Elisaf collects them from us and wordlessly takes a sip, then another. After a moment, he sets them down with a murmur of “exceptionally sweet” and shifts back.
He’s checking for poison.
“He risks his life like that every time you have a glass of wine?” There’s incredulity in my voice.
“Since you brought poison with you to Islor, yes. If it hasn’t already been tested by another.” Zander pauses. “Would you rather he didn’t? Have you tired of me already?”
I shake my head. “I’d rather Elisaf not be the taste tester.”
“You’d have someone else risk their life, then. Abarrane, perhaps?”
I glance over my shoulder to where the warrior stands with her hand angled toward her hilt. Even with her shoulder bandaged, she looks coiled to attack. “I’d rather no one did.”
“Tell that to your former self. She seemed intent on murdering us all.”
I give up on lightening his mood, shifting my focus to the games.
The sun has dipped below the horizon when the last victor bows—a burly soldier whose weapon of choice was a spike-riddled mace. His opponent is carried off on a stretcher. He’s not the only one today. I fear some of these challengers are beyond Wendeline’s talents.
And yet the spectators clap and cheer and scream with every brutal round, as if this is purely for entertainment.
“It is time,” Zander murmurs.
I tense when the first of two wagons is pulled in by brawny workhorses, three wooden crosses erected on each, the prisoners already tied and waiting. I remember wondering before why the pyres, why not a guillotine or a simple blade? But seeing their reverence for Malachi’s flame everywhere I look, I think I understand now. He is their creator.
Still, I abhor it.
Even more, I abhor the impatience that hangs in the air.
Zander’s body is taut with tension when he stands. A hush falls over the crowd, as if everyone has been waiting for this moment.
The wagons make a slow parade around the arena floor.
“People of Islor,” Zander begins, his deep voice carrying through the entire arena—at least it seems that way. “A plague scourges our lands in the form of a poison, the same poison that took our beloved King Eachann and Queen Esma. We are hunting it down and will prevail against it. Unfortunately, there are Islorians among us who have given in to malice. We cannot allow that. They must pay for their crime of murder with their lives.”
Murmurs erupt in waves.
The wagons roll into place, and I force myself to take in the six tributaries who were swayed by dreams of freedom from their forced duties.
My stomach drops.
Four of the prisoners are children, the oldest no more than fifteen.
“Zander.” I rise, the impulse to stop this display overwhelming.
“I see it,” he says through gritted teeth.
Two women are with them. Their mothers, likely. All wear masks of fear, though in varying degrees. The two boys—maybe thirteen—hold their chins high in a show of bravery, but the dark stains running down their pants tell a different story.
“Where is Lord Stoll?” Zander calls out, his voice overly calm, icy.
A man in fine livery who was standing in the square steps forward to bow. These are servants from his lands. “Your Highness.”
“I was told you were submitting six tributaries for punishment. Why are there four children before me?”
“Your Highness, because they’ve murdered their keepers.”
“And how would anyone know that they have this poison running through their veins?”