How am I to know? They all look just like me.
And what is it about the Islorians—elven by blood—that would make the Ybarisans hate them? What would make Ybaris cast them from their lands? Does it have something to do with their church and the gods they bow to? It’s far from unheard of, for a belief system to cause friction and war. A Great Rift, as Wendeline called it.
Some of the servants bow as I pass. I note that they all wear the same jewelry Corrin wears—an inner conch piercing that loops around the cartilage of the right ear in a gold cuff an inch wide. The metal is engraved with a symbol, but she has never come close enough for me to decipher it.
It isn’t just the servants who wear them, I note. Several young women and men in fine clothing also have their ear pierced in the same manner.
The guard accompanying me—a tall, slim man with dark curls and tawny brown skin—reminds me of a volunteer at one of the soup kitchens. Becks was a bank manager who doled out food to the needy the first Sunday of every month. He always had a broad smile and a second helping for me.
This guy hasn’t smiled once, though, and keeps his hand on the hilt of his sword at all times, watching my every move from the corner of his eye, as if expecting me to bolt or attack.
Is he human or elven?
His rich brown eyes flash to me, and I realize I’m staring at him.
“How much farther is it?” Half of me could walk forever without reaching our destination. The other half would prefer to get this audience over with.
“About thirty paces, Your Highness,” he answers civilly, his voice hinting of his accent. Maybe not everyone despises me as Corrin does. I decide to test that out. “How did you get so lucky?”
He frowns. “I do not understand the question.”
“You’re at my door every night, for at least twelve hours. You normally change your shift at the sevens, except you’re still here, escorting me. That’s a long day. Does the king not believe in sleep?”
His steady march falters. “How did you know it was me?”
“You have a slight spring in your step, and you’re better at polishing your boots than the day guard.”
Another beat passes and then the corners of his mouth curl. Is he picturing me with my face pressed against the floor? It’s the only way anyone could pick up on something as minute as footfall pattern and basic cleanliness while locked inside that room. He dips his head. “Not to worry. I will have my rest soon, Your Highness.”
We stop where two grim-faced guards secure a hall. The one on the right spins and leads us down. At the end is a set of double doors, and loud angry voices behind it.
My blood pounds in my ears as the guard pushes open the door.
“—someone give me a name!” Zander roars. “How are we not capable of even that much!”
I find myself standing in a tall, circular, windowless room, surrounded by hostile faces.
“We will have it soon, Your Highness.” Boaz bows his head, his voice apologetic even as his words make promises.
The king of Islor is hunched over a round table, his palms splayed on either side of an enormous map, his golden-brown locks falling in disarray, his jaw tense with fury and frustration. When he lifts and affixes that probing gaze on me, I struggle not to squirm. It’s been weeks since I’ve faced him, and the swirl of fear, confusion, and anxiety that instantly rises threatens to stall my lungs.
My guard bows once and ducks out, leaving me to face two people I’ve never seen before and two I wished I didn’t have to see again.
I force my shoulders straight under their hard eyes. This must be his war council, as Annika called it. There are three others present in addition to Zander, and all are dressed in various versions of a black-and-gold, save for the woman who wears head-to-toe russet-brown leather. Hair the color of ripe wheat is pulled into three thick braids that reach to her hips. A long, thin scar follows her hairline, from the center of her forehead down to her right earlobe.
A man with a brawny frame and cropped golden-blond hair that hints of curls stands to her left. He looks young, only a few years older than I am.
None of them appear pleased to see me.
“Princess Romeria, how nice of you to grace us with your presence.” Zander pulls himself up to his full height. He’s at least a head taller than everyone in the room, save for Boaz. “I trust your accommodations are to your satisfaction.” The corner of his mouth twitches.
If Wendeline repeated my plea that she continue visiting me, then he must suspect I’m pacing my “accommodations” like a feral animal in captivity. He’s toying with me for his amusement. That makes him an ass. He did have the locks on the windows and balcony released, though.
And he can have them put back in place.
I quell my natural urge to respond with anything but courtesy. I’m not dealing with Tony or any of Korsakov’s other brutes. “They’re fine. Thanks.”
“You will address the king with respect!” Boaz snaps, his face turning red with anger. I haven’t seen him since he threw me into the tower. I would have happily avoided him for eternity.