A queen of thieves and c.., p.1
A Queen of Thieves and Chaos (Fate & Flame), page 1
About the Author
K.A. Tucker writes captivating stories with an edge.
She is the internationally bestselling author of over thirty books, including The Simple Wild, Ten Tiny Breaths, the Fate & Flame series, Say You Still Love Me, Until it Fades and Keep Her Safe. Her books have been featured in publications including USA Today, Globe & Mail, Suspense Magazine, Publisher’s Weekly, Oprah Mag and First for Women.
K.A. Tucker lives outside of Toronto.
Learn more about K.A. Tucker and her books at katuckerbooks.com
ALSO BY K.A. TUCKER
A Fate of Wrath & Flame
A Curse of Blood & Stone
The Simple Wild
Wild at Heart
Forever Wild
Running Wild
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
The Player Next Door
The Hustler Next Door
He Will Be My Ruin
Until It Fades
Keep Her Safe
Be the Girl
Say You Still Love Me
K.A. Tucker
* * *
A QUEEN OF THIEVES & CHAOS
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
CHAPTER SIXTY
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
CHAPTER SEVENTY
CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE
CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO
CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN
PRONUNCIATIONS
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
To my family, my anchor.
CHAPTER ONE
SOFIE
Sofie could finally see.
After three centuries of agonizing and pleading, of empty promises and seemingly unconnected schemes that had driven her to the brink of madness …
The moment she dragged her kneeling, naked form from the cobblestones of the sanctum, stood to greet the Fate of Fire, and saw the anticipation in his harsh features, Sofie knew something monumental had shifted in their favor.
“She has done it? She has released the nymphs?” Hysteria clung to each syllable.
Malachi strolled around the stone casket holding the two corpses, his corporeal form as magnificent as it was terrifying. “The process has begun.” His deep voice rumbled; the corners of his mouth twitched with delight as he reached down to graze a finger across Romeria’s perfectly preserved cheek. “Whether she realizes it or not.”
Sofie pressed her hands against her stomach to contain her excitement. “How much longer?” How much longer before she would feel Elijah’s arms wrapped around her shoulders again?
“Soon, my love. Very soon.” Malachi lifted his gaze to her. “Until then, I have a task for you.”
CHAPTER TWO
ROMERIA
A peal of shrill laughter within the castle competes with our footsteps, earning Jarek’s scowl.
I peer up at the formidable legionary who towers over me, his sculpted body wrapped in leather, his sable-brown hair freshly shaved along the sides and braided at his crown in three thick cords gathered at his nape. “Come on, you can’t dislike children.”
“Can’t I?” His eyebrow arches, amusement painted across his angular but handsome face. “Let me show you what happens when the blood lust hits them for the first time, and we will see how cute you think those feral little monsters are then.”
I grimace, recalling Zander’s menacing description of the Islorian immortals when they’re learning to feed. “Mortal children,” I amend.
“They’re slightly less feral. Equally irritating.” His gaze surveys our limited surroundings, as if expecting a threat to materialize from the walls at any second. “And they don’t belong here,” he adds quietly.
Another squeal of childish laughter ricochets, the echo eerie within this hollow kingdom that thrums with ancient magic.
“Do any of us?” I opened the mountain wall three days ago, and since then, we have scoured every corner of Ulysede, finding signs of a thriving city—food stores, clothing, floral blooms decorating windowsills—but no life beyond livestock, songbirds, and the odd stray cat. Elisaf found an armory full of gleaming metal—enough to outfit a small army—each breastplate emblazoned with Ulysede’s two-crescent-moon emblem, as well as a treasury vault filled with gold coins stamped with the same, but no one to wear the armor or collect payment.
It’s as if Ulysede was built and then frozen in time, waiting for us. To what purpose, though, we still don’t know.
It’s an unoccupied city bordered by sheer, unscalable mountain walls on all sides, but only a fool would believe we’re within the mountain, and an even bigger fool would think we’re still in Islor. When that ancient wall of nymph scripture known as Stonekeep parted and we stepped through those main gates, we were stepping beyond our realm. The fact that two moons hang in the sky every night confirms it.
I study the painted ceiling that lines this hallway—an illustration of a teeming market with people selling wares, surrounded by horses and wagons and soldiers with Ulysede’s crest on their chest plates. The white sandstone castle with royal blue spires and soaring parapets is full of these lively murals, with no hints about who these people are, or from what time.
