“I would argue this is far more difficult for me to digest. To you, I’m a stranger.”
“Who wanted to execute me.”
“Can you blame me?”
Fair enough. But can I play this role?
“You are a serpent who said and did many things to win my affection.” He sighs heavily. “But if I focus on the reality that you are only her in physical form, then perhaps I can begin to see you as a stranger, as well. That would be to both our advantages.”
But to him, I still look like a snake, and few find those creatures appealing. I guess the one superficial positive is that, on appearance alone, Zander is not repulsive. This would be far more difficult if I had to play kiss the king with Korsakov or Tony. Just the thought of that threatens a shudder.
But will I have to kiss him?
I have a hundred more questions—mainly, how us together will help strengthen Islor and what exactly does selling this story to the people entail—but we’ve almost come upon the market street. Taking a deep breath, I let my body relax until I feel the solid wall of his chest against my back.
“Take the reins,” he commands softly.
I do as told, seizing the thick leather cord within my hands. It allows him room to slip his arms beneath mine, his forearms resting in a more relaxed, intimate pose in front of me as he resumes control of the horse again.
My ears catch his deep, steadying exhale, but it is his breath skating across my neck that sends a shiver through me.
“See? Not completely insufferable,” he murmurs.
“No. I guess not.”
“I was speaking to myself.”
Up ahead, a trumpet sounds and the throng disperses, people moving out of the way as the procession of horses turns right.
Hundreds of people crowd the street, shouting. Some don drab clothing and the telltale metal ear cuff marking them as humans and slaves, while others wear finer leathers and scabbards at their hips.
I spot many shocks of surprise when they set eyes upon me, but also some deep furrows and scowls.
So many eyes on me, sitting atop my equine pedestal.
The Royal Slayer.
My chest tightens. Even flanked by a horse on either side, I feel exposed. “Some of these people think I’m to blame for what happened.”
“That’s because you are to blame for what happened.” Zander’s voice is so much closer now, and it rings with a hint of bitter amusement.
“Aren’t you at all worried what they might do? I mean, is a crowd this big safe?”
“Even if they wish to harm you, no one will dare risk catching me in the crosshairs.”
“I’m glad you’re confident about that.” I hope not foolishly so. But it makes sense now, why Zander insisted I ride with him. Alone on a horse, I would be an easier target.
He curls an arm around my waist and pulls me the last inch backward until our bodies are flush, and I feel the warmth of his thighs against my hips even through the layers of chiffon.
I force myself to relax against him.
“Many in Islor want a union between us. Seeing you with me like this will quickly sow doubt in what they fear to be true, and soon they will think what we want them to. Besides, even if one of them does attack, what are you worried about? Won’t you come back from the dead again?”
I snort at his poor attempt at humor. “I’d rather not test that theory.” Because the truth is, I’m not sure if that’s accurate. Sofie was adamant that if the Islorians discovered my true identity, they would kill me, so it seems my death is possible.
The horse canters forward, and I’m acutely aware of the feel of Zander’s body with every bump and jostle, but I do my best to focus on the action ahead. We cut a straight path in the street at a steady clip, people giving the animals a wide berth.
Between the shouts and claps, the mingling scents of freshly baked bread, fish, leathers, and sour bodies, my senses are overwhelmed, and I find myself unintentionally pressing into Zander’s frame for protection. People wave hats in the air and call out for their king and for the strength of Islor from every direction, and every so often, my ears catch my name, sometimes with a “queen” attached to it. I remember what Elisaf said about the princess’s incessant smiling, and I plaster one on now, though it feels contrived.
As the street meanders and approaches an area closer to the water, the surroundings change, as does the mood. The buildings nearest the market were two to three stories high and adorned with shutters and fancy grillwork on the windows, but here the houses that line the left side by the water are plain and battered one-story shanties, offering little to admire beyond their view of the ocean. To the right is a tall stone wall—a divide between this side and the nicer buildings. The demographic has shifted to a much older crowd, the people’s clothing shabby, their weathered faces and wiry bodies showing signs of hardship. The air smells foul, of raw sewage and filth.
I don’t need my extensive experience with poverty to recognize this is the poor area of Cirilea.
“Here.” Zander reaches down near our legs, searching beneath the layers of my skirts. He fetches a velvet satchel that was tied to the saddle and sets it in front of me, the contents clinking with a recognizable sound. He deftly unfastens the tie with one hand. “Toss them out.”
I reach into the bag and collect a handful of gold coins, marveling at the weight and size of the currency. “Toss them?”
“To the people.”
I look to a rickety porch ahead. An elderly couple stands in the doorway of their hovel, the man hunched over a wooden cane, the woman shielding her eyes from the bright sun with liver-spotted hands. “Shouldn’t we stop?” How are these people to collect when they can barely stand?
“Not long ago you were fearful of an attempted assassination, and now you want to stroll through the rookery on foot with a bag of coin?” Zander mocks.
“Why? Is it dangerous here?” It can’t be worse than some of the shelters I found myself in, back in the early days, before I made friends and learned how to navigate the city’s system. Some of those places were more hazardous than sleeping on a park bench.
“Not with me beside you.”
The elderly man’s desperate gaze is on the velvet bag within my grasp as they wait patiently for a handout. Nearby, a younger, more nimble man eyes the situation closely. An opportunist. I know his kind—he’ll swoop in to collect whatever the elderly couple isn’t fast enough to gather.
“Then be beside me. They’re people, not a flock of geese. I’m not throwing coins at them like bread crumbs. Help me off this horse.” I turn, softening my voice to add a “please.”
Zander’s piercing eyes bore into me for a long moment before he calls out, “Hold!”
The horses come to a standstill.
“Elisaf, take the reins.” Zander slides out of the saddle to land on the stone path with poise. “Well?”
With considerably less grace, I grip the bag of coin and the horse’s robust neck while easing my leg over. Strong hands seize my hips and guide me to the ground as if I weigh nothing. Zander does not release me immediately, leaning in from behind to whisper, “If this is a ploy to escape …”
“Yes, yes … off with her head.” Though I’m not sure the guillotine is part of the square’s repertoire.