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First published by K.A. Tucker in 2022
Published in Penguin Books 2023 001
Copyright © Kathleen Tucker 2021
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To my readers, for following me from Alaska to Islor and everywhere in between
My eyes water from the stench of sewage. If not for the endless adrenaline surging through my veins, I might have already spilled the delectable Seacadorian grapes churning in my stomach.
“I will go first—”
“No.” Zander seizes Elisaf by the shoulder, stopping his loyal friend from climbing the ladder. Even in the shadows of the underground tunnel, there’s no missing the stiffness in his jaw, the resolution in his stare. “If this is a trap set by Mordain, I am the better match for what awaits us.”
Because Zander can raze a person to ash where they stand. I’ve seen it firsthand, as has everyone who witnessed the horrifying spectacle in the arena tonight.
I sneak a glance at Gesine. The high priestess may be bothered by Zander’s blatant distrust of her people, but she hides it behind an emotionless mask, offering me a smile when she notices my attention
I can’t bring myself to return it. There won’t be any comfort found tonight, not as the four of us slink through Cirilea’s culvert system, running from a king’s army.
“Wait for my signal and bring up the rear. Romeria, you will
follow directly behind me.” Zander pauses. Under different circumstances, I might have a quip for his demand, an admiring gaze for his handsome face as he awaits my answer. Now, all I have is a solemn nod.
He ascends the wooden ladder with lithe steps and disappears into the night.
And I hold my breath. Our torch flames cast ominous forms over the jagged stone walls; the foul sludge soaks into the hide of our boots. I wish I could say it’s the first time I’ve crept through a gutter, but years of surviving the streets and then Korsakov’s criminal world has exposed me to plenty of predicaments that would draw shudders and nose curls. This smell will trail us long after we’ve fled. But bodies can be washed, clothes can be replaced. Cleanliness is the least of our worries.
Somewhere unseen, water trickles and waves lap faintly. “Where does this end?” I ask.
“At the seawall.” Elisaf’s attention is hyperfocused on the exit above. “A grate fortified with merth closes it off to invaders. Nothing short of direct cannon fire or a powerful caster will break through that.” His fist clutches a gleaming merth-forged dagger at his side, its blade primed for plunging into flesh. I want to think that flesh won’t be mine, but nothing is guaranteed now that my secret is out.
Will there come a point when the nights Zander and I shared, our heads nestled in pillows, our words laced with heady promises, mean nothing? When the fleeing king puts his kingdom and crown before his heart and accepts the ruin a key caster—one with poison flowing through her veins—could bring to Islor is far too great?
Will I see the resolve in those beautiful hazel eyes when he makes that decision?
My chest tightens with the thought of Zander becoming my enemy again. But that needs to be a worry for another day too.
I push out all concerns but the most pressing one—is there any hope in hell of me escaping death tonight?
Each second that passes without any sign of Zander swells my dread.
“This must all have been so confusing for you,” Gesine says. “From the moment you woke.”
“I thought I was losing my mind,” I admit. Just like my father had. Only now I know the truth about that too.
A whistle calls.
“Climb.” Elisaf nudges me forward, urgency in his lyrical Seacadorian accent.
I don’t waste a second, scaling the ladder far less gracefully than Zander, the rungs creaking beneath my weight. I wince against a splinter that slides beneath my skin as I emerge into a pitch-black space.
“Let me help you.” Zander’s voice is a whisper in my ear.
I can’t make out anything, yet I know he can see clearly, and I sense his hand waiting inches from mine, palm up.
This is where we part ways, Romeria Watts of New York City.
His resolute words from earlier are a deafening bell toll. Zander wants to leave me. An army led by his treasonous brother is building a pyre for me, every immortal in Islor will want me dead for the poison in my veins, and the most powerful spellcasters in Mordain will hunt me down should they discover I’m a key caster …
Zander finally knows that I do not belong in this world, and he is searching for an excuse to abandon me to it.
I ignore his offer of help, testing the floor with my toes for clear footing before stepping off the ladder. The tunnel is supposed to lead us to the Rookery, but all I sense are walls. I occupy my hands with my cloak, praying for my eyes to adjust.
Zander sighs with resignation. “You are angry with me.”
For an elven with the ability to read my mood through my pulse—to catch every jump of fear, every stir of desire, every pull of guilt—he finally has it wrong. I’m not angry. I’m hurt. If I allow myself a moment to absorb how much, the ache might swallow me whole.
I’m saved from responding as Gesine and her floating globe ascend from the city’s bowels with the poise of a shadow, her inky hair hidden within the hood of her cloak. Elisaf is on her heels, nimbly rushing to ground level.
Between the caster’s magical light and Elisaf’s torch, I can finally discern the crowded, low-ceilinged room we’ve climbed into, cluttered with wooden crates and barrels of various sizes. Another dusty storage space that hides Cirilea’s secret passageways.
Gesine flicks her wrist, and a stack of crates slides across the gaping hole in the floor, concealing its existence.
Despite our current predicament, my heart skips a beat with excitement, as it does every time I witness real magic in this world.
“A skiff awaits us at the dock. The most discreet path is along the seawall.” The light of her globe fades until it vanishes. She gestures toward Elisaf’s torch, its firelight glinting off the gold collar that encircles her neck. A reminder that she is still shackled by Queen Neilina, even this far from Ybaris. “There is a metal bucket of water by the door. You must leave that behind.”
“This is my city, High Priestess, and we don’t need your guidance on how best to move through it.” Zander’s voice carries a biting hatred I haven’t heard since the days when I was the treacherous princess who murdered his parents.
But Zander’s wrong. It’s Atticus’s city now. Zander practically handed his crown to his opportunistic brother when he ignored the aspirations even I could see.
Tonight, we need all the help we can get, including from this caster.
Gesine may be thinking along the same lines, but her expression remains stoic as she dips her head. “Of course, Your Highness.”
Zander’s stern gaze flickers to Elisaf, who promptly dumps his blazing torch into the bucket. The flame sizzles, throwing the tiny storage room into darkness once again.
With Elisaf’s guiding hand on my shoulder, we creep out of the shack single file, Zander leading the way, his footfalls silent against the dirt path. A lean-to cluttered with scrap wood and fishing nets sits directly ahead. Beyond it and to the right are rows of one-story shanties. They’re the homes in the Rookery that Zander and I visited on more than one occasion, doling out gold coins to the loitering peasants. No one lingers on the porches now, though, save for a stray cat devouring its kill.
Rhythmic waves lap against rock on my left, the only hint of the yawning expanse of sea beyond. A warm, briny breeze grazes my cheek, and it is a welcome shift from the stench of waste. If this were any other situation, I might feel the urge to sit and absorb the calm those waves carry.
