If this were a job for Korsakov, I’d be quietly casing the situation and doing my best to blend in, not appear guilty. I do that now, trying to ignore the judging stares and buzz of hushed whispers, shifting my focus to my surroundings without looking enthralled. It’s difficult not to be. The room itself is magnificent, several stories tall and constructed in limestone and gleaming marble of every shade from ivory to ebony, the floor decorated in a swirling pattern. Busts of former kings and queens on pedestals fill the space between gold pillars.
At the opposite end, fifteen steps lead to a dais and two thrones, their forms cast in entwined ebony horns like the ones on Malachi’s head. Behind, a canvas of decorative windows reaches from dais floor to vaulted ceilings, allowing daylight to stream in.
To my right, at floor level, are two stately chairs. Annika and Atticus occupy them, their faces reserved and revealing nothing. Now that they sit side by side, I see how similar in appearance they are.
I spare them one more second of attention before shifting my focus to where it should be—on the king.
Zander’s expression is even as he watches me approach, his posture oddly casual, his elbow resting on one armrest, his chin braced by his palm. He’s not wearing a crown, I note. Perhaps his throne is enough.
I stop at the bottom of the stairs as Elisaf instructed and curtsy as Corrin taught me, keeping my back stiff and dipping my head only slightly. You are the future queen, not his wench! she had barked. I steal a glance to my left to where Boaz stands, his hand on the hilt of his sword, his face steely. I’m trying to picture the glowering captain on his knees, begging to be executed, and I can’t. At least he appears satisfied by my efforts, so far.
A hush falls over the room as everyone waits for the king to speak.
Zander allows that deathly silence to stretch, until every cleared throat cuts like the whir of a chainsaw in a still morning, every whisper like a howling wind passing through a cracked window.
I fight the urge to squirm. Has he changed his mind about this scheme? Decided he can’t go through with it? Maybe I am to be sentenced to death instead.
“There have been many rumors traveling through Islor as of late that I would like to lay to rest once and for all.” His voice is deep and commanding, carrying through the hollows of this massive room. It doesn’t waver from nerves or a heavy heart. “I have summoned you all here on this day to bear witness to the truth. Princess Romeria of Ybaris is as much a victim to Queen Neilina’s duplicitous scheming as I am. She traveled here to fulfill the agreement made between King Barris and King Eachann for our union, and she did it with honor. At no time did she conspire against Islor.”
Zander pauses, barely concealing the foul taste of those words. This must curl his insides to say out loud. “While the obligation to Ybaris is now forfeit, Her Highness wishes to remain in Islor, at my side, in hopes that our union will bring future peace between our realms. I am amenable to that arrangement.”
A mix of gasps and soft murmurs flares behind me.
Zander raises his hand, cutting off the sound instantly. “Queen Neilina is at the root of all evil. Through her sycophants, she persuaded the High Priestess Margrethe to summon Malachi for the purpose of unleashing chaos on us. Neilina assassinated her own husband and now she tries to amass an army based on a web of lies, including one that claims Islor murdered the heir to their throne.” He smirks as he gestures toward me. “As you can all see, we did no such thing.”
I steal another glance at Boaz.
His eyebrow twitches, the only response to that lie. But it is not the only falsehood Zander just told his court, not if what Annika said about Margrethe summoning Malachi to bring me back to life is true.
I suppose this is all one big, bloated lie, though.
“Her Highness is alive and well, despite being attacked while trying to stop the insurgents. She has chosen Islor, and we will make sure that news reaches the farthest corners of Ybaris. It will make a compelling declaration against her mother’s treachery, and should we face our foes again in battle, we will make sure they question their own allegiances.” His gaze roams the faces in the standing-room crowd, as if daring any of them to challenge him.
No one utters a word.
Would they ever speak out against the king? How would Zander react? Would his carefully crafted composure break? Would he roar his displeasure? I’ve felt that rage before, directed at me. But it was fueled by emotion, by heartache and agony.
Here, he leads with a commanding calm. I can’t decide which is scarier.
Shifting his attention back to me, Zander dips his head once, ever so slightly. It’s followed by Elisaf’s barely audible throat clear. A signal that this political display is—thankfully—over already.
I stifle the urge to sigh with relief, offering Zander another tempered curtsy and a murmur of “Your Highness” without any bite in my tone, counting to three in my head so I don’t appear as though I’m bolting out of here.
But then Zander does something that catches me off guard. He smiles. A lip-parting, eye-twinkling, dimple-popping smile that promises mischief, transforming his handsome, albeit severe, face to one of boyish charm. It appears so genuine that even I’m having a hard time reminding myself of the loathing behind it.
We have a secret, the king and I—and a few trusted others.
I feel my own face transform with a smile that is for once not forced but relieved and maybe even a touch giddy. For a moment—a split second—the throne room, the audience, our sordid history … it all vanishes from my mind. How did Princess Romeria meet that smile time and time again while plotting his murder and not waver in her plans?
Surprise flashes in his eyes. I swear, sometimes I think he can read my thoughts. But if he could, he would know my secret.
“Your Highness,” Elisaf whispers behind me, and I realize I’ve been gaping openly at Zander for far too long.
We’re playing a part, I remind myself, my cheeks burning. And by the heady buzz of titters and whispers growing behind me, we’re doing it well. They all think me dim-witted, so I suppose this works.
I keep my head up as I turn and stroll past Elisaf, who waits to follow me out. I feel oddly lighter than when I came in, despite that spectacle. Or perhaps it’s the vibe in the room that is lighter, the faces staring back at me reflecting more curiosity than animosity.
Not all faces. I spot the woman from the royal grounds, the one with coal-black eyes and a visible hatred. Even now, her jaw is set firmly as she watches me pass, her attention shifting downward to my ring or my cuffs, I can’t be sure. I need to figure out who she is.
The moment the doors seal shut behind me, I release my heavy sigh. “Bloody hell, I’m so glad that’s over.”
Elisaf frowns strangely at me. “I fear it is only beginning, Your Highness.”
Chapter Sixteen
“Is there anything else tonight?” Corrin asks from the threshold of my terrace, the usual bite in her tone absent.
I pause in my nightly ritual of spying on courtesans to spare her a look. Her eyes wear the dark circles of a woman who has been on her feet all day, preparing my accommodation, making sure I have everything I could possibly need in addition to whatever other responsibilities she has in the castle. Me, the woman who caused the death of her beloved queen.