Chapter 62
Alinore
IN THE MAIN square of Fiaezno, a crowd lingered before the Sanctuary doors, waiting for the herald.
Some wore the cloches of the Mountain folk, their faces tense and tight-lipped beneath white, folded headdresses, while others stood quietly with solemn expressions.
This was not the raucous, bloodthirsty pack Alinore normally witnessed in the capital, using the Maiden Sacrifice as an excuse for anarchy.
The people of Fiaezno – a small market town on the road to the city – were grave and respectful, waiting for the announcement of this spring’s maiden.
Even so, Alinore kept the horses back, standing in the shadows at the edge of the square.
She had no desire to draw attention to herself or hear the herald’s message.
If she and Prince Ottone kept up their steady pace, they should reach Tormale by nightfall, just as the Maiden Sacrifice feasts began.
They would discover the name of the poor, dead girl then anyway. There was no need to hear it yet.
The wooden door of the nearby tavern swung open and Alinore looked up.
An old man staggered out, spitting and leering, and she pursed her lips, holding back a sigh of annoyance.
Prince Ottone had left to buy them some food, but she had already been lingering here longer than she would wish.
Now that she had decided to return to Tormale, she wanted to get the journey over with.
Staying still for too long made her wonder if she should not have turned back at all.
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 herald made 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.
‘The Princess?’ 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 into silence 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?’
Alinore swallowed back a wave of nausea. ‘It must be,’ she whispered.
Prince Ottone shook his head, his face aghast. ‘I don’t understand,’ he whispered. ‘This can’t be happening.’
Alinore nodded, but she understood with disturbing certainty that this was happening.
‘She’s my sister,’ Prince Ottone continued. ‘She can’t be the Maiden Sacrifice. She’s the Princess!’ He shook Alinore’s shoulders, as if desperate for her to believe him. ‘She’s my sister!’
Rage bloomed in Alinore’s chest, red and blinding. She clenched her jaw, forcing down the scream building in her throat. ‘I left Cress,’ she choked out, guilt hitting her gut, hot and burning. ‘I abandoned her. I shouldn’t have left her.’
Prince Ottone was barely listening. ‘I know Samsel has always been cruel but this? How could he do this? How could anyone let this happen?’
They looked at one another.
A long, breathless moment passed between them.
Then Alinore spun around and began gathering Flint’s reins. Thrusting her foot into the stirrup, she hauled herself back into the saddle. ‘We have to stop it.’
Prince Ottone stepped back, also reaching instinctively for his own mount. ‘But they’ll hold the ceremony this afternoon,’ he said. ‘We won’t reach Tormale in time.’
‘Then we’ll go straight to the mountains.’ Alinore turned Flint’s head in the direction of the main road, eyes narrowed against the sunlight. ‘You showed me the Maiden’s Path once. Do you still remember where it is?’
Prince Ottone nodded.
Alinore’s fingers tightened around the reins, her body thrumming with adrenaline and a rising, helpless grief.
She could already picture Cressyda adorned in the fiery red robes, surrounded by stone-faced attendants, walking a trail of smoking flames through the main square and towards the mountains.
Her friend would be alone and terrified, waiting to die in the name of hideous tradition.
‘We must go,’ she said, her voice breaking into a sob. ‘We have to stop them.’