A Queen of Thieves & Chaos (Fate & Flame, #3)

“Nothing is wrong with Alara. She is moving to train with the elementals.”

“Already?” Dismay shines in his pale green eyes, such a contrast to his tawny skin. The two of them have been inseparable since she arrived, he like a big brother to her. “Can’t I go with her?”

“No, Cahill. We’ve discussed this before. Alara has powerful affinities to two fates. She will train as an elemental caster and then move to Ybaris to serve the royal family. Your place is here, with the scribes, protecting our past and our future.”

“Because I am weak.” He studies his shoes.

“No, Cahill, because your affinity is weak, just as all scribe affinities are weak. But we are strong of mind, and that is where you will be of most service.” I smile at the boy of seventeen as I lie to him.

For, if anyone knew the truth, they would have him executed by dawn.





CHAPTER FOUR




ATTICUS


“Where are you, dear brother?” The contours of Islor’s terrain on the map blur as my thoughts drift.

I know where Zander is—or at least I can guess. The messages arriving have painted a clear path of his flight from Cirilea to Bellcross and beyond, heading north. He and whatever Legion warriors have survived are seeking refuge in the Venhorn Mountains. How many of them remain, though? There were plenty of their bodies left behind.

The bigger question is, what next? How long will the mighty king of Islor hide in those caves, living among the Nulling’s beasts and saplings while that Ybarisan traitor’s blood infests the kingdom he once claimed?

Not long, if I know my brother at all.

In my hand, the tiny cylindrical vial burns against my palm despite its chill. Boaz delivered it earlier this morning—found hidden in the pocket of a tanner’s servant, in Cirilea for trade. The mortal didn’t even see the execution square. He swings from a rope on the street. No ceremony. A swift and brutal message to those waiting and wondering, or still undecided about whether to contaminate themselves.

How did no one guess that it was Romeria’s blood? Especially after what happened to the daaknar? In hindsight, it is obvious. Wendeline knew, but she spoon-fed us lies that we readily swallowed. That was our mistake, one of many. I will not make that same mistake again.

I hold the vial up to study the dark brown liquid. To be fair, it doesn’t look like blood, at least not the fresh crimson I’ve taken from mortals’ veins, and not the blood pouring from Romeria’s nose when Tyree smashed her face against the dungeon cell bars. But fates know what happens when it’s siphoned and stored in glass.

And the fates surely know, for a weapon such as the princess could only have come from them. An intoxicating, addicting, beautiful creature capable of ensnaring kings and their brothers alike.

Princess Romeria is at the root of all Islor’s pain, whether she remembers herself or not.

My skin prickles with this persistent sense of betrayal. I can’t shake the genuine horror splayed across Romeria’s face as those Islorian lords screamed and the Ybarisans burned the day of the royal repast. As if she truly had no idea what was to come. As if she had been speaking truth all along about her memory loss.

I will admit, there were times I wanted to believe her. The Romeria who rose from a merth arrow seemed different from the one who helped mastermind the attack.

But, even with her memory loss, she is still at the heart of it all, and I was right to lay all the blame at her feet and call for her capture.

“I had no other choice,” I say to the empty room, as if Zander’s lingering presence might pass my words along. “We would have lost Islor together. I hope you can see that.”

The door to my war room creaks open behind me. “Your Highness …” The guard’s metal armor clanks.

I still half expect my father to respond. But he has been dead and buried for nearly a full cycle of Hudem’s moon, and I am now left to clean up his disastrous deal with Ybaris. “What is it?”

“I did not expect a king so adept at commanding armies on battlefields to spend so much time hiding alone,” a female answers.

My spine prickles under the trill timbre of Saoirse’s voice. “I’m not hiding. I’m thinking.” Though I do miss the ease of leading thousands of soldiers to battle over maneuvering around this fucking royal court.

“I hope you do not find my presence a bother.” She feigns concern.

Everyone’s presence is a bother lately. Saoirse, Adley, Boaz … they all have an opinion on how I should rule my kingdom and no qualms about blathering in my ear to share. I suppose this is what Zander faced, too, when he prematurely inherited the throne. But our father had been grooming him his entire life for the role.

I’m learning as I go, and most days, the ground beneath my feet feels like quicksand.

Taking a deep breath, I tuck away my annoyance and turn to face the future queen of Islor as she glides across the floor toward me, her willowy frame graceful, her smile demure. An effective cloak to hide the wraith beneath.

I will admit, Saoirse is far from unpleasant to look at. The first time I laid eyes on Lord Adley’s daughter so many years ago, I thought her sharp features appealing, and I flirted without realizing who she was. As soon as I learned, my interest fizzled. It’s not just her ties to Kettling—a formidable city in the east that pines for control and would usurp my family in a heartbeat if afforded the chance. She was meant for Zander, to forge an alliance, before my father got the idiotic notion to negotiate with Ybaris instead, a realm that has openly wished for our deaths for two thousand years.

Kettling is far closer to enemy than ally, but at least I know their motivations. Saoirse cares for nothing but to sink her claws into power. Her father, Lord Adley, surely dreams each night of ruling the realm, but he will be satisfied with having the king’s ear while he waits for either his daughter’s heirs to claim the throne or my death, whichever comes first.

Knowing Adley, plans for the latter are already in the works.

For the good of my realm and its people, I remind myself for the hundredth time since agreeing to this marriage proposal. Thankfully, I’ve succeeded at limiting my time around Saoirse thus far to avoid regretting it. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“Yes, I’d like your permission to cut the tongue from that seamstress who is making my wedding dress.”

My eyebrows arch. “Surely, you jest.”

“She is a marvel, yes, but her incessant nattering is too much.” Saoirse stops a few feet away, drawing her index finger over the edge of the map. “She does not need her tongue to sew.”

“This is Cirilea, where we pride ourselves on not arbitrarily maiming our household.” If what I’ve heard of Kettling is true, the same cannot be said over there.