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

My inhale is sharp—too sharp, for a simple interruption. Of all the times for him to barge into my office!

Lorel sizes up the boy, stalling on his face a few beats. Cahill is growing into a strapping and handsome young man. I’ve noted more than one young caster in Nyos spying on him. Thankfully he is too shy to engage in conversations and any other sort of mischief.

Cahill doesn’t have the first clue what lingers beneath his skin, waiting to manifest, but all it would take is an assessment by a tester to find it. That or a glimpse of the dull silver medallion hanging from a chain around his neck to stir suspicion. I never told anyone of the token an elderly journeyman handed me on my trip to Shadowhelm so many years ago. He said it suppressed caster abilities, and that he had no use for it in Skatrana, but perhaps a caster from Mordain might find a use one day.

Years later, I did. Caster Elica came to me in the middle of the night with a baby boy elemental tucked within her arms, unable to deliver the death sentence required. I couldn’t bring myself to either. So we branded him a weak caster and assigned him to scribe duty, where we have hidden him his entire life, molding him to live a life in servitude to prophecy.

Finally, Lorel dismisses Cahill.

And I let out a soft sigh. Ignoring Cahill—it’s best everyone does—I smile at the Prime. “I will begin my search of the tomes that we believe tie to Islor.”

“That would be helpful, Master Scribe.”

“I must warn you, there are far too many to count. It will take weeks, months even.”

“Hopefully, Neilina’s war will shift her attention elsewhere soon enough.”

Her war, with Mordain as her soldiers. “Yes. Hopefully.”

I count to ten after Lorel departs before I open my desk drawer, running my fingertips over the tome that speaks to this token for the people of Islor.

Ulysede is a city.

A great nymph city.





CHAPTER SEVENTEEN




GRACEN


“Are your hands soaked in something?”

I stall. “Pardon me? I don’t understand.”

“You won’t stop wringing them. All day, since you got back from fetching that troublemaker”—Corrin aims her peeling knife toward Mika, who sits on the floor in a corner playing checkers with himself—“you’ve been wringing and pacing. You know who else paced like that? Princess Romeria. And fates knows the trouble she got up to.” She steals a glance at the two guards stationed at the door—a new addition since the latest attempt on the king’s life—as if wary of being caught even saying that name.

“I do not know what leaves me so restless.” I shoot Mika a warning look. I told him they’d send us back to Freywich if anyone discovered what he’d found in the library and who he saw put it there. That seemed even worse than telling him the truth—that the only place we’d be going is the execution square. “Perhaps I’m overwhelmed by the work left ahead of the wedding.” Hudem is in less than a week!

“There is still much to do,” Corrin agrees, her curiosity over my behavior appeased. She shifts her focus back to the enormous pot to finish the potatoes—a task for the scullery staff but one she does regularly, claiming it’s therapeutic. I think it’s because she’s a queen’s maid without a queen and can’t stand idle hands. Lady Saoirse brought her own servants with her—not that Corrin would be eager to serve that one.

A medley of aromas blends in the kitchen tonight—roasted boar with sage and honey, parsnips and squash, an earthy mushroom soup—that promises a delicious meal. We never ate so well in Freywich, relegated to stale bread and broth while the keepers filled their bellies. Here, there is always more than enough to feed both the castle’s inhabitants and frequent guests, and the household staff eat well.

I set to work mixing batter, but my mind is on the vial of poison in Mika’s little palm. Between leaving the library and getting back to our room, I decided there was no good reason to keep it and plenty of reason to be rid of it. So I tossed it into the latrine, praying the king’s guard is above sifting through feces. Even if they aren’t, they would be hard pressed to tie that back to me.

But it doesn’t solve the problem.

Lady—soon to be queen—Saoirse was in possession of this poison. If she wasn’t the one who tainted Sabrina’s blood, it means there is more of it within the castle. If she is guilty of tainting Sabrina’s blood, why would she wish to cause her future husband harm?

And if she succeeds—if she finds another vial—I’ll never forgive myself.

But what am I to do?

“That doesn’t look like pie pastry.” Corrin’s voice cuts into my thoughts.

“Uh, no. It’s not. I’m making fritters today.”

Her face pinches. “Again? But they just had them yesterday.”

Mika perks up. “Just like the king said you would!”

“The king.” Corrin stops her peeling to stare at me. “He asked you to make fritters?”

“Not exactly. I ran into him in the library, and he mentioned that they were his favorite.” That could have been simply conversation. “He helped me in my search for Mika, so I thought I would make them again as a thank-you,” I explain as casually as possible, even as my cheeks heat.

Corrin sets her potato and her knife down, brushing her hands over her apron. “Mika, make yourself useful and fetch more apples from the cellar.”

He scrambles to his feet and trots toward the door.

“And if you so much as breathe past that pantry door, I will make you sit and watch me eat every last one of these.” She gives him her most severe glare.

He laughs. “You don’t even like apples!”

“You’re right! But I’ll enjoy them enough to torment you. Now never you mind. Go!” She shoos him away.

He picks up speed, scurrying out the door.

With him out of the way, Corrin ventures over to collect the last of the fruit from a bushel basket in the corner. “You’ve had a lot of encounters with the king lately.”

“Coincidence has our paths crossing more than one should expect it to,” I admit.

“First the assembly, then in the servants’ quarters, now in the library.” Corrin closes the distance. “Coincidence or not, it would seem you have captured His Highness’s attention.”

“He pities me is all.” But my heart skips several beats with excitement at the possibility that she is right.