But up the hill, past the stone wall that serves as a barrier between Cirilea’s finer class and the humans it deems worthless, steel clangs against steel, drawing a disturbing wave of déjà vu. I’ve heard those sounds of battle before, upon waking in a strange world where two moons sometimes hang in the sky. That night, Princess Romeria was also at the root of the death and destruction.
Shouts soar in the streets behind us, and my panic surges. Soldiers found us at the apothecary. It’s only a matter of time before they follow us here.
“We must not tarry.” Gesine’s voice is too serene for the situation, but I appreciate it.
“This way.” Zander leads us along the narrow passage at the water’s edge.
I trail closely, noting every loose stone that tumbles past the retaining wall to plunge into the black waters below, praying that I don’t lose my footing and mirror their path.
With the city fair in full swing, people have flocked to Cirilea from every corner of Islor to sell and buy wares at the market and imbibe in the lively nighttime entertainment on Port Street. But it’s eerily silent in the Rookery tonight. Not a soul dallies outside the dilapidated walls. No curious faces peek out from behind the
grimy glass panes. The streetlights are extinguished, save for the odd lantern, its glimmer timid. Surely, these people recognize the noise of battle from above and want no part of it. Has news of Atticus’s treason traveled to these hovels yet? Do these humans care which king governs when Islor’s laws keep them chained in a life of servitude?
Some must care, at least. Humans like my seamstress, Dagny, who hoped for change under Zander’s rule.
“Tell me, High Priestess, did your all-knowing seers foretell of Islor’s king scampering through sewers and along shorelines like a rodent?” Sour humor laces Zander’s words.
“Foretelling does not work like that, Your Highness—”
“Then how does it work?”
“It is as I’ve told you. The end of the blood curse is at the tied hands of—”
“The Ybarisan daughter of Aoife and the Islorian son of Malachi. Yes, I recall. You’re speaking in riddles based on hallucinations rooted in madness,” he snaps, all semblance of charm gone.
I can’t fault Zander for his anger. Too late, he learned how these casters from Mordain have been spinning a web of duplicity so thick, no one can see from one side to the other. While he claims he never trusted Wendeline, I think confirming her treachery has wounded him deeply.
And her list of deceptions keeps growing. She lied about even knowing of Gesine and Ianca, let alone of their arrival in Cirilea. She knew of Ybaris’s plot to kill Islor’s royal family the night of the wedding, and instead of stopping that tragedy from unfolding, she altered schedules to kill Zander’s parents sooner. She misled Zander about the poison, convincing him it was deliquesced merth, an odd metal vine that grows in the mountains and is toxic to immortals. Her hand was literally on the arrow when Margrethe summoned the Fate of Fire to resurrect Princess Romeria’s body—unbeknownst to them, with me in it.
And this unparalleled key caster power that simmers within
my limbs, subdued by the ring around my finger? Wendeline discovered it the same night I arrived here, unconscious and torn apart by the daaknar. But she hid that vital truth from everyone, including me.
Wendeline may be more culpable for Zander’s kingdom unraveling than all of Ybaris’s scheming royal family put together, and she swears she did it in the best interests of Islor.
Only time will tell.
“That is better left to discussion when we are not scampering through sewers and along shorelines like rodents, do you not agree?” The faintest edge in Gesine’s voice—a hairline crack in her otherwise relentless deference to a king—makes me smile. Behind all the curtsies and bows to royal protocol, she has a backbone.
And a purpose for being here that I should be wary of. According to Wendeline, the elemental caster spent years studying prophecy with the scribes. She may claim to be here to guide me, but I’d be an idiot to ignore the probability that I am a tool to serve an agenda, one that likely won’t work in my favor.
“As long as you are prepared to answer it with the truth.” Zander echoes my thoughts.
“I have no intention of doing otherwise.”
I note it’s not a promise.
The hollow thud of boat hulls as they buoy over waves tells me we’re nearing the dock. I allow myself the tiniest glimmer of relief that we’ve almost made it to safety.
Zander stops so abruptly that I plow into his rigid body, my hands flying up to his back to brace myself. He may as well be a brick wall, immovable. “Why are there humans at the skiff?”
“They are probably the couple helping us,” Gesine answers. “A woman named Cecily and her husband, Arthur. They are kind.”
“They are fools. They should have made themselves scarce.” His boots land with a dull clunk on a wooden surface. “Watch your step. There’s a drop.”
A vivid image of stumbling into the sea has me faltering. “I can’t see anything,” I remind him in a hiss. Only silhouettes and shadows.
“Experience tells me you’ll refuse my hand, should I offer it.”
My anger flares. “Yeah, well, experience tells me you’ll ditch me the first chance you—”
Strong hands seize my waist, cutting off the acerbic retort. My body tenses, my palms bracing on Zander’s biceps for support as he lifts me off my feet and onto the dock.
“Shouldn’t I be the distrustful one?” His grip lingers for a moment before he steps back.
Another wave of hurt washes over me
Everything between us has changed tonight.
“Perhaps we could afford a little light?” he murmurs.
Gesine’s globe appears again, a dull sphere floating low to the ground, just bright enough to illuminate the gaps in wood planks.
We rush wordlessly, Zander’s pace brisk enough that I’m nearly running. At the end, next to a boat maybe ten feet long, two people with mops of greasy gray hair bow.
“You should not be here. It’s too dangerous,” Zander says by way of greeting, surveying the nearby boats.
Echoes of “Your Highness” from them prick familiarity. I’ve heard those voices before. My suspicion is confirmed moments later when the couple stands. It’s the woman with the liverspotted hands and her husband, a man once hobbled by infection. But the cane is gone and when he rushes to unfasten the skiff’s last rope from the dock, it’s with effortless steps.
Gesine holds out a plump velvet purse for Cecily to collect. “Return to your home and say nothing of this to anyone. Your skiff was stolen while you slept.”
“We seen nothin’, my lady.” Cecily secures the purse inside her tattered cloak before her eyes land on me. She hesitates. “We went to the sanctum like ya told us, Your Highness. Priestess fixed my Arthur up good as new. Well, he’s still an old goat, but there be no magic for fixin’ that.”
“I’m glad to see it.” Anguish twinges inside me at the mention of Wendeline. What will she face for her treason to the crown? Does she deserve it? If only I could see her again and demand she explain why.
“To the docks!” a soldier bellows, and my fear spikes. The army is closing in.
“We cannot delay another second, for all our sakes,” Gesine warns, urging, “Go now!” to the couple.
