“I know,” she sighed. “The charms are difficult to find right now.”
I was beginning to learn that I hated it, knowing she skulked around the castle using magic that, if I was honest, she should have had years to train with and not days. I loathed that she was often down in the dungeons, where all it would take was one wrong move, one moment of inattention, and she was dead.
The fact that she’d somehow made me care about her like this—to the extent that I was unfocused while on my own task… I glowered at her.
“You take too many risks.”
She gave me that wary look that told me she had something to tell me and I wasn’t going to like it.
“Out with it.”
She spoke casually, but it was easy to see the fear darting across her face. “The seamstress saw my eyes. She remarked on the color. Her face turned white, and she rushed out of the room.”
Then the seamstress was dead.
“You’ve got your murder face on,” she murmured. “I don’t want her to die, Lorian.”
The fact that the seamstress hadn’t said anything yet likely meant she was hoping to wait for the perfect chance to wield that information. At any second, Prisca could be arrested. My instincts roared at me to remove the threat.
“Then convince her not to say a word. And quickly.”
“Tell me something,” she said suddenly. Almost desperately. “One of the secrets you’re hiding. Please.”
I studied her face. Her eyes were intent on mine, her teeth biting into her lower lip. This seemed like some kind of test. And for some reason, I wanted to pass it.
Unfortunately, I couldn’t tell her my own secrets. If she learned exactly why I was here…
For some reason, the thought of her looking at me with fear and revulsion made my stomach twist.
“The king,” I said, my voice hoarse. “What do you know of him?”
She frowned, clearly not expecting that subject. “He has a son, Jamic, who is away at one of the king’s estates. Jamic has seen nineteen winters,” she said. “And he’ll likely return for the Gods Day ball. According to the rumors, he rarely sees the king.”
Her frown deepened, and I angled my head. “What is it?”
“Just something my mother said. She insisted I find the prince.”
She looked tired. Wrung-out. And yet, it was time for her to know just some of what made Sabium so dangerous. “You may want to sit down.”
Her eyes narrowed on my face, but she sat on the long sofa.
I took a deep breath. “It was the king’s great-great-grandfather who started warring with the fae.”
She nodded.
“And what do you know of Regner’s son?”
“His name was Crotopos. Crotopos died, but his wife was pregnant and his son Aybrias—Regner’s grandson—took the throne. Aybrias’s son was named Hiarnus—Sabium’s father.”
I wasn’t surprised Prisca knew this. Most villagers were taught more about the royal family than they were languages or basic mathematics.
It felt foreign to talk to someone other than my men about the king. But I forced myself to continue speaking. “And what if I told you they were all the same man?”
Her frown deepened, followed immediately by disbelief. Prisca jumped to her feet. “That’s not possible. That’s not how magic works.” Something that might’ve been betrayal had tightened her shoulders. I caught her arm as she moved toward the door.
In a rare moment of vulnerability, she’d asked for a secret. And now, she thought I was lying to her.
No, I realized. She hoped I was lying to her. After everything she’d learned, this was the realization that would sting the most. Her own father had died because her brother had only a scant amount of power left. And yet the king was almost immortal.
“I’m not playing a game. Regner was the king who began taking his subjects’ power. You don’t think it’s possible he could find a way to mimic fae and hybrid long lives?”
She swallowed, her gaze searching my face. “But that would mean… Does he kill the boys he says are his sons?”
“Likely.”
“But how does he step into the younger boys’ shoes?”
“Changing one’s appearance is easy if you have access to the right kind of magic.” I lifted her necklace with a raised eyebrow.
“A small charm is one thing. You’re talking about changing his appearance completely.”
“Easy enough to do with stolen power. Often the boys are sent away for a time when they’re growing from boys into men. That way, he doesn’t need to be exact with their features.”
She shook off my hand, turning to pace once more. How the woman didn’t grow dizzy, I would never understand.
“Sabium is getting old,” she murmured. “At least on the outside. It’s only a matter of time before he fakes his death again. And then secretly kills the boy he raised as his son.” She turned and met my eyes. “He’s truly that evil?”
I cupped her cheek. Her skin was softer than it had any right to be. “He’s worse. He’s evil with the conviction that his actions are for the greater good.”
There were no more quiet evenings after dinner. Representatives from the villages had begun to arrive, and each night, dancing would commence and extend until the early hours of the morning.
The queen was expected to attend, which meant so were her ladies. Each night after the dancing, I took Tibris down to the dungeons. He’d also begun visiting the other prisoners and working on the wounds in their shoulders. Each time we walked up those dungeon stairs, he looked more tired.
I’d warned him that I might be arrested at any moment. I had to trust that Lorian wouldn’t risk killing the queen’s favorite seamstress. And yet, she hadn’t said a word. I’d caught a glimpse of her yesterday, which meant Lorian was keeping his word. So far.
When I’d told Tibris the woman had recognized my eyes, he’d gotten a look on his face I’d never seen before. “If you get arrested, I’m going to kill Vicer.”
He wasn’t joking. I swallowed. “Maybe you should take a break from healing for a night.”
He just shook his head. “The more prisoners who can access their magic, the better.”
I needed to talk to Lorian. Needed to convince him that if the seamstress changed her mind and I was arrested and executed, he had to work with Tibris to get the prisoners out.
Tonight, I was sitting at our table, listening to the other women as they gossiped. Lisveth rose to dance with one of the king’s advisers—a lecherous old man who insisted on dancing with each of us at least once every night.
Davis Boria had already asked Madinia to dance once, and she’d refused him, claiming her feet were sore. Now, he sat next to his father, his dark gaze continually drifting to her. I would have felt sorry for him, but according to rumors, he didn’t bother asking other women before he touched them. Women whose fathers weren’t close to the king. Women whom he caught in servants’ halls and stables.
Caraceli slid into Lisveth’s empty seat. From the malevolent look on her face, it wasn’t because she wanted to be friends.