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

“She stirred only moments ago,” Sabrina whispers, Suri in her arms.

“Yes, she has an uncanny clock built inside.” I slip off my new cloak and hang it on a nail by the door, and then unfasten my dress, hoping to silence her before her fussing wakes Mika and Lilou.

Sabrina brings her over to where I’ve settled in the wooden chair in the corner, handing her off to me. “Why are your hands so cold?”

“I was outside.” I offer Suri a nipple and she latches on. My body responds instantly, the milk flowing into her greedy, toothless mouth. Not unlike my body’s response to Atticus, though he is far from toothless, and it was not milk he wanted. But when I compare the two, are they all that different? Both offer vital nourishment for those in need.

They are nothing alike, I scold myself, stifling a laugh. This is a motherly, nurturing act.

What I’d like to do with Atticus is entirely different.

“I had one like this.” Sabrina is by the door, my new cloak in her fingertips. Her glowing mark is a beacon in the darkness. “It was given to me on Presenting Day, when I became a royal tributary.” Sadness laces her words. She may be relieved to have avoided the execution square, but she misses her role.

And the way she’s looking at me now hints at her suspicions, that I have taken her place. But of course, the pieces fit easily. She knows I’m the one who spoke to the king on her behalf. How would I even have his ear otherwise?

“Kazimir handed it to me on my way out. I guess he had an extra?” I’m sure it’s a lie, but I offer it to lessen the sting.

“Who?”

“The captain. Atticus’s bearded friend?”

“Atticus?” Even in the candle’s shadowy light, I can make out the shock painted across her face. “He lets you call him Atticus?”

I falter over my answer. Don’t all his tributaries do this?

She swallows. “It’s okay. I know His Highness must be desperate for a vein. It is actually smart during times like these, to choose a nontraditional route. No one would suspect you.”

Yes, smart. Because why else would the king charm the baker so?

Sabrina slips into her pallet in the corner without another word.

It’s only minutes before my ears catch the first of her soft sobs. She tries to stifle them, but they carry on, weighing on my heart as Suri feeds, depleting one breast’s supply and moving to the next.

Finally, my nipple slips free of her gaping mouth and she sleeps soundly again. More than anything, I want to tuck her tiny body into her basket, clean myself up, and sneak off to Atticus’s bedchamber as he requested. But Sabrina will guess where I’m going, and that seems unnecessarily cruel, especially on her first night out of the dungeon.

I can’t, in good conscience, leave her like this, and so I sit on the edge of her pallet, smoothing a hand over her shoulder as guilt riddles me. “I am sorry, Sabrina.”

“It’s not your fault,” she manages after a moment. “I remember when I first came here after Presenting Day, before all this business with poison. In the beginning, the new royal tributaries are meant to serve the nobility as needed, and some of the ranking soldiers, the legionaries. But I saw His Highness walking through the castle one day. The other tributaries were fawning over his brother, but not me. I’ve always only ever wanted to serve him. I prayed he would choose me before his brother did. They never liked to share.” She giggles through her tears. “Unlike the others, His Highness is known for changing tributaries often, and so I patiently waited months for my turn, hoping he would select me. When Genevieve went to him, I was so jealous of her. I wished something would happen to her so that maybe it could be my turn next.” She says that quietly, like it’s a secret. “And then something did happen. Something terrible. And I got her place. But I can’t help but think that I wished this on myself.” Her words fade into fresh sobs.

“No, you didn’t. This is not your fault.” Sabrina is only a few years younger than me, and yet she seems so young by comparison. Maybe it’s that we’ve lived different lives since our Presenting Days, mine laden with brutality and worry. Hers, focused on fancy dresses and which prince might choose her.

“You’re right. It’s that terrible Princess Romeria’s fault,” she whispers bitterly.

I bite my tongue against the urge to defend the princess. I already know where Atticus stands. “The Lady Saoirse is the one responsible for your tainted blood.” Either by her own hand or by someone else’s.

She sniffles. “I heard Fikar saying that the priestess has been going door to door through the city to mark all the mortals, and the king’s guard has been bringing the infected ones to the arena.”

There’s only one reason to do that. “Are there many?”

“Dozens so far, according to him. Most aren’t tributaries.”

“That is Fikar. He is known to exaggerate.”

“He also said that the king gave orders to mark and take all the children from the households, even if they’re not infected.”

Take them. I was just with him and he never mentioned anything about that. “Where?”

“He didn’t say.” Sabrina rolls over, curling up against me, her tears soaking into my linen skirt. “Those poor children. They must be terrified.”

My gaze wanders toward my bed where my children sleep soundly, imagining them taken from me by orders of the king. My chest pangs with sorrow. “None of this seems fair.” But would Atticus do something so callous as take children from their mothers?

According to Sabrina and Fikar, he is doing it. Worse, he gave the order and then took me on a stroll through the royal garden, charming me as if nothing was wrong.

I stroke my fingers through Sabrina’s blond locks until her sobs quiet and her breathing grows shallow. But my thoughts are hooked on her words. How could I possibly carry on tonight with him, knowing there are innocent mortals collecting in the cold arena, waiting for death? Children being ripped from their homes?

All I want to do is hold my children close, and pray for those who can’t do the same. He gave me a choice, not an order. I will use the late hour as my excuse to not attend, should Atticus question me.

With that decision made, I climb in next to a sweaty little Mika, holding him tight, afraid that one day, I, too, will know the pain that so many of my mortal kin feel tonight.





CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT




ZANDER


“Welcome to Soldor!” Radomir bellows, he and his horse framed by the gaping mouth of the mine behind him, the helm bearing Ulysede’s mark hiding his bulbous forehead and sunken cheekbones. But it cannot hide his black eyes.