Chapter 5
Five
Soren’s words tumble through my head like pebbles in a raging river, refusing to make sense.
They’re taking me to Vanzador?
The notion is so ridiculous, I let out a shrill laugh. The Vanzadorian king has never glanced in my direction before today. Rowenna was the oldest, the heir, the obvious choice. I’m a terrible replacement. I pose no political threat. I will never be half the queen she would have been.
“We’d have chosen Indira from the outset, had we been privy to her gift,” Soren continues, plunging me back beneath the surface before I’ve had a chance to catch my breath.
“It’s quite disappointing you didn’t tell us sooner…
” He tuts at Father, then appraises me again from the top of my head to the tips of my toes.
The hunger in his eyes makes me shudder, but it’s that word—gift—that bites into me with the force of an ax. We have never, never revealed who among us are master gardeners. The Vanzadorians must protect us all in exchange for their shipments of bagrava.
But Soren knows.
I stumble backward, gaping at my parents. They’re the only ones in Tashir who correspond with the Vanzadorian king, and they’ve been so consumed with the absence of their beloved oldest daughter, they must have slipped and said something.
Or maybe it wasn’t an accident at all.
Mother blinks at me with wide, guilty eyes, and Father can’t meet my gaze at all. I suppose their shock might be genuine, but I’m willing to bet all the grain in the storehouse their distress stems from being caught.
You know that isn’t true, Rowenna is quick to counter. But the only thing I know is I’m not fierce, bold, and brave like Ro. I’m not strong enough to be the queen Tashir needs. My parents may not have consciously come to this conclusion, but their actions reveal their true feelings.
I am expendable.
“How could you?” I shout at them.
To my surprise, Father is already yelling, even louder—twice as loud as I thought possible. “Get out!” He points a trembling finger at King Soren and his entourage. “Out of my palace! Out of my country!”
When no one moves, Father roars like a landslide and overturns his banquet table.
Screams fill the atrium as the heavy table slams onto the ground.
Jam spatters the columns like blood. Peach scones fly like severed body parts, and under any other circumstance, I would have burst into applause.
For once, Father isn’t dithering, bumbling, or apologizing. He’s shouting and overturning tables.
For you, Rowenna whispers.
But it’s too little too late.
King Soren kicks his spiked boots up on his table and looks from me to my parents, smiling as if he hasn’t had this much fun in ages. “You can’t dismiss us yet, Bastian. We haven’t even had dessert.”
Mother’s entire frame trembles as she elbows past Father and slams her palms on the table in front of Soren. “You’ve had more than enough!”
Despite how livid I am with them both, I immediately feel calmer. Safer. My odds of remaining in Tashir are much higher if Mother has awoken from her grief-stricken stupor.
Something in her eyes must frighten Soren, at least a little, because the Vanzadorian king takes his feet down and perches on the edge of his seat.
“We’ll leave, if that’s truly your wish, Ianthe.
I’m just surprised you’ve already forgotten the dark days of the Marauders’ raids.
Memories of you on your knees, begging for my protection, remain crystal clear. ”
Mother’s laughter could freeze every plant in the greenhouse. “You ‘protect’ us as a cat protects a mouse—only to toy with us and devour us.”
Instead of responding, Soren defers to Alaric, who’s been waiting at the ready, practically stamping his foot like a restless horse. “We wouldn’t need to toy with you, as you put it, if you simply honored our requests.”
“Your requests keep going up!” Mother snaps back. “We can’t survive on only sixty percent of our yield.”
“You could if you worked harder,” Soren says as if he knows anything about farming. Rowenna’s letters detailed how useless and slothful he is, always sitting on his granite throne, drinking mead like a slimy toad.
“Our people are working themselves to death.” Father pants and pulls at his hair. Even Mother is unraveling like the frayed hem of her finest gown.
Have we always looked this shabby and weak? Or is it just especially glaring beside the Vanzadorians’ gleaming attire and ruthless ambition?
“There are only so many hours of sunlight in the day,” Father continues, “and we have only a few master gardeners to prepare the fields, which is why you can’t take Indira. It would drastically decrease the size of your tribute.”
Technically, Father’s defending me, but I stare down at the spilled wine trickling through the cobblestones, so no one can see the tears brimming along my lashes.
It’s just as I suspected. His outburst had nothing to do with loving or protecting me and everything to do with the harvest. It always comes back to the bloody harvest.
Even to my own parents, I’m a master gardener first and a daughter second.
“A captive bride is unnecessary,” Father continues, imploring. “We both need Indira here, cultivating the bagrava. We’re clearly in no position to rebel…”
“You’re in no position to negotiate.” King Soren brushes past Father and approaches me, taking my chin in his hands.
His soft leather gloves are jarring compared to the tightness of his grip, and I shiver as he appraises me with vulture eyes.
“I suspect we won’t need Tashir at all once I’m able to cultivate bagrava on the mountain… ”
I lurch back, shaking my head. “I won’t—” go with you. Help you grow bagrava.
But Soren snaps his fingers in front of my nose before I can finish.
“Gather your things, Indira. We leave at once—with a full load of bagrava.” He gives this last instruction to no one in particular.
As if all Tashiri are capable of harvesting and preparing the tribute. As if we all live just to serve him.
