A Curse of Blood and Stone Read online

  Contents

  A Curse of Blood & Stone

  Also by K.A. Tucker

  Map

  Pronunciations

  1. Romeria

  2. Zander

  3. Romeria

  4. Romeria

  5. Zander

  6. Romeria

  7. Romeria

  8. Romeria

  9. Romeria

  10. Romeria

  11. Zander

  12. Romeria

  13. Romeria

  14. Zander

  15. Romeria

  16. Zander

  17. Romeria

  18. Zander

  19. Romeria

  20. Romeria

  21. Romeria

  22. Zander

  23. Romeria

  24. Zander

  25. Romeria

  26. Sofie

  27. Romeria

  28. Zander

  29. Romeria

  30. Zander

  31. Romeria

  32. Romeria

  33. Zander

  34. Romeria

  35. Romeria

  36. Romeria

  37. Romeria

  38. Zander

  39. Romeria

  40. Romeria

  41. Zander

  42. Romeria

  43. Zander

  44. Romeria

  45. Atticus

  Fate & Flame Book 3

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by K.A. Tucker

  Ten Tiny Breaths

  One Tiny Lie

  Four Seconds to Lose

  Five Ways to Fall

  In Her Wake

  Burying Water

  Becoming Rain

  Chasing River

  Surviving Ice

  He Will Be My Ruin

  Until It Fades

  Keep Her Safe

  The Simple Wild

  Be the Girl

  Say You Still Love Me

  Wild at Heart

  The Player Next Door

  Forever Wild

  A Fate of Wrath & Flame

  Running Wild

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  * * *

  Copyright © 2022 by Kathleen Tucker

  * * *

  All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For more information, visit www.katuckerbooks.com

  ISBN 978-1-990105-23-4

  ISBN 978-1-990105-22-7 (ebook)

  * * *

  Edited by Jennifer Sommersby

  * * *

  Cover design by Hang Le

  * * *

  Published by K.A. Tucker

  * * *

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  To my readers, for following me from Alaska to Islor and everywhere in between.

  Pronunciations:

  Romeria—row-mair-ee-a

  Romy—row-me

  Sofie—so-fee

  Elijah—uh-lie-jah

  Zander—zan-der

  Wendeline—wen-de-line

  Annika—an-i-ka

  Corrin—kor-in

  Elisaf—el-i-saf

  Boaz—bow-az

  Dagny—dag-knee

  Bexley—bex-lee

  Saoirse—sur-sha

  Kaders—kay-ders

  Malachi—ma-la-kai

  Aoife—ee-fuh

  Aminadav—Ami-na-dav

  Vin’nyla—vin-ny-la

  Ratheus—ra-tay-us

  Islor—I-lor

  Ybaris—yi-bar-is

  Ybarisan—yi-bar-is-an

  Cirilea—sir-il-ee-a

  Seacadore—see-ka-dor

  Skatrana—ska-tran-a

  Kier—key-er

  Mordain—mor-day-n

  Azo’dem—az-oo-dem

  Za’hala—za-ha-la

  Caster—kas-ter

  daaknar—day-knar

  caco claws—kay-ko claws

  Zorya—zor-eye-a

  Jarek—yar-ek

  Bodil—bow-dil

  Horik—hor-ik

  Sapling—sap-ling

  Danthrin—dan-thrin

  Ambrose Villier—Am-brose Vil-lier

  Eden—ee-dun

  Drakon—dray-kon

  Brawley—bra-lee

  Mika—mee-kuh

  Iago—ee-aa-gow

  Brynn—brin

  Theon Rengard—thee-on ren-gard

  Sheyda—shay-da

  Ocher—ow-kr

  Ianca— I-an-kuh

  Ulysede—You-li-seed

  Tyree—ty-ree

  Oswald—oz-wald

  Orme—aw-r-m

  Fearghal—fer-gull

  Golbikc—goal-bik

  Isembert—I-sem-bert

  Bregen—bre-gun

  Eros—eh-rows

  1

  Romeria

  My eyes water from the stench of sewage. If not for the endless adrenaline surging through my veins, I might have already spilled the delectable Seacadorian grapes churning in my stomach.

  “I will go first—”

  “No.” Zander seizes Elisaf by the shoulder, stopping his loyal friend from climbing the ladder. Even in the shadows of the underground tunnel, there’s no missing the stiffness in his jaw, the resolution in his stare. “If this is a trap set by Mordain, I am the better match for what awaits us.”

  Because Zander can raze a person to ash where they stand. I’ve seen it firsthand, as has everyone who witnessed the horrifying spectacle in the arena tonight.

  I sneak a glance at Gesine. The high priestess may be bothered by Zander’s blatant distrust of her people, but she hides it behind an emotionless mask, offering me a smile when she notices my attention.

