by K. A. Tucker
I smile as I think of hot summer days walking along the crowded, narrow aisles of the Saturday market back home. It feels like an eternity ago that I left. I’m sure my potted plants on the windowsill have all shriveled from lack of water. Rent is long past due. Has my landlord been by to collect? He must realize I’m missing by now. Would he have reported it? Does anyone care that I’m gone?
“I have a proposition for you, Romeria,” Zander says, cutting into my thoughts. “Or rather, you have a choice to make. At the end of this ride, you can go back to your confinement, continue being a prisoner of Islor, waiting with bated breath day after day for an escorted stroll through the grounds, hoping I don’t lock your windows and take away your bird’s-eye view of the happenings of the Islorian court. Or you can help me safeguard the strength of Islor and gain some semblance of freedom in the process.”
Prisoner or freedom—whatever that means in this world. But he must know it’s an especially delectable candy to dangle. He’s been spoon-feeding me tiny mouthfuls of a life outside my walls, and already I’m pacing each morning like a well-trained dog, impatient for more. How long has Zander been scheming about this “choice” he would give me? Is it only recently, or has it all been part of a carefully orchestrated plan since the day he condemned me to my rooms?
I grit my teeth against the bubble of resentment that flares. What is it with these people offering me lopsided choices? First Korsakov, then Sofie, now Zander.
But Sofie’s words echo in my head, a reminder: You will have to earn your way in, which will take time. Did she know the kind of dilemma she would be dropping me into? Is this what she meant? That I somehow would have to win over a king who I have deeply betrayed in the most unforgivable of ways?
“Do you need time to consider?” Zander asks, annoyance in his tone.
“No, I’ll help you.” Yet again, I don’t see myself as having any choice. At least this time, there is more honor in what is being asked of me than stealing trinkets from the rich. I feel no allegiance to any of these people. I have one task, and no one has so much as hinted that they suspect it. So, let Zander think I’m focusing only on helping him while I help myself by finding a way into that nymphaeum. “What do I need to do?”
“To begin, remove that stick against your spine and make it look like you wouldn’t rather be dwelling at the bottom of the sea than sharing a horse with me.”
I process his words with a frown. If we are to pretend that I was an innocent victim in Queen Neilina’s schemes, then it would mean … My skin tingles. “You want people to think we’re still together?” That the king is still interested in Princess Romeria. I peer down at my hand, at the gold in my ring that glints in the sun. Not just interested.
Still engaged to be married.
Is this why he never took away my ring?
“You think that’ll work? That people will buy it?” I ask doubtfully.
“The alternative is implausible.”
That he would embrace a woman who murdered his parents and nearly toppled his kingdom. “Right. I guess.”
“I would argue this is far more difficult for me to digest. To you, I’m a stranger.”
“Who wanted to execute me.”
“Can you blame me?”
Fair enough. But can I play this role?
“You are a serpent who said and did many things to win my affection.” He sighs heavily. “But if I focus on the reality that you are only her in physical form, then perhaps I can begin to see you as a stranger, as well. That would be to both our advantages.”
But to him, I still look like a snake, and few find those creatures appealing. I guess the one superficial positive is that, on appearance alone, Zander is not repulsive. This would be far more difficult if I had to play kiss the king with Korsakov or Tony. Just the thought of that threatens a shudder.
But will I have to kiss him?
I have a hundred more questions—mainly, how us together will help strengthen Islor and what exactly does selling this story to the people entail—but we’ve almost come upon the market street. Taking a deep breath, I let my body relax until I feel the solid wall of his chest against my back.
“Take the reins,” he commands softly.
I do as told, seizing the thick leather cord within my hands. It allows him room to slip his arms beneath mine, his forearms resting in a more relaxed, intimate pose in front of me as he resumes control of the horse again.
My ears catch his deep, steadying exhale, but it is his breath skating across my neck that sends a shiver through me.
“See? Not completely insufferable,” he murmurs.
“No. I guess not.”
“I was speaking to myself.”
Up ahead, a trumpet sounds and the throng disperses, people moving out of the way as the procession of horses turns right.
Hundreds of people crowd the street, shouting. Some don drab clothing and the telltale metal ear cuff marking them as humans and slaves, while others wear finer leathers and scabbards at their hips.
I spot many shocks of surprise when they set eyes upon me, but also some deep furrows and scowls.
So many eyes on me, sitting atop my equine pedestal.
The Royal Slayer.
My chest tightens. Even flanked by a horse on either side, I feel exposed. “Some of these people think I’m to blame for what happened.”
“That’s because you are to blame for what happened.” Zander’s voice is so much closer now, and it rings with a hint of bitter amusement.
“Aren’t you at all worried what they might do? I mean, is a crowd this big safe?”
“Even if they wish to harm you, no one will dare risk catching me in the crosshairs.”
“I’m glad you’re confident about that.” I hope not foolishly so. But it makes sense now, why Zander insisted I ride with him. Alone on a horse, I would be an easier target.
He curls an arm around my waist and pulls me the last inch backward until our bodies are flush, and I feel the warmth of his thighs against my hips even through the layers of chiffon.
