“I figured I’d get at least one threat of a whip out of this.”
“Again, with this whip,” he mutters.
“But you’re not angry with me?”
“My life would be so much easier if I were.” He sighs heavily. “Come with me.”
I eye his outstretched hand with equal parts wariness and thrill. “Where?”
“To divest me of more of my gold for the people. A favorite pastime of yours, apparently.”
“Thank you, Your Highnesses. Thank you. May the fates bless you.” The woman with the liver-spotted hands that I remember from our last trip through the rookery curtsies deeply. The man behind her—I assume, her husband—leans heavily on his cane today. I recall the torn shoes he wore last time. They’ve been replaced since by a fresh pair. But I note the bandaging above his ankle.
“Can I ask what happened to your leg?”
“Just an infection, Your Highness. I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about. It’ll run its course.” He waves off my concern with a smile, followed by a wince as he leans.
“I’m afraid of what that course may be.” Especially when the man is already in this state. “Have you been to the priestess at the sanctum?”
“I didn’t think we … I meant …” His gray eyes dart to Zander as he fumbles, “I don’t want to be a bother.”
I read his reaction to mean Wendeline’s services are not available to people of the rookery. I suppose it makes sense—she can only tend to so many—and yet her talents are being used to patch up sword fights for immortals with unnatural healing abilities when people like this man are suffering. My anger flares.
“Go in as soon as you can and ask for Wendeline. Today, ideally. Tell her Romy sent you.”
“You should listen to her. She’s pushy. She’s liable to come back tomorrow and check,” Zander adds with a smirk.
The man promises he will, and they hobble off back to their shack.
We’ve reached the end of the rookery. In my grip is one of two velvet bags holding the meager remains of the gold we emptied into the palms of humans cast aside by Islor’s cruel system. It doesn’t feel like nearly enough.
I pause for a moment to take in the water. Dilapidated skiffs creak and thud softly against the rickety docks to the rhythm of the waves. The approaching sunset bathes the bay in shades of coral, auburn, and gold, the colors bleeding into the evening sky. Despite their squalid circumstances, I envy these people for their view.
While we quietly linger here, laughter and revelry carry from the busy city streets, hinting at the influx of people who flood the gates each day for the market to peruse the wares and enjoy the vibrant atmosphere. Corrin said more come in anticipation of the tournament day.
The sounds of hooves against stone draw my eyes down the street. More soldiers on horseback trot along. Cirilea is crawling with the king’s army. Their uniforms are not the polished matching armor of the royal guard, but a varying medley, men pulled from various lords to serve at the king’s behest. Or Atticus’s, according to Zander’s bitter words the other day. At the helm of this cluster is his brother, sticking out in his shiny gold breastplate.
One of the men says something, and Atticus barks with laughter.
“He gets along well with them,” I note, even as my body tenses with an odd mix of confusion, apprehension, and guilt. Whatever happened between us, it was not me who was a party to it.
“He is a strong leader. I hazard many of them would follow him into the depths of the Great Rift. They respect him greatly. He does not take sacrificing their lives easily, nor in vain.”
Who, once upon a time, slept with your future wife. Despite everything Princess Romeria did, that must burn Zander’s pride. “He came to me yesterday, in the library.”
“I heard.” Zander’s sigh is soft.
“He doesn’t agree with this charade.”
“Yes, he’s told me many times.”
And yet Zander does not appear concerned by his brother’s continued disapproval, whereas that sharp prick of worry keeps jabbing me. But maybe disagreements are routine with siblings. I don’t have any experience with that. Or maybe it’s what it means to be king. Disapproval or not, those closest to you will always fall in line and play their roles.
Atticus sees us, and with a quick word, peels away from his group and steers his horse toward us. “Your Highness,” he offers cordially, dipping his head toward me. His black stallion is identical to Zander’s, and the pair of them loom over us.
“Anything of concern in the market?” Zander asks smoothly.
“Plenty of drunks who would cut themselves down with their own weapons before they could cause any harm.”