Cecily grabs hold of my hand, squeezing it tightly. “May we see you again, in your rightful place on the throne.” Collecting a small lantern, the couple huddles together and rushes toward land
“May I see you again too,” I whisper after them. Somewhere beyond the shanties, metal pounds against cobblestone. The soldiers are running.
Elisaf and Zander have already climbed into the skiff and grabbed the oars. I clamber in behind them, my entrance inelegant and noisy. Gesine uses her leg to push us off before she settles near the bow.
My pulse thrums in my throat as Zander and Elisaf propel us into the night with powerful strokes, my attention locked on the dark shoreline, the lanterns offering little light. Beyond, farther up, the castle glows orange, its imposing outline a murky shape against the sky.
“Do you think Abarrane got out?” We left the commander of the Legion and her elite warriors behind to face an entire army.
“She will meet us in Eldred Wood as agreed, or she will die trying,” comes Zander’s cold response.
“What about Annika?” Tonight’s disaster unraveled in a blurred fury, with little time to think of anyone but myself. Elisaf handed me a dagger and told me to run, so I ran, not realizing that Zander’s sister was not following.
“Annika will say and do what she needs to survive. Besides, Atticus knows her well enough to know she was blind to this.”
But whose side will she be on now? I arrived in this world a
sworn enemy to her and lingered in that role for weeks, even after saving her life—twice in one night. But she seemed to be warming to me, finally. Granted, our relationship is still tenuous, but I’d come to see the sharp-tongued princess as something closer to friend than foe.
“Fretting about others will not help our current situation. We will have plenty of time to dwell later,” Zander adds, his tone softening.
We’ve gained maybe fifty feet in the water when metallic forms pour through the cracks and crevices between the buildings, armor glinting against new torchlight.
There’s no sign of Cecily or Arthur. I pray they made it to safety.
“Over there! That must be them on the water!” someone shouts.
Zander curses.
My own thoughts repeat it. Damn these Islorians and their superior vision.
“Archers! Ready!” a familiar voice hollers.
“That’s Boaz.” The captain of the king’s guard has yelled at me enough times that I recognize his booming voice. “He’s commanding the soldiers to fire on you?” On Islor’s rightful king?
“More likely on you. I’m just collateral damage.” The skiff jerks forward, Zander and Elisaf’s strokes increasing in both speed and strength.
But it’s not enough.
A dozen flaming arrows launch into the night sky with the first volley, sailing toward us like shooting stars.
“Get down!” Zander hisses, abandoning his oars and diving forward to shield me with his body.
I cower, my stomach clenching as balls of fire illuminate the water’s surface, revealing our exact location before plunging into the sea.
Zander wastes no time peeling away from me. “Is everyone okay?” The chorus of ayes pulls a sigh of relief from him.
“You don’t have armor.”
He still wears the ink-blue jacket he wore to the tournament, the velvet fabric useless against flying metal. “A choice I am regretting.” He moves into position to row once again. “We are lambs in a meadow of wolves, and some of those arrows will be forged in merth.”
Far more deadly if they land true. And he was willing to take one for me.
“Thank God they missed,” I mutter, more to myself.
“I will thank the fates for nothing but the suffering of my people,” he growls, the oar blades churning through the water with angry strokes
Elisaf matches his pace. “I’m afraid Boaz will not miss again.” I’m not used to hearing anxiety in my night guard’s voice.
“Then we must do what we can to stop them.” Gesine stands facing the shoreline.
“Are you mad, woman?” Zander scolds. “Sit down before you are dead and useless to us.”
“We will all be dead and useless shortly.” Gesine’s cloaked arms reach out on either side. “Are you ready, Romeria?”
My eyes bulge with surprise. Me? For what? I shoot her a questioning look, but she’s not paying attention to us, her head bent forward as if in prayer.
Whatever this powerful elemental is about to do, it involves her abilities—the three shimmering emblems marked on her forearm, hidden beneath the heavy wool, that depict her affinities to water, air, and earth.
A breeze stirs from the dead calm, like a teasing summer wind, fluttering strands of my hair, caressing my cheek.
“Ready!” Boaz roars from the shore as the soldiers prepare another barrage. His voice sends fresh fear coursing through me.
“Not yet …,” Gesine whispers, her eyes still closed. “Romeria, you have Aoife’s ring on your finger and Princess Romeria’s affinity flowing through your limbs. Use them.”
“I don’t know how.” I falter over my objection. I didn’t know
how the day of the nethertaur attack either, but somehow, I sent a water beast colliding with it.
Zander rows hard as he watches the shoreline. “We need to stop those arrows. Use the sea.”
“How?” I plead for an answer because I’m drawing a blank. How do you use water to stop a flying steel blade?
“Fates,” Elisaf hisses as more arrows shoot into the sky in unison, gliding steadily toward us. They will rain down on this wooden skiff in seconds, and Elisaf is right—Boaz won’t miss twice.
My pulse drums in my head like the second hand on a clock.
Zander drops his oars and dives forward, sheltering me. Willing to take the onslaught of deadly arrows for me again. His arms tighten. “If only we’d met in your world instead,” he whispers, his lips grazing my ear.
Then maybe we would have had a chance, I finish in my thoughts. I can’t resist the urge to reach for his chest, to press my palm against the warmth and feel the steady, strong beat of a heart that is likely moments away from stopping forever.
This can’t be it, a voice inside my head screams. After all we’ve been through, this can’t be how our story ends, like lame, cowering ducks before a firing squad.
The need to protect Zander, to shield him as he shields me, surges through my body. I struggle against his grip. “Let me go.”
Zander’s arms only tighten their hold.
Dread, panic, and anger flare inside me as we brace for impact.
But the seconds stretch and the arrows never reach us, splashing into the water, faint sizzles as flames die. And then an eerie silence takes over.
Zander shifts away from me, and we peer toward Cirilea.
I squint into the dark, my view of the city blurred. “Is that—”
The wall of water crashes like a dropped curtain, scattering waves that rock our boat, pushing us farther out.
“That is how you use the sea.” Satisfaction laces Zander’s voice.
“The arrows bounced off it like useless toothpicks.” Elisaf sounds equally amazed.
It dawns on me. “I did that.” I needed to protect Zander—all of us, but he is who I was focused on—and that need channeled through this ring to create a shield. The gold band is still warm against my skin.
“It certainly was not me.”
Gesine remains standing. Her eyes are open, glowing a vivid green that reminds me of the daaknar, not in color but in intensity, as if they could bore holes through any surface. She’s focused on something unseen behind our skiff, her palms raised, hands trembling. The emblem of the silver butterfly on her forearm glows brighter than the other two. “Either I eliminate those soldiers trying to kill us or I take us out of range of their arrows. It is one or the other, and my hold on this element is not infinite. Your Highness.”
