Or he does.
“How was your walk through the grounds today?” His voice is crisp and laced with irritation, and still it makes my heart skip a beat from nerves that I fear have little to do with my unease.
“Lovely, thank you for asking.” If he’s angry with me, then my answer will only antagonize him, and yet I can’t help it.
He stops at the rail, peering down at the sparring court. “Anything interesting?”
Besides discovering that Malachi expects me to offer myself up to you on your sex stone under the blood moon for all to watch? I fight against the visual that threatens to consume my thoughts. “The swans.”
“The swans,” he echoes.
“Yes. You know, graceful, long-necked white birds that float.” I feel Zander’s steady stare as I outline the hump of Korsakov’s crooked nose. I’ve barely thought of the man since I left, and yet when I sat down with pencil and paper, I felt the compelling need to draw his face. A connection to my past life, maybe to remind me of what once was. I can’t decide if this situation I find myself in is better or worse.
“That’s odd. I was so sure you’d say you most enjoyed the part where you fabricated a story accusing a court member of conspiring with the Ybarisans to murder Lord Quill.”
At least we didn’t have to dance around it too long. “It’s the truth, isn’t it?”
“This is the Islorian court. We do not deal in truths unless it serves us well.” His tone is eerily calm. I think I’d prefer it if he snapped at me. “We have no proof of conspiracy with the Ybarisans. Especially not from the prisoners who haven’t said a word.” He folds his arms across his chest as he towers over me. “But now several members of the court are insisting we bring them forth for a public trial, so they may name the accused, and that court member has fair opportunity to defend themselves against such a heinous charge.”
“I assume Adley is spearheading this?”
“That would be a safe assumption.”
I set my graphite on the table. “Good. While we’re at it, we can bring up what he’s doing to the human children in Kettling.” I level Zander with a knowing—and scathing—look.
He sighs heavily. “Do you not see the issue with this situation?”
“Besides the fact that the prisoners aren’t talking?”
“Yes, besides that one rather significant problem,” he says dryly. “After several days of personal attention from Abarrane’s temper and blade, if they should decide to speak, what do you think they would say? Who do you think they might accuse of King Eachann’s and Queen Esma’s murders?” He looks pointedly at me.
“Me? But I’m Ybarisan, like they are.”
“And possibly a traitor in their eyes, especially after that compelling speech you gave in the throne room in front of them. We cannot risk that. So, no, we do not want them to speak. Ever. At least not publicly, and certainly not in a court forum.”
I curse under my breath. Maybe my conning skills aren’t as useful as I convinced myself they would be.
“For someone who has a solid grasp of self-preservation, you seem intent on not surviving.”
“But you’re the king. You decide what happens to me.”
“I will lose the faith of many, including Lord Telor, if it becomes obvious that I’m knowingly placing my parents’ murderer on the queen’s throne. They will not care for my reasons.”
“I hate to say it, but I’m beginning to doubt your reasons too.”
“That’s because you do not understand them, and I am not about to explain myself to you.” His jaw tenses. “Your attack on Cirilea proved to my enemies that the royal family can be defeated, even without the strength of an army. It’s given them courage. What will happen if something should befall my seat on the throne? What will happen to you? Adley has no love for Ybaris. He will not set you free. You will face the fate you are so desperately trying to avoid.”
I shudder at the thought of those pyres. “You think Tyree would do that? Name me?”
“I don’t believe you two are particularly close, but that could be another of your previous deceptions. I wouldn’t put anything past him, especially if he thinks you have turned on your kingdom.”
“All the more reason to allow me to talk to him, then. This is what I’m here for, Zander. Use me. Otherwise, this charade is pointless.”
“I agree, which is why we’re going to see him.”
I falter, not expecting that answer. “When?”
His attention flashes to my sketch. A curious frown darts across his face, but he says nothing. He collects the capelet I tossed over the back of the wing chair. “Now.”
My nerves churn as I stand. I reach for the translucent material in his grasp, but he drapes the garment over my shoulders himself.
“Thank you.” I steal a glance at his face to find his steady, unreadable gaze on me as he fastens the gold ribbon. He has an intimidating stare, and it compels me to speak. “I heard you had a library here.”
“We do.” He hesitates. “Is there something you’d like to read about?”
Everything. The fates, the Great Rift, these mythical nymphs and their magic. “More of Islor’s history.”
“I suppose Elisaf can take you there.” His fingertips graze my collarbone, and the simple, fleeting touch sends a shiver through my limbs.
The corners of his mouth twitch.
“Stop it.”
“Stop what?” he asks with mock innocence.
My cheeks flush. “Feeding your male ego. I don’t like it.”
“Then I suggest you learn how to school those reactions.” He offers his arm. “Shall we go to the dungeon?”
After a moment’s hesitation, I curl my fingers around his biceps.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The trip to the castle’s dungeon is long and arduous, along a dozen hallways and down a spiral of lopsided stairs that are nothing short of lethal—one side open to a perilous drop and lit by sporadic torchlight. It’s as if merely getting to the dungeon is designed to kill. I cling to Zander’s arm without shame, no interest in finding out how far down that fall would take me.
“Your Highness.” A guard bows deeply and then yanks the heavy iron door open with a grunt.
My senses are instantly assaulted by the stench of mold, urine, and rusty metal, accompanied by a medley of low moans.
Shifting out of my grip, Zander’s hand settles on the small of my back as he urges me across the threshold. I collect the corner of my capelet and press it to my nose to mask the offensive odor before I retch, and I move forward along the dark corridor. Cells line either side, closed off but for the small, barred windows in the doors. Rattling coughs from deep within make my teeth grind with pity.
What did they do to earn their way in here? Do they deserve it?
I tread lightly down the aisle, not wanting to stir attention and see their wretched faces. Mice scurry along the floors where they meet walls, darting in and out of holes in the stone.
Halfway along, we pass two male guards wearing leather garb similar to Abarrane’s. One has three blond braids like hers; the other’s entire scalp has seen the sharp edge of a blade. They’re her elite Legion warriors, no doubt. They dip their heads and shift to the side but remain quiet as we pass, their expressions yielding nothing.