Queen of Myth and Monsters (Adrian X Isolde, #2)(34)

“Your name?” Adrian asked, expressing no irritation over his boldness.

“I am Oskar of Scarif, my king,” he said, and I could tell by how he spoke, his breaths were shallow. He was working up his courage, and as he began, his voice shook and his eyes watered. “You cannot deny your people have suffered. We have been witness to the corruption of the crimson mist, the horror of the monsters in our woods, and now an illness tormenting our children. My oldest son was stricken first. He died an agonizing death, eyes bleeding, unable to stop screaming, and we were forced to watch. My wife and daughter also fell ill, but it was my youngest son I lost, the same as the first.”

He spoke, emphasizing his words with his movements, jabbing his fingers and clenching his fists, and where before he had fueled his speech with grief, it now turned to anger.

A weight settled upon my chest as I listened to the man talk about the deaths of his children, and that dread slowly turned into fear as he continued.

“And I am not the only one. Many in my village have had similar deaths, all children, all sons. We have all met, and we can find no other common link between them.”

My first thought was of Ravena and the crimson mist, but I had no certainty in making that connection. This illness could be something much more natural, and to assign magic to it would cause unrest.

Adrian allowed a beat of silence to pass before he spoke. He sounded both serious and emotionless. “Anyone else beyond the bounds of Scarif experience the same?”

“My son, my king,” said a woman who raised her hand and stumbled forward.

“Mine, my king, mine!” said another woman.

A quiet murmur erupted in the hall, and it carried into the foyer and the courtyard.

“Silence!” Adrian ordered, and his eyes fell to the woman who had come forward. “You, tell me your story.”

“I am Lina from Gal,” she said. “My son was young and strong, healthy, but he came down with a fever we could not tame and then the convulsions started. When he died, blood dripped from his eyes and mouth.”

“And you?” he asked the next woman.

“I am Mara, my king, also from Gal. She speaks the truth. My son died the very same.”

There was silence after that as Adrian considered their words, but the crowd had become uneasy hearing these reports. They shifted on their feet and whispered, growing louder until someone shouted, “It is witchcraft!”

My heart raced, and suddenly this crowd had become the enemy as they raised their voices in fear and agreement.

Adrian stood, his powerful presence silencing the crowd.

“Bring forth the accuser,” he said, and a guard pushed a man forward from the throng. He was short and bald, his round body draped in heavy wool, and despite how confidently he had called out his accusation, he looked frightened now.

“What evidence do you have to support your claim?” Adrian asked.

“You cannot deny that Revekka has been under attack. We have seen the crimson mist corrupt our people. Now it feeds our monsters. Is it so difficult to believe that it might also feed this plague?”

“Plague can be spread at will by vampires,” I said. “And yet you do not accuse your king. Why witches?”

It was the first time I had spoken, and I felt Adrian’s curious gaze on me, but I was angry. This man had already done irreversible damage. He had offered a way for people to rationalize illness, and the more it spread, the more hysteria would rise, and the only explanation any of these people would consider would be witchcraft.

“I would never accuse my king,” said the man.

And yet you would accuse your queen, I thought.

“This illness could have been borne of anything.”

“I acknowledge that we must consider more than one cause,” he said and narrowed his eyes. “But it would seem you wish to rule out magic altogether.”

“And you seem inclined to create hysteria.”

At that moment, a man stepped out from the crowd. He was tall and broad and wore bronzed armor with a black cloak and gloves. I did not recognize the color combination as any from the Nine Houses, and he was far too regal to be from a Revekkian village.

“You appear eager to speak,” Adrian said, directing his attention to the stranger, who took a moment to bow. As he straightened, his gaze darted to me, and it took everything in my power to remain still, not to shiver under his stare. There was something about how he looked at me, as if there were no depth to his eyes, that left me unsettled, and I found myself releasing my blade from its holder, seeking the comfort of its hilt in my hand.

“I believe I might be useful,” he answered. His voice was low and deep. If there had been any other noise within the room, I wouldn’t have been able to hear him.

“And you are?” Adrian asked.

“I am called Solaris,” he said.

“Have you no country?”

“I have no allegiance,” he said.

The villagers exchanged looks, seemingly just as confused as I was.

“Then why have you come to Revekka?” Adrian asked.

“To hunt a witch.”

Chaotic chatter broke out at his comment, and I rose to my feet, gritting my teeth as I spoke to Adrian.

“End this,” I said. “Now.”

He looked at me, his eyes passing over my face once before he turned back to the witch-hunter, but he hesitated as he started to speak, eyes narrowing. When I followed his gaze, I saw Noblesse Dracul pushing through the crowd. He was dirty and dressed in black; his clothes were weathered and worn. Something about the way he moved seemed wrong. He was staggering, almost as if he were drunk…but the longer I looked, the more I realized that he did not have dirt on his face.