She’s asking for an order from the king.
Zander hesitates, weighing his thoughts on the shoreline where Boaz is likely scrambling to prepare another fiery assault.
“There are innocent people in the Rookery,” I remind him. People who helped us escape tonight. People who don’t deserve to suffer more than they already have. What exactly does eliminating those soldiers mean, besides the obvious? “They can’t become collateral damage.”
“And killing the soldiers will not end the opposition,” he says, as if thinking aloud.
Boaz’s commanding shouts ring out, and tension cords my neck. “What if I can’t block those arrows again?” I don’t understand how I did it in the first place.
“Choose now!” Gesine demands in a voice foreign to her normally calm deference.
“Get us out of here.” There’s resignation in Zander’s tone, as if he’d prefer to select the first option.
“I suggest you hold on.”
My hand has barely closed over the skiff’s rail when a gust
sweeps in from behind us, strengthening by the second until my elaborate braids lash about and a relentless, high-pitched whistle drowns out all other sound.
I sense us sailing across the water. Shielding a hand against my eyes, I search the darkness, a mixture of numb terror and unbridled awe warring within. Sprays of seawater batter me from all sides, stifling my breath and soaking my clothes.
And in the midst of it, Gesine stands at the bow as if made of stone and anchored to the sea floor, her gleaming irises like demonic beacons in a turbulent storm.
A loud crack sounds, and something flies past, grazing my cheek.
“It will not hold much longer!” Elisaf’s bellow reaches my ears over the deafening roar.
The skiff groans in answer. It’s meant for catching meals for two peasants, notwithstanding a typhoon.
“Enough!” Zander yells.
As suddenly and ferociously as the torrent arrived, it abates, leaving us in a quiet, breezeless night, the wind’s terrible howl only a memory lingering in my ear.
Blinking away the sting of the salt water, I search for Cirilea, but I can’t find it. I can’t find anything. Darkness envelops us. “How far are we from land?”
“Too far.” Zander tosses a chunk of wood into the sea. His edge has always been his cool, calm demeanor, the way he can deliver punishing words with icy efficiency. Now, fury radiates from him. “You nearly tore us apart!”
“I am not as experienced at harnessing wind as those in the sailors’ employ. It can be difficult to control. But we needed to leave quickly to avoid further attack.” Unlike Zander, Gesine remains poised.
It seems to only infuriate Zander more. “And yet you brought us here. Which is where, exactly? Because surely, it is nowhere near Widow’s Bend.”
“I fear the area you speak of will be too congested with soldiers hunting us.”
“And yet, that is where we need to go to meet the Legion.”
A lyrical tune carries in the stillness then, so faint I wonder if I imagined it.
But Zander’s and Elisaf’s heads snap in the direction it came from, and I know it was real.
Another call sounds, like a song muffled beneath the water, impossible to decipher but pleasant. Lulling, almost. I feel an innate pull, an urge to reach for the oars and paddle out in search of the source of such enticing music. “What is that?”
Zander curses. “She’s delivered us to the sirens.”
Alarm bells ring in my head as I search the night for any hint of the monsters Wendeline claims have plagued the water since the tear in the Nulling that unleashed hellish beasts. They’ve made passage by ship impossible for any immortal, sniffing them out like bloodhounds on a scent.
“We are not in siren territory,” Gesine counters evenly.
As if to challenge her claim, another soothing song carries, and that same pull tugs at my consciousness. If the siren fables I’ve read are true, that’s how those creatures lure their victims.
“They will not travel this far south,” Gesine amends.
“With an Islorian of royal blood and an immortal who is also a key caster, are you so sure?”
Her answering silence betrays her confidence.
“Wherever we are going, I suggest we go soon.” Elisaf dumps a bucket of water over the edge and then bails more from the hull.
I gasp as I swish my feet, gauging the growing pool of water. “Oh my God, we’re sinking.”
“The boat’s frame may have held, but not completely.” He smooths a finger over a crack.
Gesine tips her head back and regards the smattering of stars that peek out between the broken cloud cover. “There is a small port called Northmost—”
“No,” Zander cuts her off. “I know which port you speak of,
and it will be crawling with locals who would happily send word of our whereabouts to Cirilea, including that one of our companions is a woman with a gold collar around her neck. Not that my brother won’t already be aware, given the display back there.”
Gesine touches the shackle absently, a simple, one-inch band encircling her delicate neck that marks her as one of Queen Neilina’s powerful elemental casters.
“We need to go back to Widow’s Bend.”
“But we have made it this far. We must get to the mountains, for Romeria’s sake. Besides, the likelihood of your soldiers surviving this night—”
Her words cut off at the metallic ring of a dagger sliding from its sheath.
“You will take us back to the first inlet past Widow’s Bend so I may reunite with my legion,” Zander says crisply, an edge creeping into his voice.
Zander and Gesine lock hard gazes, and there can be no mistaking this stare down for anything other than what it is: an assessment of an opponent. The glow in Gesine’s eyes has dulled, but it lingers. She still has a hold of her caster affinities. Is she considering harnessing the wind again to toss him into the sea before he can use his dagger on her?
Zander's elven affinity to Malachi's fire is useless out here, surrounded by nothing but water and no flame to draw from. Gesine knows this.
The air crackles with tension.
“Need I remind you, High Priestess, that fire is not my most formidable weapon? Neither is this blade in my hand.” He smiles.
Gesine’s eyes flare with understanding as she takes in the two needlelike fangs that somehow gleam in the darkness.
My heart skips a few beats. I’ve only ever seen them on display once, the night I discovered what Zander is. He was making a point then, just as he’s making one now—or rather, a threat.
Would Gesine have a chance to defend herself before he sank
those teeth into her neck? She would be a fool to test him. But is this the moment, out here in the vast ocean, that we see the true nature of the sorceress hidden behind the serene facade?
She dips her head. “As you wish, Your Highness. Though I may need your guidance, as you are far more familiar with your lands.”
“You seem to have navigated your way well enough so far.” His fangs have already retracted. “Now do it before we sink.”
I hold my breath in fearful anticipation, but rather than the previous gale force winds launching us forward, a small wave rolls beneath and carries us on its crest at a gentle clip, high enough to keep more water from leaking in. At this rate, it will take hours to make it back to shore, but at least we will make it.
I tremble within my drenched cloak as we glide through the darkness in brooding silence, moving farther away from old dangers.
And surely closer to new ones I can’t fathom yet.
Iknew Romeria was hiding something from me. I study her cloaked back and her woven hair, once a regal crown atop her head, now an unkempt mess. She seems so delicate, hunched and shivering, her damp clothes clinging to her body.
