by K. A. Tucker
“Anything for our future queen.” She curtsies and with one last pointed look at the capelet, she ducks out.
I study the clothing in my hand. It’s thicker than the others. She’s layered it. And the stitchwork is far sloppier than Dagny’s handiwork. Too sloppy. Dagny didn’t make this.
I tuck it under my arm. “Corrin, is there any more of that pressed apple juice you brought me this morning? It was so sweet.”
Her forehead wrinkles in thought. “I’d have to check the kitchen.”
“Would you mind?”
“I need to make my way down there, anyway.” She collects the empty tray from my first meal. “I’ll be back shortly.”
I wait to hear the sitting-room door shut before I dart to my dressing room with the coverlet. Wiggling my finger through a space in the shoddy seam, I tear into it, pulling the material apart.
A small slip of paper is tucked within.
Market Apothecary. Who you seek waits for you there tonight.
My insides twitch with anticipation as I read the scrawl.
Bexley found Gesine and Ianca, and I know where the apothecary is. I can get there on my own if I have to, I’m sure of it.
But maybe it’s time to tell Zander.
My perked ears catch the sound of the exterior door shutting. I shove the torn coverlet and note in a corner, and with a breath to steel my nerves, I march into the sitting room, adrenaline thrumming in my veins.
Zander’s eyes rake over me as I approach, from my hair all the way down to my shoes. My skirt splits open with each step, exposing my leg to my hip. His eyes flash wide at the sight.
I do my own admiring, though. Today, he has chosen an especially exquisite jacket in ink-blue satin, fitted to his body and fastened from neck to waist. It’s adorned by metallic swirls and floral vines. It pairs with my outfit nicely.
“That is the dress Dagny made for you?” he asks evenly. The softer, passionate Zander I found in my bed is tucked away, leaving me to contend with Islor’s cool and composed king again.
But I’ve also come to enjoy this dance between us.
“She did. Corrin was so sure you wouldn’t approve, given you’re a connoisseur of women’s fashion and all.” I can already see that he does approve, though, in the way his eyes flare with heat and his lips part.
He releases a long, slow exhale. “It’s adequate.”
My eyes widen with surprise.
The corners of his mouth twitch. “I didn’t think you the type to fish for compliments.”
I stop in front of him. “Oh, but you’re wrong there. I love compliments. And reactions.”
His gaze scrolls over my body again, stalling on the slit. He slips a hand through and up my thigh, his skin hot against mine, settling against my bare hip. A groan escapes him, likely at the confirmation that I’m not wearing anything beneath. “That is quite the gown.”
“It adequately covers everything it needs to cover.”
“You like to harp on things when you are annoyed. You look more than adequate today.”
“See? Was that so hard?” I inhale sharply as his touch shifts further into the slit, to tease my sensitive flesh, instantly stirring need. But he pulls away abruptly, that mask back in place. “It is going to be a long day. Let us get through it before I show you my reaction.”
I feel his promise between my thighs.
He offers me his arm, which I eagerly accept. Tension radiates through his body, cutting my playfulness short. I don’t need to ask what bothers him. It’s the repast, it’s the public execution of the tributaries. It’s everything that is wrong with Islor.
Elisaf greets us outside the door and bows deeply. “Your Highness, you look radiant.”
“Well, that’s a much warmer reception than my betrothed had for me,” I mock.
“Don’t encourage her,” Zander mutters. “Though, I hope she can retain this level of giddiness through the day.”
A servant sets a plate of the tiny Seacadorian grapes in front of me and scurries off.
From my left, Annika reaches over and grabs a bunch for herself before I can swat her hand away. “Why do you think I was adamant to sit next to you?”
“My charm?”
She snorts.
“I heard you like those.” Zander’s attention roves the crowd and then the jousting competition in its midst below. The execution square has transformed from the dark and loathsome space that terrorized me from my tiny tower window. It’s far larger than I realized, encased on all sides by bleacher-style seats that climb many feet into the air. Around the perimeter are the black-and-gold banners marking Islor and Cirilea, their heavy brocade fluttering in the mild sea breeze.