“But another shipment isn’t due for half a moon cycle,” Domynic, Father’s foremost advisor, cries.
“Consider it a bereavement gift for my son. Or recompense for withholding essential information about Indira and sending us the lesser princess.”
Hysterical laughter punches from my lungs. Only a fool would deem Rowenna the lesser princess.
“The tribute takes days to prepare,” another advisor cries. “It isn’t possible.”
Soren waves a dismissive hand. “I’m certain you’ll find a way. If you don’t, we’ll take every last bundle of bagrava and level the mountains as we go.”
The crowd of mourners watch in stunned silence as he strides out of the atrium, followed by Alaric and their entourage.
No one moves because there’s nothing to do.
No way to stop this. Supposedly, we’re allies with Vanzador, which means we should be equals.
But Tashir never seems to have the upper hand. Or even a comparable hand.
Without warning, Father takes up a chair and smashes it against the ground, after which he crumples into the splinters and weeps into his hands.
The guests whisper and dart nervous glances at each other, growing more and more unnerved the longer the moment stretches and the louder Father wails.
We need a confident, commanding ruler now more than ever, so, naturally, he has melted into a puddle.
One of the noble children at my table dashes to her parents and tearfully cries, “We’re all going to die, aren’t we?”
That’s all it takes.
Shouts and sobs fill the atrium as the mourners rush to flee, trampling the decorations and wasted food.
The only benefit of the stampede is it forces Mother to spring back into motion.
With a look of grim resolve, she wrenches Father up by his livery collar, sinks her ice-cold fingers into my wrist, and drags us back inside the palace.
I assume she’ll take us to the keep, where we’ve always taken shelter during storms or invasions, but instead of following the spiral staircase downward, Mother charges through the tunnels toward the royal residences.
“Where are we going?” I ask as bile licks the back of my throat. The keep is the safest place in the hillock palace. The only place the Vanzadorians won’t be able to reach us.
Instead of answering, Mother rounds another corner and herds us into my chambers.
She deposits Father, who’s still hysterical, onto the armchair where I study and shoos me toward the wardrobe with her hands.
“Don’t just stand there like a scarecrow, Indira.
Change into traveling clothes and gather your things. ”
A warbling cry escapes my lips as the true direness of my situation dawns.
Father only wishes to keep me here because of my gardening abilities, and Mother doesn’t plan to keep me here at all. She’s going to hand me over to my sister’s murderers without a semblance of a fight.
“Don’t pack anything, Indira!” Father suddenly catapults out of the armchair and strides toward us, shrinking only slightly beneath Mother’s withering scowl.
“We cannot let them take her, Ianthe! We can’t give in to these outrageous demands.
You’re the one who’s always telling me I must be stronger and bolder and make a stand for Tashir.
Well, now I’ve done it, and you’re not going to stand with me? ”
“It’s too late.” She brushes him aside and flaps her hands at me. “Pack, Indira! They’ll be here any second.”
Father wedges himself between us again. “Soren won’t actually level the mountains. It’s time to call their bluff and assert ourselves.”
“The time to assert ourselves has long since passed.” Mother jabs Father’s chest with a shaking finger. “You missed that opportunity, and once again, our daughter must put her life in peril to correct your mistakes.”
This time, when she shoves past Father, he averts his eyes and lets her go.
With sharp efficiency, Mother unfastens the collar of my mourning dress and guides my arms and legs back into the clothes I wear every day: lightweight pants with a myriad of pockets and a loose linen shirt, over which she straps my shoulder holsters and bottles.
Then she buckles my hip satchel and uses it to drag me closer.
“I’m sorry we can’t do more to protect you, but perhaps Rowenna can.
When you reach Vanzador, locate her things—assuming the Vanzadorians haven’t destroyed them already.
Look for her gowns, her books, her stationery, anything and everything she might have left behind, and scour them for clues.
Knowing your sister, she would have been plotting and planning—”
Frantic fists pound the chamber door, cutting Mother off.
“Your Majesties!” Jareth’s voice sounds wild and unraveling.
“Are we not allowed a single moment to bid our daughter farewell?” Mother shouts over her shoulder. “Dismiss your valet,” she says to Father, who obediently shuffles over to the door and opens it a crack.
“Please, Jareth. Surely you can manage things for a few minutes?”
“The people have set fire to the fields!” Jareth interjects.
It feels like all the air has been sucked from the room. Jareth must be mistaken. The people would never…
“Please, your Majesties!” Jareth begs again. “Tashir is burning. You must come at once.”
Mother and Father exchange a tense glance.
We’ve been so consumed with our own outrage and grief, we didn’t think of the people.
Our people, who are bereft about Rowenna and terrified of the Vanzadorians’ threats.
They’re panicking, and who can blame them?
The soil of the life they’ve always known is washing away beneath their feet.
Mother takes my hand in a crushing grip and leads me through the door. Father drops his chin and follows.
“It’s madness! I don’t know what’s come over them,” Jareth sputters the moment we join him in the hall.
“I do.” Mother mutters darkly. “A trapped weasel will do anything to escape the gardener’s trowel—even if it means gnawing off its own foot. Our people would rather watch Tashir burn than allow the Vanzadorians to take it.”