Chapter 7
Seven
We gallop across the Tomb Flats, chased by a shroud of purple-gray smoke. My haversack thumps painfully against my side, heavy with the underripe bagrava I harvested from the burning fields, and I cry out in agony every time it brushes my blistered hand.
To my shock, my riding companion offers to take my pack, but I refuse with a suspicious scowl.
I’m not about to hand over my possessions to a strange Vanzadorian.
Despite my blatant hostility, he still gives me ample space in the saddle, routinely asks how I’m faring, and even offers his spare gloves to cover my burns.
With every offer, my frown deepens and my hackles rise.
Rowenna’s letters outlined, in great detail, the horrors of her own journey to Vanzador—how they bound and gagged her as soon as the hillock palace was out of sight.
How they mocked and ridiculed her, and refused to stop so she could relieve herself.
I’m not about to fall for this overly chivalrous act.
After what feels like an eternity, the horses finally slow to a walk.
The wind, however, continues howling past, more violently than I’ve ever felt.
The Tomb Flats are completely barren. No flowering knolls or groves of trees.
Not even a lone crooked shrub to impede the gusts. Just slickrock and sand.
And Marauders.
My skin crawls as I peer into the dark of the desert.
I have no doubt they’re out there, watching us, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
It’s how the robbers have always survived on these inhospitable plains.
They raid every caravan that attempts to cross.
I’ve read dozens of accounts from my ancestors, detailing how the Marauders stole their animals, supplies, and even their children.
Then once they had a taste of our bagrava, they became even more bloodthirsty and insatiable.
Soren has to know they will come. Every month, they attempt to steal the tribute of bagrava we send to the mountains, injuring, and sometimes even killing, the Tashiri planters and Vanzadorian guards responsible for the transport.
And while I’d rather not die today, it would be poetic, in a way, to watch the ravenous thieves steal the bagrava Soren and his son stole from us.
You forget Soren can bury the Marauders beneath a mountain of rubble before they get within one hundred lengths, Rowenna reminds me.
“Do you need help getting down?” My riding companion dismounts and offers me a hand, which I pointedly refuse.
“I grew up in a farming community. I know how to ride,” I say with a haughty tilt of my chin.
He gives an amiable shrug. “Suit yourself, but even my legs are sore after such a long time in the saddle.”
I roll my eyes and swing out of the stirrups, but either the horse has grown taller or the slickrock is harder than I realized, because pain jolts through my legs and I crumple to the shale.
A sharp rock slices through the blisters on my palm, and while I hiss and clutch my hand, the guard rushes to my side, trying to inspect the wound.
“You should have let me help you. Or at least taken my gloves.”
“Why are you being so nice?” I snap.
The guard has the audacity to look offended. “Because we promised to keep you safe.”
“The way you kept Rowenna safe?”
“Oh no, I plan to keep a much closer eye on you,” King Soren interjects as he dismounts. “You’re of far greater value than Alaric’s previous bride.”
“I’ll never cultivate bagrava for you,” I spit, to which Soren waves a dismissive hand.
“You’ll do as I say.”
Or you’ll end up dead. Like your sister.
Soren doesn’t actually utter these words, but we all hear them, echoing across the Tomb Flats.
“Are you finally admitting you murdered Rowenna?” I demand.
He gives a nonchalant shrug and passes his horse off to a guard. “Would it matter if I was? Your sister was nothing but a useless annoyance. I can’t even remember her name.”
I know better than to rise to his bait, but my vision goes red, and I pounce at the Vanzadorian king like the jackals that prowl the Tomb Flats.
“You will not speak ill of the dead!” I shout. Except my voice comes out in a smoky cough, and my legs are too sore and wobbly to support my weight. As I crumple to the ground, Soren chuckles, unlatches a water horn from his belt, and tosses it at me.
“Clean yourself up. I won’t make my son go to bed with a hog on his wedding night.”
The word bed makes the hairs on my arms prickle, and I wrap them tightly across my chest. Of course I know the treaty calls for a captive bride, but I assumed the union was more about joining Vanzador to the bagrava than man to wife. Soren can’t actually expect me to perform wifely duties, can he?
Was Ro required to perform them?
The thought makes my heart stutter and break. Ro and I shared most things in life, but I have no desire to share this—to share Alaric—with her.
