Total pages in book: 152
Estimated words: 145704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
“Foretelling does not work like that, Your Highness—”
“Then how do they work?”
“It is as I’ve told you. The end of the blood curse is at the tied hands of—”
“The Ybarisan daughter of Aoife and the Islorian son of Malachi. Yes, I recall. You’re speaking in riddles based on hallucinations rooted in madness,” he snaps, all semblance of charm gone.
I can’t fault Zander for his anger. Too late, he learned how these casters from Mordain have been spinning a web of duplicity so thick, no one can see from one side to the other. While he claims he never trusted Wendeline, I think confirming her treachery has wounded him deeply.
And her list of deceptions keeps growing. She lied about even knowing of Gesine and Ianca, let alone of their arrival in Cirilea. She knew of Ybaris’s plot to kill Islor’s royal family the night of the wedding, and instead of stopping that tragedy from unfolding, she altered schedules to kill Zander’s parents sooner. She misled Zander about the poison, convincing him it was deliquesced merth, an odd metal vine that grows in the mountains and is toxic to immortals. Her hand was literally on the arrow when Margrethe summoned the Fate of Fire to resurrect Princess Romeria’s body—unbeknownst to them, with me in it.
And this unparalleled key caster power that simmers within my limbs, subdued by the ring around my finger? Wendeline discovered it the same night I arrived here, unconscious and torn apart by the daaknar. But she hid that vital truth from everyone, including me.
Wendeline may be more culpable for Zander’s kingdom unraveling than all of Ybaris’s scheming royal family put together, and she swears she did it in the best interests of Islor.
Only time will tell.
“That is better left to discussion when we are not scampering through sewers and along shorelines like rodents, do you not agree?” The faintest edge in Gesine’s voice—a hairline crack in her otherwise relentless deference to a king—makes me smile. Behind all the curtsies and bows to royal protocol, she has a backbone.
And a purpose for being here that I should be wary of. According to Wendeline, the elemental caster spent years studying prophecy with the scribes. She may claim to be here to guide me, but I’d be an idiot to ignore the probability that I am a tool to serve an agenda, one that likely won’t work in my favor.
“As long as you are prepared to answer it with the truth.” Zander echoes my thoughts.
“I have no intention of doing otherwise.”
I note it’s not a promise.
The hollow thud of boat hulls as they buoy over waves tells me we’re nearing the dock. I allow myself the tiniest glimmer of relief that we’ve almost made it to safety.
Zander stops so abruptly that I plow into his rigid body, my hands flying up to his back to brace myself. He may as well be a brick wall, immovable. “Why are there humans at the skiff?”
“They are probably the couple helping us,” Gesine answers. “A woman named Cecily and her husband, Arthur. They are kind.”
“They are fools. They should have made themselves scarce.” His boots land with a dull clunk on a wooden surface. “Watch your step. There’s a drop.”
A vivid image of stumbling into the sea has me faltering. “I can’t see anything,” I remind him in a hiss. Only silhouettes and shadows.
“Experience tells me you’ll refuse my hand, should I offer it.”
My anger flares. “Yeah, well, experience tells me you’ll ditch me the first chance you—”
Strong hands seize my waist, cutting off the acerbic retort. My body tenses, my palms bracing on Zander’s biceps for support as he lifts me off my feet and onto the dock.
“Shouldn’t I be the distrustful one?” His grip lingers for a moment before he steps back.
Another wave of hurt washes over me.
Everything between us has changed tonight.
“Perhaps we could afford a little light?” he murmurs.
Gesine’s globe appears again, a dull sphere floating low to the ground, just bright enough to illuminate the gaps in wood planks.
We rush wordlessly, Zander’s pace brisk enough that I’m nearly running. At the end, next to a boat maybe ten feet long, two people with mops of greasy gray hair bow.
“You should not be here. It’s too dangerous,” Zander says by way of greeting, surveying the nearby boats.
Echoes of “Your Highness” from them prick familiarity. I’ve heard those voices before. My suspicion is confirmed moments later when the couple stands. It’s the woman with the liver-spotted hands and her husband, a man once hobbled by infection. But the cane is gone and when he rushes to unfasten the skiff’s last rope from the dock, it’s with effortless steps.
Gesine holds out a plump velvet purse for Cecily to collect. “Return to your home and say nothing of this to anyone. Your skiff was stolen while you slept.”