Are they depictions of the past?
Or perhaps a hopeful future?
I suppose I belong here, seeing as it was my blood—an inexplicable combination of Princess Romeria, heir to the throne of Ybaris and daughter to Aoife, the god of Water, and Romy Watts from New York City, unwitting key caster masquerading as a human thief—that unlocked the secret of Ulysede. A crown of thorns on a prickly throne was waiting for my head.
The question remains, now what?
Jarek and I step into the grand hall as a little girl—one of Norcaster’s humans rescued from their keepers’ cages—darts past, chased by Eden in what appears to be a game of tag.
“I caught you!” Eden declares, encircling the child in a hug, earning another shrill scream of glee.
The corner of Jarek’s mouth twitches, and I doubt it’s on account of the child. My lady maid is the only one who seems capable of dulling his razor-sharp edges.
Upon seeing us, Eden releases the girl and bows. “Your Highness!” Her innocent blue gaze rakes over the black breeches and tunic I dug out from the expansive and stocked closet, and her forehead furrows. “Was the gown I laid out not to your liking?”
“She can’t train in skirts,” Jarek answers before I have a chance to respond.
I roll my eyes. He’s been relentless in his demand that we spend time each day in the castle’s sparring court. Of all the things I still need to learn, throwing a dagger doesn’t seem vital, but I am improving. The blade no longer bounces off its target. “It’s a beautiful dress.” The closets of the queen’s chambers are full of them, and they all fit as if custom-made with me in mind. “But”—I gesture at my outfit—“this is way easier for moving around, in general.”
“Yes, I suppose so.” Eden bite
The little girl has tucked herself into Eden’s skirts, her attention shifting from me to Jarek. I remember her, peeking out from the gaps in the wagon outside of Kamstead—the tiny village with air that reeked of burning flesh. Where before she wore tattered clothes and smears of soot, now she’s freshly washed and donning a sunny yellow pinafore.
I wonder which of us scares her more—the warrior with countless blades strapped to his leather-clad form, or the Ybarisan princess turned Ulysede queen with poison in her blood and untold magic coursing through her limbs?
I offer her a gentle smile. “What’s your name?”
“Betsy, Your Highness.” She attempts a curtsy and loses her balance, stumbling a step. It could be her age—she can’t be more than five—or that she’s had little practice in formalities, coming from the north where the idea of bowing to royalty is shunned. Either way, Corrin would be appalled.
“Do you like it here so far?”
Her head bobs in fervent agreement, but then she falters before throwing a pointed finger upward. “Is that really a nymph?”
I follow her aim to the stone statue in the center of the great hall, the creature at least ten feet tall, clothed in spiked armor, as if ready for battle. Its jagged wings appear designed as much to spear opponents as for flight, the claws on its hands primed to gouge enemy flesh. When I first laid eyes on it, I mistook it for a daaknar. “We think so.” There are countless versions of these winged creatures throughout Ulysede—from fearsome gargoyles to dainty, humanlike figures and a myriad of forms in between. I assumed the latter were the true ones, the nymphs who speak to me through their childlike laughter that only I can hear, but Gesine warned me to not assume anything. The seers have seen this terrifying version hovering over us just as readily, and so far, their visions have not steered us wrong.
Betsy tips her head back to study the menacing creature. “How could something so dreadful make a city so beautiful?”
Eden hushes her, stealing a guarded glance upward as if the stone can hear the harsh judgment.
Maybe it can.
While stepping through those gates has brought a sense of safety and hope, I can’t shake the spine-tingling sense that we’re not alone and that this place is not all that it seems.
I take a deep breath to calm the dash in my heartbeat that comes every time I acknowledge that looming worry and smile to hide my apprehension. “I don’t know, but I’m glad they did.” It’s the haven we so desperately need, as Zander decides the right next move to save Islor, and I embrace these newfound key caster abilities.
Footfalls sound, drawing our attention up the grand staircase where Elisaf trots lithely. No one would guess that my night guard was torn apart by a beast only a week ago, moments from closing his eyes and never reopening them. He stalls on the landing when he sees us, a slight head dip in greeting, and I know Zander must have sent for me.
“Is there anything else you require at the moment, Your Highness?” Eden asks.
“I’m good, thanks.” It doesn’t matter how many times I push her to drop formalities, she slips into them as readily as a person breathes.
“In that case, I heard Mirren found ingredients for bread pudding.”
