Chapter 1
One
One year later
I’m in the royal garden, sweating like a salted eggplant, when I hear the scream. A long jagged cry that rattles the cornstalks and shakes the heart-shaped leaves of the newly sprouted bagrava.
I immediately think of Rowenna.
Not because she’d scream like that—my sister would rather die than look so weak—but because it reminds me of the screams that filled my head the day she left.
They day the Vanzadorians took her.
The trowel I’m holding slides through my fingers…which is when I realize they’re shaking.
“What was that?” Lewis sits back on his heels and squints across the rows of purple bagrava to the colorful patchwork of fields beyond.
There are squares of corn, beans, soy, and wheat as far as the eye can see, but Lewis and I, like the two other master gardeners Earth Mother blessed with the ability to cultivate bagrava, are always here—meticulously tending our most precious crop.
If we fail to harvest the fleshy purple fruit and return it to the earth to enrich the fallow soil, nothing else will grow.
Our beautiful farmlands will once again become as desolate as the surrounding Tomb Flats and our people will starve.
No pressure.
“I’m sure it was nothing,” I say, waving my trowel in the direction of the noise.
But Lewis continues biting his lip and peering into the distance. “That didn’t sound like nothing, Indira. And who would be so careless this close to harvest?”
He has a point. Even Tashiri toddlers know how finicky the bagrava seedlings are.
They must be constantly coaxed with Earth Mother’s sacred incantations until the stalks are mature enough to form leaves.
Then the fruit must be left to grow in relative silence until harvest. Any disturbance will cause it to wither to half its size—and half its strength.
“I’m sure it was just a baby or an animal,” I say. “Have you considered all your worrying is just as loud?” I toss a clot of soil at Lewis’s chest, but he doesn’t even crack a smile.
“It sounded…distressed.”
I give him a blistering look. The one Rowenna insists is to blame for my lack of friends. But I don’t have time for friends—other than her—and “the look” is good for productivity.
“I didn’t spend the last two weeks slathered in turkey dung, singing until my voice ran out, for the fruit to wither now—over nothing,” I scold.
“This field needs to be sown with peas by the week’s end, but that can’t happen unless it’s conditioned first—which means we need to do more harvesting and less blustering. ”
Lewis shakes his head and mutters, “I thought this crop of bagrava was headed to Vanzador?”
“Half of it is,” I say bitterly. “Which is precisely why we don’t have time to sit here and fret. Harvest is going to be tight.”
“Harvest is always tight, thanks to those rock pushers,” Lewis grumbles as he gets back to work.
I do the same, spreading my arms over the bagrava like a mother hen, enjoying the comforting rhythm of scraping trowels and our murmured incantations. The beat is so steady, the smell of freshly churned soil so soothing, I almost forget the scream. Almost convince myself we imagined it.
But then it comes again—more of a wail this time.
The hairs on my arms lift one by one. Lewis and I lock eyes, and this time, I don’t bother trying to invent an excuse.
The shrill, mournful voice is too drawn out to be a child.
Too early in the evening to be the shrieking bats that wreak havoc on our mango trees.
And too familiar to be anyone other than my mother—the unflinching queen of Tashir—screaming.
I shoot to my feet, heart pounding like a fist in my chest, trying to make sense of what I’m hearing.
What I can’t be hearing.
Mother’s like Ro. She isn’t the sort to scream about a mouse in the pantry or an impudent servant.
In fact, she alone remained calm when floods swept through the hillock palace the summer I turned seven.
And during the blight-filled year I turned ten.
Yet her earsplitting cry is unmistakable, carrying across the fields even louder than the noisy crows that always perch on the fence.
Even they have fallen disconcertingly quiet, heads cocked toward the palace.
Go, my pounding heart urges. Make sure everyone is safe.
But an old, infected splinter of a thought keeps my boots rooted to the soil.
Would Mother come running if I were the one screaming?
Would she even hear me? She and Father have hardly glanced in my direction since Rowenna left.
Growing up, I always—na?vely—assumed they loved us equally.
