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

Corrin snorts, taking her peeling knife to an apple. “I have served this family since my own Presenting Day, as Queen Esma’s servant for almost as long. She saw many things in her youngest son, but the capacity for pity was not one of them. Neither is following the rules.” She watches me closely. “Be careful, my girl. Those who find themselves catching His Highness’s gaze usually find themselves in his chambers not long after. Especially now that his tributary cannot perform her duties. For whatever reason, he has not called in another, but eventually, he will be looking for someone new, possibly someone in secret. I did not think that was a role you wished to play again. Being used like that?”

“It isn’t.” I prayed my days of giving my vein were over for good, but with the issue of this poison, everything is changing. “But if my blood is what the king is intent on, I cannot refuse, so there is no point worrying about it.” Though, I could think of far worse situations. I like what I know of him so far. I’m certainly attracted to him, and I’ve never been attracted to any of the Islorian males I’ve been forced to serve. It’s not that some weren’t pleasing to look at. Even Lord Danthrin could be considered handsome, until you saw the demon hiding beneath his skin.

But the king hasn’t hinted of any monsters lurking. Every time his eyes touch me, I feel them as readily as if his hands were on my body, and I don’t dislike it. “At least he does not seem the type to want a breeding mare.”

“No, he is not interested in the outcome of the act. But the act itself, he is very fond of.” She gives me a knowing look. “If you are marked as the king’s tributary, you become a target for this poison. Look at Sabrina.”

Mention of her stirs a pang of sorrow inside me. “Have you heard anything—”

“No. Other than her body hasn’t been collected from the execution square yet, so she must still be alive. For how much longer, I cannot say. I doubt long.”

The poor, young girl. She doesn’t deserve to die. But it’s a stark reminder that Corrin’s worries are valid. I don’t want the same fate.

“I suggest you make yourself scarce. And stop baking the king’s favorite for him.”

I look at the bowl’s contents. “But the batter is already made. That would be wasteful.”

“Oh, well, we wouldn’t want that,” Corrin mutters wryly, coring the apple before moving to the next one. “As I said, be careful. There are many dangers within these walls, too close, and they all revolve around His Highness.”

Don’t I know it. I hesitate, keeping my focus on my task as I lower my voice. “If you knew something that the king would want to know, but revealing it would likely put you and those you love in danger, what would you do?”

Her eyes narrow. “I would tell my trusted friend, Corrin, and she would help me decide if this is in fact something the king should know.”

I knew she’d say that. I considered telling Corrin earlier but decided that her knowing would only put her in danger. Maybe I could get an anonymous note to His Highness, to warn him? But how do I admit what we found in the library without outing myself? It wouldn’t take much thought to make the connection.

“Is this enough apples?” Mika hollers, dragging a bushel basket across the stone floor toward us.

“Za’hala! How many fritters do you suppose your mother is going to make for you, child!” Corrin exclaims with exasperation. “And how did you even get that up the stairs?”

“A guard helped me!” His giggles push away the dark cloud hanging over my head for the meantime.

But it doesn’t go far, and by the time I’ve slid the last batch of fritters into the kiln, I know I must find a way to send a message to the king, to warn him.



My arms strain beneath the silver platter of fritters as I slip into the dining hall through the staff entrance door. I’ve never been in here, never had a reason for it. It’s as splendid as the rumors claimed, the ceiling reaching high above us, with curved windows around the top to give a glimpse into the night sky. Candelabras dangle from the main beam, countless flames flickering from each to cast light down over the expanse of tables, where more candles burn.

A collection of string instruments plays an upbeat song from the dais across the room, and jovial laughter carries, the tables full of the nobility staying in Cirilea ahead of the wedding. No one would guess someone tried to kill the king not twenty-four hours ago.

I seek out the king and find him instantly, seated at a long banquet table at the far end of the room. Lady Saoirse sits next to him, laughing at something he said.

My anger flares, but doubt chases quickly. They look so at ease around each other. Is there another reason why the future queen of Islor was hiding poison in the library? Maybe the king knows, and I’m stressing over nothing?

No … the way he behaved toward her, what he said to me, I don’t believe that. He is a showman, and this is an act for the crowd. He is doing what he thinks he must for the sake of Islor, and that honorable cause will likely get him killed.

Meanwhile, she will be queen of Islor—for centuries, possibly—all because of the family and station she was born into.

Seated on the other side of the king is an Islorian with olive skin, a trim beard, and long hair pulled back off his face. He wears the leathers of a fighter. Could this be one of the king’s few trusted friends? The man’s gaze drifts about the dining hall while a female beside him—a stunning blond with long, smooth ringlets that cascade down her back—prattles in his ear. Whatever she’s saying, her pinched face smacks of displeasure.

That lord from the day of the assembly, the one who suggested the king could not honor Princess Romeria’s bargains and that I should go back to Freywich, sits beside Lady Saoirse, his goblet held high, silently demanding more wine. With them side by side, I see a familial resemblance. He must be important if he sits next to her. Maybe her father?

I need to pay more attention to the household gossip. I am clueless in here.

And this was a terrible mistake. Though I served Lord Danthrin and his guests plenty over the years, this is the castle. There are routines and protocols, and my place is in the kitchen, not scuttling into the dining hall with fritters and a harebrained scheme of slipping a note into the king’s pocket. I shouldn’t have come.

“Gracen.” Fikar slows and grins, at the fritters or me, I can’t tell. The lanky servant’s a terrible flirt. “What are you doing in here?”

“Fikar!” I hold up the platter. “Can you take this to the head table for me?”

“Uh … Sure. Let me just …” He glances around, searching for a place to cast the empty silver wine pitcher in his grasp. There isn’t anywhere. “Give me a minute to refill this, and then I’ll be back.” He’s gone before I can stop him, leaving me standing there, raucous laughter and conversations all around me.

“My, haven’t you grown comfortable in Cirilea’s castle.”

I nearly lose my grip of the silver tray at Lord Danthrin’s crisp voice in my ear. Fates, of course he’s here. I’d like to say I thought he’d left for Freywich to be with his pregnant wife and their charred orchard, but I simply didn’t think, too focused on the king and this poison.