Chapter 13 #2
“Enough!” Queen Tessa’s voice rings out over the clamor, and the salon instantly falls quiet.
The next thing I know, she’s at my side, draping her arm around my shoulders and ushering me away from her son and husband.
“That’s quite enough. You’re going to give the poor girl a heart attack.
Indira only just arrived. She’s clearly terrified and exhausted.
I won’t tolerate such cruelty in my salon. ”
Soren’s grin remains intact, but now it’s brittle at the edges. “I’d hardly call this cruelty, my dear. We’re simply helping Indira feel comfortable and welcome. This is what she’d be doing in Tashir, after all.”
“It’s too much.” Queen Tessa firmly shakes her head.
“In fact, all of this is too much. Too many people, too much commotion. Why don’t you all head to dinner?
” She points to Soren, Alaric, and their robed followers, as well as the majority of the courtiers.
“Indira, my ladies, and I will join you shortly—once she’s had a chance to catch her breath. ”
To my shock, Alaric is the first to head for the door, without a word of complaint. The courtiers follow with only a few whispers and backward glances. Soren lets out a laborious sigh but eventually nods.
“Your heart is too big, my love,” he says as he kisses the back of Queen Tessa’s hand. But his tone makes it sound more like a criticism than a compliment. “Don’t tarry too long—I’d hate for your food to get cold.”
“We shan’t be but a minute,” Tessa says as she plucks her hand free.
Still, Soren doesn’t move, and they stare silently at each other, having an entire conversation with their eyes. Finally, he turns and strides out of the salon, leaving me alone with the queen and her ladies—and Elodie, of course.
Queen Tessa leads me back to the divan and pulls me down beside her. “Forgive my husband. He means well, but his enthusiasm can be overwhelming.”
I remain silent because I don’t forgive her husband, nor do I think he means well.
Queen Tessa gives my hand a squeeze, prompting me to look at her. “Now, where were we before Soren so rudely interrupted?”
“Indira was going to tell us more about herself,” Elodie chimes in, flashing me an encouraging look. But I’m too shaken to play along. Too exhausted to lie and scheme, or attempt to learn anything useful from these women. I just want to retreat to my chamber.
Flee back to Tashir, if I’m honest.
Slowly, and with perfect gentility, the queen runs the back of her fingers down my cheek, smiling when a full-bodied shiver overtakes me.
“Rowenna was happy here. In time, you will be too. We’ll give you everything you could ever want.
All you have to do is truly ingratiate yourself with our kingdom.
Give yourself—and your gifts—over to Vanzador, as she did. ”
On the surface, Queen Tessa’s words are kind, her tone honey-sweet, which is what makes it even worse than Soren’s direct approach.
She didn’t swoop in and rescue me from her husband out of concern for my comfort or well-being.
She’s simply attacking from a different angle, ambushing me with kindness so I’ll let down my guard and agree to grow bagrava.
I lean away from her and, in a quiet but firm voice, say, “You can ask a thousand different ways, but my answer won’t change. I refuse to grow bagrava. Your husband has more than enough power.”
To my surprise, Queen Tessa laughs, and her ladies join in—all except Elodie, who is inordinately focused on a small string trailing from her gloves.
“Who said anything about my husband or his power?” Queen Tessa asks, still chuckling.
She and her ladies exchange a wicked look; then she motions to servants waiting in the wings.
A moment later, they emerge carrying trays laden with steaming pots and pretty painted cups.
I gag as they begin to pour because the liquid streaming into my teacup is purple—a rich, velvety purple that burns my nostrils with its foul odor.
Only one plant on the continent is this particular color. Only one plant emits this gag-inducing stench.
Queen Tessa brings a cup to her lips, closes her eyes, and inhales the steam with a blissful sigh. “We’ve always had to ration our bagrava tea so carefully, but now you can grant us this small favor in exchange for our hospitality. It seems a fair trade, don’t you think?”
I want to knock the cup out of Queen Tessa’s hands, but my own hands are shaking too hard. “Ration it?” I finally sputter. “You’re not supposed to consume bagrava at all! You’ve seen the Marauders!”
“Do I look unhinged?” Queen Tessa takes a long slow sip, then gestures to her ladies. “Do any of us?”
The women regard me over the tops of their steaming cups, clear-eyed and perfectly poised.
It’s unsettling. Not to mention impossible.
“Unlike the Marauders, we’ve conducted trials to find a dosage that can be consumed without adverse effects,” Queen Tessa explains.
“I don’t believe you,” I argue.
Many Tashiri rebels have gone against Earth Mother’s counsel and have experimented like this—hoping to discover a way to feed the blessed plant to themselves rather than the ground.
