“Lord Adley annoyed me.”
“Clearly.” Atticus folds his arms over his broad chest, a playful grin on his lips, even as his eyes drift to my neck where the daaknar’s teeth marks are no longer visible. “I liked this phony version of you, though. Has more bite than the other phony version. And it was effective with Adley. He’s been known to drone on forever. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen him retreat so quickly. You were convincing.”
“Maybe too convincing,” Zander says. “I doubt anyone conspiring against me will be in a rush to approach you anytime soon after that spectacle. I hope you are ready for a marriage neither of us wants.”
“You can always marry Saoirse instead.”
Atticus snorts.
Zander’s responding glare is lethal.
“And nothing I said out there will deter anyone. Whoever helped me must know it’s all an act, because they were part of it,” I counter. “They know I’m guilty. But no one with half a brain would come forward right now, anyway, and this person isn’t stupid or they would have already been caught. They’re going to sit back and watch for as long as possible. Figure out how I tricked you into buying my victim story.”
“Listen to the little conspirator. She’s right.” Atticus strolls over to his brother to give his shoulder a squeeze. Standing next to each other, I see they’re the same height, though Atticus has a wider build. He drags a chair out to settle into it, his powerful legs splayed. “You’ve given this until Hudem to play out. Now you must be patient, brother. I know that’s not one of your strong suits.”
Zander pinches the bridge of his nose. “This isn’t effortless for me.”
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—”