He pulls himself up, spitting out bits of hay while surveying his sodden and filthy clothes.
Not dirt, I realize. The day’s collection from the horse stalls.
A bubble of laughter bursts from my mouth before I can stop it, drawing all eyes to my window. I fight the urge to duck behind the curtains when the keeper finds me there, a mixture of shock and rage filling his expression.
More stuffy immortals herd their tributaries through the stable gate, some waving at them like cattle.
“This must be the Ybarisan princess we’ve heard about,” the horseshit-covered keeper pushes through gritted teeth. “To what do I owe this treatment?” He doesn’t cap it with any address—even for show, as Danthrin did—and I immediately know what he thinks of himself and of me.
I glower at him, forcing ice into my tone. “They are human beings, not your possessions.”
“If you are to be the queen of Islor, I suggest you familiarize yourself with Islor’s customs.” His chuckle is condescending as he looks to the other keepers gathered.
“And I suggest you start treating those who keep you alive better before they rise against you.” You have no idea what’s coming, you arrogant fuck. A part of me hopes one of these young women is handed a vial and decides she’s had enough.
He cocks his head. “What you’re suggesting would be tantamount to treason against the crown.”
“And what is being suggested?” comes a deep voice.
My heart was already pounding, but now it skips entire beats as Zander strolls past the tributaries who drop with deep curtsies, their keepers following quickly. His mane of golden-brown hair looks freshly washed. He’s replaced his ragged outfit with fitted and finely made black leathers similar to the Legion’s clothing, with as many weapons strapped to his solid frame. He appears just as deadly.
Abarrane is close on his heels with two other warriors—one the size of Horik, his arms laden with a wooden keg, another carrying an enormous metal platter stacked with roasted meat.
“What is happening here?” Zander’s focus shifts from the keeper to the puddle of water at his boots and the clumps of horseshit and straw clinging to his fine coat, to the trough of water, and then lastly to the window where I stand.
I offer a mock innocent shrug. Gesine did say to practice.
“Never mind, I think I have an idea.” He sighs heavily. “I appreciate your generosity. The Legion will ensure a safe escort for your tributaries back to your home once they’ve provided their service.” He raises his voice to address the other keepers. “All of your tributaries.”
My teeth grit. Their service. Will I ever get used to this?
Several keepers move for the gate, grasping the dismissal. But the horseshit one hasn’t. “Your Highness, I am Ambrose Villier, a dear friend of Lord Danthrin’s. I must say, I am surprised to see you here on the last days of Cirilea’s fair—”
“No one cares what surprises you.” Steel rings in the court as Abarrane draws her sword. From this view, she appears a full head shorter than Villier, but she doesn’t so much as flinch while peering up at him. “Leave now, or I’ll ensure you leave in parts, beginning with your slippery tongue, Ambrose Villier.”
The keeper rushes away.
My gaze settles on Zander.
“Your people skills are improving,” he teases her, smoothing a hand over the back of his neck, a tell for the tension building.
She slides her sword back in place. “Do not pretend you keep me at your side for those skills.”
“No, I do not. But you should go and feed. You have been in an exceptionally foul mood lately. More than usual.”
She moves for the line of tributaries that Gesine has cleared but stops abruptly, her eyes skimming my window. “And what about His Highness? Should I bring one for you, or would you prefer to choose?”
But of course, Zander will take a vein tonight. It’s been weeks, and he needs all the strength he can gather, now more than ever.
I know this, and yet the question lands like a blade, piercing my chest.
As I’m sure Abarrane intended.
Zander studies the group, and I hold my breath, waiting for him to glance my way. He knows I’m watching. He always does.
“That one.” His jaw is tense. “The one on the end.”
I swallow the growing lump as I search out the tributary he means. A brunette with rosy cheeks and full curves steps forward, curtsying deeply. When she rises, she’s smiling.
Maybe she doesn’t mind being fed on, or maybe it’s the king she doesn’t mind.
His return smile, albeit small—nothing more than a slight twitch at the corners of his mouth—twists my stomach with dread.
I move away from the window before anyone can see my misery.