All along, she reeked of deception, and I knew. I challenged her on it, daily.
But I never imagined this. How could I?
Between her poisonous blood and these supposed caster affinities, she has the power to destroy Islor. And if she does, if she causes the death of so many innocents … it will have been my fault.
I am a king without a throne, unable to make hard decisions. She shudders, and the thought to pull her to me, to offer warmth, loiters like a regret I can’t shake.
But I remain where I am.
ROMERIA
Dawn teases the horizon when we reach the inlet. Elisaf and Zander jump into thigh-deep water to haul the battered skiff ashore, seawater freely pouring in through a widening crack in the vessel’s side. In the approaching daylight, the missing chunks from its frame are glaring. Zander’s alarm wasn’t exaggerated. How we didn’t sink, even with Gesine’s intervention, is no small miracle.
Ahead of us, driftwood lays scattered on a sugar-white sandy beach dappled with crops of lichen-covered boulders. A dense line of trees shelters the quiet area, the branches serving as a perch for the choir of mourning doves and robins. Aside from the birds, there are no signs of life, no witnesses to report our whereabouts to Cirilea. I see why Zander insisted on this spot.
The moment the boat’s hull meets resistance, Gesine drags her limp frame over the edge, as if she can’t stand being in it for one second longer. Where her dark locks were once combed neatly off her forehead, they now hang in a drenched, clingy mess. Not that the current state of my hair—or the rest of me—is much better.
Her striking pale green eyes are red-rimmed, sickly. The power she expended to carry us here has weakened her, much like Wendeline always was after healing me. But instead of finding a
place to sit and gather her strength, Gesine pulls her body upright and takes several staggered steps toward me, holding out a feeble hand. “Your Highness, allow me to help you.”
“I’m fine.” The adrenaline that has fueled me since the square is fraying, but I’ve spent years in survival mode, hungry and cold and uncomfortable. I throw my legs over the side, my sodden boots landing in the sand with a dull thud. All my clothes are wet, right down to my underthings. “And it’s Romy.” Even if I’m only her in spirit now. I don’t even have my face anymore, outside of the illusion Sofie bound to this ring.
“It is best we skip all formalities unless it benefits us to identify ourselves.” Zander rifles through the stash bag he collected during our escape from the castle.
“As you wish.” It’s the first time Gesine has spoken to him since he pulled his dagger on her and flashed his fangs.
“Also, the truth about Romeria must remain among this group. If word should get out …” He shakes his head. “No one but the four of us can know.”
“Corrin knows.” She was there when I was forced to divulge my secret in the mad dash to escape the castle. “And Wendeline too.”
“Corrin will not answer anything unless asked, and there is no reason Atticus could ever suspect what you are. As for Wendeline …” Zander’s jaw clenches. “I only hope she feels the punishment is worth keeping your secret a little longer.”
“What about Abarrane?” She’s always been part of Zander’s inner circle.
“There is only one thing the Legion despises more than Ybarisans, and that is the casters of Mordain.” His head shakes. “She is loyal to me, but I fear she will have too many reservations about keeping a key caster alive.”
“You really think she’d kill me?”
“I think she’ll kill you when she discovers what you are. You are already so dangerous to Islor’s existence as it is. News of your blood’s potency will spread, stirring rebellion from the humans
and panic from the elven. What we saw last night was merely a battle ahead of the coming war. But if the masses find out what you truly are, how dangerous you are not only to Islor but to Ybaris and Mordain …” His voice drifts.
Is Zander having reservations? Regrets? He spent the sail back to land brooding quietly, staring out in Cirilea’s direction. Does he wish, in those split seconds between Tyree’s proclamation and Atticus’s condemnation, that he had chosen a different path? That he had been the one to declare me an enemy?
Gesine stumbles a step and leans against the skiff’s bow for support. It creaks noisily in return.
“Are you going to be okay?” I shift closer in case I need to dive in to catch her.
She waves off my worries. “I just need rest.”
“There is no time for that. The trek to Eldred Wood is long. It’ll take us most of the day.” Zander sheds his cloak and ruined jacket, leaving him in only his black breeches and shirt, damp and clinging to his muscular frame. Beside him, Elisaf wrings the water from his tunic while his eyes comb the shadows.
“We won’t need to walk,” Gesine says between labored breaths. “There is a small village not five miles from here … Shearling. A human named Saul waits with horses at the mill south of the bridge.”
“Horses,” Zander echoes, and there is no mistaking the shock in his voice. “But you were intent on landing in Northmost.”
“I coordinated various routes for Romeria’s”—she falters on my name—“departure, including passage back to Seacadore, if our route north was impeded.”
“Escape routes.” Just like I used to map out when I was working for Korsakov.
“Yes, to account for a myriad of scenarios.” She offers a weak smile. “It took much planning. Many letters dispatched and coin purses lined. The things I’ve had to do to reach you …” Her voice drifts, sadness filling her features.
“Who helped you?” Zander demands.
“Wendeline, for one. But many others. Too many to name.”
“So while Queen Neilina and Princess Romeria were strategizing to murder my family and take Islor, you were scheming with my people to sweep in after and collect your key caster?”
“I did not know of Malachi’s plan for the key caster—”
“But you knew of Neilina’s plans, and you did not dispatch any letters or deliver any coin to stop that.”
She sighs. “I could not—”
“You chose not to!” His condemnation is clear. If he were sitting on his throne, an execution in the square would likely follow.
Her throat bobs with a hard swallow. We knew Gesine had been writing letters, marked with Mordain’s official scribe seal. At least she didn’t lie about it.
The Princess of Ybaris must survive at all costs, by Malachi’s will. That was the message Gesine sent to Margrethe. A proverbial nail in my coffin from this world, while Sofie was busy driving one into my chest from the other.
Tense silence stretches on, the rift of distrust between Zander and Gesine widening.
Finally, she clears her throat. “This inlet was not an ideal option, given its proximity to Cirilea, but I planned for it, anyway. It will take longer, but it will lead us to Bellcross just as well.”
“We’re going to Bellcross?” That name has been on many tongues lately, after Princess Romeria’s brother Tyree and his soldiers murdered a tributary.
“Yes. That is where Ianca waits, and we must—”
“No, we are meeting the Legion in Eldred Wood,” Zander counters evenly, cutting her off. The frazzled version from the open sea is gone, his calm, ice-cold demeanor having returned.
Gesine dips her head. “But after that, we will all head for—”
“I will decide where we go once I speak with my Legion commander.” He looms over the sagging caster. “And before I do that, you will answer every question I ask of you about what you have been up to, about what Neilina knows, about the end to this curse, and you will do it truthfully.”
