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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 than 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.”
To that, he says nothing.
The procession veers right, away from the rookery and uphill, and I sense we’re making our way back to the castle. The moment we turn onto a quiet street, away from the spectators, Zander releases my waist and puts space between us.
The return ride is silent, save for the plod of horse hooves, and I’m relieved for it. When we reach the courtyard by the stables, the boy from earlier rushes up with the step stool. Zander is the first one to dismount, offering me a stiff hand while I descend.
I expect him to release me the moment my shoes land on the ground, but he pulls me in toward him. The move is so unexpected, I stumble a few steps and fall against him, my palm landing on his chest. He easily secures my balance with a hand on my waist, keeping me in place, our bodies pressed together.
