Fantasy of Fire (The Tainted Accords #3)(78)

I sigh at his gleeful tone.

Olandon’s hand tightens around the shining goblet. “The king’s decision is wise, Tatuma.” He puts the hint of a question in his voice. I doubt anyone else hears it. They probably think he’s commending the king on his choice.

“They took it better than could be expected,” I say. “I’ve seen no falsities, or untruths in the rest of them.” I lean closer to my brother. “Some people leave a little kindness and open-mindedness to be desired.” That was understating the matter. Some of the advisors had been furious, but not at me, at their king for the subterfuge. And Yate had to work to hide his disgust the whole time. But I was Frost, someone they respected. And the Tatuma, who they owed a debt to. And then there was the fact that King Jovan recently beheaded one of their own and threatened them. I shouldn’t feel so calm about my unveiling, but I did. I couldn’t even be angry at Jovan for it. He knew his people, and had judged the time to be right.

Olandon squeezes my hand under the table and holds it. Just like he used to do when Mother or Cassius were humiliating me in front of the court.

“I worry for your life,” he says on a breath.

Tears prickle my eyes. I wish I could take away his worry somehow, but any promises I use to reassure him will be empty. Every time I unveil, my life is at risk, but I can’t stand the alternative. He’s old enough to know the truth. In fact, I think he already knows what must happen. The truth is staring him in the face, but he's doing his best to avoid seeing it.

“Have you ever thought about the parallels between our worlds?” I ask quietly. He shakes his head, his head tilts to me in confusion. “I often think of mother’s dining ring. The lesser court sits on the outside, while royalty sits at the inner table. It is the same on Glacium, you know, just on a larger scale. We sleep in the middle with the Outer Rings surrounding us, assuming the people there will act as a buffer between us and attack.” There are other examples I can think of: the torture room in Mother’s palace and the fighting pits in Glacium’s Outer Rings.

“In reality, both king and Tatum are surrounded at all times. Our people let us sit in the middle, not the other way around.” I fiddle with my knife. “The relationship between ruler and subjects is a balance of what the people need to know, and what they don’t need to know. What will help them thrive, and what will make them crumble inwards. In my particular case, the balance is even more tenuous. I know that one day, the circle could look in and decide to crush me.”

I squeeze his hand. “So, do I wait until I’m sitting on the throne to tell my people I’m mixed? They will feel tricked. Or, should I never breathe a word to anyone, hoping the secret won’t get out? When my children are born with blue eyes, I veil them too. Or maybe I can prevent inflicting that sad existence on others by not having children in the first place?” My brother sits with his goblet frozen in the air, hanging on to my words.

“Or lastly, should I reveal my secret to my people before making any move for the throne? Then, if they put me in the middle of their circle, it will be because it has been their choice. I will be able to live; open, and unafraid—without a veil—happy.”

“Without risk, I will not get to where I want to be,” I say carefully. “Nothing I ever do will be risk-free. I’ve accepted that. And I have also accepted the possibility of my plan backfiring.” I intertwine my fingers with his and sip at my goblet. “I know that by revealing my mixed blood now, I may never get a chance to rule. I’d rather suffer the disappointment early on.”

“I never thought it would be this hard,” he says in a rough voice. I don’t know exactly what he’s referring to. My rule? Or coming through the Oscala to find his sister has changed?

“Sometimes the hardest tasks yield the best results,” I hedge.

Screams start at the back of the hall. I tense, resisting the urge to rip off the veil. It’s the scene of some of my worst nightmares.

“What is it?” I ask Olandon tightly. Is the archer back? Which of the six will it be? This time I refuse to let the assassin get away. I hover, half-raised in my seat, prepared to launch myself down the food hall.

“It’s one of the Ire. They’re injured,” he says quickly.

“Description,” I order, heart sinking.

“Curly black hair, average Solati height, young male.”

Hamish!

“Where is he?” I stand in readiness.

Olandon rises with me. “Food benches,” he says. I’ve already started moving before he finishes.

Jovan booms for the assembly to move back from the injured man. Many of them have already seen Jimmy, but it doesn’t make the second sighting any less impossible for them to believe. With Solati armies and civil war, Jovan hasn’t had enough stability to break the news of the Ire folk. I fall to my knees beside the groaning man, quickly confirming it is Hamish.

“What happened?” I cry, trying to locate the source of his injury through my veil. He’s pale and his body spasms with the force of his shaking. I clamp down firmly on memories of Flurry in the Dome and a glass-eyed Kedrick.

“Get W-willow.” Hamish grips my forearm in a grip slippery from the blood covering it. “They’re coming.”

The assembly has heard it, and so have I.

Pandemonium erupts.