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I shake my head. I don’t know. What I do know is that there are a lot of mortals who would want to get their hands on this poison, for revenge or protection, or both.
“With regard to these prisoners, I cannot give them to the soldiers or the children. There is no other way to punish them, and we do not keep people in the dungeon that don’t serve a purpose.”
“Who knows about this immunity?”
“No one but Wendeline and us, but that will change soon.”
And when it does … fear will take over, above any moral decency among these Islorian immortals. The keepers will put them all in chains. “How many vials of this stuff do you think they brought over?”
“You came with five hundred soldiers. Each could have carried several vials, but we did not find any on them. There were also the supply wagons.” He shakes his head. “Who knows how many were in there?”
“But she thought she could seize the throne and then kill off the immortals by inoculating as many humans as possible with this poison? She thought she could do all that with five hundred men?”
“Plus whatever help she”—Zander casts a look my way—“corralled from within. It was a bold plan, I will admit, and perhaps it wasn’t to seize the throne but rather simply to remove Ailill’s heirs, so we would be a weaker target for Neilina to overtake. Your men remained camped outside the city wall before the wedding. During the night, they could have shuttled the wagons for safekeeping up in the mountains, until Neilina attacked with her army. We may never fully understand those plans.
“But even a handful of vials here and there has the potential to cause considerable strife within Islor, as we’re seeing. It will stir panic, and keepers will strip away what few rights the mortals have in a bid to keep themselves safe.”
“What about Adley? He can’t appreciate the idea of this threat of poison any more than the others.”
Zander scowls. “The worm tongue is still busy, poisoning the water and swaying people from within. I do not wish to think about him tonight.” After a moment’s pause, Zander reaches over and curls his fingers over my wrists. The smooth obsidian cuffs that have no visible seam click open.
My mouth gapes.
“I put them on you. I can take them off.” Zander slips the cuffs into an unseen pocket. He watches me intently. “What do you feel?”
I slide my hands over my bare skin. They’re naked without them on. “What should I feel?” According to Wendeline, nothing of my caster magic while I wear this ring.
“A pull. Deep inside here.” His fingertips press against my chest, just above the swell of my breasts. It’s an intimate gesture, especially with the flash that stirs of his mouth on my body, but he doesn’t take it any further.
I search for something—anything—that might resemble this pull he describes. “I don’t feel anything.”
He frowns. “Perhaps it has something to do with being brought back to life by Malachi. Maybe he somehow severed your ties to Aoife. I will admit, I do not understand the workings of the fates.”
That can’t be true. Wendeline tested me and found all four caster elements and my elven affinity. It must have to do with the ring, but that is not something I want to test now, in front of Zander.
I hesitate, smoothing my palms over my wrists again. “Why did you take the cuffs off?”
His shoulders sag, and his attention drifts toward the sea. “What am I to do with you, Romeria?”
He asked that exact question once not so long ago—though it feels like an eternity—when I lay in bed, recovering from the daaknar attack.
I don’t understand why he’s asking it again now. “Have I done something wrong?” Again? Is this about climbing into the tub yesterday?
“You’ve done everything wrong. You are hotheaded, you speak out of turn and do the opposite of what we agreed to, you antagonize me as if you have no fear of consequence. You continue to lie and deceive me. Your heart bleeds too much for the plight of mortals, and you seem willing to challenge anyone who doesn’t bleed the same.” He sighs, his hazel eyes settling on me, a brilliant kaleidoscope of gold in the setting sun. “You do everything wrong, and yet everything right.”
My blood rushes to my ears as I process his raw words, as he reaches for my wrists, collecting them within his hands.
“I took these off because, for all the threats to me and to my throne, I do not believe you are one anymore.” His fingertip pushes back a stray hair that flutters in the wind. In his stare, I see vulnerability and pleading. The same look I saw that night when he begged me to tell him it was all a mistake. “Please do not prove me a fool again.”
The knots in my stomach coil tighter, threatening to cut off my ability to think. I could be the biggest threat of all. To him, to Islor, to everyone.
The urge to tell him, to unload this burden that grows heavier with each day, rushes me in an overwhelming wave.
I need to tell him. Before I let this go any further, he needs to know what I am.
I open my mouth, willing the words to come out.
I am a key caster, and Malachi sent me here to unlock the nymphaeum.
“Boaz is likely cursing every fate under the sun. We should head back.” Zander guides me to our horse.
My burning confession gets lost somewhere along the ride home, curled within Zander’s arms.