It is more an arena than a square, and every seat is occupied—nobility in the front, commoners in the back. The afternoon sun beats down on the gathering, its rays glimmering off ear cuffs like sparkling facets of a diamond, picking out the mortals.
I pluck a vine off the plate. “And I heard they were a rare treat, hard to get.” Thankfully our partition—higher than others—is adequately shielded by canopies. It also screens my view of the ominous gray tower above, where Tyree rots away.
“There are perks to being queen, and one of them is having whatever you want, whenever you want.” Zander’s arm is casually stretched across the back of our chairs, but his face is hard, his mood somber. He’s not enjoying any part of the pomp and excitement from below. It could be because of what’s yet to come, or it could be because he’s lived through far too many of these events.
I, on the other hand, can’t help but be enthralled as I listen to the crowd roar, and I watch with anxious anticipation as soldiers take turns competing.
“Whatever I want, whenever I want?” I pull grapes off one by one with my teeth, allowing myself thoughts of taking Zander in my mouth last night, hoping the lustful rush of my pulse might spark a reaction.
He watches the move intently. It’s a moment, but the corners of his lips twitch.
I force my attention back to the view below. Atticus is there, the commander of the king’s army, his armor resplendent in the afternoon sun as he slaps the backs of his soldiers, both the winners and the losers. He has avoided me since the day of the hunt. It’s a relief.
I search the countless faces in the stands. Adley is there, of course, sitting next to Saoirse. Farther away are Telor and Sallow. I imagine I will get to know them soon enough. Bexley sits with the nobility. She’s in a black satin gown, its V-neckline reaching down toward her navel, revealing the swell of ample breasts—a strange choice for a tournament day. She’s watching me intently. Even from here, I can see the predatory glint in her stare. She has plans for me, and my neck, now that she’s delivered on her part of our deal. She’s going to be thoroughly disappointed when she learns the truth.
I push aside the shred of guilt I feel for the deception and dip my head, a silent thank-you.
“What is that about?” Zander asks.
“I’ll tell you later.” I don’t see myself as having a choice for much longer, given we’ll be leaving here to spend the night together. But now is not the time, given his sour temper.
A servant in a black uniform darts in with a sweeping bow to deliver two chalices brimming with an amber-colored liquid.
Elisaf collects them from us and wordlessly takes a sip, then another. After a moment, he sets them down with a murmur of “exceptionally sweet” and shifts back.
He’s checking for poison.
“He risks his life like that every time you have a glass of wine?” There’s incredulity in my voice.
“Since you brought poison with you to Islor, yes. If it hasn’t already been tested by another.” Zander pauses. “Would you rather he didn’t? Have you tired of me already?”
I shake my head. “I’d rather Elisaf not be the taste tester.”
“You’d have someone else risk their life, then. Abarrane, perhaps?”
I glance over my shoulder to where the warrior stands
with her hand angled toward her hilt. Even with her shoulder bandaged, she looks coiled to attack. “I’d rather no one did.”
“Tell that to your former self. She seemed intent on murdering us all.”
I give up on lightening his mood, shifting my focus to the games.
The sun has dipped below the horizon when the last victor bows—a burly soldier whose weapon of choice was a spike-riddled mace. His opponent is carried off on a stretcher. He’s not the only one today. I fear some of these challengers are beyond Wendeline’s talents.
And yet the spectators clap and cheer and scream with every brutal round, as if this is purely for entertainment.
“It is time,” Zander murmurs.
I tense when the first of two wagons is pulled in by brawny workhorses, three wooden crosses erected on each, the prisoners already tied and waiting. I remember wondering before why the pyres, why not a guillotine or a simple blade? But seeing their reverence for Malachi’s flame everywhere I look, I think I understand now. He is their creator.