Isn’t that what all parents say? I could never choose between you!
But there’s no denying the discontinued family dinners, the forgotten banquets and birthdays…
Stop this, Indira, Rowenna’s voice snaps like a twig in my ear, as clear as if she were standing beside me. This is no time to get caught up in silly comparisons.
It isn’t the first time my sister has spoken to me. I’ve been hearing her for a year now. Since the day she left for Vanzador. It’s the only way I’ve been able to cope with having half of my heart ripped out and dragged across the Tomb Flats.
Mother screams again, and now the Rowenna in my head is screaming to.
If you’re so eager to be like me, move! I would be home already.
Swallowing the bitter lump clogging my throat, I take off running, careful not to trample the bagrava Lewis and I have nursed more lovingly than a newborn babe.
“Indira, wait!” he calls after me. “We’re not finished!
And it might not be safe. At least let me escort you!
” He gives chase—as if he truly cares—but his big clumsy feet can’t navigate the planting rows as quickly as mine.
And everyone knows it’s Rowenna he loves.
He only glommed on to me after she left because I look like her—same curly brown hair and freckle-dusted cheeks.
He’s accidentally called me by her name more times than I can count.
I’d have weeded him out ages ago if I didn’t require a planting partner and if he wasn’t the second-best master gardener in Tashir.
Lewis continues shouting, but I quicken my pace, my haversack thumping wildly against my back.
It’s probably hanging open and spilling seeds, since I didn’t stop to buckle it.
The thought of daisies pushing up through the carefully-manicured stone pathway and lemon balm sneaking into the lettuce beds would normally make me twitch.
But another cry blasts across the fields, and I run faster.
Trowels and spades swing wildly from my hip belt.
The vials of plant food strapped across my chest rattle and clank.
In the surrounding bagrava fields, the two other master gardeners sit still as scarecrows, their eyes wide and their faces turned toward the green knoll of the hillock palace.
Instead of murmuring to the bagrava, they speak to each other, uttering words we were never supposed to hear after Father signed the treaty with King Soren of Vanzador:
“Invasion. Marauders.”
My eyes instinctively go to the jagged mountain range standing sentinel over our fields.
Three years ago,King Soren used his power to erect the rocky barrier along the length of Tashir’s border in exchange for monthly tributes of bagrava and my sister, when she came of age at eighteen.
He promised it would seal the Marauders out, and so far, it has.
The robbers haven’t stepped foot in Tashir to loot our bagrava in so long, memories of the relentless raids of my childhood have finally begun to soften.
But one scream from Mother, and they rise again, like phantoms from the shadows.
I can hear the Marauders’ horrible whoops as they raze and pillage the fields, see their ferocious, giddy faces as they inhale the purple smoke and spiral into mad euphoria, feel Rowenna’s clammy hand in mine as we huddle in the underground keep for hours, praying they don’t take the entire crop.
Focus, Indira, Ro commands. You can’t help if you’re unraveling.
“Of course I’m unraveling!” I fire back, as if she’s really here. Seeds and soil, I wish she were. I’ve never faced the Marauders without her.
We’ve upheld our end of the treaty. Tashir is safe, Rowenna maintains with steely resolve.
But what if this has nothing to do with the treaty? What if the Marauders found a way to circumvent the mountains?
I leap over a stone wall that separates the growing fields from the royal residences and scan the myriad of colorful doors and windows nestled into the hillside.
Nothing seems out of place, but there also isn’t a soul in sight.
No trace of the servants and courtiers who are always streaming in and out like ants from a hill.
“Birdie!” I cry as I bang into the smokehouse.
The sudden dark of under the hill washes over me, and my boots knock into the buckets of grease beside the ovens.
“Birdie, what’s happening?” I cry again.
But our flour-cheeked cook isn’t at the ovens or the stove, no matter that supper should be served in half an hour.
Panic sprouts anew in my belly and propels me into the pantry. Empty. Cold cellar. Also empty.
“Jareth! Despina!” I call for Father’s valet, for Mother’s attendant. But silence echoes back through the tunnel halls. There isn’t even a guard making methodical rounds.
