A horse and rider clattered into the square, golden dragons emblazoned upon their purple liveries.
All heads turned towards them and there was a collective intake of breath.
The Sanctuary bells began to ring, clanging a steady, tolling beat.
Alinore thought she saw a few of the cloche-wearers in the crowd clutch their chests with a look of relief – there was only one horse.
Everyone stilled.
The herald hurried to the Sanctuary doors, tearing open a scroll. The neighbouring town of Pontepulcio was large enough to have its own Master, who would have received news of this spring’s Maiden Sacrifice as soon as it was announced. It was then the local herald’s task to ride to each nearby town, village and hamlet, declaring the name of the girl. Alinore thought it was perhaps the worst job she could think of, though she knew it was considered a prestigious role.
‘I come on behalf of His Majesty King Samsel Donolaino of Calestra …’ the herald began when the Sanctuary bells had fallen silent.
Alinore turned her back with a grimace. One of the benefits of running away had been the thought that she would not have to stay in a kingdom with Samsel on the throne. It made her stomach clench, and she fiddled with a lock of Flint’s black mane to distract herself, tapping one booted foot on the cobblestones as the heraldmade his announcement. Prince Ottone was taking a ridiculously long time. If they did not hurry up, the main road into Tormale would soon be cluttered and busy with travellers.
Suddenly, gasps and cries erupted from all around.
Alinore looked up.
‘ThePrincess?’ someone shouted.
‘Is that what he just said?’ another voice yelled.
‘The Princess is going to be the Maiden Sacrifice?’ someone else called.
Townsfolk were gazing blankly at one another, their mouths hanging open, while children rushed off, sharing the news in dismayed glee, spreading it around the square.
‘Oi!’ bellowed a man, jabbing a thick finger at the herald. ‘Did you just say the Princess’s name?’
Everyone waited.
‘The honour of the three-hundredth Maiden Sacrifice has fallen upon the people of Tormale and the chosen maiden is to be Cressyda Donolaino,’ repeated the herald. He gathered up his reins and added with a shrug, ‘Apparently she has Mountain blood.’
More shrieks and yelps echoed around the square as the herald kicked his horse and cantered away, heading in the direction of the next village.
‘But how can this have happened?’ someone yelled.
‘She’s not really a princess. She’s an orphan, remember?’ a voice replied.
‘I always thought she was so lucky,’ said another. ‘I’d never have guessed she was one of the Mountain folk.’
‘I bet she doesn’t feel lucky now!’ someone else scoffed.
Alinore stood very still.
Everything around her seemed to slow, sounds warping intosilence as her mind raced ahead, stringing fragments of conversation into a single, chilling truth. Then it clicked into place with horrifying clarity.
Cressyda had been chosen as this spring’s Maiden Sacrifice.
Cressyda was going to die.
A sick wooziness rushed over Alinore and she staggered against Flint’s black, velvety flank for support. She wanted to believe that she had been mistaken – they all had – but there was something terribly definite about it. Of course this would happen. Of course King Samsel would do something like this. It was shocking and yet utterly believable. King Samsel had always hated Cressyda and now he had found the perfect way to destroy her, cloaked in ritual and ceremony.
‘Alinore!’
She turned to see Prince Ottone rushing out of the tavern, running towards her. His hands were scrunched into fists, his eyes wide and strained. He knew.
‘Is it true?’ he cried, almost crashing into her, clutching hold of her shoulders. ‘Is what they’ve just announced in the tavern true?’