  I can’t bring myself to return it. There won’t be any comfort found tonight, not as the four of us slink through Cirilea’s culvert system, running from a king’s army.

  “Wait for my signal and bring up the rear. Romeria, you will follow directly behind me.” Zander pauses. Under different circumstances, I might have a quip for his demand, an admiring gaze for his handsome face as he awaits my answer. Now, all I have is a solemn nod.

  He ascends the wooden ladder with lithe steps and disappears into the night.

  And I hold my breath. Our torch flames cast ominous forms over the jagged stone walls; the foul sludge soaks into the hide of our boots. I wish I could say it’s the first time I’ve crept through a gutter, but years of surviving the streets and then Korsakov’s criminal world has exposed me to plenty of predicaments that would draw shudders and nose curls. This smell will trail us long after we’ve fled. But bodies can be washed, clothes can be replaced. Cleanliness is the least of our worries.

  Somewhere unseen, water trickles and waves lap faintly. “Where does this end?” I ask.

  “At the seawall.” Elisaf’s attention is hyperfocused on the exit above. “A grate fortified with merth closes it off to invaders. Nothing short of direct cannon fire or a powerful caster will break through that.” His fist clutches a gleaming merth-forged dagger at his side, its blade primed for plunging into flesh. I want to think that flesh won’t be mine, but nothing is guaranteed now that my secret is out.

  Will there come a
point when the nights Zander and I shared, our heads nestled in pillows, our words laced with heady promises, mean nothing? When the fleeing king puts his kingdom and crown before his heart and accepts the ruin a key caster—one with poison flowing through her veins—could bring to Islor is far too great?

  Will I see the resolve in those beautiful hazel eyes when he makes that decision?

  My chest tightens with the thought of Zander becoming my enemy again. But that needs to be a worry for another day too.

  I push out all concerns but the most pressing one—is there any hope in hell of me escaping death tonight?

  Each second that passes without any sign of Zander swells my dread.

  “This must all have been so confusing for you,” Gesine says. “From the moment you woke.”

  “I thought I was losing my mind,” I admit. Just like my father had. Only now I know the truth about that too.

  A whistle calls.

  “Climb.” Elisaf nudges me forward, urgency in his lyrical Seacadorian accent.

  I don’t waste a second, scaling the ladder far less gracefully than Zander, the rungs creaking beneath my weight. I wince against a splinter that slides beneath my skin as I emerge into a pitch-black space.

  “Let me help you.” Zander’s voice is a whisper in my ear.

  I can’t make out anything, yet I know he can see clearly, and I sense his hand waiting inches from mine, palm up.

  This is where we part ways, Romeria Watts of New York City.

  His resolute words from earlier are a deafening bell toll. Zander wants to leave me. An army led by his treasonous brother is building a pyre for me, every immortal in Islor will want me dead for the poison in my veins, and the most powerful spellcasters in Mordain will hunt me down should they discover I’m a key caster …

  Zander finally knows that I do not belong in this world, and he is searching for an excuse to abandon me to it.

  I ignore his offer of help, testing the floor with my toes for clear footing before stepping off the ladder. The tunnel is supposed to lead us to the Rookery, but all I sense are walls. I occupy my hands with my cloak, praying for my eyes to adjust.

  Zander sighs with resignation. “You are angry with me.”

  For an elven with the ability to read my mood through my pulse—to catch every jump of fear, every stir of desire, every pull of guilt—he finally has it wrong. I’m not angry. I’m hurt. If I allow myself a moment to absorb how much, the ache might swallow me whole.

  I’m saved from responding as Gesine and her floating globe ascend from the city’s bowels with the poise of a shadow, her inky hair hidden within the hood of her cloak. Elisaf is on her heels, nimbly rushing to ground level.

  Between the caster’s magical light and Elisaf’s torch, I can finally discern the crowded, low-ceilinged room we’ve climbed into, cluttered with wooden crates and barrels of various sizes. Another dusty storage space that hides Cirilea’s secret passageways.

  Gesine flicks her wrist, and a stack of crates slides across the gaping hole in the floor, concealing its existence.

  Despite our current predicament, my heart skips a beat with excitement, as it does every time I witness real magic in this world.

  “A skiff awaits us at the dock. The most discreet path is along the seawall.” The light of her globe fades until it vanishes. She gestures toward Elisaf’s torch, its firelight glinting off the gold collar that encircles her neck. A reminder that she is still shackled by Queen Neilina, even this far from Ybaris. “There is a metal bucket of water by the door. You must leave that behind.”

  “This is my city, High Priestess, and we don’t need your guidance on how best to move through it.” Zander’s voice carries a biting hatred I haven’t heard since the days when I was the treacherous princess who murdered his parents.

  But Zander’s wrong. It’s Atticus’s city now. Zander practically handed his crown to his opportunistic brother when he ignored the aspirations even I could see.

  Tonight, we need all the help we can get, including from this caster.

