“Could they be working with the Ybarisans in hiding?”
Zander shakes his head. “He despises your kind. He would never form an alliance with them, but we do believe he is behind this call to arms against me. Covertly, of course. Within the court, he’ll try to sway other lords and ladies to his concerns without being obvious about it, so he may steer their support his way.”
“So, you have more than one enemy to contend with at the moment—is that what you’re saying?”
He smirks. “I’m a king. For every enemy I face, there are ten I cannot name, but they are always there, waiting for an opening.”
“Which one do you focus on?”
“The one that is most dangerous at that given moment.”
I steal another glance Saoirse’s way. Does she know we’re talking about her? She may want me dead, but I’ll bet she knows how to behave as a queen. I could stand to take a few lessons from her. That’s how I’ve always survived—by watching, learning, adapting to my surroundings, blending in. Korsakov was not wrong when he gave me my pet name. “You still can, you know. Marry her. Once you’ve found your traitor and this little charade is over.” I waggle my finger between us, sounding more confident than I feel.
“First you reprimand me for who I bring to my chamber, and now you are choosing a wife for me? This grows more amusing by the moment.”
“Just trying to help out. At least she’s beautiful.” Like a jagged, snow-topped mountain range primed for an avalanche is beautiful. But more important, she’ll be here long after I’ve found my way out of Islor.
“Saoirse is spiteful, manipulative, and narcissistic. And beauty …” His eyes drift over my features. “Look where that nearly got me before.”
My heart stutters at the compliment, even though I doubt he meant it as such.
Surprise flickers in his expression before he smooths it over. “I wouldn’t be shocked if she’s making plans to have you vacate this throne before your place becomes permanent. I would avoid her at all costs.” His eyes drop to my mouth, and it seems as if he’s going to kiss me, right here in front of everyone.
I inhale sharply.
With the tiniest of smirks, he turns back to the crowd.
It’s all a game to him, and I feel like I’m losing. I lean in again, this time letting my bottom lip graze the skin below Zander’s earlobe. “Who else do I need to know?”
Zander clears his throat. It’s a moment before he ducks his head and responds. “I will go through the entire court with you, but we do not have time for that now. I can point out a few. That man in all black, to your far left? That is Lord Telor.”
I follow his direction and spot a tall, regal man in a ranked soldier’s uniform, his lengthy white hair pulled into a ponytail. He’s talking with a man next to him. “From Lyndel.” I recall that name.
“Correct. You have never met him. He continues to be loyal to my family, and to our cause. He leads the ongoing rift border control.”
“If he’s here, who’s leading his men?”
“His son, Braylon. It would be wise to ensure your smiles to him are as genuine as you can fake. The couple in matching green, standing near him, are Lord and Lady Quill. I awarded them with Innswick after stripping the lands and title from Muirn’s surviving family.”
I eye the youthful-looking pair who beam at me. “I take it they approve of us too?”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not. But they will never voice a word otherwise, not with the windfall I granted them. Beside them are Lords Sallow and Edevane of Bythesea and Wingsby, respectively. Also considered loyal to me and to my vision of Islor. The man next to Saoirse is her father, Lord Adley. I’ve told you of his motives, so you should not be surprised by anything but the charm he wields. He could talk the robes off a priestess with his slippery tongue, but always assume he has a purpose that suits him. Of them all, he is the most likely to speak out of turn, but he does it with such elegance, it is difficult to chastise him without earning the disapproval of the court.”
“And that matters? Their approval?” I haven’t seen any signs of a democracy, but I haven’t seen much of anything, aside from the pleasant daily social lives of the aristocrats within these walls and the glaringly harsh situation for those lingering in the rookery, waiting to expire. There must be something in between. “Why don’t you strip his lands from him and give them to someone else?”
Zander laughs, a mirthless sound. “That is certainly something Neilina would do. But I don’t have cause. Only in those cases where unsurmountable proof of treason is presented is it considered appropriate, and Adley is too smart to get caught. He would raise a daunting army of sympathizers against me just for trying.”
From our spot on the dais, we can see clearly down the long hall beyond the throne room. A small procession of soldiers marches along it now, the clatter of their approaching boots and armor giving the lords and ladies something else to gawk at besides me, many turning to watch. In the center of the horde are five dirt-covered faces. The woman in leather from that day in the war room walks with them, smeared with blood and mud.
“Who is she?”
“Abarrane? She leads Islor’s Legion. They are our elite, our deadliest soldiers.”
“And she knows?” I give him a pointed look. We’re sitting so close, I find myself admiring his long lashes.
“She does. Her subordinates do not,” he answers coolly, seemingly unfazed by our proximity.
I take a deep breath and try to mimic his composure. “So that threat she made to skin me alive was an act?”
“Not in the least. I’ve seen her do it before. Don’t take offense, though. She doesn’t like anyone. She barely tolerates me.”
I shudder. “Has she threatened to cause you bodily harm?”
His eyes flicker to my mouth. “She has suggested doing a few things to my body, but I doubt any of them would cause me harm.”
My words get caught on my tongue. I don’t know what’s more surprising—that Zander so casually said it or that one of his war chiefs would have the gall to proposition him.
Zander’s eyes sparkle with amusement as he watches me search for a suitable retort. He enjoys flustering me.
“And does she know she’s not your type?”
“And what is my type, pray tell?”
This is not the time or place to be having such a conversation, and yet I find myself leaning in to whisper, “Smiley, agreeable, meek. Isn’t that what worked for me last time?”
Zander’s stern attention shifts to the approaching procession. “You’re certainly none of those things anymore.”
The soldiers stop a few feet from the dais and part, leaving the scruffy men with shackled wrists alone in a line.
“Come forward,” Zander commands, all hints of his relaxed, playful tone disappearing.
The prisoners are shoved. They stumble, two of them falling to their knees.
The rough treatment trips a memory of Boaz pushing me into the tower and my knee smashing against the stone. I wince before I can stop myself.
Zander’s hand squeezes mine, and I sense the warning in the simple move. Everyone is watching for my reaction. I can’t show sympathy for these Ybarisans, regardless of my reason.