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.”