Back in Cirilea, Zander was reeling from the treachery and seemed intent on two distinct paths, with his and Elisaf’s having nothing to do with mine. Now, he is back to playing the domineering king, demanding people obey his will.
But he promised they would get us to the mountains where Gesine could train me. Will he renege now that he’s had time to think? Now that he’s seen how powerful she is? What does he want, besides reclaiming his kingdom? He ridiculed Gesine and these seers for speaking in riddles, but is Zander holding out hope that there is truth to this prophecy? That he could rid Islor of this blood curse that has plagued the lands for two thousand years?
Gesine sighs. “As you command.” I can’t tell if it’s respect for a king or if she’s simply too tired to argue.
Either way, my pity for the woman swells. Quickly behind it is my anger. “Hey, Your Highness”—I haven’t used that patronizing tone in weeks, and it feels oddly satisfying—“in case you haven’t noticed, we’d probably all be dead or in a tower by now if it weren’t for Gesine’s help tonight, so maybe dial it down a notch or twelve.”
“I’ve noticed. I’ve noticed everything,” he answers me, but his glare remains on her.
Gesine dismisses my defense with a raised hand. “It is all right. His anger is just.”
Zander studies her another long moment, dragging his gaze over her pale face, her slouched body. When he speaks again, his tone is less hostile. “How many horses?”
“Two.”
I stifle my groan. That means doubling up, and something tells me the two Islorian males won’t agree to ride together.
“And you trust the human?”
“Saul’s keeper is an unsavory fellow who provides little for his family, despite his thriving mill. He requires Saul’s sons to work grueling hours and threatens to loan his young daughters to acquaintances for feedings any time Saul complains.” She shakes her head. “The mortal holds no love for his keeper or his king.”
Zander’s teeth grit. This Islorian is the type of immortal he wants purged from his kingdom.
“Atticus will be dispatching riders in every direction by now,” Elisaf says. “The road is not safe to travel.”
“And yet to get to Gully’s Pass, we need those horses and the road. Find them and bring them to us. We’ll meet you as quickly as we can. Be careful.”
“Wait.” Gesine reaches within her cloak to fish out a small velvet coin purse. She tosses it to Elisaf, who deftly catches it. “Tell him Cordelia sent you. That is the only name he knows.”
Planned escape routes and fake names. I’m feeling closer to Gesine already
“Cordelia,” Elisaf repeats and then takes off, disappearing into the tree line at a clipped pace.
She hobbles over to slump against a boulder, her complexion green.
“Do not get comfortable,” Zander warns, removing an assortment of daggers from the sack.
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” She closes her eyes, her chest rising and falling with practiced breaths as if trying to keep the vomit at bay.
He watches her as he straps the arsenal of blades to his body. With his casual outfit and mussed hair, he reminds me less of the king I knew yesterday and more like the warrior who left camp in search of a nethertaur. Unfortunately, I fear neither is the version I face now.
“You’re being an asshole,” I whisper, working the countless fasteners and pins from my hair.
His attention snaps to me. “And how do you suggest I behave with a woman whose conspiracy against me has cost me my throne and put our lands in jeopardy of war? Should I bow down to her for getting us out of a predicament that she and this Ianca helped create?”
“There’s a lot we don’t know yet,” I remind him. “I just mean that unless you feel like carrying her to the horses, you should
let her rest. She is three seconds from face-planting into the sand.”
“And if you believe she does not have a use for you beyond what she admits to, you are a fool.”
“I know she probably does.” I steal a glance to where Gesine sits perfectly still. I lower my voice. “But I need her. I need to understand who I am. What I am, what I can do. Given our current situation, don’t you think that would be helpful?” While Zander brooded earlier, I spent that time mesmerized by possibilities. In just days, I’ve fought an underworld beast and stopped a hundred flaming arrows, and I have no clue how.
His lips purse
“She can give us answers that no one else can.”
“If she chooses to. Casters aren’t known to be forthcoming, as I think you’ve now seen. They speak in lies and half-truths that may as well be lies.”
Fair enough. “But she’s powerful, Zander. Look what she did out there.”
“She’s reckless. That wind could have killed countless innocent people had she unleashed it against the shoreline. And do not suggest for one second she didn’t intend to ignore my need for Eldred Wood and take us to Northmost.”
“Maybe. But I don’t think her reasons were evil. More like pragmatic.” I slide my fingers through the braids Corrin so carefully spun, quietly praying my lady maid is safe at the castle after being interrogated by Atticus. Though knowing that salty woman, she would have scolded him for daring to question her. “Gesine can protect us.”
His face turns grim with annoyance. “Relying on others to protect you will be the fastest way to get yourself killed. Put this on.” He thrusts a strap toward me. “And remember that everyone is an enemy now.”
I collect the leather piece. “Even you?”
He hesitates. “Those you least suspect.” Tearing a strip off the silk jacket he cast aside, he crouches to soak the material in water.
Is he referring to his brother? Because I suspected that snake’s ambitions weeks ago, only Zander wouldn’t listen to me. Or maybe it’s the captain of the king’s guard. “I can’t believe Boaz launched those arrows at us, even if he was aiming at me.”
“I can. Like I said before, Boaz is loyal to the crown, and clearly, he does not believe I should be wearing it any longer. He never approved of this marriage, or of allowing the Ybarisans to set foot in Islor.” Zander climbs to his feet. “Though I’m sure Lord Adley’s relentless whispers have not helped. Who knows how many minds that worm has poisoned.”
My anger surges at the mention of the vile nobleman’s name. “You should have had the Legion assassinate him. He deserves it.” Not even for the lies he’s spun into treason, but for all the crimes he allows in Kettling. Humans being bred and traded in the black market, sold as babies for feeding off their sweet blood, and likely a dozen other atrocities I don’t want to know about.
“Now you’re thinking like a queen,” Zander murmurs, his focus on my cheek. “A piece of debris must have hit you. Hold still.”
I wince at the sting of brine as he gently dabs the soaked cloth against my skin. “How bad is it?”
“You’ll live.” His eyes touch mine before shifting back to his task. “So, this is not really your face?”
“Not the one I remember, no. Same dark hair, but that’s it.” My irises were a brighter blue, my face rounder, my lips fuller. That woman I saw reflected within the apothecary’s mirror is striking, but she’s a stranger. And yet, if what Gesine said is true, that there is no going back for me, I had better get used to this new face because without my ring on, I’ll be looking at it for the foreseeable future—a reality that hasn’t sunk in yet.
He mumbles something I don’t catch before saying, “That must be quite unsettling.”
“Not much isn’t lately.”
