“I’m sorry, a nether-what?” This is the first I’m hearing of such a beast.
A smirk laces Zander’s voice as he explains, “A residual of the sort of beast Caster Farren released when she tore the fold. It is three times the size of a boar and far more grotesque. They go to ground for years, only surfacing every few decades. We’ve killed many but can’t seem to rid ourselves of them. There have been rumors of one in Eldred Wood as of late, devouring stag and boar. The gamekeepers found three half-eaten mortals a few weeks ago. Nethertaurs prefer immortals, as do most of the beasts that were released,” he adds as I grimace.
“Though, I suppose those mortals deserved what was coming to them for poaching in the king’s forest, but it is still a cruel way to go. If we are lucky, we will rid ourselves of the creature on this day, before it vanishes again.”
“And when you say ‘we,’ you mean you, right? Because I’ll be waiting by the food table while you go chase your monsters.” I was still picking at a bowl of sour red berries when Corrin chased me to my vanity, scolding me for my late night “activities” that were causing me to drag my behind this morning.
His chuckle warms me. “I requested paper and graphite to keep you busy. My horse moves faster with a single rider, anyway. As an aside, you will need to learn to ride on your own soon. As much as I enjoy being able to do this”—his hand slips inside my cloak to skate over the bodice, giving my breast a gentle squeeze—“a queen must be proficient in something as basic as equestrianism.”
“I want to learn.” My thoughts are elsewhere, though. His mention of Farren knocks on a door I feel the urge to nudge open. “How many of these beasts were released when Ailill used that key caster?”
“Hundreds? Maybe more. I don’t know that there was ever a count. We have a whole section in the library on the various creatures. The nethertaurs were the most docile. There were others, like the winged scaly beasts that pillaged entire villages in the night, breathing fire and consuming entire herds of livestock. The last of those was killed by Mordain eight centuries ago.”
Dragons, surely. “But there are still beasts here, two thousand years later?”
“The dredges of them, yes.”
I hesitate. “Sounds like Farren caused a lot of problems for everyone.”
“Which is why key casters no longer exist. It is the only thing Ybaris and Islor ever agreed upon.”
I take deep, calming breaths and focus my thoughts on the bustle ahead to try to keep the gnawing anxiety at bay.
“Bring me more wine,” Annika demands, waving her mug in the air.
“Yes, Your Highness.” The servant sets a plate of fruit compote and hard cheeses at my place.
“Thank you,” I offer. Meanwhile, I’m trying not to salivate at the succulent platter of smoked ham and roasted game bird in front of us, the smell wafting through the main tent.
The mousy woman with the button nose and brown doe eyes startles as if surprised I’m looking at her, let alone thanking her. With an almost imperceptible nod, she scurries away.
Annika leans over. “Why do you do that? Thank the servants for delivering your food to you?”
“You mean, show common manners?” I throw back before I can stop myself, and with too much bite. I’ve been studying the nobility around the enormous U-shaped table, lined with eucalyptus and willow branches and laden with food and drink, so I can better emulate them. However, the more I see, the less I want to do with any of them. The way they wave their goblets in the air to have them filled, snap their fingers to beckon, bark when servants aren’t running … And it’s not just a few, it’s all.
It’s one thing to slip into a room and impersonate someone for an evening. I can’t play one of these people for the rest of my life, which is a decidedly long one.
Annika cocks her head, genuinely intrigued. “But they’re servants. What drives that impulse inside you?”
Because I come from a world where this behavior is not acceptable, I want to say. Except that’s not entirely true. I suppose I can’t fault her entirely. If history books and cinema have taught me anything, it’s that the days of kings and queens were like this. Then, it had nothing to do with immortal versus mortal and everything to do with rich versus poor, nobility versus commoner.
And while the society I’m from has evolved, there is still a caste system, and it is blinding when you happen to be a street kid who slips into elite parties to steal jewels. I’ve seen fingers snapped and noses upturned, service staff treated like part of a room’s functional décor rather than fellow humans. I once watched some rich prick make a bartender cry because she put too much lemon in his drink, all while the club’s manager prostrated to offer his condolences for the heinous error. I’ve seen enough to know that you put too much ego and entitlement under one roof, and basic decency wanes.
Unfortunately, in Islor, crying over too many lemons is the least of these mortals’ hardships.
Regardless, I need to guard my behavior carefully around these people, so I don’t draw more attention than I already do. “What is the priestess doing here?” I watch the woman with wiry white hair hover by one of the tent entrances. Aside from Wendeline, the casters I’ve seen in the sanctum and walking the royal grounds at night are climbing in years, the youngest of them surely close to seventy. How much longer before they all expire?
“She’s bait.” Annika carves off a chunk of meat, and after dipping it into a yellow mustard, pops it into her mouth with a satisfied moan. “The nethertaur is drawn to caster magic. She’ll go with them to lure it out.”
My jaw drops. “She agreed to this?”
Annika waves away my horror. “She’ll be fine. There will be dozens of them out there to fight it. Zander and Atticus slayed the last one together without any help.”
I hide my grimace with a piece of cheese. Speaking of Atticus … I search out the commander of the army—and apparently Princess Romeria’s secret lover—and find him off to the side with Adley, his brow furrowed as he listens to the Lord of Kettling. Whatever they’re discussing, it’s Adley who steers the conversation, his jaw rigid as his lips flap with quick, angry words.
As suspicious as Zander is of everyone else, I wish he would be more suspicious of the one who stands to gain the most if he died, who has already proven himself willing to take what isn’t his.
Atticus’s blue eyes flicker in my direction, as if he can sense my gaze. I shift to study my plate, but it’s too late to hide the fact that I was spying on them. “Do you know where Zander went?” He ducked out ten minutes ago.