Page 109 of Revealing Fate

Karrick’s nostrils flared, jaw tight. He nodded once.

He made a promise. To who? The Goddess?

That vengeful bitch.

“But—”

“If my life were my own, Imogen Atwell, I would take you away from this wretched place and never leave your side.” Karrick’s dark eyes blazed with umber fire. “You would rue the day you loved me.” He knelt before her and trailed his fingers through her woven braids. “Because even after you had endured my presence a hundred years, I would have an eternity yet to give you. There would be no escaping me.”

Rue the day? He spoke of heaven. Of paradise.

Karrick softly settled his hands on her shoulders. Sadness stole the burn in his gaze. “But my life is not my own, Gen. I made a vow. It is not in me to forsake it.”

Imogen released a shaking breath. “She’s not here.”

A moment passed. Karrick’s brow pinched. “Who?”

She hated the sting behind her eyes. The bite of unreasonable jealousy. She pushed up from the bed. “Felíne. The Prima. She’s gone.”

Karrick rose from his crouch, studying her closely. “Gone?”

“She was taken. It was a mistake.” Imogen briefly recounted what Cinah had told her. Karrick’s expression grew increasingly grave. He listened, and when she was finished, stood in quiet contemplation.

A thought came to Imogen’s mind. She worried her lip. Would she stoop so low? Was she that desperate to secure Karrick’s freedom? Even if he’d just plainly stated they could never be together? She set her jaw. Yes. She was.

“Let me get you out of here,” Imogen said, voice surprisingly firm. “I’ll go with you to Meress. To Felíne.” Every word was a knife to her heart. “You can still keep your promise.”

Imogen hated the emotion that washed over Karrick’s handsome features. He gazed at her for a long moment.

“Okay,” he said, decision made. “Tell your allies to make their preparations.”

Imogen didn’t trust herself to speak. She nodded and turned to leave. Before she reached the door, she glimpsed the parchment on Karrick’s desk—the one he’d been staring at—and the image sketched onto it with painstaking detail.

A lone tree at the top of a small hill, covered in lovely little orchids.

Chapter 40

CHANGE OF PLANS

KING DOMITAN STRODE THROUGH THE royal forge’s adobe structures, assessing his artisans’ progress. The Asterosian smithy was the finest in Ilistaar. Not even those Brightsea bastards and their self-aggrandized master weapons makers could boast such a fine establishment.

Then again, they were dead. The phantom of a smile pulled at his otherwise granite features. Even after all these years, contemplating the systematic slaughter of the Albright-Kaine line was almost enough to make Domitan grin like a loon. Almost. His only regret was that old Magnus Albright had croaked before Domitan could send him the body of the last Bladesinger of Ilistaar and that of her so-called Infallible Aegis. Instead, he’d settled for interring their corpses in matching stone sarcophagi in a vault beneath the city. He’d heard rumors that the Brightsea residents favored sending their dead out to sea or scattering their ashes on the ocean wind. Let the lord and lady rot in a desert tomb, as far from their precious coast as one could get.

Domitan continued his perusal with that uplifting thought.

Before long, the king stopped before a wide vat of black, bubbling pitch. A squat, bulging man wearing a protective mask and a heat-resistant suit stood at the edge of the basin, dumping red-hot chunks of coal into the scorching mix. He stirred the concoction with a massive ceramic oar.

The forge’s overseer paused beside his king. “We’ve added modified titanian to our traditional pitch, sire,” he explained. “Highly flammable. Very difficult to extinguish. This lot could burn an adobe fortress.”

Domitan cut the man a glare. “Considering our great city is built of adobe, I imagine your level of caution in containing such a substance exceeds your enthusiasm in creating it.”

The overseer nodded quickly, chins wobbling. “Of course, Your Majesty. We are overly cautious.”

“Very well. Continue.”

The clash and clang of swords, bolt heads, and armor being crafted rang through the air. Domitan was pleased with the progress. By week’s end, a significant portion of his army would be outfitted, armed, and ready to march. The rest would be prepared by winter.

Outside the armory, archers honed their accuracy with crossbows. Soldiers sparred in a gated square. Blades were thrown at body-shaped targets. Provisions were organized, documented, and stockpiled. Breastplates and helms were polished and fitted. The efficiency with which his army worked pleased him. The king’s presence only motivated his subjects to increase their productivity.