I find myself standing in a tall, circular, windowless room, surrounded by hostile faces.
“We will have it soon, Your Highness.” Boaz bows his head, his voice apologetic even as his words make promises.
The king of Islor is hunched over a round table, his palms splayed on either side of an enormous map, his golden-brown locks falling in disarray, his jaw tense with fury and frustration. When he lifts and affixes that probing gaze on me, I struggle not to squirm. It’s been weeks since I’ve faced him, and the swirl of fear, confusion, and anxiety that instantly rises threatens to stall my lungs.
My guard bows once and ducks out, leaving me to face two people I’ve never seen before and two I wished I didn’t have to see again.
I force my shoulders straight under their hard eyes. This must be his war council, as Annika called it. There are three others present in addition to Zander, and all are dressed in various versions of a black-and-gold, save for the woman who wears head-to-toe russet-brown leather. Hair the color of ripe wheat is pulled into three thick braids that reach to her hips. A long, thin scar follows her hairline, from the center of her forehead down to her right earlobe.
A man with a brawny frame and cropped golden-blond hair that hints of curls stands to her left. He looks young, only a few years older than I am.
None of them appear pleased to see me.
“Princess Romeria, how nice of you to grace us with your presence.” Zander pulls himself up to his full height. He’s at least a head taller than everyone in the room, save for Boaz. “I trust your accommodations are to your satisfaction.” The corner of his mouth twitches.
If Wendeline repeated my plea that she continue visiting me, then he must suspect I’m pacing my “accommodations” like a feral animal in captivity. He’s toying with me for his amusement. That makes him an ass. He did have the locks on the windows and balcony released, though.
And he can have them put back in place.
I quell my natural urge to respond with anything but courtesy. I’m not dealing with Tony or any of Korsakov’s other brutes. “They’re fine. Thanks.”
“You will address the king with respect!” Boaz snaps, his face turning red with anger. I haven’t seen him since he threw me into the tower. I would have happily avoided him for eternity.
Zander waves a dismissive hand. “At ease, Captain. She has forgotten proper decorum, what with her recent bout of total memory loss. Rumor has it she’s taken to wandering around her balcony in her nightdress.”
Derisive chuckles carry through the room, and I feel my cheeks flush. He’s mocking me, making me look the fool.
“And the servant I selected for you, I hope she’s meeting your needs? She’s one of our finest.”
He handpicked the saltiest woman in the castle and probably gave her carte blanche to treat me like a pariah. “She’s an utter delight, Your Highness.” I don’t mean the address to come out sounding hostile, but I realize how satisfying it is. No wonder Corrin is always doing it to me.
Something dark flashes in Zander’s eyes, and I instantly regret my cheekiness.
Boaz charges forward.
“Leave it.” Zander’s sharp tone slices through the air, stopping him dead. “We have more pressing matters.”
The captain stops abruptly, but with a withering glare and clenched fists. I’ll bet he’s imagining putting another arrow through me. He despises me. The feeling is mutual.
Zander collects a tiny roll of paper from the table and stretches it out between two fingers. Unfurled, it’s much longer than it first appears. “‘King Barris is dead,’” he reads out loud.
They’re all staring, waiting for my response. Clearly, it’s supposed to mean something to me. “That’s … unfortunate?” I offer.
Zander’s head cocks, his expression turning curious. “I tell you that your father is dead, and your answer is ‘that’s unfortunate’?”
King Barris is Princess Romeria’s father. The king of Ybaris. That makes sense.
“Heartless,” Boaz mutters.
My father is likely curled up on a grungy street in New York, warning everyone about demons, I want to say, but I bite my tongue and wait, hoping to glean more information from whatever they’re about to accuse me of. That’s how our conversations always unfold.
“I guess the rumors of your dislike for him were true, despite what you once told me.” The king tosses the paper to join a collection of others of varying sizes. “Aren’t you the least bit curious to know when he died? How he died? Or should I assume that’s old news for you?”
“No. I mean, yes, please tell me.” Any snippet could be useful in figuring out where I am and how to get out of here. I can practically hear Boaz’s molars grinding, so I cap my request with a delayed “Your Highness,” more conciliatory this time.
“He died the same day of the attack on Cirilea. A fatal blade to the heart. Much faster than being poisoned with deliquesced merth.”
That silver rope that was bound to Annika. That’s what she called it: merth. I take it that’s how the princess killed Zander’s parents. Did they eat it? Drink it? Was it a tainted dagger tip that did them in? I guess it doesn’t matter. Any one of those versions is terrible.
“This news, of course, sheds new light on the situation.” His footfalls echo through the chamber as he paces around the table. “The fact that King Barris, who forged this alliance between Ybaris and Islor, died in such a tragic and intentional manner on the same day as the king and queen of Islor, and yet Queen Neilina remains unscathed, suggests that your father had intentions of honoring the arrangement. Your mother, however, had other plans.” My nose catches a sweet woodsy scent as he approaches, stopping just before me. “Did you scheme together, or were you simply carrying out her mission?”
The wall of chest, much too close for my liking, forces my eyes upward. I meet his frosty gaze.
“What was the plan, for her to rule Ybaris, and you, Islor? Or would she insist on ruling both, being the power-starved tyrant that she is?”
Behind him, Boaz shifts his weight, his hand on his sword, as if he might need to spring forward and protect his king at any moment against me, the unarmed woman in the pale blue dress.
I swallow against the growing tension in the room. “I can’t—”
“Yes, yes. You can’t recall. That part, I remember,” Zander cuts me off, his tone bored, dismissive. He pivots and continues his pacing. “Of course, your mother has claimed that Islor are the perpetrators behind their beloved King Barris’s death, that we somehow crossed the Great Rift into Ybaris and assassinated him as a means of ending an alliance we did not want. She’s claimed we’ve murdered you.” He snorts. “Ironic, no? And according to rumor, we have refused to deliver your body for proper burial, as would be civilized. But of course, Islorians are so brutal and uncultured, we’ve done unspeakable and savage things to your body. She’s using her vast network of spies and messengers to spread these falsities through Ybaris like a virulent plague, flaring a fresh wave of hatred for everyone and everything south of the rift. No doubt her army will be double before long.”
What he’s alluding to finally clicks. “You think the queen had the king killed.”