Atticus’s blue eyes skitter over my frame. “No. But I could think of a far worse situation.”
Atticus doesn’t agree with his brother’s plan to use me to draw out the traitors in their midst and hold back Queen Neilina’s advance. Would he enjoy watching it all fall apart so he has an excuse to go to war? He seems the type—arrogant, and with enough clout to be dangerous.
Zander frowns deeply. “Until then, you had better hope Abarrane manages to kill them in her interrogation. Otherwise you’ll get the pleasure of a royal repast.”
“What is it, anyway?”
“It’s where the prisoners are paraded through the square before being chained up, and anyone who feels obliged has the opportunity to take their vein. The court first, of course. And it’s not often done gently, as we might with a tributary. I imagine you will get to watch it all with Adley standing beside you. It is a lengthy process, aided by the power of the priestesses when we are fortunate to have one. They can help slow the flow of the prisoners’ blood for hours. And when it’s time, what’s left of them is sent to their afterlife by fire.”
My face blanches. “I thought you lived off mortal blood.”
“It’s not about survival. It’s about control, dominance, and humiliation.” And by the bitter twinge in Zander’s voice, he doesn’t approve or enjoy it. That is some small comfort.
“It used to be a common practice in Islor, with prisoners of war. It hasn’t been done in centuries, much to the dissatisfaction of some,” Atticus adds soberly.
“We had Ybarisan prisoners after the last attack. The court pushed for a royal repast then, but I refused, executing them swiftly instead. Mercifully. But I will not be able to avoid it again, thanks to my darling betrothed. It will be quite the event, given it is to happen during the city fair, when half of Islor has journeyed to Cirilea. And I do not see a way for you to avoid it, not without making yourself look weak, and the fates know how much you do not want that.”
My gut churns with dread. I should have kept my mouth shut. Adley took advantage of my ignorance without realizing it. “What was that guy demanding? A parley?”
“A meeting to discuss our dispute. It is intended to find diplomacy in the threat of war. But I’d say we are long past mediation.” Zander snorts. “Besides, anything he says will no doubt be a lie.”
Atticus cocks his head at Zander. “You didn’t tell her who Abarrane captured, did you?”
“I thought her ignorance would be more effective. Otherwise, she might give him too much attention.”
I frown. “Who is he?”
“Prince Tyree of Argon.” Atticus smiles. “Your brother.”
My mouth drops. No wonder the man looked at me the way he did. “He knows things.”
Atticus’s head tips back, and he bursts with laughter. “Dare I say, he knows everything.”
“I mean, Princess Romeria’s brother would know who within the castle helped her.”
“I like how she talks about herself in third person. It’s as if they’re two different people and she takes no responsibility for what she’s done,” Atticus muses.
“Welcome to my world.” The muscle in Zander’s jaw ticks. “And Abarrane could pull Tyree’s arms off and he wouldn’t tell us anything.”
I grimace at that gruesome image. “What if I talk to him? He might be willing to tell me things, thinking I’m his sister. I could make it look like I’m sneaking down there—”
“No.”
“That’s not a bad idea,” Atticus says. “Why don’t I take her down?”
“No.” Zander glares at his brother.
“But he doesn’t know that I don’t remember who I am—”
“You are not going anywhere near him or any other Ybarisan!”
I steal a look at Atticus, who shrugs nonchalantly. If he’s bothered by Zander’s stubbornness, he doesn’t let on. “We have both of Queen Neilina’s heirs. What do you suppose she’ll do when she discovers that?”
But Zander isn’t sharing in his brother’s amusement, his jaw rigid as he weighs me beneath a calculating gaze. “By the time she hears of it, one of them will already be dead. I’ll be sure to send along his remains for her this time. Elisaf!”
My guard pokes his head in almost immediately. “Your Highness.”
“Romeria wishes to return to her rooms for the rest of the day. I believe she has some garments to burn.”
I guess that means no afternoon walk with Annika. That’s fine. I think I’ve had enough of this place and these people for the day.
“Lovely, Your Highness.” Dagny’s words are muffled around brass pins held between her pursed lips.
I had barely sat down to my bowl of potato and parsnip stew when the seamstress arrived for a fitting, her arms laden with silk and chiffon, already cut to size in a gown. I didn’t mind the interruption, though. The woman’s jaunty personality is a welcome reprieve from boredom.
Corrin was right, I admit, as I peer in the full-length mirror and take in the tangible version of my sketch. Dagny is a marvel, and she works quickly, her nimble fingers adjusting the seams to better fit me. The cinched waist, the sleek, delicate sleeves that reach to the marble floor, blending in with the skirts in a cape-like fashion. The material covers all my scars without mummifying me, and the color—a pale bluish-gray shade I never would’ve chosen for myself—flatters my eyes and skin and contrasts well with my hair.
“Just how you wanted it, yes?” Dagny’s muted green eyes are dazzling with excitement as she steps back.
“It’s incredible.” I shift my leg, watching the material part on my thigh.
“It might be my greatest piece yet. No one has seen anything like it, you can be sure of that.”
No one here has seen anything like it.
“You will be the talk of the court, Your Highness.”
“I’m already the talk of the court.” I smooth a finger over the seam at the waist.
“Oh, don’t worry. That will flatten out when I stitch it properly.” Dagny waves my hand away. “Well?” She turns to Corrin, who has been oddly quiet. “Don’t you think Her Highness looks radiant?”
“If attention is what she wishes, she will certainly succeed. You’ll be showing off your undergarments.”
She’s referring to the high slit, no doubt. “I won’t wear them.” It wouldn’t be the first time I avoided seams by leaving my panties at home.
Corrin’s mouth gapes and she mutters something I—happily—don’t catch.
“Oh, one more here.” Dagny reaches for another pin, tucked into a small tin that sits on a side table. “Yes. That’s better.” She nods with satisfaction. “I’ll have this finished up in time for the royal repast.”
“Can’t wait,” I mutter. A new dress for a torture celebration.
“I suppose those Ybarisan monsters will get what’s deserved.” Dagny flinches. “Begging your pardon, Your Highness.”
“No, it’s okay. They are monsters.” May as well play the part convincingly. Though I don’t know if being chained up and fed from is what anyone deserves.