Chapter 2
Two
I sit there, staring, as Father’s terrible declaration pounds into my chest like a stake. The pain is so sharp and splintering, I can’t breathe. Can’t possibly survive this.
I grip my forehead and try to imagine a world without my sister, but it’s impossible.
Unfathomable. Memories pummel me like a midsummer downpour.
Rowenna, crawling into my bed every time I had a nightmare and whispering stories that featured me as the fearless heroine; Rowenna, insisting I be included when Haddesh and the other boys played cabbage ball; Rowenna, splashing pomegranate wine down her finest breeches the first time my monthly courses came so no one would mock me.
Even though she was across the Tomb Flats in Vanzador, at least I knew she was out there, living and breathing, waking to the same golden sun and dreaming beneath the same blazing stars.
I can’t accept that we’ll never share another joke, just by locking eyes.
Or run barefoot through the dewy grass beneath a harvest moon.
I reach out and run a shaky finger along the box, refusing to believe Ro lies within. She’s too vibrant and clever and alive to fit in such a sad, cramped space. And I would have known. I would have felt her passing. I would have charged across the Tomb Flats to stop it.
I push up to my elbows and look to Father. “Tell me you’re lying,” I beg. But he chokes back a sob and stares down at his feet. I drag myself closer to Mother, fisting her skirt. “Tell me it isn’t true.” But fresh tears spill down her cheeks, and she gently rests her head against the box.
Coffin, I correct myself. That crude pinewood abomination is Rowenna’s final resting place. The Vanzadorians couldn’t even be bothered to make her comfortable or show her proper respect.
King Soren and Prince Alaric regard us with cruel impatience, drumming their gloved fingers and shifting from foot to foot—as if they can’t wait to leave. As if my sister’s death, on their watch, is an irksome inconvenience.
Rowenna would be mortified. Not to mention furious.
Do something, Indira, she says.
Her voice in my head is as loud and commanding as ever, which shouldn’t be possible if she’s dead.
And what does she expect me to do, other than lie here like a gutted pig and beg her to take me with her?
I have no desire to spend another day on this earth without her, and I haven’t a seeds-forsaken clue how to fix any of this.
We are shackled to the Vanzadorians. If King Soren stops feeding his magic into the ground, the mountain range protecting our border will crumble, leaving us exposed to the Marauders.
Which means I can’t be hurling accusations.
We can’t even demand answers or accountability.
We just have to accept this blow like all the rest and swallow yet another bitter pill every time the price of Soren’s protection grows steeper.
And it’s always getting steeper. First, he demanded twenty percent of our bagrava.
Then thirty. Then my sister’s freedom. Now her death.
It will never end.
The Vanzadorians have us trapped, like a rabbit in a snare, and the more I think about it, the more I feel like I’m wriggling and spinning.
Waiting for a blade to plunge into my side.
I almost wish they’d hurry up and put us out of our misery, but they just stand there, looking down with false pity.
The gawking servants and courtiers are hardly better, buzzing about like hungry flies, transfixed by our pain.
I want them all gone.
I have never been one to shout commands.
I’ve never even raised my voice to the staff or publicly argued with our parents.
Rowenna is the one who strode around the palace, going toe to toe with Father’s ministers and navigating courtly politics.
But I can’t stand this torture for another second, so I force myself to my knees and take a deep breath.
“Leave us to grieve in peace,” I cry, hating how my voice cracks and catches. It was supposed to roar and rumble—as loud as the storm raging in my heart—but no one even looks my way. They’ve all turned toward a different frantic shout, rising from the rear of the courtyard.
“Let me through! Where is she?” Haddesh’s hysterical voice blasts above the commotion—the way mine should have—and he cuts through the crowd like the swords he’s learning to forge.
He must have come directly straight from the blacksmith’s shop the moment he heard the news, because he’s still wearing his leather apron and streaks of soot darken his cheeks, making the whites of his eyes look even wider.
Wilder. He clutches a poker in one hand, the tip still smoldering red, and after he takes in the scene—Mother and me on the ground beside the coffin, and Father bent over like a wilted flower—he levels the molten steel at King Soren and Prince Alaric.
“What did you do to Rowenna?” Haddesh roars.
Five Vanzadorian guards leap between him and King Soren, even though Soren is more than capable of defending himself. With a snap of his fingers, he could snatch the ground out from under Haddesh. Or carve a section of earth from the hillock palace and drop it on our heads.
