Chapter 9
Nine
I wake to watery yellow light streaming through the tent walls and a growling stomach. Not a single robin or sparrow chatters to welcome the day, like they do in Tashir. Even the birds know better than to nest on the Tomb Flats.
I roll onto my back and peek across the tent, secretly hoping to find the Vanzadorian prince with his mouth hanging open and drool dribbling off his chin.
It would be so satisfying to learn he’s an ugly sleeper.
Though it’s far more likely he’ll be the one perched on his side, sneering at my snarled hair and sleep-lined face.
To my surprise, Alaric is doing neither.
He sits cross-legged and straight-backed, with one hand pressed to the ground beside him and the other covering his eyes like a blindfold. He appears to be quietly muttering something. Probably a curse on our marriage and me.
Except he and Soren need you, Ro reminds me. Never forget that.
I sit up and watch Alaric for another minute before I slam my hand against the ground and shout, “What in all the green hills of Tashir are you doing?”
Alaric jerks from his pose, and his features immediately crumple into a frown. “I was praying, until you rudely interrupted.”
“Praying?” I scoff. The thought of our oppressors engaging in something that requires humility seems more unnatural than a fern sprouting from slickrock.
“Yeah, you know, where you kneel and offer thanks and beg forgiveness? Maybe you’re unfamiliar with the practice, since you Tashiri have never done anything wrong. Always the bloody victims…”
I leap to my feet, every trace of tiredness gone. “We are the victims! You terrorize us!”
Alaric grabs his coat and heads for the door, grumbling as he goes.
I bolt after him. “Where are you going in such a hurry? Didn’t you enjoy our conversation last night? I thought we could continue bonding today.”
“I enjoyed it so much, I’ve already forgotten most of it,” he snaps before striding off toward the firepit.
I stand there, panting and smiling, relishing this small victory.
The guards come to take down the tent, and we’re back in our saddles before the sun is fully up.
I assumed I would ride with Alaric, now that we’re wed, but he makes excuses about needing to help Soren clear the trail and orders me to ride with the same guard as the day before.
Which is fine by me. Preferable, even. I won’t have to be on my toes, ready to spar at a moment’s notice.
And I won’t have to cling to Alaric’s muscled torso and inhale the annoying wind and leather scent of him.
Hour after hour, we gallop across the endless Tomb Flats. It’s all so uniform, I could almost believe we’re running in place if not for the dark triangular shadows that appear on the horizon, growing steadily taller. And King Soren and Alaric’s occasional manipulation of the land.
On our second day of travel, they raise a rock wall to shield us from a pelting sandstorm. And when a guard claims to spot something trailing us across the dunes on the fourth day, the Vanzadorian rulers carve a tunnel into the earth, and we ride belowground for the rest of the day.
Alaric never returns to our marriage tent. I tell myself it’s due to my sharp tongue and intimidating presence, but if the yammering guards are to be believed, it’s because he’s keeping watch through the night with Soren, guarding us—and, more importantly, the bagrava—from the Marauders.
Sometimes I think I see the wild-eyed thieves darting in my periphery. Other times, I swear I hear their battle cries in the yapping howl of the jackals. But on the seventh day of travel, we arrive at the base of the mountains unscathed.
The towering slabs of stone hardly make me feel safer, though.
I always thought the mountains protecting Tashir were high, but I was wrong.
The slopes Soren erected along our border are an anthill compared to the soaring peaks of Vanzador.
Proving, yet again, that King Soren’s “protection” and “allyship” are a shadow of what he truly has to offer. A mockery more than anything.
I crane my neck to survey the craggy bluffs, jutting from the earth like the world’s tallest forest. Each stony branch rises higher than the next, creating a canopy of cliffs that swallows us in its shadow.
The air is at least ten degrees colder than it was on the Tomb Flats, and a whistling breeze tears through my linen shirt as if it’s made of cobwebs.
I have never felt more insignificant and exposed.
The guards dismount and unbuckle their saddlebags, which they convert into satchels they sling across their shoulders.
Hiking poles unfold from tent support beams, spurs become hand picks, and lead ropes are knotted into longer climbing ropes.
Everything, it seems, has a double purpose.
Everything is adaptable to the mountain.
Except for me.
A low rumble brings my gaze back to the base of the peak, where Soren stands with his hands raised. As the rumbling intensifies, a channel opens in the earth, roughly the size of an irrigation ditch, and a steel contraption lurches down tracks embedded in the hillside.
