But the king hasn’t hinted of any monsters lurking. Every time his eyes touch me, I feel them as readily as if his hands were on my body, and I don’t dislike it. “At least he does not seem the type to want a breeding mare.”
“No, he is not interested in the outcome of the act. But the act itself, he is very fond of.” She gives me a knowing look. “If you are marked as the king’s tributary, you become a target for this poison. Look at Sabrina.”
Mention of her stirs a pang of sorrow inside me. “Have you heard anything—”
“No. Other than her body hasn’t been collected from the execution square yet, so she must still be alive. For how much longer, I cannot say. I doubt long.”
The poor, young girl. She doesn’t deserve to die. But it’s a stark reminder that Corrin’s worries are valid. I don’t want the same fate.
“I suggest you make yourself scarce. And stop baking the king’s favorite for him.”
I look at the bowl’s contents. “But the batter is already made. That would be wasteful.”
“Oh, well, we wouldn’t want that,” Corrin mutters wryly, coring the apple before moving to the next one. “As I said, be careful. There are many dangers within these walls, too close, and they all revolve around His Highness.”
Don’t I know it. I hesitate, keeping my focus on my task as I lower my voice. “If you knew something that the king would want to know, but revealing it would likely put you and those you love in danger, what would you do?”
Her eyes narrow. “I would tell my trusted friend, Corrin, and she would help me decide if this is in fact something the king should know.”
I knew she’d say that. I considered telling Corrin earlier but decided that her knowing would only put her in danger. Maybe I could get an anonymous note to His Highness, to warn him? But how do I admit what we found in the library without outing myself? It wouldn’t take much thought to make the connection.
“Is this enough apples?” Mika hollers, dragging a bushel basket across the stone floor toward us.
“Za’hala! How many fritters do you suppose your mother is going to make for you, child!” Corrin exclaims with exasperation. “And how did you even get that up the stairs?”
“A guard helped me!” His giggles push away the dark cloud hanging over my head for the meantime.
But it doesn’t go far, and by the time I’ve slid the last batch of fritters into the kiln, I know I must find a way to send a message to the king, to warn him.
My arms strain beneath the silver platter of fritters as I slip into the dining hall through the staff entrance door. I’ve never been in here, never had a reason for it. It’s as splendid as the rumors claimed, the ceiling reaching high above us, with curved windows around the top to give a glimpse into the night sky. Candelabras dangle from the main beam, countless flames flickering from each to cast light down over the expanse of tables, where more candles burn.
A collection of string instruments plays an upbeat song from the dais across the room, and jovial laughter carries, the tables full of the nobility staying in Cirilea ahead of the wedding. No one would guess someone tried to kill the king not twenty-four hours ago.
I seek out the king and find him instantly, seated at a long banquet table at the far end of the room. Lady Saoirse sits next to him, laughing at something he said.
My anger flares, but doubt chases quickly. They look so at ease around each other. Is there another reason why the future queen of Islor was hiding poison in the library? Maybe the king knows, and I’m stressing over nothing?
No … the way he behaved toward her, what he said to me, I don’t believe that. He is a showman, and this is an act for the crowd. He is doing what he thinks he must for the sake of Islor, and that honorable cause will likely get him killed.
Meanwhile, she will be queen of Islor—for centuries, possibly—all because of the family and station she was born into.
Seated on the other side of the king is an Islorian with olive skin, a trim beard, and long hair pulled back off his face. He wears the leathers of a fighter. Could this be one of the king’s few trusted friends? The man’s gaze drifts about the dining hall while a female beside him—a stunning blond with long, smooth ringlets that cascade down her back—prattles in his ear. Whatever she’s saying, her pinched face smacks of displeasure.
That lord from the day of the assembly, the one who suggested the king could not honor Princess Romeria’s bargains and that I should go back to Freywich, sits beside Lady Saoirse, his goblet held high, silently demanding more wine. With them side by side, I see a familial resemblance. He must be important if he sits next to her. Maybe her father?