I duck down the nearest servants’ tunnel and sprint toward the receiving courtyard, my breath ragged, my mind conjuring every worst-case scenario.
There’s no need to panic, Rowenna orders insists. The Marauders would start with the fields, not the palace. The bagrava is of greater value than anything in the kingdom. Don’t let—
“I’m not as brave as you!” I shout, feeling like a fool for ever thinking I could be.
“Mama?” I call as I burst into the dying scarlet light of the courtyard—still stabbingly bright compared to under the hill.
My terrified voice echoes in the eerie quiet.
Why is it so quiet? Hundreds of people are packed into the plaza—practically every courtier and servant from the palace—but none of them are speaking. Or even whispering.
I stumble over a stable boy and ram into a cluster of chambermaids, all with their hands to their mouths.
“What’s wrong? What is it?” I ask, but they just stare at me with eyes as wet as river rock. The knot of terror in my stomach slides up into my throat. “Someone answer me!” I beg as I shove past the maids, searching for a familiar face.
At last, I catch sight of Birdie near the front and call her name, desperate for her hearty, comforting smile. But tears flood her cheeks as soon as our eyes meet. The courtiers in front of her sob into leaf-embroidered handkerchiefs. Beside them, Despina wails on Jareth’s shoulder.
“Where’s Father? What’s happened to Mother? Is it the Marauders?” I babble to no one in particular.
Mother’s scream rises again, as if in answer.
The shrill ring of it echoes off the windows and porticos like the slash of a reaping scythe.
I batter through another cluster of onlookers and at last they come into view—Father, standing as still as an ancient oak tree, and Mother, splayed across the cobbles near his feet.
Her ornate silver gown is filthy and rumpled, and I’m so focused on finding a horrifying splash of red in the fabric, it takes me an entire minute to notice that she’s draped over a box.
A long wooden box, held shut with a padlock and chains.
Behind the box stands a line of black boots with spiked soles.
The kind worn on slippery mountain slopes, not a garden bed.
My gaze continues upward, taking in the fitted breeches, the vibrant jewel-toned jackets, and the smooth bare chests, before stopping finally at the stone-cut faces of the Vanzadorians.
They truly look more granite than flesh, crowned with dark hair and cool indifference.
Most of the entourage has the decency to keep their eyes on the ground, but the two tallest men in the center boldly meet my stare: Rowenna’s husband, Alaric Alaverdi, the crown prince of Vanzador. And his father, King Soren Alaverdi.
But where’s my sister?
I spin around, searching the crowd again. “Where’s Ro?” I demand. “What’s going on?”
She sent no word of a visit. I’ve written her nearly every day, begging for this very thing. Even a short visit. They can’t hold you hostage on the mountain for the rest of your life, I argued, to which she assured me they could.
But now they’re here. Without her.
She’d never allow it.
Choking on unease, I dodge around Mother, and the corner of the box bashes my shins. But I don’t feel pain. Only icy panic, seeping through my core. “Where is she?” I whisper.
No one answers. And the weight of every eye in the courtyard drills into me.
When a soft hand comes down on my shoulder, I shriek as I whirl around. Then I want to shriek again because my father has never looked more weathered and blighted—his skin gray, his eyes hollow.
After a long pause he quietly says, “There was an accident in Vanzador… Rowenna is gone.”
The words chop my legs out from under me, and I fall, narrowly missing the box.
The body-sized box.
I glare at the rough-hewn wood, willing it to disappear.
When it doesn’t, I curl into myself, shaking and shivering.
Feverishly wishing the Marauders were invading Tashir.
Wishing the bagrava fields were burning.
Even wishing it was Mother who lay dying, as I initially feared—as wicked as that sounds.
But Mother continues wailing. And the Vanzadorians continue staring with thinly veiled contempt.
And the long wooden box, with its thick padlock, looms larger than ever behind me.
I pray there’s room inside for me as well.
Rowenna has finally returned from Vanzador—just as I wished.
Wearing very different sorts of chains.