Instead, Soren watches Haddesh from behind his guards, a smile in his eyes. “Who are you, boy? And what business do you have approaching me?”
“What business did you have taking Rowenna if you couldn’t keep her safe?” Haddesh retorts, waving a muscled arm at the coffin. “How dare you bring her back like this?”
“How dare you address the king of an allied nation with such disrespect?” King Soren volleys back.
Father stumbles forward, grabs the younger, but much larger, boy by the elbow, and tugs him back. “Forgive Haddesh,” Father says to Soren. “He means no disrespect. He’s simply in shock. He and Rowenna were friends—”
“Why are you apologizing when they failed to keep Ro safe?” Haddesh wrenches free from Father’s grip. “And we weren’t just friends. I was in love with her.” His voice breaks on the word love, and he looks defiantly at Soren. “I would have married her if you hadn’t taken her captive.”
Father darts a glance at Soren and laughs nervously. “The Vanzadorians didn’t take anyone captive. Both nations agreed to the terms of the treaty. This was a tragic accident. If anything, Soren deserves our gratitude for returning Rowenna’s body. They were under no obligation to do so.”
Droplets of sweat fly from Haddesh’s wet hair as he furiously shakes his head.
“Do you hear yourself? The treaty mentioned nothing about Ro’s body because her safety was guaranteed, so long as the bagrava shipments arrived on schedule.
Which they have! We’ve done nothing wrong!
She did nothing wrong. Act like a true king for once, and defend your own daughter! ”
Father flinches, but Haddesh doesn’t apologize, and none of the courtiers or ministers come to Father’s defense. Mother and me included.
Father has always been soft-spoken and unassuming, humble and hardworking.
His kind heart and gentle demeanor are the reason our people adore him, and up until he sent Rowenna to Vanzador, I prided myself on being more like him.
We were the calm waters to Mother and Rowenna’s raging fire.
But now I see these attributes for the weaknesses they are.
Father’s blind trust and endless compassion are the reason the Marauders and Vanzadorians take advantage of Tashir.
He’s the reason Ro felt the need to push herself so hard, to learn everything about politics and ruling the kingdom, so she could better serve our people someday.
And now, she’ll never get to.
Because Soren knew how formidable she was. He knew he would never be able to bully Ro into submission the way he has Father. That’s why he took her captive—to ensure she’d never become queen of Tashir. And Father didn’t even try to protect her.
He still isn’t trying.
“Look at them!” Haddesh explodes, swinging his poker erratically.
The nearest courtiers shriek and scatter, but his steely eyes remain focused on Soren and Alaric, who have been exchanging bemused glances.
“They’re clearly enjoying this. Rowenna’s death was no accident. They murdered her in cold blood!”
“I would be very careful with your baseless accusations,” Soren warns.
Alaric steps up beside his father. “We provided Rowenna with the finest care and hospitality—a wardrobe fit for a queen, the most delectable food and drink Vanzador has to offer, maids who tended to her every need, and guards appointed solely for her protection. There’s nothing more we could have done. ”
He says all the right things in his honey-smooth voice and flashes a smoldering smile that undoubtedly bends most people to his will, but it doesn’t fool Haddesh.
Or me.
Not anymore.
I’m ashamed to admit I once found the Vanzadorian prince attractive.
Beyond horrified I let myself be taken in by his sharp cheekbones and even sharper wit when he visited Tashir with his father when we were young.
Back then, I couldn’t fathom how Rowenna could possibly prefer Haddesh, with his black fingernails and rough manners, to Alaric’s glittering eyes and cut-marble chest. But Rowenna was always more perceptive than me.
She saw through to the core of each boy—brave, passionate, and loyal Haddesh. Cruel, arrogant, and conniving Alaric.
“We often reminded Rowenna the mountains were treacherous for someone unused to the steep terrain,” Alaric continues with a theatrically somber expression, “especially for someone so clumsy. But she refused to heed our warnings and tumbled over a cliff edge.”
Mother gasps into the back of her hand, and Father’s face drains of blood. The courtiers shake their heads and murmur things like “How horrible,” and “Can you imagine?”
But I barely hear any of it over the high-pitched ringing in my ears. My pulse beats against my temples as my heart thrashes around my rib cage.
Alaric is lying.