Still, I abhor it.
Even more, I abhor the impatience that hangs in the air.
Zander’s body is taut with tension when he stands. A hush falls over the crowd, as if everyone has been waiting for this moment.
The wagons make a slow parade around the arena floor.
“People of Islor,” Zander begins, his deep voice carrying through the entire arena—at least it seems that way. “A plague scourges our lands in the form of a poison, the same poison that took our beloved King Eachann and Queen Esma. We are hunting it down and will prevail against it. Unfortunately, there are Islorians among us who have given in to malice. We cannot allow that. They must pay for their crime of murder with their lives.”
Murmurs erupt in waves.
The wagons roll into place, and I force myself to take in the six tributaries who were swayed by dreams of freedom from their forced duties.
My stomach drops.
Four of the prisoners are children, the oldest no more than fifteen.
“Zander.” I rise, the impulse to stop this display overwhelming.
“I see it,” he says through gritted teeth.
Two women are with them. Their mothers, likely. All wear masks of fear, though in varying degrees. The two boys—maybe thirteen—hold their chins high in a show of bravery, but the dark stains running down their pants tell a different story.
“Where is Lord Stoll?” Zander calls out, his voice overly calm, icy.
A man in fine livery who was standing in the square steps forward to bow. These are servants from his lands. “Your Highness.”
“I was told you were submitting six tributaries for punishment. Why are there four children before me?”
“Your Highness, because they’ve murdered their keepers.”
“And how would anyone know that they have this poison running through their veins?”
“Well, I … yes, I agree, that is an issue,” he falters before clearing his throat. “But it doesn’t change the fact that these mortals took poison with the intention of killing someone. They’ll do it again if given the opportunity.”
“You mean, the immortals who were taking their vein against the law?”
“Yes, but they’re old enough to know what they were taking …” Stoll’s voice drifts under Zander’s lethal stare.
“As far as I’m concerned, those immortals—any immortal who doesn’t abide by the law of the tributary system—deserves the punishment they received.”
A murmur rises, but it’s quickly followed by hushes for silence.
Zander turns to the prisoners. “Do these children belong to you?”
The women nod emphatically. The one on the left pleads, “Please, spare them. It was us. We put it in their drinks. They didn’t know.”
“But you did.”
Their heads bob.
Zander’s jaw clenches. He likes to think on issues, and he wasn’t given that opportunity because the lords fed him a story of wicked and defiant tributaries, and then wheeled them out, tied to crosses, ready to burn.
My shock has shifted to rage. “They did what I would do if these were my kids,” I hiss under my breath, loud enough for Zander to hear. They had a chance to stop them from being fed upon by monsters. It’s what many parents would do. My disgust swells as I grip Zander’s forearm. “You can’t do this. This punishment isn’t right.”
He meets my eyes as if searching for an answer as a henchman nearby holds a flaming torch. “And what would you have me do? Cut them loose? People do not yet realize that the poison lives in their veins for good, but when they do, they’ll do worse to them than this.”
“I don’t know, but this punishment is wrong, and you know it.” My mind spins over a solution. How would this be handled in my world? “Send the adults to the dungeon. Or for labor at the rift. And send the children to Seacadore. Pay Kaders to smuggle them out.”
His eyes are wild and desperate. “And if they come back?”
“Why would they ever come back here?” I mutter, but something Wendeline said strikes me. “The casters mark the humans in Ybaris to confirm they’ve been tested. Have her mark these people. If they’re crazy enough to want to come back, it’ll deter them.”
He seems to consider that for another moment. “Release them all.” The three words echo in the yawning silence, but it’s quickly drowned out by an uproar. Outrage splays across the faces of the nobility as the ropes are cut with swords and the prisoners are ushered down the steps. They cower together, their faces streaked with tears.
