The Young Elites (The Young Elites, #1)(85)

Far north of the island nation of Kenettra, on the high Skyland plains of the nation of Beldain, Crown Princess Maeve dips her hands in holy water in preparation for a prisoner’s execution. She squints up at the clouds covering the sky, then out at the long length of bridge that leads from her and the Hadenbury Palace gates out into the city. The winds are strong, for a summer day. They whistle against the gates behind her, singing some haunted tune, and the smattering of people who have gathered for the executions huddle closer together on either side of the gates, braving the cold and peering curiously over the heads of soldiers.

Maeve gathers her furs higher around her neck, bracing herself against the winds in front of the gates, and then turns her attention to the chained man groveling at her feet. Tiny ornaments dangling in her hair clink together in the wind. Third prisoner today. She sighs. If I’m going to spend a day killing people, I should at least be on the battlefield. Shooting arrows into weak, staggering prisoners is no fun at all.

Behind her, in a perfect line, stand her six older brothers. At her side, her white Beldish tiger sits languidly, staring at the prisoner with lazy golden eyes, her fur long and thick and slashed with gold stripes. They match the fierce lines of gold painted across Maeve’s own face. Amazing, really, how much a skinny adolescent tiger taken from the forests of the northern Skylands can grow in a year.

She leans a hand against the hilt of her sword. “Do you have a confession?” she says to the prisoner. Her voice rings out low, harsh, and grating, just like her mother’s, loud enough for the audience to hear. “Speak, so that I may decide whether you are deserving of a swift death.”

Maeve can barely understand the prisoner’s reply through his sobs. He crawls as close to her as he can, until the guards flanking him shove him back. He manages to brush dirty fingers against the edges of her boots. “Your Highness,” he manages to say through his shaking voice. He turns his head up to her, eyes wet and pleading, and wipes at the lines of dirt and blood painting his face. Maeve wrinkles her nose in disgust. Hard to believe this man was once nobility. “I have my confession. I—I have shamed this land which Holy Fortuna has blessed. I do not deserve to live. I—Your Royal Highness, I am your humble—”

“Your confession, Sir Briadhe,” she interrupts, her tone bored. She wears her braids high in warrior fashion today, fierce ropes of entwined locks that run along either side of her head, pushing her hair up like the hackles on a wolf’s back. Half of her hair is dark blond; the other half is midnight black. The great goddess Fortuna, keeper of Beldain, had blessed her with this marking, among other things.

The prisoner’s sobbing continues. He confesses through trembling lips, something about adultery and affairs, rage and murder, how he had killed his fleeing wife with a dagger in her back. How he kept stabbing her even after she was dead.

The audience murmurs in low voices as he speaks. When he finishes, Maeve’s eyes sweep the scene, pondering the appropriate punishment. After a moment, she looks back down at the prisoner. “Sir Briadhe,” she says. She pulls the heavy crossbow from her back. “I will make you a deal.”

The man glances up at her, a sudden rush of hope lighting his eyes. “A deal?”

“Yes. Look behind you. Do you see this long bridge that we stand on? How it leads beyond the palace grounds and into the city?” Maeve nods off into the distance as she starts to notch an arrow to her crossbow. “Make it to the end of the bridge before I count to ten, and I will strip you of your title and let you live in exile.”

The prisoner gasps. Then he crawls to Maeve again and starts to kiss her boots. “I will,” he says in a rush. “I will, thank you, Princess, thank you, Your Highness.”

“Well?” Maeve says as the man’s guards haul him up onto his feet. She tightens her grip on the crossbow. The guards step aside, leaving the man to sway on his own. “You had better get going.”

She hefts the crossbow to her shoulder and begins to count. “One. Two.”

The prisoner panics. He whirls around, picks up his chains, and starts to run as quickly as he can. He stumbles over his chains in his haste, but manages to catch himself in time. The crowd starts to chant, then shout. Maeve squints down the line of her crossbow. She continues to count.

“Seven. Eight. Nine.”

The prisoner is too slow. Maeve lets her arrow fly. Equal crime, her mother always said, equal punishment.

It hits him squarely in his calf. He screams, then collapses in a heap. Frantically he pushes himself back onto his feet, then staggers onward. Maeve calmly notches another arrow, then lifts it and shoots again. This time, she aims for his other leg. It strikes true. The man falls hard. His sobbing pierces the air. The crowds cheer. The prisoner is a few yards from the last post—he starts to drag himself on his elbows.

Prisoners are always so damn desperate when they stare death in the face.

Maeve watches him crawl for a moment. Then she kneels down to her tiger. “Go,” she commands.

The tiger pounces from her side. Moments later, the prisoner’s wails change into high-pitched screams. Maeve looks on as the audience cheers. The sight brings her no joy. She holds up her hands for silence, and the shouts cut off sharply. “This is no occasion for applause,” she calls out in disapproval. “The queen does not tolerate cold-blooded murder in the great nation of Beldain. Let this be a lesson to you all.”