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“Let them.”
Atticus smirks. “My thoughts exactly.” Whatever tension swirled between them on the sparring court yesterday seems to have evaporated.
“It is best we return to the castle. Darkness comes soon.” Boaz dips his head in deference to Zander, even as he attempts to coax him. He has been scowling since I stepped out of the castle. It does not take a genius to see the captain does not believe the king’s time is well spent in the rookery.
“You’re welcome to go ahead with Atticus.” Zander grips my waist to offer support as I hoist myself onto the horse. Even in my dress and heels, I’m beginning to get the hang of it. In seconds Zander is in the saddle, roping his arms around me to collect the reins, and setting off along a street that isn’t familiar to me, one that heads uphill, away from the castle and the market and everything I’ve seen of Cirilea so far.
I take it all in with curious eyes and the unexpected contentment of Zander’s strength against my back. “They’re following us,” I note, glancing over my shoulder to see a line of the royal guard snaking along behind us.
“Of course they are.” I can’t tell if he’s annoyed by that.
The street we’re on tapers off to a dirt road, and then something more akin to a path as the horse’s powerful legs propel us onward and upward, through bramble and broad, leafy trees that I need to duck from in places. And then the path suddenly opens to a clearing and a cliff. Beyond is a seemingly endless ocean; behind is a view of the valley below, peppered with tents for the king’s army.
Zander hops off the horse and then guides me down with gentle hands.
“What are we doing up here?” In the far distance, I can just make out the outline of a ship. Closer to us are a few small skiffs. Fishermen, hoping to catch a meal in the calm water before nightfall.
Zander’s eyes scan the water. “I come here to think sometimes.”
I walk cautiously to the edge, marveling at the steep rock face. Far below, waves hurtle themselves at the stone.
From this angle, I spot Boaz and his men standing idly on the path, waiting and watching, but not pestering. Giving him space. If Zander comes here to think, it’s likely to brood. He has plenty to brood over lately.
“What are you going to do about those murdered by the tributaries?”
“The only thing I can do. Execute them. They murdered their keepers. I hear they have not even feigned innocence. We need to make an example of them to deter others.” His jaw tenses. “They are already on their way here. They should arrive on the day of the tournament, in time for a public execution before the crowd.”
I grimace. “A big day of death.” Six mortals plus three Ybarisans.
“More than you realize, I am guessing. We have not executed a mortal in Islor since King Rhionn’s time. We either send them to the rift to keep the border guard nourished, or we use them for immortal children to practice on when they come of age, to learn how to control their feedings.”
Mention of children makes me think of the sparring court, of the little girl giggling as Zander scooped her off the ground. “When do Islorian immortals come of age?”
“The cravings first being around six. We’re wild and greedy little things. It takes time to learn how to control our needs. It’s usually after you accidentally kill your first mortal. I remember mine.” He smiles sadly. “Her name was Erskand. She was a bread maker who stabbed a soldier when they came to escort her daughter to Presenting Day. The soldier lived, of course, the daughter was auctioned off to a lord, and Erskand died at the hands of a child. Or rather, to his teeth and unrestrained appetite. She fought me, which only made things worse.”
I flinch at the visual. “And you still feel remorse for it.”
“Every day,” he admits softly. “Your lady maids were both sent to the rift. I do not know if they still live.”
Punished accordingly, Elisaf had said.
“I am also enacting a new law that states any mortal who poisons an immortal through the act of repast will be sentenced to death, and any mortal who delivers a vial of this poison to the royal court will receive one hundred gold coins and absolution of any crime for possession.”
“That’s smart. The gold coins, I mean.”
“It’ll sway some, but not all. Ybaris has given the mortals a gift and a weapon, and once they realize what it is, there are those who will seek it out and make the best use of it.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The tributaries who poisoned my parents are in the sanctum. We don’t have an alchemist caster, but Wendeline has been testing them regularly. It has been many weeks since that night, and yet the merth still hums in their veins.”
“So anyone who feeds off them would die, even now.”
He nods somberly, his jaw tensing.
I process what he’s saying. Oh my God. “It’s like having an immunity,” I say, more to myself. Or a vaccine. A thought strikes me. “Do you think that’s why the daaknar died when it bit me?” Did Princess Romeria drink this poison?
“We cannot ingest it. Wendeline tested that too, on an immortal sentenced to death for his crimes. He died just as dreadfully as my parents and Lord Quill. And merth is as toxic to Ybarisans as it is to us, so I have to assume you did not consume it. Then again, you freed Annika from raw merth cord with your bare hands, which is an impossibility, so you tell me, Romeria.”
