire?

  “She’s bait.” Annika carves off a chunk of meat, and after dipping it into a yellow mustard, pops it into her mouth with a satisfied moan. “The nethertaur is drawn to caster magic. She’ll go with them to lure it out.”

  My jaw drops. “She agreed to this?”

  Annika waves away my horror. “She’ll be fine. There will be dozens of them out there to fight it. Zander and Atticus slayed the last one together without any help.”

  I hide my grimace with a piece of cheese. Speaking of Atticus … I search out the commander of the army—and apparently Princess Romeria’s secret lover—and find him off to the side with Adley, his brow furrowed as he listens to the Lord of Kettling. Whatever they’re discussing, it’s Adley who steers the conversation, his jaw rigid as his lips flap with quick, angry words.

  As suspicious as Zander is of everyone else, I wish he would be more suspicious of the one who stands to gain the most if he died, who has already proven himself willing to take what isn’t his.

  Atticus’s blue eyes flicker in my direction, as if he can sense my gaze. I shift to study my plate, but it’s too late to hide the fact that I was spying on them. “Do you know where Zander went?” He ducked out ten minutes ago.

  “Probably to the royal tent to prepare for the hunt.”

  I set my napkin on the table. “I think I’ll go find him.”

  “And help him dress? Or undress?” Annika teases around a mouthful of stewed vegetables, her eyes carrying a knowing glint of humor.

  “That’s your brother you’re talking about,” I remind her and smile with satisfaction at her grimace as I head for the exit.

  “Your Highness.” The mousy servant appears with a small plate in hand carrying a sweet apple tart, much like the ones from Gracen’s stand. She curtsies. “I heard you like these.” Her voice is soft, meek. I’m noticing that about all of them, though. Corrin and Dagny are unusual in that regard.

  Word of the incident in the market must have spread among the servants. “Thank you.” I collect the plate.

  “If Her Highness would please wait a moment.” She darts away and is back in seconds with a fancy, rose-colored parasol. She steps out into the drizzle, the umbrella open and waiting for me.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Bena, Your Highness.” She offers a small curtsy.

  “Thank you, Bena. I can take it from here.” I collect the handle from her.

  She frowns with consternation, as if the idea that the queen should hold her own umbrella is unfathomable. “But—”

  “Stay here, where it’s dry. I’m only going over there. Honestly, it’s fine.” I breathe a sigh of relief as I trudge through the trampled grass, happy to be away from them all and eager to see Zander. It’s a blessing that he has hidden me from these people for as long as he has.

  The king’s tent is the smallest but most elaborate—a silver-and-gold, bell-shaped construct meant solely for him, its peak at least twenty feet in the air.

  Unfortunately, my path there isn’t clear.

  “Eating and running?” Atticus stoops to slide beneath the parasol—which I suspect won’t offer much protection soon as the deluge worsens—and collects the handle from me. His broad shoulders consume most of the space.

  “I’m not hungry.” I take a step back and find myself halfway in the rain again. He may have been with this body, but he wasn’t with me.

  “Yes, hence the plate of food in your grasp.” Atticus steps closer to shield me, his blue eyes scanning my face. “The nobility think their future queen doesn’t want anything to do with them.”

  That’s because I don’t. “People like who? Adley?” I meet his steady gaze. “He has your ear.”

  “I tolerate him because I must, at least for now, as does my brother. As do you, if Zander plans on following through with this idiotic notion of marrying you.”

  “And why exactly is it idiotic?”

  “Must you ask?” He cocks his head. “It’s obvious Neilina did something to get in his head as far as you’re concerned. He tripped all over himself before, and he’s doing it again. I see he’s even removed your cuffs, something he was adamant he would not do.” He nods toward my bare wrists.

  “And I’m sure he’s told you I can’t access my affinity.” I’ve tried several times over the past few days, with cups of water and while soaking in the bath. Each time, nothing has happened.

  “And you’ve never lied before.” He smirks. “In all my years, I’ve never seen my brother behave so carelessly. He’s not thinking straight. He’s not seeing what’s right in front of him.”

  “You’re right. I don’t think he’s seeing the threat in front of him,” I hiss, his insinuation that Zander could not care for me flaring my anger.

  Atticus sighs. “I don’t mean to offend you, Romeria. But there are too many reasons to not put you on that throne, regardless of feelings. The east will not cooperate and Adley’s supporters grow.”

  “Then get rid of him,” I say, without really considering what it means to say that within this world, and it’s not a pink slip. I glance around to make sure no one overheard that, but we are alone out here, in the rain.

  “Spoken like your mother,” he murmurs wryly. “Having Adley executed will only cause more tension and Islor is already rife with it.”

  “Well, I guess it’s a good thing Zander has the devoted support of his commander to make sure they all fall in line with whatever he decides, isn’t it? A commander and brother who would never betray him?”

  His eyes roam over my features, stalling at my mouth but only briefly before flittering back to my eyes. “Why do I feel like you’re accusing me of something?”

  “Because you’re paranoid?”

  “Do I have a reason to be paranoid?” he asks evenly.

  “Do you?”

  “What game is this we’re playing now?” He frowns curiously. “Do you know something I don’t?”

  I hesitate. Was Zander wrong? Did Princess Romeria and his brother not have an affair on the trek from the rift to Cirilea? I poked at the topic in the library and thought I saw the truth within his eyes, but was I only imagining it? Maybe Atticus is innocent of everything, and I’ve been loading a gun and leading him to the firing wall unfairly.

  I’m keeping too many secrets.

  A flare of reckless bravery swells inside me. I can’t help myself. I meet his scrutinizing stare and say, “I doubt it’s as fun for you as draughts was.” Whatever that even is.

  My taunt has the desired effect. Stark understanding fills Atticus’s expression
in a wave of shock.

  I use the moment to duck away, abandoning him with a parasol in hand. By the time I reach the gold-and-silver tent, the rain has soaked my gown. The guards wordlessly pull the tent flap back to allow me in.

  Zander stands like a statue as a servant fastens a buckle at his side. I assumed he would be wearing a full suit of armor, but he’s dressed like a warrior with layers of studded black leather beneath a few sleek-looking armor plates—at his shoulders and forearms, across his chest, at his knees.

  He looks lethal.

  “Are you not hungry?” he asks.

  “I’ll eat later,” I murmur, collecting the opulent details of the royal tent’s cozy interior as I wander in. The grass floor is hidden beneath layers of carpets with rich colors and patterns. One side is furnished with tufted settees and velvet armchairs, while a long rectangular table sweeps across the other side. A map of Eldred Wood is stretched out next to a cache of polished weapons. It reminds me of Sofie’s bodyguards’ collection. There are blades of varying size and menace, some straight backed, others trailing in curved points. “You’re going to use all of these?”

  “Not all, but many.”

  I nibble on the tart as I give the arsenal another long look before shifting to the topographic map of the forest. It’s vast, covering an expansive area of west Islor, and detailed, illustrating the many rivers, lakes, rapids, and rocky elevations among the dense wood. “What are all these painted stones?” Markers of some sort.

  “Green for the animal carcasses found, black for the mortals.”

  I grimace at the cluster. “So, you know where to find this nether thing?”

  “The nethertaur?” He smirks. “Yes, the general area. It’s deep within the woods. We’ll draw it out.”

  “I heard how.” I give him a pointed look.

  “Priestess Clyda will not be harmed. Thank you, Basil.” He offers the servant the briefest smile, but it’s enough to remind me that Zander doesn’t behave as the other nobility do. Fortunately.