Among others in the crowd, there is a mixture of everything from shock to relief to disappointment. Atticus stands below, peering up at us, his jaw clenched. Another of his brother’s decisions that he does not approve of. Or maybe it’s my influence that he can’t accept.
I smooth my hand over Zander’s back, hoping the small, silent gesture offers him even a minor shield against the noise.
Zander’s hand lifts in the air, and silence falls again.
“These prisoners will be escorted to the dungeon until I decide the best punishment for them. But for their crime of ingesting a poison meant to harm, these prisoners will be branded.” He nods toward Wendeline.
She stalls a moment, appearing flustered by the unexpected request. I imagine she thought her days of marking humans were over. But then she rushes forward, her white-and-gold gown flowing behind her as she pauses before each prisoner, collecting their hands in hers, earning a wince of pain, as if whatever she’s doing hurts. Wendeline reaches the end of the line and turns toward Zander to bow.
“Let us all see the mark of a tainted one!” Zander calls out.
The prisoners look at each other and then hesitantly lift their hands in the air to show the circle with two interlocked crescent moons on the fleshy part of their thumbs, the outlines glowing in Wendeline’s caster magic.
A cold wash of familiarity courses through me. I’ve seen that mark before, tattooed on the hands of the People’s Sentinel. “What is that symbol?” I whisper.
“I do not know, but whatever it is, I’m sure everyone will have heard of it by next Hudem.”
There’s a stir in the crowd as Lord Adley steps down from the stands and strolls confidently into the center of the square.
Beside me, Zander’s molars grind.
“If I may, Your Highness—”
“No, you may not,” Zander barks. “You will not be given a platform to spew your lies and your schemes any longer, Lord Adley.”
Adley’s eyes narrow in defiance.
But Zander promptly dismisses him as if the Lord of Kettling is nothing more than a nuisance. “Lead the prisoners to the dungeon, and if a single hair is harmed on their heads, every guard in the escort will visit this square at dawn, and those pyres will be used.” He looks pointedly at the men with swords as the six mortals follow them out on wobbly legs. “I need this night over with now,” Zander mutters under his breath, waving a hand to his left.
A parade of soldiers marches out, the three Ybarisan prisoners sandwiched between them, shuffling forward in a line.
I inhale sharply. They’re wearing nothing but the fetters around their ankles and wrists. When I saw them last, they were filthy and bloodied. They’ve since been bathed and healed, save for the eternal slash across the arm to subdue their elven affinity. They’ve been prepared.
I struggle to hide my sneer. I guess the immortals can’t feed off grimy bodies.
All three walk forward with their chins held high, as if the fact that they’re marching to their public execution—naked—doesn’t faze them. Maybe this pales in comparison to what Abarrane did to them. I steal another glance over my shoulder to catch her private smile as she observes.
People are watching me as readily as they watch my condemned Ybarisan brethren. I keep my gaze forward as the men are forced onto three tables, their arms and ankles shackled to each corner. Piles of timber of varying lengths have been stacked beneath, kindling for a fire.
The priestesses move in quietly for their task of keeping the Ybarisans alive.
“For the crimes of murder, conspiracy to commit murder, and conspiring against the crown, you are receiving the penalty of death by royal repast followed by pyre. May the fates have mercy on you.” Zander’s voice is wooden. “As an honor to those of noble blood, we offer first sampling to them.”
A line of nobility scamper forward from the crowd, some faces I recognize. Adley is not among them. He is busy spouting words in Atticus’s ear, his expression tight and his gestures sweeping.
Atticus stands stoically and listens, his face stony. I can’t begin to read him.
The nobility look like eager children as they flock, each finding a corner of a prisoner. Even from this distance, I can make out their fangs as they elongate. The Ybarisans visibly tense as teeth sink into their flesh, and my stomach curls. This is nothing like the night I witnessed Zander with that tributary. That was tender and considerate and personal.
This is savage.
And it’s not just a few. The lineup grows, snaking around the tables and pyres. There can’t possibly be enough blood for them all.