Romeria
Ilisten with a mixture of shock, hurt, and anger as Zander explains all that Gesine divulged to him in Gully’s Pass, all that they both have been keeping from me—about the nymphaeum’s original purpose, this secret book found in Shadowhelm that confirmed Malachi had succeeded in ruling these lands once before.
“But we can’t open that door.” My brain combs through everything I know of the risk. “That would mean opening the Nulling and releasing an army of whatever terrible creatures are waiting in there. Nobody wants that.” It’s why they’ve been executing key casters for the past two thousand years.
Nobody … except Malachi and Sofie.
“I certainly do not want that. And there are too many unknowns and no guarantees to consider it an option. The nymphs may not wish to help us. Or they might, but at a terrible cost. You might not even survive opening the door, and I could not bear losing you like that. Perhaps that makes me an unfit king. So be it, but the risk is too great.” He strokes my cheek with the soft pad of his thumb, his eyes shining with sincerity. “When she first told me, I did not know what to do with that information, how to process it. But you needed to focus on learning as much as possible about what you are, so we can take back the throne. That is why I did not tell you.”
I don’t miss the “we” in that statement.
“What about this Stonekeep place? Do you think there’s any truth to what Gesine said about that?” If there is, it sounds like the nymphs would help Islor.
Zander chuckles, but it lacks mirth. “I have stood before it more than once, and I have no faith that there is aid for us there. It is an engraving on a mountain wall that has existed for thousands of years, surrounded by deadlands. Nothing more. We cannot rely on prophecy to help us. And do not mention any of this to the others. They will fear it, and they will think I am entertaining Mordain’s guidance.”
I sigh. Still keeping secrets. “But what if opening this door is the only way?” What if we need the nymphs’ help?
“No. We will find another way to stop this poison from destroying all that Islor is.” His jaw sets with determination.
But mine sets with worry.
Zander offers me a tentative smile over his shoulder as he leads me down the narrow stairs of the inn.
A guilty gesture.
His reasoning was sound—commendable, even—but still … How could he keep something like this from me? He and Gesine, conspiring since Gully’s Pass while burying me in the dark. Shrugging off my questions, steering me away from the truth, even when I was trying to piece together Ianca’s gibberish.
Not so much gibberish after all.
Zander might not want to admit it, but what if Gesine is right and there is no other way to rid them of this blood curse? What if I must do the very thing I’ve sworn I never would? What is a bigger risk to Islor—the poison slowly tearing it apart, or Malachi and his Nulling army?
Either way, it feels like I’m the one dooming these people.
The same woman from last night is perched on her stool at the bottom of the steps. When she looks up and sees us descending, she offers, “Can’t say we’ve e’er had a king stay here before. Or a queen, for that matter.” No salutations, no bows. Either she didn’t have a teacher like Corrin to berate her into learning proper etiquette, or more than likely, she doesn’t care for custom.
Her eyes flip to me, filled with a new hint of caution. “I see you found yourself a room after all.”
“I guess I played my cards right.”
She pauses a beat and then snorts. Her frizzy hair sways with her curt chin jerk toward the tavern doors. “There’s some oats and links waitin’ if you’re hungry.”
“You’re open?”
She stares at me like I’m an idiot. “People need to eat.”
“Right. Of course.”
“Thank you.” Zander leads me away, his hand on the small of my back. “They’re an interesting lot up here.” If he’s bothered by her lack of etiquette, he doesn’t let on, though something tells me he might appreciate it.
The Greasy Yak is quiet this morning. About a third of the tables are occupied by people digging into a hot breakfast, and in a few cases, a morning ale. One group of weathered patrons looks like they might have been here last night and never left.
It’s surprisingly clean, considering the body count it boasted only hours ago. The corpses have all been cleared out—to where, I’d rather not know—and three gangly teenage boys are on their knees, scrubbing the floor with a bucket of soapy water and wire-bristle brushes.
Maybe it’s because I know what happened, but the smell of death clings to the air, overpowering the melding scent of ale and sizzling pork.
And everyone is staring at me.
Or it could be Zander they’re gawking at. I’m sure word of the king’s arrival has spread to every nook of Norcaster by now.