  Gesine may be thinking along the same lines, but her expression remains stoic as she dips her head. “Of course, Your Highness.”

  Zander’s stern gaze flickers to Elisaf, who promptly dumps his blazing torch into the bucket. The flame sizzles, throwing the tiny storage room into darkness once again.

  With Elisaf’s guiding hand on my shoulder, we creep out of the shack single file, Zander leading the way, his footfalls silent against the dirt path. A lean-to cluttered with scrap wood and fishing nets sits directly ahead. Beyond it and to the right are rows of one-story shanties. They’re the homes in the Rookery that Zander and I visited on more than one occasion, doling out gold coins to the loitering peasants. No one lingers on the porches now, though, save for a stray cat devouring its kill.

  Rhythmic waves lap against rock on my left, the only hint of the yawning expanse of sea beyond. A warm, briny breeze grazes my cheek, and it is a welcome shift from the stench of waste. If this were any other situation, I might feel the urge to sit and absorb the calm those waves carry.

  But up the hill, past the stone wall that serves as a barrier between Cirilea’s finer class and the humans it deems worthless, steel clangs against steel, drawing a disturbing wave of déjà vu. I’ve heard those sounds of battle before, upon waking in a strange world where two moons sometimes hang in the sky. That night, Princess Romeria was also at the root of the death and destruction.

  Shouts soar in the streets behind us, and my panic surges. Soldiers found us at the apothecary. It’s only a matter of time before they follow us here.

  “We must not tarry.” Gesine’s voice is too serene for the situation, but I appreciate it.

  “This way.” Zander leads us along the narrow passage at the water’s edge.

  I trail closely, noting every loose stone that tumbles past the retaining wall to plunge into the black waters below, praying that I don’t lose my footing and mirror their path.

  With the city fair in full swing, people have flocked to Cirilea from every corner of Islor to sell and buy wares at the market and imbibe in the lively nighttime entertainment on Port Street. But it’s eerily silent in the Rookery tonight. Not a soul dallies outside the dilapidated walls. No curious faces peek out from behind the grimy glass panes. The streetlights are extinguished, save for the odd lantern, its glimmer timid. Surely, these people recognize the noise of battle from above and want no part of it. Has news of Atticus’s treason traveled to these hovels yet? Do these humans care which king governs when Islor’s laws keep them chained in a life of servitude?

  Some must care, at least. Humans like my seamstress, Dagny, who hoped for change under Zander’s rule.

  “Tell me, High Priestess, did your all-knowing seers foretell of Islor’s king scampering through sewers and along shorelines like a rodent?” Sour humor laces Zander’s words.

  “Foretelling does not work like that, Your Highness—”

  “Then how do they work?”

  “It is as I’ve told you. The end of the blood curse is at the tied hands of—”

  “The Ybarisan daughter of Aoife and the Islorian son of Malachi. Yes, I recall. You’re speaking in riddles based on hallucinations rooted in madness,” he snaps, all semblance of charm gone.

  I can’t fault Zander for his anger. Too late, he learned how these casters from Mordain have been spinning a web of duplicity so thick, no one can see from one side to the other. While he claims he never trusted Wendeline, I think confirming her treachery has wounded him deeply.

  And her list of deceptions keeps growing. She lied about even knowing of Gesine and Ianca, let alone of their arrival in Cirilea. She knew of Ybaris’s plot to kill Islor’s royal family the night of the wedding, and instead of stopping that tragedy from unfolding, she altered schedules to kill Zander’s parents sooner. She misled Zander about the poison, convincing him it was deliquesced merth, an odd metal vine that grows in the mountains and is toxic to immortals.
Her hand was literally on the arrow when Margrethe summoned the Fate of Fire to resurrect Princess Romeria’s body—unbeknownst to them, with me in it.

  And this unparalleled key caster power that simmers within my limbs, subdued by the ring around my finger? Wendeline discovered it the same night I arrived here, unconscious and torn apart by the daaknar. But she hid that vital truth from everyone, including me.

  Wendeline may be more culpable for Zander’s kingdom unraveling than all of Ybaris’s scheming royal family put together, and she swears she did it in the best interests of Islor.

  Only time will tell.

  “That is better left to discussion when we are not scampering through sewers and along shorelines like rodents, do you not agree?” The faintest edge in Gesine’s voice—a hairline crack in her otherwise relentless deference to a king—makes me smile. Behind all the curtsies and bows to royal protocol, she has a backbone.

  And a purpose for being here that I should be wary of. According to Wendeline, the elemental caster spent years studying prophecy with the scribes. She may claim to be here to guide me, but I’d be an idiot to ignore the probability that I am a tool to serve an agenda, one that likely won’t work in my favor.

  “As long as you are prepared to answer it with the truth.” Zander echoes my thoughts.

  “I have no intention of doing otherwise.”