Fates, please help us. I squeeze my eyes shut but not before several tears escape, rolling down my cheek, falling.
The sudden stir within my arms tells me they’ve landed on my sleeping daughter, disturbing her slumber. She coughs as her tiny body stiffens and then her eyelids blink open.
“Shhh.” My tense body sways, the instinct to lull her back to peace kicking in despite the doom that surrounds us.
A loud creak cuts through an otherwise quiet throne room—the spectators’ attention now rapt. The king has risen from his throne in a swift, graceful move, but his steps down are painfully slow by comparison as he descends to stand inches from me.
From this proximity, he is far more imposing. I struggle to keep my composure, my body trembling.
“Gracen …”
The unexpected softness in his voice compels me to look up. Blue eyes the color of the spring hyacinths in Lady Danthrin’s garden bore into mine. I imagine he’s doing what all elven are adept at—seeing what we don’t wish them to see. As a child growing up, I thought it was another empty threat delivered to small children by their parents when they misbehaved. But soon after Lord Danthrin collected me on Presenting Day, I learned how easily the immortals sensed our fear.
And how much some of them thrived on it.
Can the king read the terror that grips every inch of my flesh and bone now at the thought of going back to our old life?
“Please …” It’s barely a whisper and likely pointless. The king has been executing mortals every day since he took power. He hears people’s appeals all day long and dismisses them with nary a blink. But all I have left is a mother’s plea for mercy and a wish that, in this one instance, he may grant it.
Something raw sparks in his gaze, but it’s gone in the next instant, so quickly that I think I must have imagined it.
Lilou’s wails worsen despite Corrin’s best efforts to console her, and numbness takes hold of me as we await the king’s ruling.
“You’ve come here today to reclaim mortals you allege Princess Romeria took from you by force. Is that correct?” King Atticus asks, his voice steely, no hint of humor in it.
“That is correct, Your Highness. Gracen and the children. Three now, I see. An injustice that, righted, would go to great lengths toward rebuilding Freywich.” Lord Danthrin sounds smug. He’s convinced he has already won.
But … rebuilding Freywich? What happened to it?
“Yes, that was an interesting turn of events. It’s almost as if my brother found something in your lands that angered him. Why, oh why, would he go to the efforts of slaughtering the town’s keepers?”
My eyes widen with shock. Those keepers were horrible but … they’re all gone?
“For their allegiance to you, Your Highness,” Lord Danthrin answers smoothly.
“Before they likely heard that I had claimed the throne?” The king frowns, as if that’s doubtful. “But he also demanded your entire household for himself and burned your orchard.” The king has shifted to that bored drawl again. “An orchard that you declared to my late father was not thriving. Year after year of a terrible blight, I believe you said.”
“The Ybarisan whispers evils and tall tales in his ear, Your Highness, steering his temper and his hand.” But Lord Danthrin’s confident voice wavers.
Blight. What blight? I’ve never seen such a healthy and fruitful orchard as the one that stretches behind Lord Danthrin’s manor, and I grew up in the Plains of Aminadav, where vigorous crops are abundant. My children and I spent many long days in that orchard, collecting its produce for meads and jams and delicacies.
“Tall tales, indeed.” The king watches me closely, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Thank you. Your confusion is enlightening,” he murmurs, so quietly I doubt anyone else could hear it. Taking a step back, his deep voice carries. “My brother has wronged Islor in many ways, but I cannot fault him for his righteousness, especially when it comes to the welfare of Islor’s mortals. If he took such care to punish you, Lord Danthrin, I suspect it was justified.”
“Your Highness—”
“I wonder, if I were to pay a visit to Freywich, would I find proof of the picture you painted for my father so he would spare you the hardship of paying the crown’s tithe?”
“I … yes, Your Highness,” Lord Danthrin sputters. “There is no longer any orchard to speak of. Nothing but charred remains.”
“Convenient for you, wouldn’t you say? Seeing as the penalty for lying to a king is death. What should the penalty be for lying to two kings?” The smile on his lips is so contradictory to the thinly veiled threat escaping them.