That ends the entire affair very abruptly. From the way much of the room erupts in screams, cries, and gags, I am understanding that these korabi do not see death much. Certainly not as much, or as often as I have seen it. Krush is an exception, and there are a few korabi soldiers who are not completely useless—though one of the ones who tried to lift her is currently divesting himself of his stomach contents.
I sit there, marveling at the irony of it all. Do they know what they inflict on humans? How much damage we take because of them? I think not.
“Tyvian, take her to the cells.” Krush jerks his head at me.
I didn’t even notice that Tyvian was nearby. There were other things to look at.
I am shocked to hear that order, especially given that Krush just finished telling Tyvian to never lay a finger on me again. I know better than to protest. A korabi has just been killed. I could not be less relevant at this point in time. I was a curiosity at best. Now I am something to be relegated to the dungeon and put back into the custody of the one korabi who knows too much and sees way too far through me.
Tyvian picks me up. I hate being picked up. It makes me feel like a pet, or a sack of something to be sold.
“Put me down. I have crutches.”
“I am getting you out of here, as per the king’s orders, you spoiled, arrogant little brat.”
He glances down at me as he speaks, chastising me for practically nothing at all. I do not think I am spoiled, or arrogant for that matter. I am a maimed woman attempting to survive a world of monsters.
“You’re just mad that you can’t beat me, traitor.”
“There is so much more at play than you understand. I did not betray you.”
“Someone did.”
“Yes,” Tyvian agrees. “Someone did.”
Seven
Krush
Sylvania. That was the name of the korabi bride who now lies cold in the royal morgue. She was a young woman from Exkorabi, one of the older, more prominent colonies. She liked to dance and to fish. She hoped to have many children. And she died before my eyes in the one place in all creation she should have been the most safe.
I sit and I read the biography prepared for me. There are thirty of these, all carefully compiled with the aim of making a female as appealing as possible to me. I feel a welling of pity and sorrow as I flip through the pages of these beings who pinned their hopes on me, the poor fools.
“In five generations of kings, no king has ever allowed a bride to be slaughtered at the choosing!”
Tusk is raging around me, circling me like a furious animal. The barely veiled contempt for me he dares hold is no longer veiled. It is on full display. He is shouting and cursing, fuming and growling. I am ignoring him. Tusk may consider himself a handler of kings, but he is nothing to me.
I cannot simply allow this attack to go unaddressed, of course. To do so would be to show weakness. My reign has already been tainted by the death of my father, the escape of Rath K’zar and the human, and now a murder in my court. There are whispers of weakness already. Those whispers could embolden those who have designs on the throne, who would enjoy all the trappings of royalty which I eschew.
I am aware of this. To some extent, I have stoked those whispers. I told myself that I am doing it to draw the traitors out, but sometimes I wonder if I am just trying to get someone to take the damn crown off me.
“The shame of allowing one of the potential brides to be murdered on the choosing floor will never be forgotten. The others have been recalled. Megaris is regarded as a brutal, lawless place. And there will be compensation to be paid.”
I let his barking fade into the background. He is not entitled to my attention.
“Boy!”
Alright. That is enough.
I turn toward him, teeth bared, temper flaring. I reach for him, claws fully extended. I am not a pampered prince. I trained in the royal academy. I know how to fight. I know how to kill. I grasp him by the throat and hold him tight enough to cut off his air. He is too shocked to put his hands on me. He believes himself the conduit of ancestors, a repository of all that is royal. He is the essence of all kings distilled. My fingers tighten about his throat.
“One has died today, Tusk. I can make it two without blinking an eye.” I speak dispassionately. My voice holds one thing: truth.
He tries to break my grip. He fails. He is weakening by the moment. Soon he will pass out. He tries to croak some words, but I do not want to hear them.