Chapter 6
Six
The moment we open the door, oven-like heat slaps us across the face. I raise my arms, but it does little to block the snapping yellow flames and plumes of purple smoke devouring our precious crops.
“Not even the Marauders destroyed so much,” Father cries as he doubles over, coughing.
The smoke is as thick as a wool blanket, and I sputter and gag as it stings my eyes and clogs my throat.
When growing in the ground, and even after it’s been cut and dried, bagrava flowers and fruit produce a scent similar to a lily, only more potent.
When heated in any way, however—be it burned, boiled, or smoked—it reeks of charred flesh.
It’s a smell you can never forget—Earth Mother’s natural attempt to ensure we feed the fruit to the land, not our bellies—and one foul whiff makes my stomach heave the way it did three years ago.
The last time the Marauders raided Tashir.
I can still see the robbers hauling barrows full of bagrava from the storehouse and setting them ablaze. My ears still ring with ululating cries as they danced in the smoke, reveling in an immediate fix before carrying the rest of the crop back to the Tomb Flats.
Ingesting the raw fruit produces the strongest, longest-lasting high, but inhaling the purple smoke is the quickest means of delivery. And it was more than enough to turn the robbers into manic, snarling brutes who lashed out at anything that came between them and their prize.
If we’re not careful now, the smoke will poison us too. Render us wild, erratic, and useless.
I stuff my nose inside my tunic and motion for the others to do the same.
“This will be the end of Tashir, the end of everything,” Father wails through the fabric.
“Only if we do nothing,” Mother snaps. She looks like she wants to strangle him, but she turns her attention to Jareth.
“Redirect the irrigation pumps to flood the burning fields. Indira will try to stabilize the bagrava.” She looks to me, and I nod.
“Salvage everything you can, and alert the other master gardeners to do the same. The king and I”—Mother casts another irritated glance at Father—“will attempt to quell the people.”
We all nod, even though quelling this madness feels as impossible as raising Rowenna from the dead.
For a terrible moment, we stand there, staring into the rippling blaze. It’s like something out of a nightmare. Dark, streaking shadows and waving torches. Terrified screams and roaring flames. Our kind, hardworking people are hurling shovels and pitchforks, destroying their own land and homes.
For you, Rowenna murmurs for the second time today. To keep you from going to Vanzador. See how they adore you?
My heart wrenches painfully, and I shake my head.
As much as I’ve always secretly craved the devotion our people had to Ro, I know none of this is for me.
The same way Father’s outburst wasn’t for me.
Real love inspires people to be kinder and braver, to stand taller and work harder.
This is explosive. Desperate. They don’t love me.
They simply can’t bear the thought of losing anything more.
Like a feral dog defending its last shard of bone.
I glance over at Mother and Father—at the exhaustion etched in their wrinkles and the fear in their grim expressions. They look every bit as broken and petrified as I feel, and it makes me want to reach out to them.
“Be careful—” I start to say.
I love you.
That’s what I wish I could say. What I wish they would say to me. But after divulging my secrets to Soren and allowing him to take me, it would be nothing but a blatant lie.
Thankfully, I don’t need my parents’ love or encouragement. I haven’t needed it for a year now—not ever, if I’m honest. Rowenna and the bagrava have always been my roots, and I choose to focus on that—on her—as I sprint into the billowing smoke.
With every step, the air grows hotter. I can’t see more than a few lengths ahead, but I clumsily hurdle three stone walls and land in the largest bagrava field.
Flames hungrily consume the rows. Deep indigo smoke tries to curl up my nostrils, tickling and tantalizing, promising unimaginable pleasure if I stand a little taller, inhale a little deeper.
I spit out a cough and drop to my knees, taking short, shallow breaths. I would never break our promise to Earth Mother—never choose my own selfish pleasure over the well-being of my people and the land.
Slowly, I drag myself forward on my elbows, belting the sacred incantations to the bagrava. My words are weak and choppy and scrape my ash-clogged throat. But a few leaves still unfurl in response. Energy ripples down their stalks and into the earth, and my body welcomes the invigorating thrum.
If the other master gardeners are anywhere near the fields, they’ll feel it too.
They’ll hear the bagravas’ cry for help.
If we all work together, and if Jareth can beat back the worst of the blaze with irrigation water, we might be able to salvage enough fruit to condition the scorched ground and replant a few fields of grain.
As I sing, I harvest any fruit remotely close to ripe and stuff it into my satchel, but most of it’s still green and shrinking by the second. And there’s still no sign of Jareth with the water.
That child at the banquet was probably right.
We’re all going to die.
Don’t think like that, Rowenna commands. Keep singing. Keep moving.
Her words are a steady heartbeat in my ears. Her ghost hands wrap around my wrists and drag me down the next row of bagrava. Then the next. But all the soothing incantations in the world can’t strengthen plants that have burned to a crisp.
When the fire is close enough to snap at my fingers, I shrug out of my satchel and swing it at the blaze. I know it’s too high and hot to smother, but I keep swinging anyway, because I have to do something. Have to keep fighting.
I strike the blaze again and again, spinning so wildly, lashing out so desperately, I assume I must have lost my balance when my knees hit the rocks.
But then the earth heaves again, lurching as it would during an earthquake, and I spot them.
Six dark figures streak through the ash and rubble, riding horses much faster and sleeker than our plow animals.
The Vanzadorians.
Their velvet waistcoats flap like enemy banners. Their golden buttons and chains flash like swords as they gallop toward our storehouse.
They’re really going to do it—take all of our bagrava and leave us to perish.
“No!”
The force of my voice startles me, carrying over the crackle and whoosh of the flames. It sounds like hundreds of Tashiri planters are screaming with me.
A moment later, I realize it’s because they are.
