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Chapter Fourteen
“Where are you taking me? This isn’t the way to my rooms.” The color scheme and moldings are similar, but we’ve climbed another flight of stairs and I don’t recognize any of the busts that sit on the plinths.
“To your new rooms, Your Highness,” comes the wooden response. Guard pushes open a set of double doors. “The queen’s quarters.”
I gape at the suite I walk into. “Seriously?”
He spares me no more than a strange frown before pulling the door shut behind me.
But… the queen is dead, I think to myself as I wander through the luxurious sitting room, decorated in rich shades of eggplant, gold, and blush. It’s a ballroom, easily three times the size of my previous cell block, its ceilings soaring and windows allowing daylight to stream in. A magnificent candelabra dangles in the center. Gilded furniture upholstered in silk and damask fabrics form an area for entertaining by a grand marble fireplace. Arrangements of fresh ivory and blush blooms in urns embellish throughout.
A cupboard door slams shut somewhere within the suite. I follow the noise to an adjoining room—the bedchamber. It’s no less exquisite, the rich plum-colored walls adorned with opulent moldings. An enormous bed sits at one end, dressed in ivory and gold, its stately, velvet-clad headboard reaching halfway to the ceiling. Another fireplace and smaller seating area occupies the other end.
Corrin bustles around in her usual flurry. When she notices me standing at the threshold, she makes a point of slapping the pillows she’s fluffing extra hard. “You’ve certainly been busy this morning, Your Highness.” Her clipped tone suggests that’s meant to be a slight.
“Yes, handing out coin to the poor. How dare I?”
Her mouth hangs a beat, as if caught off guard, but she regains her composure quickly. “Can’t say I’ve ever seen a fox invited back into the henhouse after the slaughter.”
She doesn’t trust me. Is it because she’s human and she doesn’t buy into Wendeline’s theory, or is there some other reason for her contempt? “I didn’t ask for this. It’s what the king wants, so why don’t you question him about his choices? I’m sure he’d love to explain himself to you.” How much does Corrin know about Zander’s scheming? Obviously enough to know that I’m no less guilty in his eyes now than I was this morning, otherwise she wouldn’t dare give me such attitude.
She harrumphs but says nothing more.
The clang of metal against metal draws my attention to the open doors. I wander out onto a deeply set terrace, adorned by bursts of red geraniums and sun ferns in planters. While navigating the halls inside left me lost, from outside, I’m quickly able to find my bearings again. The vast royal grounds are still within view, only from a different angle.
I’m in the center portion of the castle. From here, a long, narrow walkway along the exterior wall connects to another sizable terrace. I’m almost positive it’s the one Zander was standing on that day.
The king’s chamber.
He has moved me next to him.
Smart, given we’re to keep up appearances of a relationship. Whoever in the royal household helped Princess Romeria is likely still within these walls, watching. If Zander has decided I am innocent of any wrongdoing, it wouldn’t make sense to keep me locked up in another wing.
It’s a strange concept that the king and queen would have their own bedrooms. Whether they would use them as such is another matter, I guess. But given our situation, it’s ideal. I’m sure Zander would rather sleep in a pit of vipers. I can’t say I feel much differently.
And yet, the memory of his arm around my waist and his thighs against my hips lingers.
“You fight with Malachi’s wrath fueling you today,” a man says through ragged breaths. “What bothers you?”
Directly below me is the sparring square. I immediately recognize Elisaf’s curls. He has removed his royal uniform jacket and dons a leather vest that shows off sinewy arms and tawny brown skin. He’s facing off against a man with golden-brown hair whose every step oozes grace and confidence.
“Do you yield?” comes Zander’s measured response, the sword blade dangling within his grasp. His green jacket lays folded on the nearby grass, leaving him in black pants and a loose white tunic. He must have headed straight here after the ride through the city, in search of something to stab.
Even from this vantage point, I can see the sweat glistening across their brows.
“Have I ever?” There’s that teasing lilt in Elisaf’s tone. It’s coupled with a swagger that does not exist when they are king and guard. In this square, they are friends.
Elisaf lunges, and they fall into a well-timed dance, twirling and deflecting, their moves and countermoves fluid and practiced.
I’ve witnessed knife fights before—clumsy jabs and shuffling feet as one opponent swings their pocketknife at the other in hopes of connecting with flesh.
This? This is art, their footwork impeccable, each turn swift, each strike precise.
But where Elisaf’s breathing has turned ragged, Zander looks like he could fight in his sleep. Fueled by Malachi’s wrath, Elisaf had said. The black-horned god who enjoys releasing demons upon the land.
The threat to Zander’s throne must be significant for him to stomach this scheme with me.
Zander blocks a thrust and then with lightning-quick reflexes, pivots and swings. His blade slices across Elisaf’s biceps. I gape in horror as my night guard drops his sword with a clatter and grasps at his arm, his grimace laced with pain. Blood pours between his fingers in rivulets, splattering the dirt below.
