The captain’s hand moved casually to his sword hilt. “Lord Trevain has determined that previous collections were… insufficient given the abundance of this year’s crops.”
He watched villagers exchange worried glances. Tables half-decorated with festival bunting stood forgotten in the square. Women pulled children closer. Men looked at the ground, anger and helplessness etched in their faces.
The man’s gaze swept the crowd again, lingering on Lyric. His Beast snarled, recognizing the predatory assessment in the man’s eyes. His muscles bunched, ready to spring forward despite every rational thought screaming against it.
CHAPTER 10
Lyric’s stomach knotted as she stood at the edge of the village square. The emissaries’ polished armor glinted in the torch light, a stark contrast to the villagers’ worn clothing. The five men sat tall on their horses, looking down their noses at the gathering crowd. Their demand for information on any strangers was bad enough, but then their captain, a thin-faced man with cold eyes, unrolled a parchment.
“By decree of Lord Trevain, loyal servant to High King Lasseran, the harvest tribute is hereby increased to forty percent of all yields.”
Gasps rippled through the crowd, and her hands balled into fists at her sides.
“That’s double last year’s amount,” Elder Harta protested, her voice wavering. “We won’t survive winter with what remains.”
The captain’s lips curled. “The High King’s forces require provisions. Lord Trevain suggests you work harder.” He glanced at the decorations for the festival. “You seem to have enough to celebrate.”
“Those decorations cost nothing but time and care,” she found herself saying, stepping forward. “Taking forty percent will starve our children.”
The captain’s gaze slid to her, eyes narrowing. “And who might you be?”
“Just a beekeeper,” she answered, lifting her chin.
“Then mind your hives and leave matters of state to those who understand them.” He turned back to the Elders. “Additionally, Lord Trevain requires three able-bodied men from each village for service.”
“Service?” someone called out. “You mean for High King Lasseran’s army!”
The captain ignored the interruption.
“Collection begins tomorrow. Any resistance will be met with… appropriate measures.” His hand rested meaningfully on his sword hilt. “The High King’s influence grows daily. Those who support him now will find favor when the old order falls.”
These people had so little, yet Lasseran would take even more. She thought of Samha, of the other children whose families would go hungry. Behind her, she sensed movement and knew without looking that Egon had followed her. His presence steadied her, even as rage coursed through her veins.
“This isn’t tribute,” she said clearly. “It’s theft.”
The captain’s eyes flashed. “Watch your tongue, woman, or?—”
She swallowed hard as the captain’s threat hung in the air, and chanced a quick look over her shoulder. A large shadow moved in the darkness behind the tanner’s shed and she knew Egonwas positioning himself at her back. The comfort of his nearness steadied her racing heart as she turned back to the mounted soldiers.
Elder Harta stepped forward, her weathered hands spread in supplication. “Captain, please. We’ve always been loyal subjects. Surely there’s room for discussion.”
“The decree isn’t a negotiation,” the captain replied, rolling up his parchment with deliberate slowness.
Elder Tomas joined Harta, his normally jovial face grave. “Twenty-five percent would still be an increase from last year. We could manage that, with difficulty.”
Lyric watched the captain’s face harden. These men had no intention of compromising. She glanced around at the villagers—people who had taken her in, who had eventually accepted her despite her strangeness. Samha stood with his sister, eyes wide with fear.
“High King Lasseran’s patience with this region grows thin,” the captain said. “The Old Kingdom’s days are numbered. Those who resist the inevitable change will not be treated kindly.”
“We’re simple farmers,” Elder Harta pleaded. “Not politicians. We just want to feed our families.”
The captain leaned forward in his saddle. “Then I suggest you become very efficient at farming what remains to you.” His gaze swept over the crowd. “Forty percent. Three men. Tomorrow.”
Unease rippled through the crowd, and her heart ached for them. These were good people who worked hard for everything they had. They didn’t deserve this.
“The High King is most generous,” the captain continued, straightening in his saddle. “He could take everything. Remember that when you count your blessings tonight.”
Elder Tomas tried once more. “If we could perhaps spread the collection over several weeks?—”