Betsy’s face lights up with the prospect of a sweet treat.
“Your Highness.” Eden curtsies, her eyes flittering to Jarek’s briefly to add, “Commander,” before she ushers the little girl toward the hall that leads to the castle kitchen.
Jarek’s gaze trails her for a few beats before snapping back to focus.
“So … ‘Commander,’ huh?” I tease with a sultry lilt as we continue through the massive, empty space, heading for the stairs. Does Jarek have the same desire for Eden now that he no longer needs her blood? At least, not within these walls, where the two-thousand-year-old curse that created “Malachi’s demons” has vanished. None of the Islorian immortals have felt so much as a twinge of that undeniable craving since crossing through the portcullis. It’s a reality that has noticeably lifted Zander’s mood.
“That is the title you granted me, is it not?” Jarek responds dryly, not the least bit fazed.
“It is.” And only after Zander’s urging that a queen needs to surround herself with trusted advisors. I couldn’t think of a better warrior at my right hand than the lethal one who has proven his loyalties to Islor outweigh the prejudices he holds toward Ybaris and Mordain. “But why am I picturing some weird commander-and-servant role-playing thing between you two now?”
“Because you’re a pervert,” he throws back.
I mock gasp. “Is that how you talk to your queen?”
“Because you’re a pervert, Your Highness.”
I snort at his lack of deference, but I appreciate it all the same. Jarek and I have had our share of differences—the surly warrior has openly loathed, distrusted, and wished me dead on many occasions, and I’ve returned the favor in kind—but ever since the battle against the saplings and that monstrous grif, there is a current of respect and unspoken trust between us. It’s just buried beneath a thick layer of arrogance and attitude.
It’s not the only unspoken thing between us. I hinted at my truth one quiet night in a field, before the saplings crept in like shadows, merth cord dangling. Once Jarek knew it had to do with the fates, he shut me down, not wanting to hear the rest. Since arriving in Ulysede, he has stood by my side as Gesine gave me caster lessons, but he has never asked for an explanation, and I have never offered one. I’ve certainly never admitted what I am.
“Did he tell you to drag me out of bed if I wasn’t already up?” I call out as we ascend the steps.
Elisaf’s deep brown eyes crinkle with his smile. “His Highness waits in the war room for you. He insisted the queen be present to discuss pressing issues.”
The queen. Will it ever not feel like he’s talking about someone else?
“Like what? Your lordship?” It’s been a running joke between us ever since Elisaf intercepted one of Atticus’s letters that declared gold, land, and title to the person who captured the traitorous Ybarisan princess and delivered her to Cirilea. “Have you found any land in my vast realm that appeals to you?”
“In fact, I have, Your Highness. There is a quarter across the river that seems primed for agriculture. It has a few acres of cultivated land, and a pen with pigs and hens. Fearghal has taken to feeding them.”
“Sounds like you want to be a farmer.” The nymphs really did think of everything.
“Maybe he will be better at handling swine than he is a sword.” Jarek’s boots scrape against the marble as we climb. The warrior can move as quietly as a cat when he wants to.
“And yet it was you who was bested by a sapling,” Elisaf answers nonchalantly.
“Five saplings, wielding raw merth,” Jarek snaps, his hand absently rubbing his chest where I found the dagger embedded. It took all of Gesine’s healing power to keep him alive.
And if I allow this verbal sparring contest to go on, it’s liable to come to blows. “What pressing matters does Zander need to talk about?” He abandoned me in our bed hours ago, leaving with nothing more than a kiss against my forehead and a gentle goading not to sleep too long—that we have much work and not enough time.
Elisaf’s expression shifts, all traces of humor gone. “Decisions that cannot wait, I’m afraid. About what comes next.”
“So … the usual,” I mutter as we march up the stairs.
We discovered Ulysede’s war room on our second day, high in a tower overlooking the river and the city beyond. It’s a refreshing contrast to Zander’s war room in Cirilea—a round, windowless space on the ground floor of the castle. Here, daylight streams into the airy, sparsely furnished room through an expanse of windows. In one corner is a simple wooden desk with stationery and a wax kit bearing the two-crescent-moon emblem.
The focal point, though, is the slab of stone in the center, a current map stretched across its surface, the lands of Islor and Ybaris bisected by the great rift. Another inexplicable thing that raises questions in a city that has been sealed for tens of thousands of years.
