of war gave you the gifts needed to defend Mudamora, but what have you done but squander them?
Malahi’s voice pulled him back into the present. “Your defeat at the wall … it was the culmination of my father’s fears that the Marked Ones aren’t as devoted as they should be and, with that loss of devotion, are not as strong. You didn’t just lose a battle—you lost to one of the corrupted. A queen who, if the rumors are true, was placed on the throne of Derin by the Seventh himself. You might not have seen it, but my father is furious with you.”
“He was ready to take my head off,” Killian replied. “His sentiments were clear enough.”
“It’s not your fault.”
Killian wasn’t interested in her absolution. It was his fault. But the information she’d revealed about the gods no longer bestowing marks and of the rot settling into the heart of Mudamora made him certain that the odds stacked against him had been higher than he’d realized. That perhaps it had been no coincidence that the prior commander of the wall had died an accidental death right when Killian had been pushing his father for a position of greater authority.
“Rufina called me out,” he said, staring at the contents of his glass. “Right before the battle began. She came to the front of her army and shouted that there’d be a reward for my head.”
“If you were close enough to hear her, why didn’t you shoot her?”
“I tried.” Blood roared in his ears, realization settling into his core. Another mistake. “Four arrows straight at her heart. She caught them all and laughed.” And his men had seen. Had heard.
Malahi’s face was expressionless. She knew the story already—it must have traveled with one of the handful who had survived the battle. “Rufina wanted you to try to kill her.”
Because she’d needed him to fail. Killian’s hands turned to ice and he downed his drink in one swallow. The strength of his mark came from the gods. The strength of the gods came from the faith of the people. The faith of the people depended on their belief that the Marked were what stood between them and the Corrupter.
His men had watched him fail to kill Rufina. Killian cringed at the thought that their faith in the Six had been rattled by that failure, but Rufina’s subsequent ruse was precisely the sort of thing his mark always predicted. Killian wasn’t fool enough to brush it off as coincidence. And now … “All of Mudamora knows that I couldn’t stop the invasion.” It seemed arrogant to believe that people would think his failings were the failings of the gods, but …
Malahi gave a slow nod as though reading his mind. “And my father is only reinforcing their fears by keeping you from leading the Royal Army against Rufina’s forces, especially given the role is your birthright. He might as well scream to all of Mudamora that he doesn’t trust the Six to protect us. But he’s so blinded by his fear that his own mistake caused this that he doesn’t see through to the truth.”
Killian narrowed his gaze. “Which mistake is that?”
Picking up her glass, Malahi swirled the contents, then set it back down. “The one pertaining to me.” She broke off, her throat convulsing as if it hurt to swallow. “I’m the one he truly hates. The one he truly blames for all of this. The one he really wants dead.”
The rest of the room fell away, Killian’s focus entirely on her. On the slight dampening of the hair at her temples. The flutter of her pulse in the slender column of her neck.
Fear.
“Do you have any secrets, Killian?”
“Everyone has secrets.”
“Any that might be the death of you if they were to be revealed?”
Killian hesitated, then shook his head.
“Can I trust you?”
“I’m sworn to protect you, Malahi.” His heart was beating rapidly in his chest, like the steady throb of a war drum. “But the decision of who to trust is yours.”
She rested her cards facedown on the table, then stood abruptly. Going to a potted plant that sat next to the sofa, the Princess ran a gentle finger across one of the leaves.
The leafy branches shivered; then buds formed, growing and shifting and then bursting open into pink blooms. A process that should’ve taken weeks, condensed to a moment. A god’s power.
Killian exhaled a long breath. “You’re a tender.” Marked by Yara, the goddess of the earth and all that grew