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

“So, you and I were supposed to get married and then Ybaris would have access to these farmlands?”

“To a percentage of its harvest, yes. As well as resources from our mines.”

Princess Romeria was a bargaining chip. The only one? “And what would Islor get in return? Besides my delightful company.”

His jaw tenses, and I quietly chastise myself. Angering him won’t get me more information. “Ybaris would send us casters and twenty thousand mortals to work the lands. They would ensure safe passage through the rift, and we would help them reestablish in Islor. Give them homes and jobs. Your father knew some would take issue with this proposal, with the idea of trading so many mortal Ybarisans to Islor and giving us access to caster magic, but he hoped they’d see the benefit in time, once their bellies were full of the food it produced, and their strongest were not sent to slaughter in battle.”

I eye the map again where the two countries share a border. The Valley of Bones. “I take it there are a lot of bodies down there?”

“There is far worse than that down there,” he murmurs, more to himself. He shakes his head. “Your father wanted to help his people, and his own family killed him for it. I cannot imagine what his dying thoughts would have been.” His eyes flicker to me, as if testing my reaction.

He won’t get one. I’m too curious to feel empathy for a stranger at the moment. “Why wouldn’t the queen … my mother”—I test that out—“want that too?”

“Neilina?” he scoffs. “Because she is hungry for power and wants our land for herself, and she would gladly watch every last one of us burn. She has been the serpent whispering of war and conquer in your father’s ear for centuries. Her in one ear, and Caedmon in the other. I don’t know how he resisted it.”

Centuries.

He’s saying Princess Romeria’s parents were king and queen for hundreds of years.

I clear the shock from my voice. “How old are you?”

A slow, vicious smile touches his lips. “Oh, come now. And to think the idea of someone much older than you was so appealing before. What was it you said to me …” He bites his bottom lip, but something tells me it’s all an act. I doubt he has to search his thoughts for anything. “You were happy to marry someone so much more experienced.” His gaze drops to my mouth. “Actually, happy was not it. Eager to learn were the words you used.”

“I did not say that.”

“Do you want to know what other things you whispered in my ear—”

“No.” I feel my face burn.

His expression smooths over. “Good, because I’d much rather scrub those memories from my mind forever.”

What must Zander have been like when he didn’t despise me? A flash of the night in the tower hits me, of those few brief moments when his anger gave way to pain and desperation. I remember the look in his eyes. He wasn’t hateful. He was vulnerable, hurt. He was still in love.

He hasn’t answered my question. I try a different tactic. “How old am I?”

“Just a baby.” He pauses, as if deciding how much more to reveal. “You just passed your twenty-fifth year.”

Princess Romeria was twenty-five. Is twenty-five? Is she dead, or am I? Regardless, she is four years older than I am. Another piece of the puzzle to stew over.

“Why are you willing to tell me all this now?” What does he really want with me?

“Because if there is any shred of truth to this story of yours, perhaps filling in some blanks will help jog your memory. And then, perhaps, you will be inclined to share what you know. Now, if you have no other questions about the map, I have important letters to dispatch. We’ll see if that scant detail you provided is of any use at all.” He doesn’t wait for my response, sliding off the table and moving for a chair on the opposite side. “Elisaf!”

My guard steps in again.

“Please escort Her Highness out of my sight.”

“Yes, Your Highness.” Another deep bow. Do they get tired of the same stuffy salutations all the time?

I rise, hoping my legs don’t betray me. This audience wasn’t as dreadful as I’d anticipated. At least Zander has given me plenty to digest while I’m back in my rooms. Or out on the balcony. “Thank you for allowing me some fresh air.”

“You already said that,” he mutters, annoyed.

“I know. I just … I’m grateful.” Everything I have, I have by the grace of this man who hates me.

His expression is stony, unreadable. “I heard your rooms were in need of airing out.”

My nose scrunches at the memory of the salve. Corrin dumped so much lavender and jasmine in my bathwater, I was plucking petals off my skin even after I’d dried myself. I returned to my bedchamber with incense burning in a corner and my bed stripped.