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“They are all connected.” She strolls over to a rectangular engraving across from me. “Go ahead.”
I follow her and run my finger across the script. Childish laughter rings in my ears. “That didn’t work before.”
“Others no longer work. This one does. Channel your affinity into it and see for yourself,” she coaxes.
“Which affinity?”
Lucretia’s laughter is taunting, as if I should be ashamed that I don’t know the answer. “The Daughter of Many does not choose one over the other. Let them merge until they are as one, and you will know power like none other.”
“That’s not what Gesine taught me.”
“Your wielder servant?” More laughter. “What little she knows of the Queen for All’s abilities.”
Gesine did insist I learn what I can from Lucretia.
With a deep but wary breath, I follow her instructions, tugging on the threads that rise from my core, coaxing them to wind together. The power thrums inside me, growing in intensity by the second, until it vibrates with a level that feels almost overwhelming, like it might tear me apart.
It reminds me of that moment before I killed the grif.
“Good.” She applauds, as if she can see what I’m doing.
“What can I do with this?”
“What can’t you do with it?” She nods toward the stone. “Send it there. Gently. Not too much. Just a little tap.”
I release the bound thread, and it reaches toward the scripture on the wall like a long, tentative finger. The second it touches, the stone changes shape. It’s no longer just an engraving in a wall. Now it’s a tall rectangular stone.
My breath catches.
I’ve seen this one before … in Cirilea’s nymphaeum.
My mouth gapes as I take in the soaring trees and feel the cool air. I’m literally standing in Cirilea again.
This is what Lucretia meant when she said they’re all connected. They’re doors.
A smile stretches across my face as I turn, seeing the familiar pillars again, the stone altar …
The two forms mere feet away from me.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
GRACEN
Fikar strolls into the kitchens, his arms loaded with silver wine jugs. “Did ya hear? The king executed a lord in the middle of the assembly! Just cut off his head with a swing of his sword!”
The bowl in my hands slips with his outburst, clattering against the stone floor, shattering.
Atticus executed a lord? Himself?
I settle on my knees to collect the shattered clay and bits of pastry dough. He did allude to doing something drastic at that assembly. Something that his father and brother were not willing to do.
“And he threw all the eastern lords into the dungeons, accusing them of a plot to overthrow him. They say he has gone mad.”
He has not gone mad! They have been plotting. Lady Saoirse herself is a part of it! But I bite my tongue against the urge to defend him. Everything Atticus told me, he told me in confidence.
“Do ya know who it was?” one of the scullery workers asks. Now that the servants have been marked by Wendeline, the guards aren’t hovering in the kitchens and people feel free to chatter again.
“No one too important, from the sounds of it.” Fikar dumps the jugs into the washbasin. “And he’s thrown the Lady Saoirse in the gray tower.”
“What?” This gossip, I welcome. “Does that mean he is not marrying her anymore?”
“I would think not, but after the last king ran off with his family’s murderess, who knows.”
A bubble of elation swells inside me. It would be best for everyone if that marriage agreement was no more. Islor wouldn’t have a cruel queen seated on the throne. Atticus wouldn’t have a wife who wants him dead. And if he wants me as his tributary, as he has all but declared … I wouldn’t have to share him with her.
I slide my teeth along my bottom lip. I haven’t stopped thinking about that kiss since I walked out of Atticus’s chamber—I can still feel his mouth against mine. Nor have I been able to shake his words. He said he wouldn’t take something from me that I wasn’t willing to give. He must have read it in my pulse, the fear of reliving the worst nights of my past.
He is the king of Islor. No one denies him anything. But he is also Atticus, and he is nothing like the terrible keepers I’ve known. Every encounter I have with him, the more confident I am of that.
The less apprehension I feel.
The more excitement.
Was I a fool earlier? I didn’t reject him, but I might as well have, my thoughts reeking of hesitation. Atticus has been nothing but kind to me when he could easily have not been. Today, he needed me.
He still needs me.
I look up to find Corrin studying me intently. She always seems to know what’s spinning in my mind. “What about all the cakes for the wedding?” I blurt, as if that’s my only concern.