I whirl around to gauge the prince’s reaction, praying he’ll protest. He must be just as averse to this as I am. But he’s laughing as the guards playfully elbow him, and when he catches me staring, he winks.
My cheeks burn, which only makes Alaric’s entourage laugh harder.
“Something tells me the princess hasn’t got much experience in the bedroom…” one of the guards jeers.
“Not to worry, sweet pea,” another calls. “Alaric has enough experience for you both.”
“I’m sure she’ll be a quick study,” the first guard says to Alaric in a mock whisper, “what with all of her time spent handling zucchinis…”
“And cucumbers!” another guffaws.
I can’t stand to be near them a second longer.
With a withering glare, I grab the water horn and stomp away from where they begin making camp. No one follows me. They know I won’t run. I can’t if I want to protect my people and avenge Rowenna.
My only choice is to plow ahead to Vanzador and find a fracture in the bedrock of their mountain.
No one is invincible. Not even Soren and Alaric Alaverdi.
So while they wink and mock and threaten me, I’ll whittle away at the foundation of their fortress.
I’ll find a weakness in Soren’s power—or in the people or the land itself—and I’ll use it to destroy them.
I uncork the water horn and pour it over my face, scrubbing at the streaks of soot and dried blood. Not for Alaric. I don’t give a fig if he finds me repulsive. I’m washing for myself—to remove the terrible stench of burned bagrava and to clear my head, figure out my first move.
It’s as I’m untangling my hair from its disheveled topknot that inspiration comes.
Instead of returning my hair to a tight bun as I planned, I weave the top portion into an intricate seven-stranded braid.
The very same braid Rowenna wore on the day she married this very same prince.
I even manage to find some poppy cuttings in my haversack that aren’t too wilted, and I add them to the plait.
They aren’t the vibrant zinnias that crowned Ro’s head like fire, and my hands aren’t nearly as nimble, but all in all, it’s a good likeness.
Most important, it makes me feel stronger. More like my sister.
People have always remarked on our striking similarities: dark hair and eyes, golden skin sprinkled with freckles.
I take a handful of mustard seeds from my pack, crush them into powder, and dab it across my eyelids—to imitate the shimmering gold she wore on her wedding day. Now, if only I had chain mail…
I want to be Ro’s perfect likeness. I want Alaric and his father to see the ghost of his murdered bride rising from the grave for vengeance, as I utter my marriage vows.
When I’m satisfied with my appearance, I return to camp to test my handiwork.
The guards are perched on rocks around a fire, cooking lumps of unidentifiable meat on sticks.
“Want one?” The man I rode with holds out a greasy blob, but I shake my head and twist my face with disgust.
“That doesn’t look fit for a dog,” I purposely goad them. So they’ll look up and see Rowenna’s face in mine. So they’ll realize I’m not going to let them kill her and carry on as if nothing happened.
But there’s no pulse of recognition. No inkling of guilt. Instead of dropping their skewers and blinking with shock, the guards simply exchange exaggerated eye rolls.
As if my sister never even existed.
Their blatant disregard for her life makes me want to dive at them like the hunting crows we raise in Tashir—tenacious predators that keep the locusts from destroying our crops—but I save my energy.
If these fools don’t remember Ro, it’s a reflection on them.
They probably weren’t even in attendance at the wedding.
Soren and Alaric, however, won’t be able to ignore the similarities between my sister and me. And they’re the ones I need to frighten.
They’re the ones who must pay for her death.
I stomp past the fire toward a tent the guards must have erected while I washed.
Lanterns burn within, projecting Soren and Alaric’s silhouettes on the fabric.
They’re pouring drinks and lounging on cushions, as if they haven’t a care in the world.
As if they didn’t just leave my entire life and kingdom in ashes.
Put them in their place, Rowenna whispers.
Yesterday, I wouldn’t have dared to speak to the Vanzadorian king, let alone confront him, but yesterday I wasn’t living for myself and my sister. I wasn’t carrying the weight of an entire country on my shoulders.
I clench my fists, march up to the tent, and duck through the flap. “You’ve kept me waiting long enough. Let’s get this wedding over with.”
Both men fly to their feet, and Soren bellows an unintelligible threat, but I hold my ground and let them take in my appearance, hoping they see Ro’s bent and bloody limbs, her bruised and sunken face.
After a long beat, filled with more blinks of confusion than recognition, however, King Soren chuckles and claps his son on the back.
“Look how eager she is to marry you!”