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My heart stutters. What does that mean?
“But if there is a way to leave out mention of our discussion, that would be best for the time being. For all our sakes.”
“He can read me, Wendeline. He knows when I’m lying.”
“You’re clever. You’ll figure out a way.” She smiles. “I know it may appear like a bad thing, but there are positives to that ability too. He will begin to see the real you and rely on you and confide in you. You must find a way to trust each other. That is how you will survive what will come to pass. Tell him only what he needs to know, for now. Eventually he will learn that I have deceived him. I will accept the consequences accordingly.” She reaches over to set her hand on mine. “But please know this, Romeria. Everything I have done has been for the future of Islor that the king wants.” She squeezes. “Go now. You must go. And tell no one what you are.”
I leave Wendeline sitting in the pew, her eyes closed as if in prayer.
Corrin is pacing in the courtyard when the carriage rolls in. She marches forward to meet me the second my shoes touch the cobblestone. “Where have you been? I expected you back two hours ago!”
I force down the conflicting swirl—relief, panic, dread—that has gripped me since leaving the sanctum and feign a glib tone. “Were you actually worried about me?”
“Hardly,” she scoffs. “Your Highness.”
I’m beginning to appreciate Corrin. In a place where everyone lies or evades the truth, she’s easy to read. “It took longer than expected. Odier had a lot of options to consider, and there were a few delays.”
“Yes, well, I’m sure the king will also be …” Her words drift as Mika hops out and tumbles to the ground. He tucks and rolls before scampering back to his feet. “Why is there a little boy with—” She grabs him by the ear and holds him in place to check the marking on his cuff. “I don’t know this house. But why do you have someone’s child? What have you done?”
“I found us a new baker.”
“We already have one!”
“And now we have two. Corrin, this is Gracen,” I introduce as two guards help her out of the carriage, her pregnant belly somehow looking more swollen as she climbs down the step. Dagny follows with the toddler in her arms. “And her daughter Lilou. You’ve met Mika. They’re going to live here with us.”
Corrin stares at me as if I’ve suggested we set fire to the carriage.
“They were with Lord Danthrin of Farywich—”
“Freywich,” Elisaf corrects quietly.
“Wherever. Anyway, we came to an arrangement that avoided me asking Elisaf to chop off the lord’s balls and shove them down his throat. Everyone wins.”
Beside me, several guards shift.
I switch to a more conciliatory tone. “Please help them get settled. Gracen could use a few days off, and all of them could use a good meal.”
“The priestess fixed my hand!” Mika waves it in front of Corrin.
It’s a moment before Corrin manages to wipe the shock from her face. She scowls at the puckered skin. “This is better than it was?”
“Yes, milady. I could barely move these two fingers before.” He waggles them as proof.
She harrumphs, but her initial bluster has died down. “Best you get to your suite while I deal with this. I’ll have your meal brought up shortly, Your Highness.”
As much as I’d love to hide in my room, Zander will expect me to tell him what I’ve learned from Bexley, and if I delay, he’ll become suspicious. “Maybe wait on that for a bit.” I turn to Elisaf. “Can you take me to the king? I need to speak with him.”
He bows. “Yes, Your Highness.”
With a wink at Mika, I trail Elisaf, my insides churning.
The sparring courtyard is much larger from ground level than from my bird’s-eye view above. At the moment, it’s crowded with spectators—Legion soldiers, royal guards, and nobility alike—cheering and hollering at the two men occupying its center.
“You’ve gotten slower in your old age,” Atticus taunts, twirling his blade in the air with ease as he squares off against his brother, the metal glimmering beneath the blinding sunlight. Anyone can see the prince, commander of the king’s army, is highly skilled.
“And your mouth has grown more tedious,” Zander counters with that unnerving edge of calm that he used with me in the early days.
Neither are wearing armor, and both are drenched in sweat, their white tunics clinging to their muscular forms, several spots of deep red where blood from nicks and cuts have soaked through. They’ve been sparring for some time, though their breathing shows no sign of labor.
