Worse, a small, niggling prick in my conscience says I should have insisted we tell him everything. He has a right to feel betrayed.
Approaching boot steps announce Zorya seconds before she stops at our table. “Witch.”
“Is something the matter?” Worry mars Gesine’s face as she peers up at the warrior. “Is it Ianca?”
“Still alive. Babbling in another language. She sleeps more than a dormant nethertaur.” Zorya shifts her one eye to Zander. “We have gathered them all outside, Your Highness.”
“How many are there?”
“Many.”
“Fates.” Zander smooths a hand over his mouth as we take in the crowd of mortals standing in the square.
Young men and women.
Children.
There must be fifty total. The Legion circles, weapons drawn, but their blades aren’t meant for them. The warriors are facing off against the indignant spectators watching from beyond, many armed with weapons of their own.
“Who are they?” I ask.
“Tributaries we found locked in cellars when we were looking for Iago and Drakon.”
“There are children here.” A rush of adrenaline stirs inside me. I focus on my breathing before my emotions take over.
“Yes. Their keepers insisted they were protecting them for the future, though we’ve heard claims that suggest otherwise.” Zander glares at the immortals beyond the ring. They look like wolves, circling and eager to pick off prey. “They’re declaring they have the right to protect themselves by Isembert’s law.”
“And Atticus’s, too, I would wager,” Elisaf mutters. “As soon as we leave, they’ll tuck them back into their cages.”
This is what Zander predicted would happen, and it’s all because blood from this body I inhabit—my body now—is being dispersed in vials.
Jarek paces along a fence line, his sword casually twirling within his grasp. An arrogant taunt for those along the perimeter, or an itch to trade blows? Is it the kill he enjoys, or does he thrill in delivering harsh punishment to those who deserve it?
Either way, it has the desired effect. The keepers near him have shifted back.
“Those came on their own, Your Highness.” Brynn points to a smaller group of sixteen mortals. Three families, by the look of it. “They are asking to receive their mark from the king.”
“Have they all taken the poison?” Zander asks, looking to Gesine.
“I cannot know until I check each of them, but I imagine they have and are now responding to your offer.”
I study a little girl hugging a stuffed animal to her chest, her mother with a protective hand on her shoulder. It reminds me of Gracen and her kids. “It won’t matter if they haven’t, now that they’ve come here.” Their keepers will have them killed either way.
“Romeria is right. There is no going back for them now.” Pity fills Gesine’s face.
“They should have run. Now they may as well slip nooses around their children’s necks.” Zorya throws a casual hand toward the gallows. “Why would they be so stupid?”
Last night, all I could see—all I focused on—were the people within the contraptions and how to get them out. Now I see the elaborate construction of Norcaster’s death square for what it is: a staging platform, the long, wooden beams that provide ample space for mortals to hang. More than functional—a performance to provoke fear.
One side has collapsed, splintered in the battle.
Idid that.
I remember now.
A perfect blackened circle surrounds the pillories where I huddled with and protected the victims. I did that, too, with merely a thought, and then Zander and the legionaries defended them.
How long after we leave will one of these circling vultures name themselves the new Isembert and have those gallows repaired?