At least two hundred gardeners pour from the storehouse, armed with shovels, hoes, and rakes, prepared to defend our home and our bagrava to the death.
The sight should comfort me—a mob that size should easily be able to cut down six invaders—but with a flick of King Soren’s wrist, the ground opens like a hungry mouth, gnashing my people in its jagged-rock teeth before spitting their bloody carcasses into a sinkhole.
This time when I scream, Rowenna screams with me. And that’s what breaks me—the hopelessness of it all. Even if every soul in Tashir rises up in rebellion, it won’t be enough. The Vanzadorians will never stop.
Not unless someone stops them
Not unless you stop them, Rowenna whispers. And it could be a hallucination born of the noxious bagrava fumes, but I swear I see her face in the curls of smoke—her eyes brimming with love, pride, and conviction. Urging me to be brave. To do this—for her and for Tashir.
This is how you keep your promise. This is how you avenge me.
“What can I possibly do?” I cry.
Go with them to Vanzador and find their weaknesses. Punish my murderers and burn their kingdom down.
There are a million things wrong with her plan—or lack thereof—but I trust Ro, so I press a kiss to the clover on my wrist and sprint forward, toward the storehouse. If we don’t stop the Vanzadorians from taking the remaining bagrava, there will be nothing left of Tashir to save.
The earth continues to buckle and tilt as I run, dumping me perilously close to the gash Soren ripped in the world. The wounded hands of my people grasp at my clothes and reach for my ankles, begging me to pull them up. And I want to. I want to save them all. But Ro won’t let me stop.
Faster! she shouts in my ear. You’ll save more people by saving the storehouse.
The Vanzadorians are nearly there. A dwindling line of brave gardeners are all that stands between Soren and our stores of harvested bagrava.
Faster! Ro cries again.
But we both know I won’t make it. And I could hardly stop their charging cavalry single-handedly.
But I know something that can.
I grapple for the vial of neem-oil strapped across my chest—a potent blend that rids the bagrava of aphids and mites.
Then I pinch a handful of fertilizer from the pouch at my hip and add it to the vial.
Dropping to my knees, I hold my breath and thrust my hand into the flames devouring the nearby grass.
Pain scorches my fingers, and my body begs me to drop the vial, but I grit my teeth and make sure the oil catches. Then I hurl the burning glass into the space between the storehouse and the charging Vanzadorians.
Ringing fills my ears. Blood dribbles from my bitten lips. And my burning hand throbs as I watch the makeshift bomb arc across the yellow sky.
The Vanzadorians are less than five lengths from the storehouse when it explodes. A searing white blaze plumes into the air like a geyser, slamming the storehouse doors inward and beating the Vanzadorians back. Creating a trough between the enemy and our precious supply of bagrava.
“Traitors!” King Soren booms as his horse rears. “How dare you attempt to assassinate your allies!”
Bitter laughter rumbles in my throat. We have never been allies. Even if we were, I threw one tiny vial—well in front of them—while they’re sweeping our people into an abyss by the droves.
“Enough!” I shout, trying to channel Ro’s swaggering gait as I dodge through the wreckage and position myself in the gap created by the explosion.
I’m thankful for the strangling smoke and the excuse it provides for my shaking voice.
“I’ll go with you if you leave the bagrava—and my people—in peace. ”
King Soren motions for his men to halt and squints down at me.
“Indira?” he says with a gruff chuckle. “I assumed you weren’t coming when you raced off into the palace with Mommy and Daddy. Do they know you’re out here, endangering yourself against their wishes? And after they’ve already sacrificed so much to protect you?” He gestures to our burning fields.
I want to tell him he knows nothing about my parents’ wishes. If they shared a wish, I’m certain it’s that I had been the one to perish instead of Rowenna.
Focus, sister. Ro’s fingers slide beneath my chin, strong but gentle. Helping me stare brazenly up at her killers.
“I’m here now,” I say. “Let’s go.”
King Soren smirks and turns to his son. “It looks like you’re getting married today after all.”
It’s hard to see through the smoke, but I swear Alaric flinches—just the slightest—before flashing me a leering smile and joining in with his snickering guards.
“Now, all we need is our tribute, and we’ll be on our way. Leave your parents to clean up this little mess. Look, I’ll even help.” King Soren wags his gloved fingers, and giant swathes of dirt rise up and fall across the blaze, smothering it in less than a minute.
Bloodred fury clouds my vision. He could have extinguished the fires immediately. He could have saved my people so much suffering, so much destruction.
But he didn’t.
Because we’re easier to control when we’re broken.
I want to fly at King Soren and plunge my spade into his exposed stomach, but my hand is too slow and stinging from the burns, and Rowenna’s voice is too adamant.
Be patient. Bide your time.
It nearly kills me, but I watch silently as two of Soren’s guards move toward the storehouse. Several brave Tashiri rebels step forward to block the way, but I call them off. “Let the Vanzadorians pass.”
My people look like they want to stab me with their pitchforks, like I’m some sort of traitor to our country, but they have to see this is the only way.
“Better to let them take their share early than steal the entire supply,” I say through gritted teeth.
Grudgingly, they stand aside, and several minutes later, the Vanzadorian guards reemerge with two full bags of bagrava. Two more fields we won’t be able to condition.
After strapping the bagrava to their horses and mounting, one of the guards nudges their horse toward me and offers me a thick vambraced arm.
Before I take it, I steal a final glance over my shoulder—at my people’s anguished faces and the smoldering fields, trying to memorize their precise shape and color through the smoke.
Truly appreciating, for perhaps the first and last time, this beautiful place Rowenna and I grew up in together. A place she died for.
A place I might die for.
Before I lose my nerve, I reach up and allow the guard to hoist me across his saddle.
And then we ride.