But every attempt resulted in disaster: addiction and tremors, aggression and madness.
None of the benefits could ever outweigh the cost. And if my own people couldn’t find a way to manipulate the bagrava for safe consumption, I refuse to believe the Vanzadorians have somehow managed it.
“We’re in no danger of losing ourselves,” Queen Tessa insists, “only enjoying ourselves. In fact, I think we’d all agree we’re most content while sipping our daily libation.”
“Your daily libation?” I repeat, as they jovially clink their glasses. “You drink our bagrava every day?”
“Once it’s given in tribute, is it not ours to do with as we please?” Queen Tessa counters.
Don’t engage, Rowenna begs. It will change nothing.
But the bagrava has never been, and will never be, theirs.
I shoot to my feet, outrage spewing from my lips, “My people aren’t breaking their backs so you can sit in this gilded room and drink our life source for pleasure!”
I can’t believe Soren would allow this, that he’d sacrifice even a portion of his fuel for such frivolity.
Queen Tessa patiently waits for me to finish before saying offhandedly, “I’m surprised you’re so upset. Rowenna didn’t seem to have a problem with our tea. In fact, she often partook herself.” She grins, knowing the revelation will fracture the bedrock of my soul.
You partook? I silently accuse gasp at Rowenna. How could you?
What other choice did I have? If I had exploded with outrage, they’d have instantly mistrusted and dismissed me.
It would have ruined my chances to worm my way into their confidence.
Sometimes sacrifices must be made, lines must be crossed.
I thought you of all people would understand this. Understand me.
Her accusation lands like a slap across the face, and I stagger backward.
“Are you okay? You look a bit unwell, Indira,” Elodie says.
“I fear this dreadful conversation has made us all a bit unwell,” Queen Tessa laments as she sets aside her empty teacup. “Thankfully, that can be remedied. Come, let’s pray and recenter ourselves. Begin again, and forget these little foibles.”
I’m about to point out these are hardly “little foibles,” but the queen and her ladies are already settling down onto the plush carpeting.
Queen Tessa claps twice, and the young man in the blue tasseled hat, the one who recounted Rowenna’s memory of Mother’s surprise party, enters the room.
He circles us slowly, watching as the queen and her ladies press one hand into the ground and drape the other over their eyes—just like Alaric in our marriage tent and the people in the square when we entered the Fortress.
Elodie shoots me an encouraging glance before she covers her eyes, but I remain where I am, standing rigidly above them—until the young man in the tasseled hat approaches. Without a word of warning, he places his hands on my shoulders and presses me toward the ground.
“What are you doing?” I cry.
I try to knock his hands away, but he easily subdues me, forcing my hands into the same position as the others. Then he leans in close and whispers, “They need to believe I’ve forced your obedience. When I release you, remain in this position and follow their actions, but don’t close your eyes.”
I nod, even though I have every intention of bolting the moment he releases me. But when the boy eases back, his hazel eyes are soft and earnest, gazing at me with the same quiet reverence as when he recounted Ro’s memory.
Holding a finger to his lips, he stomps his foot once, and Queen Tessa and the other women begin to rock and mutter.
He motions for me to do the same as he slowly circles us three times.
Then, after another stomp, Queen Tessa and her ladies pick themselves up off the ground.
They pat their cheeks and smooth their hair, all of them remarking on how refreshed and recentered they feel.
Almost as if awaking from a collective dream.
The boy coughs and spears me with a glare until I awkwardly mimic the others—blinking, yawning, and fluffing my dress.
Without another word to any of us, he marches out of the room, leaving me to wonder why he would help me. And how, exactly, he helped.
Queen Tessa drifts back to the sofa, and her ladies follow, curiously watching me and whispering behind their fans.
Elodie rolls her eyes at them and mumbles things like, “Rowenna’s sister” and “just arrived,” just like she did when I first entered the salon.
As if we haven’t spent the past few hours together.
Queen Tessa sinks into the sofa with a contented sigh and pats the cushion beside her. “Indira Harrak, my son’s new bride. Come, let me look at you.”
At first, I think she’s calling back to the prank she played earlier—literally “returning” to the beginning of our acquaintance to start again. But she doesn’t laugh or even crack a smile. Neither do her ladies. And when I fail to obey, she thumps the cushion harder.
With a growing sense of unease, I shuffle back to the divan and perch awkwardly beside the Vanzadorian queen.
She takes my face in her hands and studies my features intently, as if she’s never laid eyes on me before.
“Tell me,” she says, her voice lilting and mischievous, “what’s the single most memorable thing about you? ”