There were two herbs stored carefully in her pantry, innocuous by themselves, but vicious when mixed with mead. Once ingested, it would take ten minutes to begin its wake of destruction. Therefore, we need a distraction.
Kari is the first on the auction block, her eyes finding me in the crowd as she swallows nervously. There’s a collar around her throat and the warrior holding her leash wraps it around aring embedded in the platform at the far end of the room. She volunteered to put the collar on, locking herself and the others from her room back into their chambers, while the rest of us set to work.
“I’ll do it.” Kari’s nerves painted her cheeks pink. “I am no fighter, but I can use whatever wiles I own to serve as a distraction. Just… promise you won’t let them take me.”
“Never. You are brave,” I whispered in her ear as I hugged her. “And you are never alone. No matter what happens, remember that. This is how we defeat them. Together. Stay calm and I will find you.”
“Here,” calls the auctioneer as he circles behind her, “is a fertile wonder from a world of snow and ice.” His hand curls around her, groping her full breast before sliding lower to emphasise the rounded curve of her abdomen. “Note her ample hips, perfect for childbearing, and her pristine skin and hair. She has been well-nourished and protected in her world, and bears the mark of the Sage, which indicates her intelligence. All desirable traits for future offspring. The girl is an unplucked bloom, fully untutored in the arts of the flesh. An innocent such as this is a rare, rare gift, my friends?—”
“Ten thousand!” yells a thin merchant.
“Fifteen!” crows another, jumping to his feet.
The bidding war commences as I circle the room. It’s vicious and brutal, with two stabbings and a violent display of screaming before the auctioneer brings down his gavel. “Sold!” he bellows, pointing to an enormous warlord clad in leather. “Sold to the Clan Chief of the Mekoi.”
Through it all, Rhykus sits in the far corner, watching matters coldly as though his reptilian blood barely even stirs for flesh, let alone coin. His shaved head gleams in the lamplight, kohl lining his eyes. His copper skin is a similar shade to mine and he wears strict black robes cut of a martial style, withcrisp, clean lines. Everything about him speaks of precision, and there’s an absolute certainty about his manner that marks him clearly as the leader of his men. He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t have to. With one click of his fingers a man could lose his head, and they all know it.
Beside him sits a flamboyant scribe, marking notes upon a scroll. He swiftly flicks several beads on his abacus.
A serving girl approaches them, offering mead, but Rhykus waves it away, focused solely on the next girl being brought to auction.
The serving girl—Ilyana—hesitates as if uncertain what to do, and Rhykus’ cold gaze returns to her. She drops into a curtsy and backs away, shooting me a helpless look.
Perhaps it’s better this way. I want Rhykus dead but I’d like to be the one to drive that knife home myself. Poison is too clean a death for a fleshmonger.
And judging by the passage of time, we’re about to start seeing its effects.
“Sold!” bellows the auctioneer as Jinny is led away, trembling like a leaf. They chain her to a ring on the floor next to where Kari waits, where her new owner saunters over to inspect her, groping her body and checking her teeth in a way that makes my fist curl into a ball. The Mekoi clan chief already has his hand wrapped around Kari’s leash, and she looks like she wants to cry as he circles her.
Patience. It’s the hunter’s prayer.
But it’s hard to be patient when the rage burning inside me feels like a volcano about to erupt. I came here to find Aylin, but right now, the plight of these women stirs some part of me I haven’t felt in a long time.
I am not prey.
I am not a prize.
I am their ruin, with fire in my heart and defiance in my soul.
And I will end them all.
A man coughs in the audience, mead splattering across him as he brings his handkerchief to his lips. Heads turn, frowns forming, but nobody marks the blood spattered on that pristine silk except for its owner, who pauses and surveys the handkerchief again.
“A third bride,” the auctioneer calls, “straight from the icy tundra?—”
The man coughs again, hacking into his hand. The merchants and princes around him slide sideways on their benches, seeking to create distance.
Along the wall, one of Rhykus’s warriors suddenly clutches his throat, a bloodied froth forming on his lips. The room falls silent as heads turn. He lurches to his knees, his face turning purple before he slams face first to the floor.
“Widow’s Kiss,” Cook had murmured. “Fast. Effective. And irreversible.”
“What’s going on over there?” the auctioneer calls.
More bloodied coughs ring out. Men start clutching at their throats, faces darkening as they try to flee. Others scramble away from them, crying out as if they fear this is something contagious. One staggers into me and I knife him right in the kidneys, holding him from behind like a gentle lover as he slumps to the ground.
When I look up, Rhykus’ cold, glittering gaze is locked upon me as if he knows exactly who the instigator of this event is.
You, those vicious eyes say.
