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

“I would like to meet this old keeper of yours one day.”

“I would love to see him again, but I do not know how he fares, if he is even alive. If my parents and younger siblings are alive.” I feel Atticus’s gaze on my profile, but I keep it ahead. I don’t want to see pity there.

“I can make that happen, Gracen.”

Because he is king of Islor. And for some daft reason, he seems set on me.

“What else are the servants saying?” he asks.

“That your betrothal to Lady Saoirse is no more?” It comes out as a question, one I desperately want an answer to.

“I can’t imagine she’s sitting in the tower, still planning our wedding.” He smiles wryly.

“So, it’s true. There is to be no wedding on Hudem.” I hold my breath.

“There will be no celebration of any kind on Hudem.”

I could float away, that news lifting a weight from me.

“That makes you happy.” It’s not a question; he can read my glee.

“Relieved. She would not make a good queen.” And Atticus will remain an untethered king, at least for now. Which of those two stirs more elation? I know what the answer should be, but I don’t think it would be the truth, even as Corrin’s warning rings in my ear. The king will marry eventually, and I will remain a means to serve his needs, until he finds another.

I know this, and yet I can feel myself getting swept up in his very presence—in each look that touches me, each smile I garner. Corrin said royal tributaries could remain in service for decades if they formed a bond. I used to pray every day of service with Danthrin would be my last, that he would tire of me, leave me to the kitchen and forget me. But decades with this Islorian male? Imagine the kind of life I might give my children.

“No, she would not. But we no longer have to worry about that.” The path ahead forks. Atticus steers us to the right, as if he has a specific destination in mind.

“They also said you executed someone in the throne room.” Kazimir has already confirmed it, but I like hearing Atticus’s own words.

“I did. It wasn’t ideal, but Lord Danthrin deserved it.”

“Lord … You mean …” Shock buckles my knees.

Atticus moves quickly, shifting to face me, his hands seizing my waist. A deep frown mars his handsome face. “Does that news bother you?”

“No.” I grip his forearms as I take a few minutes to collect myself, absorbing the heat radiating from his body. “It’s just … he’s gone? Truly gone?” Lord Danthrin has played the starring role in my living nightmares for years. Within our little world of Freywich, he was so powerful, unstoppable. He drew so many tears—of pain, of fear, of anguish—and stirred so many sleepless nights.

That he is simply gone now seems impossible.

“Truly. Not even a fate could bring him back.” Atticus adds quietly, “And if they do, I will kill him again.” He returns to his place beside me, only this time, his arm is secured around my back. We continue along the path, through a tunnel shrouded in thick ivy. It’s pitch-dark and I can’t see, but Atticus guides us with ease.

“What did he do to earn that punishment?” Besides make Atticus angry.

“Beyond his lies to avoid paying the tithe? We believe he was conspiring with the eastern lords. He has been meeting with several of them nightly, under the cover of Port Street brothels.”

Those poor mortals. No amount they earned would have been enough for his tastes.

Atticus shifts us off the path. The grass is cold and damp against my soft leather shoes. They’ll likely be soaked for days. But I wouldn’t trade dry shoes for this experience. I savor Atticus’s tight grip, his heat searing through my cloak, through my dress, warming my skin. “And what will happen now?”

“Any supporters within these walls are panicking, afraid of ending up like their prominent lords. They cannot flee. I’ve closed the gate and sealed the port. So they will either abandon all scheming for the moment while they wait to see if there is an execution, or they will seek advice from their fellow conspirators on what to do. If the latter, my men will be waiting.”

“And will you? Execute them?”

“In time. It’s better they remain alive for now, to keep those wishing to step into their shoes at bay, even if temporarily. In the meantime, I must ride east with my men to battle this traitor army.”

A battle? My fear flares. “When?”

“Not tonight.” He releases my waist and collects my hand. He guides me into a stone pavilion, a lantern glowing on each corner. I recognize the four pillars. Lady Danthrin forced all the servants to attend the sanctum service weekly in Freywich, so we could pray for a fruitful harvest that year. “There’s a sanctum in the garden?”

“This is the nymphaeum.”

I take in the space with new understanding. “You mean …” I’d heard about this holy location even as a child, where Islor’s immortals could appeal to the king and queen for access four nights a year as a means to have a child. Lady and Lord Danthrin themselves were here for that reason, and now her belly swells with the result.

This is the most sacred space in all of Islor, brimming with otherworldly powers on Hudem.

Mortals aren’t allowed here.

Atticus smooths a hand over the stone block in the center. “My sister and I were conceived right here, as was my brother the exiled king, and all the immortals of Islor.”

“Right there.” I take in the dark and open space around us. “For some reason, I thought it would be, I don’t know, grander and more … enclosed.”

He chuckles, leaning against the stone, his arms crossed at his chest. “You did accuse us of having no modesty, didn’t you?”

“Couldn’t you at least put up a curtain?”

“I suppose we could. But the blessing is a miracle of sorts. No one wishes to hide it.”

A stone wall behind the altar catches my attention. I wander over to study it, enthralled. “What does this mean?”

Atticus’s powerful form closes in behind me. “Something from the time of the nymphs. No one knows, or no one has told us.”

“It looks like it was carved only yesterday.”

“One of many mysteries.”

I reach toward it, but then freeze.

“Go ahead. You can touch it. It won’t bite.”

I trace my fingertip over the ancient scrolling scripture. “It’s beautiful.”

“So are you.”

My pulse flutters with his words as strong hands settle on my hips, turning me around to face him. The clouds from earlier are breaking apart, allowing a glimpse of the waxing moon. It’s nearly full. In days, a second one will hang below it, as if appearing out of thin air, not there the night before, and gone the next, but its brilliant power is enough to create new life.

“What I said earlier, about Lord Danthrin, about why I punished him …” Atticus reaches up to unfasten a tie in my hair, then another. His deft fingers weave through my braids, unraveling them with efficiency. “It wasn’t entirely true.”