Besides discovering that Malachi expects me to offer myself up to you on your sex stone under the blood moon for all to watch?I fight against the visual that threatens to consume my thoughts. “The swans.”
“The swans,” he echoes.
“Yes. You know, graceful, long-necked white birds that float.” I feel Zander’s steady stare as I outline the hump of Korsakov’s crooked nose. I’ve barely thought of the man since I left, and yet when I sat down with pencil and paper, I felt the compelling need to draw his face. A connection to my past life, maybe to remind me of what once was. I can’t decide if this situation I find myself in is better or worse.
“That’s odd. I was so sure you’d say you most enjoyed the part where you fabricated a story accusing a court member of conspiring with the Ybarisans to murder Lord Quill.”
At least we didn’t have to dance around it too long. “It’s the truth, isn’t it?”
“This is the Islorian court. We do not deal in truths unless it serves us well.” His tone is eerily calm. I think I’d prefer it if he snapped at me. “We have no proof of conspiracy with the Ybarisans. Especially not from the prisoners who haven’t said a word.” He folds his arms across his chest as he towers over me. “But now several members of the court are insisting we bring them forth for a public trial, so they may name the accused, and that court member has fair opportunity to defend themselves against such a heinous charge.”
“I assume Adley is spearheading this?”
“That would be a safe assumption.”
I set my graphite on the table. “Good. While we’re at it, we can bring up what he’s doing to the human children in Kettling.” I level Zander with a knowing—and scathing—look.
He sighs heavily. “Do you not see the issue with this situation?”
“Besides the fact that the prisoners aren’t talking?”
“Yes, besides that one rather significant problem,” he says dryly. “After several days of personal attention from Abarrane’s temper and blade, if they should decide to speak, what do you think they would say? Who do you think they might accuse of King Eachann’s and Queen Esma’s murders?” He looks pointedly at me.
“Me? But I’m Ybarisan, like they are.”
“And possibly a traitor in their eyes, especially after that compelling speech you gave in the throne room in front of them. We cannot risk that. So, no, we do not want them to speak. Ever. At least not publicly, and certainly not in a court forum.”
I curse under my breath. Maybe my conning skills aren’t as useful as I convinced myself they would be.
“For someone who has a solid grasp of self-preservation, you seem intent on not surviving.”
“But you’re the king. You decide what happens to me.”
“I will lose the faith of many, including Lord Telor, if it becomes obvious that I’m knowingly placing my parents’ murderer on the queen’s throne. They will not care for my reasons.”
“I hate to say it, but I’m beginning to doubt your reasons too.”
“That’s because you do not understand them, and I am not about to explain myself to you.” His jaw tenses. “Your attack on Cirilea proved to my enemies that the royal family can be defeated, even without the strength of an army. It’s given them courage. What will happen if something should befall my seat on the throne? What will happen to you? Adley has no love for Ybaris. He will not set you free. You will face the fate you are so desperately trying to avoid.”
I shudder at the thought of those pyres. “You think Tyree would do that? Name me?”
“I don’t believe you two are particularly close, but that could be another of your previous deceptions. I wouldn’t put anything past him, especially if he thinks you have turned on your kingdom.”
“All the more reason to allow me to talk to him, then. This is what I’m here for, Zander. Use me. Otherwise, this charade is pointless.”
“I agree, which is why we’re going to see him.”
I falter, not expecting that answer. “When?”
His attention flashes to my sketch. A curious frown darts across his face, but he says nothing. He collects the capelet I tossed over the back of the wing chair. “Now.”
My nerves churn as I stand. I reach for the translucent material in his grasp, but he drapes the garment over my shoulders himself.
“Thank you.” I steal a glance at his face to find his steady, unreadable gaze on me as he fastens the gold ribbon. He has an intimidating stare, and it compels me to speak. “I heard you had a library here.”
“We do.” He hesitates. “Is there something you’d like to read about?”
Everything. The fates, the Great Rift, these mythical nymphs and their magic. “More of Islor’s history.”