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“But you would eat it? After a lifetime of not …” Her words fade, her frown growing deeper.
“I was just curious.” I quietly chastise myself. I’m beginning to feel like every question, every idle curiosity might out me as an imposter. “What do the Islorians eat? You know, besides …” I give her a knowing look.
It’s a moment before she abandons whatever thoughts are cycling through her mind. “I assume you’re referring to the immortals. Fruit, breads, meats, cheeses. They have an appetite as the mortals do, in all manners, though it does not fully sustain them. As far as the tributaries go, some indulge more than others. Some, nightly. Not all are like His Highness in that regard.”
“And how often does he have them come to his room?”
“Only when required,” she answers vaguely, peering over the rail at the horde of soldiers milling about.
I hesitate. “How does the tributary system work, anyway?”
“Dreadfully.”
I sigh with exasperation. “Corrin. Come on … help me out here. How do people become tributaries?”
“By being mortal.” Her lips purse with reluctance. “The first Hudem of every year is called Presenting Day. Young women and men are lined up in town squares and bid upon by immortals. It is a requirement that every human serve as tributary once they reach a certain age. Of course, the more desirable ones fetch higher coin and land in noble homes, sometimes even here within the castle if they’re blessed.” She sneers at that last word. “The less appealing are purchased by the commoners. The tradesmen and farmers and the sort. All are taken from their families. They serve as tributaries until they reach their midtwenties, when they are required to marry and breed. They may remain on as tributaries for some years still, or if their keeper prefers a change, they might offer them another position of servitude. If not, they are sold to another keeper who can utilize them.”
She tells me this matter-of-factly, but I hear the bitterness in her voice. She may be loyal to Cirilea and to the king, but this isn’t a life she wants to see for her kind. “If they’re fortunate, they’ll have a keeper who ensures they and their families are properly cared for.”
“And if they’re not?”
Her lips twist with contempt. “Then they’re worked to the bone while they starve and their keepers flourish.”
And then, at some point, they find themselves in the rookery, feeble and broken and struggling, but free. “And what if they don’t want to get married and have children?”
“As if they have a choice in the matter,” she scoffs. “Besides, no woman wants to find herself unwed and end up with a keeper who has a penchant for the business of breeding.”
“What do you mean by ‘breeding’?”
“Do not try to tell me the fates have stripped your knowledge of procreation,” she mutters. “It means exactly what you think it means.”
I cringe. Wendeline called this a civilized system where everyone survives. I don’t see anything civilized about it. “But Zander wants to change all this.” He sees the problem with it.
“It is a far-fetched notion that will never work, but a noble one.” She peers up at the dimming sky, now a murky blue. A line of clouds rolling in from the east are faintly visible, and the air has cooled from this morning. “The priestesses have predicted rainfall tonight. This furniture needs to be returned before you retire.” She lifts the table.
“I’ll move it back later.” It’s been so nice sitting out here, even with the sour turn for Lord Quill.
“But the rain will ruin—”
“I’ll move it in before it rains. I promise.” I feel less like the queen-to-be and more like a misbehaved child who used her mother’s best linens to build a fort.
With a huff, she sets the table down. She scowls at my pencil’s stubby end.
“It needs sharpening.”
“I see that.” She slips it into her pocket. “Perhaps Dorkus can help.”
My eyebrows pop. “I’m sorry. Who?”
“Your other guard.”
“His name is Dorkus?” I struggle to hold my immature giggle. Maybe that’s why he wouldn’t share it.
She frowns curiously at me but then dismisses her thoughts with a wave of her finger around the terrace on her way out. “Before the rain!”
Nobody ventures along the winding paths of the royal grounds tonight, other than Boaz’s guards. Two hours ago, the same burly men who lugged stone from the shattered water fountain the other day hauled Lord Quinn’s lifeless body out of the garden on a stretcher. Darkness has descended since, and the priestesses have passed through to light the lanterns with their caster magic.
But no one comes. There is no sound of music or laughter carrying through the cracks in the doors either. Nothing but subdued voices. Everyone seems anxious, as they should be. Someone in the court was murdered today.
