Chapter 2 #2
I know it bone-deep—the way I know when a new shoot emerges from a bagrava seed, no matter that it happens a foot belowground.
No one who’s met Rowenna would ever describe her as clumsy.
She has always been as nimble as a barn cat, slipping out of our bedroom windows and navigating the mossy slope of the hillock palace with ease.
Or running full tilt across the top of the narrow stone walls surrounding the bagrava beds.
I was the one who ended up with bloody scrapes and unsightly bruises when I tried to follow her.
The only way Ro would have tumbled over a cliff is if someone pushed her.
Haddesh’s nostrils flare, and the terrifying glint in his eyes tells me he’s arrived at the same conclusion. “I think you pushed her off that cliff,” he says, taking a bold step closer to Alaric.
The Vanzadorian prince brings a dramatic hand to his chest. “Are you accusing me of murdering my own wife?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
There’s a moment of stillness, like a storm holding its breath before lightning forks across the sky, and Rowenna’s voice crackles through the charged silence.
Stop him, Indira!
But it’s too late.
Haddesh lunges at Alaric, slashing his poker like a sword. “Murderer!”
The Vanzadorian guards dart forward again with their swords raised, but this time, King Soren steps past them and slashes his hand toward the ground.
With a grinding pop, the blue-gray cobblestones scrape into motion, cresting into a wave that hurtles toward Haddesh.
He grits his teeth and widens his stance, but even his broad stature can’t contend with the power of the earth.
The roiling ground tosses him the length of an entire planting row, as if his muscled body is as flimsy as the straw dolls Ro and I played with as children.
It’s only when he smashes against a marble column and a bone-chilling crack fills the courtyard that I remind myself straw could never sound so solid and wet.
All around me, servants and courtiers scream and scatter darting for the safety of the palace walls.
But I can’t move. Can’t look away from the pool of blood spreading from the back of Haddesh’s head.
How can his neck be bent at such a grotesque angle?
He must be in agony, yet he doesn’t wail.
I don’t even see his chest rising and falling.
Mine, on the other hand, heaves and sputters.
I can’t seem to catch my breath, no matter how quickly I inhale.
“Haddesh!” I finally croak out, but his dark eyes stare blankly at the sky above. His bulging arms lie limp and useless at his sides.
He’s gone, just like that.
Just like Rowenna.
“At least they’re together now, in the Great Fields Beyond,” one of the remaining courtiers blubbers.
But instead of comfort, this makes my shock and sadness boil over into outrage.
Haddesh had so much heart, so much love and ferocity, and Soren wiped it out with a flick of his wrist. And the thought of Haddesh and my sister running hand in hand through endless fields of silver-dusted wheat makes me want to scream.
Why am I always the one left behind?
Because you did nothing, my guilty conscience murmurs. You sat back and watched the Vanzadorians take her, and whimpered uselessly now, when they returned her lifeless body. At least Haddesh tried to defend her.
We shouldn’t have to defend ourselves against our allies. How is Tashir ever supposed to prevail against power like Soren’s? It’s like asking a weed to go to battle against the ground itself.
As if reading my mind, Soren glowers down at Mother, Father, and me from beneath his caterpillar brows.
Then his gaze sweeps across the remaining horrified onlookers.
“Would anyone else care to lob groundless accusations?” After a moment of silence, Soren says with a vicious chuckle, “I didn’t think so. ”
His arrogant laughter stirs something in the depths of my belly.
Something slick, black, and baring its fangs.
Part of me knows I should crush it with the heel of my boot.
Nothing good can come from this hissing, thrashing rage.
But another part of me likes the way it feels as it surges through my chest and pours down my arms. How it guides my hand to the trowel on my belt and curls my fingers around the handle like a dagger.
“Indira, stop!” Father says, gaping down at my makeshift weapon with horror. “Fighting helps nothing. Clearly.” He nods gravely at Haddesh’s unseeing eyes and twisted mouth. “This isn’t what your sister would want.”
I want to tell him he’s wrong. Rowenna was always the first to charge into battle and stand up to every injustice.
I can’t even begin to count all the times she stood up for me—helping me navigate courtly politics and barking at anyone who tried to take advantage of my ability to grow bagrava.
But she never lobbed the first insult. Never threw the first punch.
And that’s what finally makes me drop my trowel with a sob.
Rowenna didn’t start fights; she finished them.
She fought only to defend the people she loved, and I failed to return the favor.
Lashing out now would only make things worse for my family.
And for Tashir.
I wilt back to the cobbles, feeling even smaller and emptier than before.
Father turns to Soren. “We won’t burden you with our grief any longer. The journey is long. I’m sure you want to be on your way.” He even musters a friendly smile, as if this man didn’t kill his eldest daughter. As if we’re somehow the trespassers on our own land.
“Actually, we won’t be returning to Vanzador until after the burial,” King Soren announces. “We traveled all this way… We’d like to see the task properly finished. And enjoy the bounty of Tashir, of course.” He adjusts his belt over the swell of his hairy stomach and flashes a self-satisfied smile.
Of course.
The Vanzadorians return my sister’s body in a box, kill anyone who questions them, and still expect us to lay a banquet for them.