Zander tosses the rag into the sinking skiff before giving it a hard push offshore. “Your wound will heal within the day on its
own, but I’m sure Gesine can mend it for you if it does not. Assuming she has abilities similar to those of … other casters.” The muscles in his jaw tense.
He can’t bring himself to say Wendeline’s name. Will any justification ever dull the disloyalty he feels, caused by a woman he relied upon so heavily?
“Thank you.”
He grunts in answer. “How is that strap fitting?”
“I don’t know.” It’s long and cumbersome and likely sized for a man.
Zander’s deft hands take over, adjusting its position to sit a bit lower on my hips. “Did no one ever wear these where you’re from?” His tone is softer, conversational, but I hear his fatigue.
“Yeah … like, a hundred years ago.” The tiny knife I used to strap to my thigh was done so with a tidy nylon band that slipped on like a garter.
He tests the belt’s tautness, his palms smoothing over my hips. The simple touch stirs memories of the times he’s gripped my body like that but for different—intimate—reasons.
Zander’s hazel eyes meet mine. He must have caught that spike in my pulse, but unlike in the past, there’s no teasing smile to go along with his awareness, no hint that he might feel the same. His expression is stony, unreadable.
This wall between us keeps growing higher; I just can’t be sure which of us is faster at stacking the bricks. Part of me desperately hopes he’s changed his mind about leaving me, that he’ll stay by my side. But then I replay our conversation as we ambled through the castle’s secret passage, when he blamed me for him being blind to what Atticus would do, for not being able to think straight. In essence, Zander blamed me for him losing his kingdom.
And so quickly after, he was ready to cast me aside.
I clear my throat and with it, the heady thoughts. “Now people mostly use guns.”
“Guns?” He frowns. “What are those?”
“Weapons that shoot bullets.”
His frown deepens.
“Tiny metal objects that fly out of a chamber and move through the air really fast. All you have to do is point and shoot. Anyone can do it.” Every horrific news story of a toddler stumbling upon their careless parents’ loaded pistols has proven that.
“It sounds like any idiot can be lethal in your world.”
“You have no idea.”
He gives the belt one last tug. “All you need is a blade.”
I nod toward the karambit at his side. “I’ll take that.”
He reaches for it, but his hand stalls.
“I know how to use it. Abarrane trained me.” For all of an hour, and not to her satisfaction. And all I want is to hear the daunting commander tell me what a useless fighter I am. I hope she survived.
“It’s not that. It’s just, this won’t be enough.” A decision skitters across his face and then his hand drops to his hip to unfasten the scabbard that holds his merth dagger. The one he had thrust into my hand in those few frantic moments after Atticus declared the throne his and me the enemy. I returned it to him as we were leaving the castle.
Zander affixes it to my hip. “This will seriously maim or kill any immortal in your path.” Collecting my hand within his, he closes it over the hilt. “It is now yours. Always keep it with you.”
He could have given me any of the dozen blades he just strapped to his body, yet he’s given me the one I’ve always sensed holds value to him beyond its deadly composition. Warmth blooms in my chest at the gesture.
Whatever else he might think about me, he still cares for my safety. He wouldn’t have shielded me from the arrows on the boat if he didn’t. And maybe that water shield I created to protect us— him—wouldn’t have been so strong if I didn’t care deeply for him.
But why is he giving me this dagger now? Is it a token to ease his guilt before he abandons me?
What’s going on inside that head of his?
He studies me, and I know he’s trying to get a read on me too. The problem is, he’s far more skilled at it than I am. I’ve always thrived at hiding my pained thoughts behind a veil of indifference. I can’t hide them from him, though, and I hate it.
“Thanks for the dagger.”
He dismisses the act with a shrug. “It suits you better, anyway.”
I smooth my thumb over the black stone on the hilt. “I thought so too. That’s why I tried to steal it that night in the tower.”
“Yes, it certainly wasn’t to slit my throat so you could escape,” he murmurs dryly.
“Even if I had succeeded, I wouldn’t have killed you. I’ve never killed anyone,” I admit.
“By the way, what manner of larceny did Romeria Watts partake in, back in her world?”
I can’t help my sly grin. “Jewel thief.” My truth may be unsavory to some, but it’s still my truth, not that of this wicked Ybarisan princess I’ve been forced to play.
“Why am I not surprised?” The corners of his mouth twitch. “Dare I ask how good you were?”
“Very good.”
“I imagine you were.” His gaze drifts down over my lips where it lingers a moment before he seems to catch himself. He steps back, his expression hardening. “Are you strong enough to walk, or shall I carry you?” he calls out. The set of his jaw tells me he might enjoy throwing the caster over his shoulder like a sack of flour.
Gesine lifts her head, her bleary eyes blinking several times, struggling for focus. She pulls herself off the boulder, and smoothing her palms over her damp, soiled cloak, takes wobbled steps forward.
The morning sun is a blessing. By the time we reach the road, the chill from sitting in wet clothes for hours is gone and a thin sheen of sweat builds under my collar.
Elisaf leans against the trunk of a weeping willow. Two horses graze on a lush patch of grass nearby. The second he spots us, he pulls his lean body upright. “I was beginning to think you’d taken a nap.”
I can’t help my genuine smile. I’ve always felt safer with Elisaf at my side, but also I can’t fathom how Gesine is still on her feet, aside from sheer determination to avoid being tossed over Zander’s shoulder.
She sways toward the brown horse closest to her, her fingers fumbling with the reins. “Would you be so kind as to help me mount?” Her request is breathless, her eyes half closed as her boot digs for the stirrup.
“Certainly.” Elisaf grasps her slender waist and hoists her into the saddle.
Gesine slumps forward, her body sprawling against the horse’s caramel-colored mane.
“I suppose this one is ours, then.” Elisaf swings himself up and behind the exhausted caster, surveying her draped form from various angles, as if assessing how likely she is to tumble off.
Zander greets the black horse with a gentle stroke across its muscular flank. “What news from Cirilea?”
“Nothing that has reached the village yet.”
“And that?” Zander gestures toward Elisaf’s forearm.
I notice the hastily wrapped strip of cloth, soaked in blood. He didn’t have that when he left.
“Oh yes. This.” Elisaf studies it a long moment, as if deciding on his answer. “I had an interesting conversation with Saul’s keeper.” The dangerous gleam in his brown eyes is so contrary to the kindness I have seen. But it’s a reminder that, for all the gallantry my night guard has afforded me over the weeks, he is deadly with a blade.
Zander sighs with resignation. “Come.” He beckons me with a
hand. “Our pace will be hard, and I need full control. You will ride behind me.”
