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“And you thought Islor’s lords and ladies would simply allow Ybaris to claim the throne?” I laugh.
He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his crystal blue eyes. So much like Romeria’s. “We knew there would be significant turmoil between the east and west, but we would have taken control of Cirilea and locked the gates. It was supposed to fall to us that night. It would have, had you not brought so many of your soldiers within the walls.”
I hum. “Romeria tried to dissuade me.” In the days before, she sought me out in the depths of the gardens late at night and pleaded with me to keep the army outside for the celebration. She said Ybaris would feel threatened by so many of the king’s men there on the day of her wedding. She almost had me convinced too. Her methods of persuasion were impossible for me to resist.
And yet in this, I resisted.
“I guess she wasn’t convincing enough.”
“No. She wasn’t.” I’ll never be able to explain the gut feeling I had that morning, but I’ll be forever glad I listened to it. “So Ybaris would control Cirilea, and then what?”
“In the weeks and months following, while Islor was in turmoil, we would distribute the vials of poison throughout Islor.”
“How many did you bring, by the way?”
He shrugs. “It doesn’t take much to sow panic.”
He’s not wrong in that regard. Already, the reports coming from towns and villages across Islor brim with stories of keepers accusing their servants of plots of murder without any proof.
“As the Islorians fell, we would convince them of a sickness plaguing their mortals that only Mordain could fix.”
“At what cost?”
“One my mother would negotiate.”
“Let me guess …” There’s only one thing she has ever wanted—Islor. Well, two … Islor, and all of us, dead.
“No one was ever to suspect my sister’s blood as the culprit of this mysterious illness.”
“Or that your mother summoned the fates to accomplish that? Was anyone supposed to know that?” Neilina’s treachery is obvious to anyone with half a mind. The night of the tournament, when Tyree’s haunting laugh echoed across the silent arena, the shock on my brother’s face was genuine, but understanding followed closely. He’d had all the puzzle pieces for far longer than I did, and he was too blinded by Romeria to see the big picture.
What else did he hide from me?
“My mother is nothing if not resourceful,” Tyree says.
“She didn’t expect her whole plan to be foiled by Mordain, though, did she?” By one caster—someone my family trusted. Someone who clearly knew about the tainted tributaries but, instead of warning us, took steps to ensure my parents died earlier in the day.
I supposed I could thank Wendeline for her actions, because it sounds like, had she not, we’d all be dead. Perhaps I’ll pay her cell beneath the castle a visit one day, when I’m sure I won’t kill her on sight.
“Not by Mordain. That caster is an exile. Was an exile? Did she die in the execution? I watched, but I couldn’t tell who was who.”
I ignore his question. “What about the caster who fled Ybaris and sailed to Cirilea and helped my brother and Romeria escape? Ianca, I believe was her name? Or was it Gesine?” Zander gave Boaz two possible names and a physical description that matched the caster in the skiff the night they escaped Cirilea. According to Boaz, she created a wind and wave strong enough to destroy the Rookery had she turned it on us. Instead, she took them out to sea.
Tyree purses his lips, as if toying with an answer. “Whoever she is working with, it isn’t Ybaris.”
My gut tells me to believe him. “Regardless, we’re aware of her, and we’re aware of the poison. Soldiers and keepers are searching for these vials, and mortals know what will happen should they be found with one.” I point out the window toward the gallows. “We’ll find them all soon enough, and the fear will dissipate.” I force confidence into my voice. “And Ybaris will fail miserably with their foolish plans, yet again.”
Tyree nods slowly. “It sounds like you have it all figured out.”
Not everything. “What is your mother planning next?”
“You’ll have to ask her.” He stretches his legs, as if setting in for a leisurely conversation. “I’m sure she’d accept an invitation for high tea from the usurper king if he asks nicely.”
Smug prick. “I think she’s going to cross the rift and attack.” Recent messages from the rift confirm a growing army. The meager sources I have within Ybaris paint a picture of fury. The people believe the lies Neilina has sown and cultivated—that Islor assassinated their beloved king from within his own borders and is about to murder their princess and prince. According to some rumors, it has already happened. Now people gather for retribution. “When?”