I force myself to relax against him.
“Many in Islor want a union between us. Seeing you with me like this will quickly sow doubt in what they fear to be true, and soon they will think what we want them to. Besides, even if one of them does attack, what are you worried about? Won’t you come back from the dead again?”
I snort at his poor attempt at humor. “I’d rather not test that theory.” Because the truth is, I’m not sure if that’s accurate. Sofie was adamant that if the Islorians discovered my true identity, they would kill me, so it seems my death is possible.
The horse canters forward, and I’m acutely aware of the feel of Zander’s body with every bump and jostle, but I do my best to focus on the action ahead. We cut a straight path in the street at a steady clip, people giving the animals a wide berth.
Between the shouts and claps, the mingling scents of freshly baked bread, fish, leathers, and sour bodies, my senses are overwhelmed, and I find myself unintentionally pressing into Zander’s frame for protection. People wave hats in the air and call out for their king and for the strength of Islor from every direction, and every so often, my ears catch my name, sometimes with a “queen” attached to it. I remember what Elisaf said about the princess’s incessant smiling, and I plaster one on now, though it feels contrived.
As the street meanders and approaches an area closer to the water, the surroundings change, as does the mood. The buildings nearest the market were two to three stories high and adorned with shutters and fancy grillwork on the windows, but here the houses that line the left side by the water are plain and battered one-story shanties, offering little to admire beyond their view of the ocean. To the right is a tall stone wall—a divide between this side and the nicer buildings. The demographic has shifted to a much older crowd, the people’s clothing shabby, their weathered faces and wiry bodies showing signs of hardship. The air smells foul, of raw sewage and filth.
&
nbsp; I don’t need my extensive experience with poverty to recognize this is the poor area of Cirilea.
“Here.” Zander reaches down near our legs, searching beneath the layers of my skirts. He fetches a velvet satchel that was tied to the saddle and sets it in front of me, the contents clinking with a recognizable sound. He deftly unfastens the tie with one hand. “Toss them out.”
I reach into the bag and collect a handful of gold coins, marveling at the weight and size of the currency. “Toss them?”
“To the people.”
I look to a rickety porch ahead. An elderly couple stands in the doorway of their hovel, the man hunched over a wooden cane, the woman shielding her eyes from the bright sun with liver-spotted hands. “Shouldn’t we stop?” How are these people to collect when they can barely stand?
“Not long ago you were fearful of an attempted assassination, and now you want to stroll through the rookery on foot with a bag of coin?” Zander mocks.
“Why? Is it dangerous here?” It can’t be worse than some of the shelters I found myself in, back in the early days, before I made friends and learned how to navigate the city’s system. Some of those places were more hazardous than sleeping on a park bench.
“Not with me beside you.”
The elderly man’s desperate gaze is on the velvet bag within my grasp as they wait patiently for a handout. Nearby, a younger, more nimble man eyes the situation closely. An opportunist. I know his kind—he’ll swoop in to collect whatever the elderly couple isn’t fast enough to gather.
“Then be beside me. They’re people, not a flock of geese. I’m not throwing coins at them like bread crumbs. Help me off this horse.” I turn, softening my voice to add a “please.”
Zander’s piercing eyes bore into me for a long moment before he calls out, “Hold!”
The horses come to a standstill.
“Elisaf, take the reins.” Zander slides out of the saddle to land on the stone path with poise. “Well?”
With considerably less grace, I grip the bag of coin and the horse’s robust neck while easing my leg over. Strong hands seize my hips and guide me to the ground as if I weigh nothing. Zander does not release me immediately, leaning in from behind to whisper, “If this is a ploy to escape …”
“Yes, yes … off with her head.” Though I’m not sure the guillotine is part of the square’s repertoire.
He inhales sharply, his grasp of my body tightening, though not painfully so. “You enjoy testing me.”
Maybe I do, which means my fear of him is waning. I don’t know if that’s good or bad. “I’m sorry, you told me to speak freely. Would you rather I bite my tongue and smile like a mindless fool?”
“In front of others, that would be ideal.”
I peer over my shoulder and up at his handsome though hard face, and flash him the widest, fakest grin I can muster. “Better?”
With a strangled sound, he releases me, only to set a hand on the small of my back. I coax myself into relaxing against his touch and together we walk forward.
Boaz’s expression is pinched. “Your Highness, would it not be better if a guard—”
“As you are,” Zander cuts him off as we pass.
Apprehension laces the aging couple’s face as we approach, the stench of unwashed skin filling my nostrils. The man’s shoes are torn, his toes hanging out. “Your Highness. Your Highness,” come the murmured echoes. The woman curtsies deeply before us. The old man attempts to bow, but it’s clear his hip won’t allow it.
“Please do not trouble yourself, sir,” Zander says with kindness in his voice that surprises me.
Up close, the woman reminds me of Inwood Park Ina, a woman who lost everything to medical bills and crippling depression after her husband passed away. When she wasn’t doing daily safety checks of her fellow homeless friends, she could be found down by the river, building inukshuks on boulders. I heard she died last year, alone by the water.