I’m too weary to shrink from him. Hauling myself up, I edge as far back as possible, gripping the saddle.
“We’re doing this again, are we?” He climbs on.
“Isn’t that what you want? Distance?” I attempt an aloof tone, but resentment slips out.
“We will certainly have it when you fall off this horse, which I suspect will be within seconds of departure.”
With a glower, I shift forward, molding my thighs to his, focusing on all the reasons I don’t want to be this close to Zander.
He half turns, showing me his handsome profile. “As unappealing as holding on to me may seem, I promise you that breaking your neck will be much more so. And Gesine doesn’t appear to be of any use to fix that for you at the moment.”
Reluctantly, I slink my arms around his waist, entwining my hands. His body tenses against mine.
He nudges the horse’s flanks, sending her off at a gallop that rattles my teeth.
Whoa.” Zander’s fists tighten around the reins. The black mare slows to a canter, releasing a lengthy sigh, frothing at her mouth. We haven’t stopped in hours. She’s in desperate need of another break.
Same, horse, same. After galloping across the hilly terrain at a relentless pace, avoiding the road as much as possible, every muscle in my body aches, and the insides of my thighs feel raw.
“How much longer?” The dense forest of Eldred Wood is closing in around us.
“We are almost there. From this point forward, assume these woods have eyes and ears.” Zander scans the trees.
I see nothing. “Friendly ones?”
“Loyal ones.”
Elisaf follows as Zander steers our horse along a narrow and rocky trail. Gesine is conscious again and sitting upright, some of the color returned to her face.
The path grows more treacherous the farther we travel. “This is Gully’s Pass?” It was one of the route options the day of the king’s hunt. Atticus said it was safer for the horses. As I observe the vertical drop to our left, I fear what the other option looks like.
“Down there.” He points toward the valley. “But the Legion
will have made camp on a plateau ahead. It’s a defensible vantage point and one of Abarrane’s favorites for hunting. She keeps supplies there.” He sounds so sure that the Legion will have made it out, yet a slight waver betrays his confidence.
The trail has grown too narrow for the horses to pass. I hold my breath and cling tighter to Zander’s waist, trying to ignore the loose stones skittering out from beneath the horses’ hooves to plunge down the cliff, bouncing off tree trunks.
Thankfully, the trail veers away from the gorge, cutting through the densely packed trees. My ears catch the rush of moving water a moment before we break through the forest and into a small clearing where a river meanders ahead
Zander leads us to the riverbank. Rabbits hiding in the leggy grass dash away from the horses, their white tails held high. The horses don’t pay them any heed, focused on their next drink.
I struggle to dismount, gritting my teeth against the chafing of my wool pants against my skin. Where my thighs held a death grip for hours feels raw. In contrast, my backside is numb. I smooth my palms over it with a sigh that earns Elisaf’s chuckle.
“It’s not funny.”
“It’s a little funny,” Zander says absently, but his attention is on the trees.
Gesine is quiet as she kneels at the river’s edge and scoops shaky handfuls of water. She brings them to her mouth for a drink.
“Feeling better?” I wince as I bend down to mimic her. The cold water is refreshing, especially beneath the afternoon sun.
“Yes, much,” she says through a breathy laugh. “Though I am not anxious to get back in that saddle.”
“Same.” Louder, I ask, “How much farther?”
Zander adjusts a harnessed blade at his ribs. “This is the meet spot.”
I look around the meadow, empty save for us and the rabbits. “Shouldn’t Abarrane be here by now, then?”
I’m not the only one worried. Deep lines etch Elisaf’s forehead.
“They should be here by now, if they escaped the city when they needed to.” He’s answering my question, but I know he’s talking to his king.
Zander scoffs at the unspoken suggestion. “There is no way any common soldier would be able to stop them. I’ve seen Abarrane cut through fifty men on her own.”
“But five hundred? And injured by a nethertaur?” Elisaf asks gently. “I did not sense them anywhere along the path. Abarrane would have had a perimeter set.”
I watch as the words settle on Zander’s shoulders, their reality weighing down his posture and his hope. Did we backtrack all this way just to confirm that the Legion is dead? That we’re on our own against an army that was once his to command?
“You could not sense us because you smell like a latrine,” a familiar voice calls out, followed by a faint hiss a split second before an arrow grazes Elisaf’s arm and spears the soft ground behind him.
Zander’s body sinks with relief as Abarrane emerges from behind a boulder, her bow slung over her shoulder, her sword gripped in her palm. The warrior limps through the long grass toward us with a confidence that defies the gashes marring her sinewy body and the caked blood that has turned her wheatcolored hair dark. A tourniquet holds a ghastly wound on her thigh closed. Will it be another scar to add to her collection, the most prominent being the long, thin one that trails her hairline from her forehead to her earlobe?
I never thought I’d be happy to see the brackish Islorian.
“That is for doubting me.” She taps the shallow cut on Elisaf’s bare skin with the flat of her sword blade, smearing the bright red line of blood.
Elisaf winces. “Lesson learned.”
Zander assesses her injuries with a quick head-to-toe glance. “How many of you are there?”
Her expression turns grim. “Nineteen, including myself.”
I have no idea how many were in the Legion originally, but the
muscle in Zander’s jaw ticks, telling me there were significantly more. “Where are they?”
“We’ve set up camp a mile south, ready to pick off any enemy who ventures in.” Sharp eyes swing to me, and I can’t help but shrink at the way they harden. Abarrane has always terrified me, from the first moment I faced her in the king’s war room, when she threatened torture to exact answers I didn’t have. But she didn’t flinch at defending me as we ran from a charging army in the square. That was because Zander ordered her. Where Boaz was for the crown, Abarrane and the elite guard she commands are for the man whose head it should adorn. Her unwavering loyalty to him is admirable
She would also skin me alive if Zander asked it of her, and a very dark part would enjoy doing it.
Whatever reservations Abarrane may have for me, when her attention shifts to the river’s edge, raw fury collects in her features. “What is one of Queen Neilina’s witches doing in Islor?” she spits, her hand gripping the pommel of her sword. It’s the first time I’ve heard anyone use that name for a caster, and it’s obviously not meant as a compliment.
“This is Caster Gesine,” Zander introduces. “As for what she is doing in Islor, we will learn the truth of that soon.”
As we close in on the Legion’s camp, I see why Abarrane prefers this area. The canopy of looming trees grants shelter while the river provides ample water for horses and warriors alike. Sheer rock walls drop along the west and south sides, limiting ambush opportunities and allowing a clear view of the valley below, so they can kill their enemy with arrows one by one.
A curt whistle sounds, and Abarrane responds with one of her own.
Movement from the corner of my eye draws my attention to
