Romeria
Dawn teases the horizon when we reach the inlet. Elisaf and Zander jump into thigh-deep water to haul the battered skiff ashore, seawater freely pouring in through a widening crack in the vessel’s side. In the approaching daylight, the missing chunks from its frame are glaring. Zander’s alarm wasn’t exaggerated. How we didn’t sink, even with Gesine’s intervention, is no small miracle.
Ahead of us, driftwood lays scattered on a sugar-white sandy beach dappled with crops of lichen-covered boulders. A dense line of trees shelters the quiet area, the branches serving as a perch for the choir of mourning doves and robins. Aside from the birds, there are no signs of life, no witnesses to report our whereabouts to Cirilea. I see why Zander insisted on this spot.
The moment the boat’s hull meets resistance, Gesine drags her limp frame over the edge, as if she can’t stand being in it for one second longer. Where her dark locks were once combed neatly off her forehead, they now hang in a drenched, clingy mess. Not that the current state of my hair—or the rest of me—is much better.
Her striking pale green eyes are red-rimmed, sickly. The power she expended to carry us here has weakened her, much like Wendeline always was after healing me. But instead of finding a place to sit and gather her strength, Gesine pulls her body upright and takes several staggered steps toward me, holding out a feeble hand. “Your Highness, allow me to help you.”
“I’m fine.” The adrenaline that has fueled me since the square is fraying, but I’ve spent years in survival mode, hungry and cold and uncomfortable. I throw my legs over the side, my sodden boots landing in the sand with a dull thud. All my clothes are wet, right down to my underthings. “And it’s Romy.” Even if I’m only her in spirit now. I don’t even have my face anymore, outside of the illusion Sofie bound to this ring.
“It is best we skip all formalities unless it benefits us to identify ourselves.” Zander rifles through the stash bag he collected during our escape from the castle.
“As you wish.” It’s the first time Gesine has spoken to him since he pulled his dagger on her and flashed his fangs.
“Also, the truth about Romeria must remain among this group. If word should get out …” He shakes his head. “No one but the four of us can know.”
“Corrin knows.” She was there when I was forced to divulge my secret in the mad dash to escape the castle. “And Wendeline too.”
“Corrin will not answer anything unless asked, and there is no reason Atticus could ever suspect what you are. As for Wendeline …” Zander’s jaw clenches. “I only hope she feels the punishment is worth keeping your secret a little longer.”
“What about Abarrane?” She’s always been part of Zander’s inner circle.
“There is only one thing the Legion despises more than Ybarisans, and that is the casters of Mordain.” His head shakes. “She is loyal to me, but I fear she will have too many reservations about keeping a key caster alive.”
“You really think she’d kill me?”
“I think she’ll kill you when she discovers what you are. You are already so dangerous to Islor’s existence as it is. News of your blood’s potency will spread, stirring rebellion from the humans and panic from the elven. What we saw last night was merely a battle ahead of the coming war. But if the masses find out what you truly are, how dangerous you are not only to Islor but to Ybaris and Mordain …” His voice drifts.
Is Zander having reservations? Regrets? He spent the sail back to land brooding quietly, staring out in Cirilea’s direction. Does he wish, in those split seconds between Tyree’s proclamation and Atticus’s condemnation, that he had chosen a different path? That he had been the one to declare me an enemy?
Gesine stumbles a step and leans against the skiff’s bow for support. It creaks noisily in return.
“Are you going to be okay?” I shift closer in case I need to dive in to catch her.
She waves off my worries. “I just need rest.”
“There is no time for that. The trek to Eldred Wood is long. It’ll take us most of the day.” Zander sheds his cloak and ruined jacket, leaving him in only his black breeches and shirt, damp and clinging to his muscular frame. Beside him, Elisaf wrings the water from his tunic while his eyes comb the shadows.
“We won’t need to walk,” Gesine says between labored breaths. “There is a small village not five miles from here … Shearling. A human named Saul waits with horses at the mill south of the bridge.”
“Horses,” Zander echoes, and there is no mistaking the shock in his voice. “But you were intent on landing in Northmost.”
“I coordinated various routes for Romeria’s”—she falters on my name—“departure, including passage back to Seacadore, if our route north was impeded.”
“Escape routes.” Just like I used to map out when I was working for Korsakov.
“Yes, to account for a myriad of scenarios.” She offers a weak smile. “It took much planning. Many letters dispatched and coin purses lined. The things I’ve had to do to reach you …” Her voice drifts, sadness filling her features.
“Who helped you?” Zander demands.
“Wendeline, for one. But many others. Too many to name.”
“So while Queen Neilina and Princess Romeria were strategizing to murder my family and take Islor, you were scheming with my people to sweep in after and collect your key caster?”
“I did not know of Malachi’s plan for the key caster—”
“But you knew of Neilina’s plans, and you did not dispatch any letters or deliver any coin to stop that.”