I reach into the bag and drop a handful of coins into this woman’s waiting hand.
Her eyes widen. With a sputtered whisper of “Fates bless you, Your Highness!” she glances around furtively before tucking them into her pocket for safekeeping.
Zander guides me along to the next shanty. “Maybe one per person going forward? My generosity is not bottomless.”
“And yet you live in a castle painted with gold,” I mutter.
He snorts. “That is rich, given what you have come from.”
A three-hundred-square-foot studio apartment with a noisy toilet, I want to say, but I know he isn’t talking about me.
We work our way down the street, the horses moseying alongside us, their riders ready to leap at the first sign of trouble. These people are not looking for anything but help. They’re visibly nervous as we greet them—varying degrees of fear and confusion in their exhausted eyes. Some have rattling coughs, the kind that never goes away. They remind me of the destitute I knew in New York, a community who guard their meager belongings while looking out for their neighbors, who move slowly, with limps in their step, and hunches in their shoulders, whether from physical pain or simply too many years of bearing the weight of a heavy life. Many of these people are missing limbs.
This rookery is full of people who were once slaves to the immortals. I see the scars in their ears, holes that will never close after so many years filled by metal tags. On some, the cartilage is damaged as if the cuff was too tight and cut into their flesh. A few are missing entire chunks of ear where the marker must have been torn out. Those people duck away, attempting to hide their secret with scarves and hats, as if afraid of being apprehended.
I merely smile and slip two coins into their hands instead of one, because their situation must have been especially grim for them to maim themselves. But that begs the question—what did they run from? What have these people endured?
By the time we reach the end of the road and the end of the velvet bag, my chest is both light and heavy, the bleakness of these people’s lives climbing under my skin.
Zander helps me into the saddle and remounts behind me. “You enjoyed that,” he says with bewilderment. It’s not a question.
“I don’t think enjoyed is the right word.” It was depressing. Back home, I can’t pass a homeless person on the street without digging through my purse for some loose change, a few dollar bills. It’s never enough. “Can we do that again?”
He takes the reins from Elisaf and the horses begin again at a steady canter, Boaz’s command laced with his eagerness to get away from these people. “We’re not emptying the royal coffers for the rookery, if that’s what you’re asking.”
How many of those bags of coin does he have, anyway? Perhaps with my newfound freedom, I’ll be able to find my way to these coffers. I would love to divest His Highness of some of his riches before I escape this place. “What is the rookery?” Besides crammed with old and sick ex-slaves who look like they’re waiting to die.
“It’s where many mortals go once they are of little value to Islor.”
“Of little value,” I echo, taking a moment to absorb those words and for my disgust to root.
“The crown gave them these quarters by the water, and the people pay us a small fee in rent for the privilege of living within the city walls.”
“The privilege.”
“Must you repeat everything I say?”
“I’m trying to understand this.” It’s basically a subsidized housing program for elderly human slaves Islor has discarded, only it’s little better than an alleyway of cardboard-box homes.
Is he proud of it?
“You do not approve that we should do this for them?” He pauses. “Some in my court would not be bothered. They say they are a drain on our resources. They’d rather put them out of their misery.”
“Maybe some in your court belong in your death square,” I throw back, my anger flaring. My father would fall under the “of little value” umbrella in this world. These Islorians treat humans little better t
han lame horses or dairy cows that stop producing milk.
From the corner of my eye, I catch Elisaf’s eyebrows climb halfway up his forehead. I can only imagine the look on Zander’s face, if it isn’t stony.
“Why do you care what happens to the mortals?”
Because I am one. Though I know I should stay quiet, I find myself unable. I’ve lived in poverty. I’ve seen the many ways that systems built to help people have failed them when they’re at their lowest. This is the first time I’ve sat next to someone who has the power to do something about it. “They spent their entire lives serving you, and now that they’re old and broken, you corral them into this squalor and pat yourself on the back for your benevolence? No, I don’t approve of this. I think you should do more. They’re people, even if you can’t find a use for them anymore. They’re not inferior to your kind.” My feelings tumble out, unrestrained and unmeasured.
He is quiet for a moment. “Did you know that the crime for ending the life of any mortal Islorian, regardless of age or capability, is death? It’s a law my father decreed and that I will uphold without compromise.”
“A person can plead for a dog’s life while still locking them in a cage.”
“And what more would you have me do for these people?”
“How about you don’t enslave them?”
“Yes, of course, I’ll just snap my fingers and change all of Islor. How everyone thinks and lives.” There’s a curious edge to his voice.
“Aren’t you the king?” I quip, but even I know it isn’t that simple. “I don’t know. Why don’t you start by melting down one of your thousand gold pillars and build these people something nicer? Outside the city, in the countryside?” I know it exists. I can see the rolling hills in the distance from my balcony.
“Again with the gold, from a princess raised in a palace of jewels.”
“I don’t remember any such place.”
“How convenient,” he mutters. “Besides, it’s far safer for these people within the protection of our walls than it is out there.”
“It sounds like they need protection from some of your court.”