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.
His gold crown dangling from a finger, as if nothing more than a trinket.
This is not what I was expecting. Sabrina described a very different scenario when he called on her.
I step out, wrapping my arms around my chest to ward off the cold. Heavy cloud has rolled in, and the rain will surely start soon. “You wanted to see me, Your Highness?” My pulse races.
“I remember being in awe of this view as a child.” His voice doesn’t carry the same usual lilt of humor that I’ve come to recognize, that it held earlier today when he was flirting mercilessly with me in the square.
I edge over, taking up a place beside him. My breath catches at the expanse of land. “It is a spectacular view.” I saw the royal garden for the first time this morning, and now I see it from above, the meandering paths disappearing into lush foliage and flowers. It is stunning, but it is nothing compared to the sight beyond Cirilea’s towering wall, of rolling hills as far as one can see.
“You traveled through these lands to get here, did you not?”
“Yes, but I didn’t see any of it. We sat in a covered wagon with the barrels of mead.”
“I am afraid there will be a day very soon when I shall not be able to see it from this perch anymore.”
I steal a glance at his profile. There isn’t an angle of him that isn’t handsome. “Kazimir said you are weighed down by dark thoughts.”
“Dark thoughts.” He chuckles. “That is one way to describe what sits in my mind.”
“About the future queen?” And the fact that she tried to kill you?
“Saoirse is the least of my worries. She is not as smart as she thinks she is.”