Again and again, they practice, each time their strikes smoother, their form more fluid, their strength steadier.
Zander’s usually hard face is soft, his words of encouragement sincere. It is an entirely different side of him from what I’m used to. It doesn’t seem possible that he is the same man who stood across from me that first night, wishing me death. Not that I could blame him. And perhaps that’s why I don’t hate him. Even though Princess Romeria would deserve everything he’s threatened to deliver, he hasn’t made good on any of it.
A shimmer of gold catches my eye. Wendeline glides along the path toward the square, pausing long enough to curtsy to Lord Quill, who is arm in arm with … I frown. That young brunette is not his wife. And she’s clinging too tightly to him to be a friend or sister. I watch with suspicious eyes as she reaches up to stroke the hair off his forehead. He collects her hand in his, bringing it to his lips.
Not a sister and surely not a platonic friend.
Is he that brazen to cheat on Lady Quill so openly?
Childlike laughter below pulls my attention back to the sparring court, and I chuckle at the scene unfolding, a boy and girl attacking Zander from either side, trying to best their king as he spins and ducks from their staves with ease, his arms blocking their attempts. He moves fast, as fast as Sofie moved the night she embedded daggers into Tony’s and Pidge’s wrists. This is how Malachi designed King Ailill and his descendants to be: stronger, faster, harder to kill. Rivals to the Ybarisans. Malachi’s demons.
Abarrane’s hand is on her hip, the other propping up her staff, her expression bleeding annoyance. “Is the king here to assist or to pester?”
“Why not both?” He sweeps a little girl off her feet with one arm, earning her squeal and kick before he sets her down, his soft, musical laughter missing its usual derisive tone. I haven’t heard that sound from him before, and it catches me off guard.
“Perhaps you’d like to help me demonstrate proper technique to our young fighters, then.” She gestures at the rack.
His hands are out to his sides in challenge. “I thought you’d never ask.”
“I would take any opportunity to knock His Highness on his back.” Her responding grin is downright savage. Given what Zander told me earlier of her bodily threats, I can’t help but think there’s a hidden message in those words.
He chuckles. It’s the kind of laugh that would pair well with a gentle finger stroke against a cheek or a whisper against an ear. A completely foreign sound, but I already know he’s capable of that tenderness. I saw it the other night with that woman, just before he revealed his unsettling secret to me.
“Alas, I must decline for the moment. I believe I have a visitor.” He strolls toward the edge of the sparring square where Wendeline stands, wringing her hands.
“Your Highness.” She curtsies deeply. “You summoned me.” Her voice carries a hint of tremor that she always has when he is near. I used to think it was fear, but I’m beginning to see it as the nervousness that comes with her reverence toward him.
“Yes. Priestess. Please.” He motions toward a path.
Below me, Abarrane’s barked orders fade into the background as I watch Zander and Wendeline stroll away, their pace slow, Zander’s arms folded across his chest as he listens. He’s probably demanding that she regurgitate every word shared between us in the sanctum, trying to figure out what had me rattled when I arrived in the throne room.
Her gaze drifts up to my terrace; his follows.
Yes, they’re talking about me, and now they know I’m spying on them.
Whatever she’s saying to him, he’s shaking his head firmly. He doesn’t agree. She’s imploring him, going so far as to reach for his arm. He doesn’t shuck the contact, but he appears bothered by what she’s telling him, his free hand pushing through his hair, sending it into disarray.
My graphite-tinged thumbnail finds its way between my teeth as a fresh wave of anxiety washes over me and my urge to flee kicks in. I always have a way out, a getaway route at the ready. Finding it is part of my planning in the weeks leading up to whatever I’m slinking into—a way to slink back out. Yet here, I am trapped. It’s unsettling, compounded by the reality that there’s still too much I don’t know—about why I’m here and why Malachi might want that stone.
I need to find the queen’s secret passage.
I’m mentally checking off all the spots in the bedchamber I’ve investigated so far to consider what I’ve missed when, from somewhere deep inside the cultivated grounds, a woman’s bloodcurdling scream pierces the tranquil evening.
Chapter Twenty
“What in fates’ name …” Corrin’s arms are laden with the meal tray as she steps out onto my terrace, staring with bewilderment at the furniture I dragged out. “Why is half your bedchamber outside?”
I ignore her melodramatic question—there are only two pieces—and point to the flock of sentries who circle Boaz, awaiting his instruction. “What’s going on down there? What happened?” Zander took off running toward the screaming woman at a speed that dropped my jaw. Abarrane dismissed her pupils, collected a sword, and chased after him.
When they reemerged, it was at a brisk, purposeful walk toward the doors that lead into the main hall, Zander’s shoulders rigid with tension. Since then, the patrons who were wandering the grounds have rushed away, and the guards are out in full force.
Desperate for information, I ran to my door in hopes that Elisaf was there, but it was the unfriendly day guard, and he gave nothing more than a grunt of “no idea.”
Corrin sets my meal on the side table, her expression somber. “Lord Quill has been murdered.”
“What?” My eyes widen. “But I saw him walking into the garden not ten minutes before that woman screamed.”
“And he will not be walking out. He was poisoned the same way King Eachann and Queen Esma were dispatched.” She gives me a pointed look.
I hold my hands in the air in surrender. “You can’t blame me for this. I’ve been locked in here all afternoon.”
“Certainly, I am not suggesting that you somehow snuck out and poisoned anyone,” she says crisply.
I think back to the couple in matching green from the throne room earlier, smiling, oblivious to what was in store for one of them. Well, at least Lord Quill was oblivious. “The woman he was with wasn’t his wife.”
“No. It was his tributary.”
“Someone tainted her blood.” They were going out there so he could feed off her. “I’m … shocked.”
“Indeed.”
“Is it normal to be affectionate with your tributary when you’re married?”
“I am here to ensure you are fed and bathed, not to provide you with idle gossip.” Corrin’s fingers graze the stiff paper as she studies the dresses I sketched. “You illustrated these?”
I’m not going to get anywhere with her. “Yes.” One is based on a tulle ball gown that a guest at a charity event wore and I admired from afar, with embroidered flowers and a seductive V-neckline. What is the point of having my own royal seamstress if I don’t have her ripping off couture? Another design is my own, layers of sheer fabric that offer full coverage while allowing provocative glimpses of a female silhouette with high slits along the thighs. I’m curious to see what Dagny might do with these.