A Curse of Blood & Stone (Fate & Flame 2)

Feeding off a caster might sustain an Islorian, but it’s an instant death sentence for the former. I know that much.

The subtle intimidation has the desired effect. Gesine blanches.

Abarrane’s responding grin is wicked.

“What happened in Cirilea?” Zander shifts the conversation from threats that are likely not idle.

Her amusement falls off. “The city was taken almost immediately as word of Princess Romeria’s duplicity spread. I have never seen that many soldiers within the walls, not even on your wedding day.” She scowls. “Do not tell me that was not Atticus’s intention.”

“I cannot be sure of anything anymore.”

“He must have suspected our plans to escape because he had the north and west walls under heavy guard, and he used Kettling’s men to set an effective trap at the bridge.”

“Kettling’s men were intentionally left outside the walls. We agreed we didn’t want Adley with too much influence inside.”

“Or so your brother claimed.” She hesitates. “I lost Gorm.”

“I am sorry, Abarrane,” Zander says, his voice bleeding with sympathy.

She nods once as if to accept his condolences.

“Who will take his place as second?”

“Jarek.”

Zander makes a sound that I can’t pin as satisfaction or disapproval, but he doesn’t say anything.

“They chased us to the border of the woods before retreating. It was the general himself who opened my leg with his merth blade.”

“Adley’s son? I’ve never known him to withdraw.”

“You’ve never known him without his head on his shoulders.” She hands her bow to a passing warrior. “It was Boaz who signaled the retreat, after we cut down half of Adley’s men. I’m sure he is now busy plotting his attack here. We’ll see if your treasonous brother is foolish enough to send a king’s army into the pass.”

Zander greets a male who sits on a tree stump, shirtless and covered in dried blood, dragging his blade across a sharpening stone with methodical strokes. I shouldn’t be surprised that Zander seems to know every one of these warriors. Even as king, he learns the names and faces of those around him, from soldiers to stable hands. “My brother is many things, but foolish is not one of them. Securing Islor under his rule will be his priority. He knows how Adley schemes, and he won’t risk gaining the throne only to lose it in the chaos of the aftermath. He will be busy sending letters to all corners of Islor, announcing his claim and replacing the lords and ladies who died in yesterday’s royal repast with those loyal to him. But once that is done, he will come for us.”

“Us, or Ybaris’s poison mill?”

I don’t give Abarrane the satisfaction of a reaction, shifting my attention to the river where several male and female legionaries wash the blood from their sculpted bodies. One of them I recognize as the guard from the castle dungeon that day I visited Tyree, only his blond hair is free of braids and clinging to a body carved in hard muscle. He pauses to regard us, not a hint of modesty in his nakedness, in water that only reaches mid-thigh.

I struggle to keep my expression as my cheeks flush.

“Atticus will come for all of us with the full might of the Islorian army.” Zander’s words pull my focus back.

“And we will be ready.”

“We will be gone. Nineteen of you cannot hold off that army, and I will not have us sit here and wait for slaughter.” His words invite no argument.

We’ve reached the largest tent. Abarrane wrinkles her nose. “I should insist you all bathe before defiling this tent.”

“And I should insist you allow the caster to heal your wounds.” Zander pulls aside the leather flap. “But first, she and I must discuss a few things.”

I make to move forward into the tent, but Zander’s free hand in the air, palm out, stops me.

“Alone.”

My jaw drops. “Are you kidding me? I deserve answers as much as—ow!” A sharp prick against my neck cuts off my words. I flinch away and find Abarrane’s dagger aimed at my throat, cold fury in her eyes.

“Your blood does not frighten me, Ybarisan,” she hisses. “I will be happy to discuss what you deserve while I make you bleed.”

A warm trickle slides down my throat, the slice in my skin stinging.

“Abarrane,” Zander scolds in a tone more appropriate for a child throwing a tantrum as he waves her blade away.

The weapon lingers in the air for another three seconds, poised for attack, before she sheathes it.

Satisfied, he shifts his attention to Gesine. “After you.”

The caster flashes me a reassuring smile before ducking into the tent.

“Elisaf.” That’s all Zander says before he follows her inside, dropping the flap behind him.