It comes to a stop with a hiss, and Soren climbs into the compartment, motioning for Alaric to follow. “Ride with me—and bring your bride. The bagrava too. The people will be eager to see the fruits of our conquest.”
I stagger back, furiously shaking my head. This is precisely what they did to Rowenna. She told me all about this strange contraption and the crowd of ravenous Vanzadorians waiting at the top. They mocked and ridiculed her, picking her apart like hungry vultures.
“I’d rather walk,” I say.
To my surprise, Alaric mutters something at the exact same moment. Something that sounds an awful lot like, Don’t you ever tire of the production?
I gape over at him, certain I must have misheard.
King Soren turns slowly back around. “What was that, my boy?” His tone is perfectly pleasant, the lines of his body relaxed, but something about it lifts the hairs on my neck.
“I said, ‘Don’t you think she needs instruction?’” Alaric lies smoothly. “As much as I’d prefer to ride with you, Father, I think it would be wise to teach my new wife to climb. Sure-footedness clearly isn’t a family trait, and Indira has expressed so many concerns about falling to her death.”
“How dare you act as if my worries are unfounded!” I bark at him, but Alaric continues talking over me.
“We can’t risk losing this sister. It would be a much greater waste.”
While I sputter with outrage, Soren considers me and nods. “You’re right. She’s of no use to us dead. Ensure she makes it to the top.”
He raps on the ceiling of the contraption, and it starts its steep and puffing ascent up the rock face. I watch it go, marveling at how effortlessly it climbs, like a spider on a windowpane.
“Well, aren’t you going to thank me?” Alaric asks once Soren is out of sight.
“For what, exactly?”
Alaric holds my gaze for a long tenuous moment. “For not making you ride to the top.”
I glare back without blinking. “Don’t pretend that was for me. You were covering your own backside. I heard what you actually said.”
“I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about. The altitude must be affecting you. It’s known to addle the weak.”
“I know what I heard. And I’m not weak,” I say through my teeth.
“Then you should have no trouble keeping up.”
Alaric turns on his heel and starts up the trail.
His guards fall in behind him, and I have to jog to keep up, even though they’re burdened with gear and I’m carrying nothing but my haversack.
As the hours pass, the trail grows steadily steeper, and the cold air burns my lungs.
My tired muscles ache before we’re even a third of the way up this endless trail.
Alaric never looks back to check on me, but the guard I rode with does, giving me silent, encouraging smiles that feel like a mockery.
Just when I think I might keel over from exhaustion, a great walled city appears through the clouds, crowning the summit of the mountain with tall needlelike spires.
I grind to a halt, head tilted back and eyes blinking with terror and awe.
It isn’t any wonder the Vanzadorians call their city the Fortress.
If someone asked me to picture the most imposing and impenetrable stronghold I could imagine, this would be it.
Even from a distance, I count dozens of pointed towers, a maze of stone walls topped with wicked crenellations, and a massive black gate that looks like a gaping mouth.
Rows of enormous steel spikes protrude outward like fangs, and the trail we’re on is the serpent’s long winding tongue.
Now do you see why I couldn’t visit on a whim? Rowenna grumbles.
“Seeds and soil,” I mutter aloud.
It looks like a prison.
It’s worse than a prison, Ro affirms.
“Impressed?” Alaric throws his arms wide and pulls the chilly air deep into his lungs, clearly invigorated by the sight of his home—and my horror.
“The only thing that impresses me is the depth of your greed and lies,” I say, averting my gaze from the Fortress.
Alaric snorts. “How, pray tell, can a mountain be a symbol of greed? And what exactly are we lying about?”
Don’t take his bait, Rowenna warns, but I’m too wrung out and exhausted to censor myself.
“You led my people to believe the power required to maintain the mountain range surrounding Tashir is equal to the sacrifices we make to produce your bagrava tributes. Or that we are somehow deficient, since you’re constantly demanding more and more bagrava.
Then you took my sister and killed her, all under the guise of fair trade, but you’ve clearly given us a fraction of the power you’re truly capable of!
” I stab a finger at the imposing city that looks to be resting in the clouds.
“Our protection is a rickety old fence in comparison.”
“Has your mountain kept the Marauders from invading?” Alaric asks with infuriating calm.
“Yes, but—”
“Then we’ve done our part.”