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Chapter Thirty
It’s a domino effect, from the first aristocrat to the last who fed at the trough. The Islorian immortals feeding on the Ybarisan prisoners crumple to the dirt-covered ground, writhing in pain, their backs arched, their teeth gritted in agony.
“What is happening?” Annika whispers, her voice filled with horror.
“They took the poison.” Realization sweeps across Zander’s face.
“I thought they couldn’t,” I say. “I thought merth would tear them apart. It is merth. Isn’t it?”
Zander’s eyes snap to Wendeline. “That’s what I was told.”
Bodies thrash and people scream in horror, scurrying away as if whatever afflicts the nobles is contagious. The relentless screams—so many of them—set the hairs on my neck on end. The priestesses look toward Wendeline, who shakes her head. She can’t help them, she’s saying.
And in the center of it all, the three Ybarisans strapped to the tables laugh.
My head swims with dizziness. “There has to be something we can do,” I hear myself say.
Zander hesitates. “There is.” His jaw clenches as he steps to the edge of the railing.
An enormous ball of fire erupts around the three tables and the victims. People scatter even farther. The cries of agony cease almost immediately.
Zander is using his affinity, and this is not a parlor trick. By the countless hanging jaws, this demonstration proves he is far more powerful than anyone realized.
The crowd watches as scorching flames burn for another few seconds and then, just as suddenly, the fire cuts out, leaving nothing but a pile of smoldering corpses, the smell of charred skin and an eerie silence, as everyone absorbs the shock of what they just witnessed.
A deep, wicked laugh sounds from high above, carrying across the stillness in the square.
“Praise be the future queen of Islor!” a male voice sings.
It’s Tyree, in the tower.
“One drop of her blood to end your curse forever! One drop to free all!”
The color slips from Zander’s face. “Fates, it isn’t merth that they’re taking. It’s your blood. How did I not see this?” Again, Zander’s eyes dart toward Wendeline, and the accusation is clearly there.
The pained wince she offers says everything.
She lied to him about that, too.
What other deceptions has she spun?
My face burns as I feel the heat of countless stares crawling all over me. “I didn’t do this,” I croak, though no one hears my words. I steal a panicked glance Annika’s way. She knows I’m innocent. Those close to me know.
Zander turns to me.
“I didn’t have anything to do with this.” I feel compelled to remind him of that, given the conflicted look in his eyes. He must be able to read my confusion and my horror, can’t he?
“It won’t matter,” he says quietly.
Numbness washes over me. “What does that mean?”
“Yet again, we find ourselves here. You did not learn the first time, brother!” Atticus bellows, shifting into the center of the square. The flames from the torches glint off the gold in his armor. “Your betrothed suggested this royal repast, and now we know why.”
My mouth drops in shock. This was Adley’s idea. I didn’t even know what a royal repast was. Atticus knows that!
He walks a slow circle, addressing the crowd. “Twelve of our lords and ladies have been slaughtered in a single vicious swoop because our king can no longer see the danger standing right beside him, despite how many times I’ve warned him. He would put a queen on the throne with blood running through her veins that could poison us all if given the opportunity.”
He points to the smoldering mess. “This is no surprise. It was not the high priestess who killed the daaknar, but the Princess Romeria, when the beast sank its teeth into her.”
