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“Add something?” His face scrunches up. “Like another finger?”
“What need is there for this when I’m not a tributary and they are far too young?” Corrin scowls at the dull mark on her hand, her words obscured by Suri’s shrill screams. Beside Corrin, Lilou sobs. Mika is the only one unbothered by the momentary burn, holding his hand out in front of him to admire his new brand. Wendeline placed it over his scar, partially hiding it.
“All mortals within the castle are to see the priestess for their test today, without exception,” Kazimir says with forced patience. “Take the kids back to sorting in the cellar. Gracen, the king seeks an audience with you.”
“Again?” I only just saw him this morning, not that I’m going to complain. But why? My heart races with a mixture of excitement and trepidation.
“Yes. Again.” He scowls at the baby in my arms. “Can you make it go back to sleep now?”
Corrin shakes her head at him. “Here. I will take her.”
“Please. Allow me,” a voice calls out.
As one, we turn, a round of exclamations escaping us as Sabrina approaches along the hall, smiling sheepishly. Gone is the finery she wore as the king’s tributary. Now, she dons a modest dove-gray dress—typical household garb. On her hand is the same symbol as ours, but it glows a brilliant silver, impossible to miss.
“When did they let you out?” I burst.
“Not long ago.” She collects a wailing Suri from my arms. “Shh …” She croons, rocking her. “It’s okay. I know what it’s like to be scared. I was so scared too.” She peers up at me with glossy blue eyes. “The king came to visit me in my cell. He said you spoke on my behalf.”
“I did, but …” I didn’t think it would matter. Atticus listened to me?
“Come on, the king does not wait for anyone,” Kazimir urges.
“I’ll get her settled again.” A tear rolls down her cheek. “Thank you, Gracen.”
With a squeeze of her forearm and a warning to my other two to be good, I follow the captain down the hall and up the stairs, smoothing my hands over my dress as best I can, wishing I’d had time to fix myself.
Kazimir leads me down the same great hall he did last night, only where before it was vacant, now lords and ladies and a few tributaries linger. They pay no attention to me as we pass, which I’m thankful for.
The two guards at the bottom of the grand staircase that leads to Atticus’s chambers don’t question us, don’t even flinch, as we pass.
“How is the king?”
“He’s been better. There is a lot going on in the kingdom, and none of it is good. Plus, as you well know, his last tributary was tainted, so he suffers. Headaches, weakness, and the like.”
“Why has he not taken a new one yet?” I’ve heard there are still a few in the castle to choose from.
“He would not risk another guard’s life, so he has abstained. Now, thanks to the priestess’s help, he no longer needs a sampler.”
I look at the dull brand on my hand. The king wants you. That was what Kazimir said earlier. I knew this was coming. Atticus hinted last night. A wild mix of emotions hits me—of fear stirred by long nights and painful memories, of nervousness that, in the end, I will not please him.
What will it be like to be the king’s tributary?
“Is it really such a bad thing?” Kazimir asks. He must sense the swirl of anxiety.
“From my experience? Yes.”
“You seem like an intelligent mortal, Gracen.” Kazimir’s leather boots scuff the stone steps. “I think you can tell by now that Atticus is not like that other keeper of yours.”
But what if he is? that little voice inside my head asks. What if it’s all been an act up until now? I’ve seen these Islorians, with their impeccable manners and serene personas, turn into something entirely different.
I’ve seen it many times.
Just the thought of Atticus turning into one of them, after charming me so thoroughly … my chest tightens.
Kazimir knocks on the door but doesn’t wait for a response before opening it. “You know your way.” With a wink, he pulls the door closed behind me.
My heart pounds in my throat as I pass through the living area, as opulent and grand in daylight as it was by candlelight. “Hello?” I call out, my voice wavering.
There is no answer, so I continue on, through the open doors to his bedchamber—a fancy room of mostly black but with hints of gilt, mainly on the trim and molding along the walls. An enormous feather bed centered along one wall. A fireplace in the corner sits cold, the smell of soot lingering in the air.
The room is empty.
A solemn figure stands on the terrace, his back to me, his hands braced on either side of the stone wall. Atticus has changed into his king’s finery, his tailored black jacket fitted to his powerful frame, his sword at his hip.
