His gaze scrolls over my body again, stalling on the slit. He slips a hand through and up my thigh, his skin hot against mine, settling against my bare hip. A groan escapes him, likely at the confirmation that I’m not wearing anything beneath. “That is quite the gown.”
“It adequately covers everything it needs to cover.”
“You like to harp on things when you are annoyed. You look more than adequate today.”
“See? Was that so hard?” I inhale sharply as his touch shifts further into the slit, to tease my sensitive flesh, instantly stirring need. But he pulls away abruptly, that mask back in place. “It is going to be a long day. Let us get through it before I show you my reaction.”
I feel his promise between my thighs.
He offers me his arm, which I eagerly accept. Tension radiates through his body, cutting my playfulness short. I don’t need to ask what bothers him. It’s the repast, it’s the public execution of the tributaries. It’s everything that is wrong with Islor.
Elisaf greets us outside the door and bows deeply. “Your Highness, you look radiant.”
“Well, that’s a much warmer reception than my betrothed had for me,” I mock.
“Don’t encourage her,” Zander mutters. “Though, I hope she can retain this level of giddiness through the day.”
A servant sets a plate of the tiny Seacadorian grapes in front of me and scurries off.
From my left, Annika reaches over and grabs a bunch for herself before I can swat her hand away. “Why do you think I was adamant to sit next to you?”
“My charm?”
She snorts.
“I heard you like those.” Zander’s attention roves the crowd and then the jousting competition in its midst below. The execution square has transformed from the dark and loathsome space that terrorized me from my tiny tower window. It’s far larger than I realized, encased on all sides by bleacher-style seats that climb many feet into the air. Around the perimeter are the black-and-gold banners marking Islor and Cirilea, their heavy brocade fluttering in the mild sea breeze.
It is more an arena than a square, and every seat is occupied—nobility in the front, commoners in the back. The afternoon sun beats down on the gathering, its rays glimmering off ear cuffs like sparkling facets of a diamond, picking out the mortals.
I pluck a vine off the plate. “And I heard they were a rare treat, hard to get.” Thankfully our partition—higher than others—is adequately shielded by canopies. It also screens my view of the ominous gray tower above, where Tyree rots away.
“There are perks to being queen, and one of them is having whatever you want, whenever you want.” Zander’s arm is casually stretched across the back of our chairs, but his face is hard, his mood somber. He’s not enjoying any part of the pomp and excitement from below. It could be because of what’s yet to come, or it could be because he’s lived through far too many of these events.
I, on the other hand, can’t help but be enthralled as I listen to the crowd roar, and I watch with anxious anticipation as soldiers take turns competing.
“Whatever I want, whenever I want?” I pull grapes off one by one with my teeth, allowing myself thoughts of taking Zander in my mouth last night, hoping the lustful rush of my pulse might spark a reaction.
He watches the move intently. It’s a moment, but the corners of his lips twitch.
I force my attention back to the view below. Atticus is there, the commander of the king’s army, his armor resplendent in the afternoon sun as he slaps the backs of his soldiers, both the winners and the losers. He has avoided me since the day of the hunt. It’s a relief.
I search the countless faces in the stands. Adley is there, of course, sitting next to Saoirse. Farther away are Telor and Sallow. I imagine I will get to know them soon enough. Bexley sits with the nobility. She’s in a black satin gown, its V-neckline reaching down toward her navel, revealing the swell of ample breasts—a strange choice for a tournament day. She’s watching me intently. Even from here, I can see the predatory glint in her stare. She has plans for me, and my neck, now that she’s delivered on her part of our deal. She’s going to be thoroughly disappointed when she learns the truth.
I push aside the shred of guilt I feel for the deception and dip my head, a silent thank-you.
“What is that about?” Zander asks.
“I’ll tell you later.” I don’t see myself as having a choice for much longer, given we’ll be leaving here to spend the night together. But now is not the time, given his sour temper.
A servant in a black uniform darts in with a sweeping bow to deliver two chalices brimming with an amber-colored liquid.
Elisaf collects them from us and wordlessly takes a sip, then another. After a moment, he sets them down with a murmur of “exceptionally sweet” and shifts back.
He’s checking for poison.
“He risks his life like that every time you have a glass of wine?” There’s incredulity in my voice.
“Since you brought poison with you to Islor, yes. If it hasn’t already been tested by another.” Zander pauses. “Would you rather he didn’t? Have you tired of me already?”
I shake my head. “I’d rather Elisaf not be the taste tester.”
“You’d have someone else risk their life, then. Abarrane, perhaps?”
I glance over my shoulder to where the warrior stands with her hand angled toward her hilt. Even with her shoulder bandaged, she looks coiled to attack. “I’d rather no one did.”
“Tell that to your former self. She seemed intent on murdering us all.”
I give up on lightening his mood, shifting my focus to the games.
The sun has dipped below the horizon when the last victor bows—a burly soldier whose weapon of choice was a spike-riddled mace. His opponent is carried off on a stretcher. He’s not the only one today. I fear some of these challengers are beyond Wendeline’s talents.
And yet the spectators clap and cheer and scream with every brutal round, as if this is purely for entertainment.
“It is time,” Zander murmurs.
I tense when the first of two wagons is pulled in by brawny workhorses, three wooden crosses erected on each, the prisoners already tied and waiting. I remember wondering before why the pyres, why not a guillotine or a simple blade? But seeing their reverence for Malachi’s flame everywhere I look, I think I understand now. He is their creator.
Still, I abhor it.
Even more, I abhor the impatience that hangs in the air.
Zander’s body is taut with tension when he stands. A hush falls over the crowd, as if everyone has been waiting for this moment.
The wagons make a slow parade around the arena floor.
“People of Islor,” Zander begins, his deep voice carrying through the entire arena—at least it seems that way. “A plague scourges our lands in the form of a poison, the same poison that took our beloved King Eachann and Queen Esma. We are hunting it down and will prevail against it. Unfortunately, there are Islorians among us who have given in to malice. We cannot allow that. They must pay for their crime of murder with their lives.”
Murmurs erupt in waves.
The wagons roll into place, and I force myself to take in the six tributaries who were swayed by dreams of freedom from their forced duties.