“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.
“That makes you happy.” It’s not a question; he can read my glee.
“Relieved. She would not make a good queen.” And Atticus will remain an untethered king, at least for now. Which of those two stirs more elation? I know what the answer should be, but I don’t think it would be the truth, even as Corrin’s warning rings in my ear. The king will marry eventually, and I will remain a means to serve his needs, until he finds another.
I know this, and yet I can feel myself getting swept up in his very presence—in each look that touches me, each smile I garner. Corrin said royal tributaries could remain in service for decades if they formed a bond. I used to pray every day of service with Danthrin would be my last, that he would tire of me, leave me to the kitchen and forget me. But decades with this Islorian male? Imagine the kind of life I might give my children.
“No, she would not. But we no longer have to worry about that.” The path ahead forks. Atticus steers us to the right, as if he has a specific destination in mind.
“They also said you executed someone in the throne room.” Kazimir has already confirmed it, but I like hearing Atticus’s own words.
“I did. It wasn’t ideal, but Lord Danthrin deserved it.”
“Lord … You mean …” Shock buckles my knees.
Atticus moves quickly, shifting to face me, his hands seizing my waist. A deep frown mars his handsome face. “Does that news bother you?”
“No.” I grip his forearms as I take a few minutes to collect myself, absorbing the heat radiating from his body. “It’s just … he’s gone? Truly gone?” Lord Danthrin has played the starring role in my living nightmares for years. Within our little world of Freywich, he was so powerful, unstoppable. He drew so many tears—of pain, of fear, of anguish—and stirred so many sleepless nights.