“Do not do it,” Gesine whispers. “I will heal the girl so she is fit to ride, but do not do what you and I would both like to. Allow the king his day of judgment.” With another pause, as if to make sure I’ve heard her, she releases me and leads Eden away with a gentle smile.
The legionaries and servants file out of the manor’s stables, two by two, the latter wearing bewildered looks. They’re terrified, but the more I learn about this wretched place, the more I think they’d be safer in Venhorn with the saplings than staying here.
Soon, only a handful of warriors remains beside Elisaf.
“I can see why you would have to keep such a large household.” Zander draws open the gate that leads into the orchard. It relents with a loud creak, revealing what I didn’t grasp in the darkness last night. Fruit trees stretch as far as I can see. There must be hundreds of them. “It would require many hands to produce all the goods you sell at the fair, all the barrels of mead and wine you trade.” Zander props open the gate door with a hook. “All the farmers you sell rotten fruit to for their soil and animals. So much produced for the town of Freywich and its prominent keepers, who also all have full households. I imagine those servants work here?”
“We need many hands to manage an orchard this size.” Lady Danthrin’s voice is strained. “Our town’s keepers are generous with their labor.”
“But not the fruits of that labor, from what I can see. Tell me, Lady Danthrin, do you feel you’ve paid the kingdom a suitable tithe?”
I see where he’s going with this now. It’s where my head was going with memories of Sneaky Pete last night.
Lady Danthrin fumbles with a silk ribbon on her dress. “My husband manages such matters, of course, so it would be best to discuss them with him.”
“I do not have to discuss anything with Lord Danthrin. I’ve confirmed it on my own. You have been painting yourselves a struggling lordship for years, yet you and a handful of unscrupulous keepers now thrive on trade that you’ve built on the backs and suffering of Freywich’s mortals. All while lying to the king to avoid paying appropriate taxes.”
She swallows. “I will speak to my lord at once and ensure reparations are made if what you claim is indeed true.”
Zander’s eyebrow arches. “Are you suggesting I do not know what I speak of?”
Her head shakes furtively. “No, Your Highness. Of course not.”
His gaze lingers on her before shifting to Gesine, whose focus is on Eden’s back, the dress unfastened to expose whatever atrocities hide beneath. It then flips to Abarrane.
To the flaming torch suddenly in her grasp.
With an eerie calm, Zander turns to face the orchard, his tall and powerful body framed within the two sides of the wall.
As one, the trees burst into flame, blazing with the intensity of a lit match against a gasoline-soaked woodpile. Only the fire doesn’t die down. It burns and burns and burns, hundreds of fiery orange balls, black smoke billowing into the sky, a beacon of warning for anyone within miles.
We stand, speechless, as Zander razes the entire orchard, expressions ranging from open horror on Lady Danthrin’s face to grim satisfaction on the warriors.
And Gesine? I can only describe that look as pure, unbridled joy, either at his actions or at this display of raw power, or both, a story that will undoubtedly spread through all of Islor. She knew. The moment Zander walked into the apothecary, she saw the strength of his affinity to Malachi.
As quickly as they erupted, the flames vanish, leaving nothing but charred trunks.
I’m torn between ugly pleasure—Danthrin will feel Zander’s wrath for years—and despair, for all the people that produce could have fed. But I can see Zander’s rationale without him needing to explain it to me. Ordering Danthrin to distribute this food to the hungry townspeople would have been pointless. He knows Zander is no longer king.
Elsewhere in the town, shouts carry as people panic, not realizing the black smoke leads to nothing but ash.
Within the Danthrin manor, stripped of servants and horses, the only sound is Zander’s footfalls on the dirt ground as he approaches the noblewoman, until he towers over her trembling frame.
“Tell me, Lady Danthrin, do you still think me gutless?”
I didn’t think she could pale more.
“You owe your life to Hudem’s blessing in your womb. Without it, you would already be dead. But make no mistake, I will return one day, and if I do not discover a vast improvement in the treatment of the mortals of Freywich, you will not survive a second time. You may go.”
She falters a step and then rushes for her empty house, nearly tripping twice.
“Does the princess find the actions I’ve taken satisfactory?” Zander’s voice is light and airy, a hint of mocking in his tone, his eyes, blank.
Yes, I want to say.
No, I want to scream, because it makes it impossible for me to hate him when he does things like this.
I shrug. “It’s a start.”