Chapter 4 #2
But Rowenna isn’t here. Neither is Haddesh.
And sitting with my parents is out of the question.
There are at least a dozen of Father’s advisors and their families in attendance, but none have bothered to save a space for me, and I can’t blame them.
I’ve because I never bothered making friends with anyone other than my sister.
It wasn’t intentional; there’s nothing wrong with any of the courtiers.
Rowenna and I just preferred when it was the two of us.
And after she was gone, it was too awkward to try and fit in.
You can’t ignore people for sixteen years, then expect to be welcomed into their circle, even if you’re royalty.
Which leaves only Lewis.
He waves a forkful of mashed potatoes a little too eagerly from the corner, but I pretend not to see him and plunk down at the children’s table, next to ribbon-haired girls and bespectacled boys, all from Tashir’s highest-ranking families.
I should probably know their names and what their parents grow.
Rowenna would. She would have regaled them with tales of her adventures, loving how they hung on her every word and stared at her with enormous button-mushroom eyes.
But I don’t have a clue where to start, and I don’t have the will to try, so I tuck into my food and pretend not to notice their raised brows and lolling mouths.
I eat until I’m stuffed to bursting, mostly to avoid conversation, but also because Birdie has truly outdone herself.
By the time Father stands to close the banquet, I’m slumped over in my chair like a frothing slug, dreaming of my bed and the sweet escape of sleep.
Hoping against hope I’ll wake up and this will all have been a bad dream.
“In honor of my daughter, Rowenna Ilissium Harrak, I wish health to your bodies and bounty to your fields!” Father says.
His voice is so weak and wispy, there’s no way it carries to the farthest tables.
He can’t even manage to lead a toast, yet somehow he’s supposed to lead this country.
But everyone raises a glass and echoes the appropriate refrain anyway—probably because they feel sorry for him.
“Bounty to our fields!”
The room breaks into applause, but before anyone can drink, King Soren clears his throat and rises from his seat at the Vanzadorians’ table.
Father fumbles his wine glass, spilling a bit down his robe. “I didn’t realize you wished to speak. My deepest apologies, Soren. I should have offered—”
Soren silences Father with a flip of his hand. As if Father’s a dithering valet, not an allied king. “I have nothing to say of dear Rowenna that these services haven’t already said far better and more eloquently.”
The five glasses of pomegranate wine I downed in quick succession churn in my stomach, and hateful words bubble up my throat. “You have nothing to say about ‘Dear Rowenna’ because you didn’t actually know her. Or care about her. Take your false pity back to your loathsome mountains.”
The children surrounding me giggle, their noble parents frown and murmur, and Father looks like he swallowed a watermelon whole, but King Soren smiles even wider.
“I will happily return home just as soon as we discuss how this tragedy affects the treaty between our nations…”
A hush descends on the hall like late spring frost. Somewhere down the banquet table, a spoon clatters into an empty bowl. Several ladies gasp.
This isn’t the first time Soren has wanted to discuss our treaty, and every time the terms get worse for Tashir.
I clench my fists, trying to uproot the panic twining through my chest. He’s toying with us, trying to intimidate Father.
Soren would never rescind his protection.
Not when he and Alaric need the bagrava just as desperately as we do.
They don’t use our precious plant to improve farming conditions in Vanzador or to induce euphoria like the Marauders, but to amplify their ability to move the earth—which might be even more unforgivable.
Somehow, they’ve found a way to twist Earth Mother’s gift, taking the miracle that saved our ancestors from starving to death on the Tomb Flats, and using it to crumble and carve out the land rather than fortifying it.
And the worst part is, we don’t have a clue how they do it.
Over the years, Father has arrested scores of heretics who were caught experimenting with bagrava, trying to imbue themselves with power like Soren’s, but none have ever come close to replicating his abilities.
All we know is Soren and his son continue to grow stronger, while we’re forced to watch our planting fields go fallow due to insufficient bagrava to condition the soil.
Just this fall, three more fields were reclaimed by the Tomb Flats.
Even if we have a hearty yield this harvest, there’s a good chance we’ll run out of grain before the winter’s through.
Father forces a cough—his best attempt at sternness. “Let’s retire to my office, Soren. This isn’t the place to discuss such matters—”
“The treaty states that Tashir will send a monthly shipment of bagrava along with a princess for my son to wed in exchange for our protection,” Soren forges on.
“Which we did.” Father gestures wildly in the direction of High Street—to the burial grounds at the road’s end, where Rowenna lies.
“Unfortunately, Rowenna is no longer with us.” Soren holds out his hands, as if he’s blameless in all of this. “And without proper motivation, I’m concerned you’ll no longer feel obligated to send the quantities of bagrava we require.”
“This is absurd!” Father shoots to his feet. “Unconscionable!”
Mother clutches Father’s robe and rises too, her eyes clearer than I’ve seen in days. “What exactly are you saying, Soren?”
“I’m saying,” Soren speaks slowly, taunting us with each measured syllable, “our treaty once again demands fulfillment. If you wish to continue receiving our protection, you must pay the negotiated price.” He turns to me, not even trying to suppress his smirk.
“Which means Miss Indira will be returning with us to Vanzador.”