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“Why bring the sapling here?” Jarek asks.
“Because Ybaris made a deal with them that involves Mordain. Don’t you want to know what it was?”
“The more information, the better,” Zander agrees. “Though if they’ve discovered what we did to their kind, no bargain may be sweet enough to win him over.”
“I do not want to win him over. I want to kill him.” Abarrane sheathes her sword.
We retreat to our horses, the queen’s letter firm within my grip, teasing my curiosity. “What is a taillok?”
Zander smirks. He’s always amused by my ignorance. “The queen’s messenger. A bird of a sort. I have only ever seen it once when it arrived with a letter to Cirilea.”
“We believe it arrived through the Nulling,” Gesine confirms. “It is guided by Mordain’s hand, it travels at impossible speeds, and it never misses its mark. As far as we know, it is the only one left in existence, and the elemental who steers it acts by Queen Neilina’s order. However, if we can get hold of it, I may be capable of respelling it to our advantage.”
“So you can send more secret messages to Mordain?” Zander quips before shifting his focus to me. “What does the letter from Neilina say?”
With a deep breath, I break the seal and unfold the crisp paper, my insides suddenly in knots, as if she might somehow know that an impostor reads her words. This is the elven at the heart of everything Zander and Islor now face. She is part of the reason I’m in this world.
The handwriting is floral, the ink a deep, dark crimson. “It’s addressed to Tyree.” That makes sense. If this came a month ago, I was still in Cirilea, and Zander hadn’t yet lost his throne. “She’s received word that I’m still alive and within the castle. Her sources aren’t sure to what extent Zander trusts me.”
“We knew she had spies within the city walls,” he says. “What else?”
I read the next lines.
And my stomach drops. “They’re going to cross the rift. They plan to start a war.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
ATTICUS
By the time I reach the top step of the tower, my thighs burn. I’ve spent too much time pacing around my war room. I must get back on my horse and among my men.
Though, my weakness is more likely because I haven’t fed in a week. A stretch unheard of for me. I’ve been so preoccupied, I’m only realizing it now.
“Enjoying your accommodations?” I drawl, ignoring the fetid stench that greets my nostrils. “I imagine you’re not accustomed to such luxury.”
Prince Tyree sits on the straw pallet, his back against the wall. “I haven’t seen any signs of luxury since I stepped foot inside this squalid country of yours. I do not think Islorians know what that is.”
I smile at his response. Even caged and facing imminent death, his dark hair matted, his face covered in scruff, he keeps his arrogant chin high. I respect that. “Open it,” I order the guard holding the key.
Within moments, I’m pacing inside the cell. From here, the scent of his Ybarisan blood is more potent. Despite myself, I inhale that sweet smell. On Romeria, it used to rile my senses almost to the point of losing control. Once, during a heated night in her tents, I nearly did. She stopped me, insisting she couldn’t give me that part of her.
Even though she was giving me every other part.
In hindsight, I should have been suspicious, but how would I ever suspect such a thing as tainted blood?
Tyree’s blood will be as ruined as the three Ybarisans who died during the royal repast. Knowing that quells my taste for it. “Leave us.”
The two guards are gone in seconds, their armor clattering on their climb down the steps.
“Not worried I might overpower you?” Tyree asks coolly as I wander toward the window that overlooks the arena.
I give his limp body a once-over. The multiple merth blade wounds covering his arms from Abarrane’s sessions are in various stages of healing. “And how would you do that? You’re injured and weak. With those cuffs, you will have no access to your affinity until I deem it so.” Thankfully, Zander returned the tokens to the family vault after removing them from Romeria’s wrists. The first thing I did when I decided to keep Tyree alive was secure them to his. He’s too valuable to risk losing to festering infection, especially now that we don’t have a healer.
“Is it true you were born without an affinity? What must it feel like to be impotent?”
I answer with a laugh. He’s trying to get a rise out of me. “I didn’t need an affinity to raise an army and claim a kingdom, did I?”
“I suppose not. You are the great and powerful King Atticus, after all,” he mocks.
I tap my boot against his tray of food that sits on the floor, untouched. “Not hungry?” The stew they delivered the other day was laced with ground meat. The guards reported him curled into a ball for hours, writhing in agony.
