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How on earth am I supposed to convince a king to take a vein?
There is only one way of that: to give it to him.
Kazimir was not exaggerating about the cold night air. I tug the cloak around my body to ward off the chill against my skin, as excitement and nervousness fuel the heat coursing through my limbs.
“I imagine you have never walked the royal gardens before.”
My pulse doubles in speed at the sound of that deep, melodious voice, like freshly poured syrup. I quickly locate Atticus, leaning against the stone wall. He’s still wearing his formal king’s attire from earlier, but the crown is missing and the top buttons of his jacket are unfastened, showing off a columnar neck and jutting Adam’s apple.
Dark circles line his eyes.
I remember myself and bow. “No, Your Highness. I have not had the pleasure.”
He pushes off from the wall and swaggers over to me as if he didn’t just imprison the most powerful lords in Islor and decapitate a minor one. “Care to accompany me?” He offers me his elbow, his deep dimples only highlighting the full lips in between, that I struggle to peel my focus away from, remembering the feel of them against mine.
“Certainly, Your Highness. Whatever you wish.” I curl my arm through his, reveling in the strength of it. He smells of leather and an earthy spice, the same scent that lingers in his rooms.
He leads me past a dozen heavily armed guards. Are there always so many out here at night? They weren’t stationed every ten steps this morning.
“The royal garden is closed for tonight,” he orders the last one in the row before we turn down a stone path. “Don’t you have some rabbits to chase, Kaz?”
“Gladly,” comes the raspy voice behind me.
Something tells me rabbits are not actually rabbits, but I’m content not to know what those two are up to.
An odd calm envelops me as we move past an ivy-covered archway and deeper into the garden. Many of the showy blooms that thrive in the summer’s heat have withered, giving way to subtle flowers and greenery that can withstand the cooler temperatures. Here and there, a lantern glows with firelight, but many more sit cold and dark.
“We used to rely on the casters to light them each night,” Atticus explains, as if tracking my focus.
“But not anymore?”
“Casters no longer have a place within Islor. They’ve proven they cannot be trusted.”
I peer down at my hand. But one caster—supposedly the worst one—was trusted to do this.
Not trusted. Needed. Out of desperation.
“How was the rest of your day?” Atticus asks.
“I burned a batch of bread pudding.” My thoughts were stuck in daydreams about Atticus. “And Mika is pestering me to bring him back to the priestess so she may give him more markings.”
Atticus’s laughter carries through the night.
I smile. “Otherwise, it was uneventful.” I hesitate. “Less so than yours, from the sound of it.”
His delight peters off with a sigh. “And what have you heard about the rest of my day?”
Fikar’s words sit heavy on my tongue.
“Speak freely. I will not punish you or anyone else for it. I am curious what is fact and what is fabrication. They think me mad, don’t they?”
“That may have been uttered once or twice,” I admit.
“Good,” he murmurs.
“Good?”
“Yes. A mad king is an especially dangerous one, and they need to see me as such right now. Fear breeds caution.”
“They say you’ve imprisoned the eastern lords and ladies.”
“Not all of them. Only the ones from Kettling, Fernhoth, and Hawkrest.”
“So only the largest cities in the east.”
“A mortal who knows something of Islor’s geography,” he teases, pulling me closer. “I am impressed.”
I cling to his arm, the feel of his body against mine makes my heart hammer. “Master Cordin traveled often. He had a picture on the wall—a hand-drawn sketch of Islor, with all its cities. He used to talk about them a lot.”
“I would like to meet this old keeper of yours one day.”
“I would love to see him again, but I do not know how he fares, if he is even alive. If my parents and younger siblings are alive.” I feel Atticus’s gaze on my profile, but I keep it ahead. I don’t want to see pity there.
“I can make that happen, Gracen.”
Because he is king of Islor. And for some daft reason, he seems set on me.
“What else are the servants saying?” he asks.
“That your betrothal to Lady Saoirse is no more?” It comes out as a question, one I desperately want an answer to.
“I can’t imagine she’s sitting in the tower, still planning our wedding.” He smiles wryly.
“So, it’s true. There is to be no wedding on Hudem.” I hold my breath.
“There will be no celebration of any kind on Hudem.”
I could float away, that news lifting a weight from me.
