A Fate of Wrath & Flame (Fate & Flame 1)

The letters are odd, like nothing I’ve ever seen before, a medley of curves and swirls and circles, some converged, others apart. None run in a linear manner. On impulse, I graze my fingertip across the engraving.

Faint female laughter coils within my ear, as if carried on a breeze.

I frown curiously and retrace the lettering. More faint laughter echoes, a high, playful giggle like that of a response to a tickle. It’s joined by others. “Can you hear that?”

“Hear what?” Annika asks.

“Your Highness,” Elisaf interrupts in a murmur. “Approaching.”

Annika and I turn in unison to see Saoirse gliding along the path toward us with an air of purpose, a flock of four females surrounding her.

My disappointment swells. It wasn’t something otherworldly that I’d heard. It was one of them.

“Just what we need,” Annika mutters, stepping out of the nymphaeum. I follow her, my pulse racing. Zander told me to stay away from this one. “Oh, look. We were just talking about you.” Annika’s smile for Saoirse is thin as the others curtsy. I assume they are all immortal. There are no ear cuffs to mark them as tributaries.

“I should think you would be more focused on this ghastly murder under your roof.” Saoirse’s voice is in A chord—high and tinny, with that same pretentious lilt her father uses. “To think, another tributary used to—”

“What do you want?” Annika cuts her off sharply. “You are ruining an otherwise lovely walk through the grounds with your chatter.”

I barely stifle my laugh. Annika is nothing if not blunt.

Saoirse’s responding smile is smug. “I was giving the others a history lesson.”

“Still not exciting.”

“We have an outstanding library in Kettling. Even better than the one in Cirilea.”

“Thank you for informing us. I’ll be sure to tell Zander, so he can appropriate the best of your collection.”

Saoirse’s lips tighten with annoyance, either because of Annika’s constant interruptions or the clout she casually tosses around. “Anyhow, there is an entire section dedicated to King Ailill and Queen Isla, some of the texts written by my own ancestors. I was perusing the oldest of them not long ago—”

Annika rolls her eyes.

“—and there was mention of a gift given to King Ailill by Malachi himself. A set of cuffs made from a token to entrap the key caster Farren and suppress her power. They were assumed destroyed when she died.” Saoirse’s eyes flash to me, then to my wrists. “Those are Ailill’s cuffs that you are wearing, are they not?” she asks with mock innocence.

“You will address Her Highness suitably,” Elisaf says, cordial but with a rare edge to his tone.

She curtsies formally, but her lips curl with disdain.

I hesitate, fighting the urge to check Annika’s face for the right answer. Wendeline said most people would have no idea what these cuffs were, but it’s not surprising there would be books written about them, or that someone with aspirations for the throne would educate herself. “They are,” I say evenly. Lying is pointless when you are caught.

She makes a point of flashing a shocked glance at her friends. “It’s odd that the king would feel the need to restrain his betrothed, if she is innocent of the high treason she was once accused.”

Clever. She’s planting seeds of doubt. Her hens will run off and scatter that whisper in every direction.

Annika’s eyes narrow. “How dare you—”

“Zander did not require that I wear them. I suggested it,” I cut off Annika’s admonishment. While it might feel good to berate Saoirse, it’ll only give whatever rumors she’s cultivating faster legs.

Saoirse’s eyebrows arch with surprise. “Youchose to weaken yourself in such a way?”

“Yes.” My mind is working fast over my story. We should have had one already. Then again, I wasn’t supposed to engage with this serpent. Oddly enough, my heart rate is not spiking with panic as it usually does. Instead, I feel a surge of courage channel through me, much like what I feel whenever I’m reaching for a necklace. “As a testament to my loyalty.”

She presses her palm against her chest. “So you are admitting that the king doubts your loyalty?”

She deserves an award for her display, and for putting words in my mouth. “Zander does not doubt me for a second. But I’m sure there are those in the court willing to believe all sorts of unflattering lies about me, especially those who are trying desperately to take my throne next to his.”

Anger flares in her eyes, as I expected it to with those words. I’m an outsider, a Ybarisan taking an Islorian’s seat of power. I tamp down the urge to smile.