Chapter 21
Twenty-One
I wake with a start several hours later, momentarily confused by the midday sunlight casting rainbows around my geode chamber, and the fact that I’m wearing a fur cloak in bed.
Then it all comes rushing back: my midnight trek up the mountain with Delphine, the staggering number of caves, and collapsing into bed, too exhausted to even change into a nightgown.
I sit up, stretch, and consider burrowing back into my blankets.
I could easily sleep the rest of the day.
It would be so nice to hide from the impossibility of my task.
But Delphine has probably been hard at work for several hours already, running on even less sleep, and the debt I owe her nags at me like a hard-to-reach itch.
She’s sacrificing so much, risking so much, to help me.
The least I can do is uphold my end of the bargain.
I change into a shirt and pair of trousers I brought from Tashir, grab my haversack, and make my way into the hidden solarium.
The glass room is hot and bright, and I squint as I inspect the planter and tools King Soren provided.
The shovels and hand rakes are clearly mining implements that have been repurposed—iron hammers and picks that were melted and reformed—but they’ll do the job.
And the floor-to-ceiling windows provide an ideal amount of light.
A small cluster of bagrava fruit sits in a basket, so shiny, purple, and perfect. Calling to me like an old friend.
My fingers twitch with longing. My heartbeat throbs in my ears. It would feel so good to scoop the seeds from the flesh and start humming the incantations. I’d give almost anything to feel the familiar swell of strength that flows between me, Earth Mother, and the newly sprouted plants.
But that’s exactly what Soren wants—the reason he placed the basket here in the first place,, hoping I wouldn’t be able to resist its siren song.
I kick the basket across room to prove a point and breathe a sigh of relief as the bagrava roll under Alaric’s desk.
Out of sight. Then I reach for my haversack and upend it.
Everything I brought from Tashir spills around my feet and I kneel down to pick through the contents.
There isn’t much: two pairs of socks, a few scraps of fabric to tie back my hair, three bottles of plant food, a dropper of neem-oil, and a leather packet that contains dried herbs, seeds, and cuttings from our foundation crops.
Every gardener in Tashir carries a packet like this, even us master gardeners, who rarely help with common plants.
We’ve found it best to let most crops grow at their natural rate, during their natural season, so we master gardeners can focus our energy solely on the bagrava.
But every once in a while—like after a particularly brutal storm or in case of infestation—we step in to reseed and speed the growing process, so the timing of the harvest is unaffected.
I comb through the packet, sifting through sachets of wheat, barley, and corn until I come to the collection of herbs at the back of the bundle.
It’s nothing earth-shattering. Just hyssop, lavender, chamomile, calendula, rosemary, and St. John’s wort.
Basic ingredients you’d find in any cupboard in Tashir.
But these things could be earth-shattering in a place like Vanzador.
For patients like Cloudia, who has only been prescribed sunlight and exercise.
I tie back my hair and get to work, pressing my thumb into the dirt to form evenly spaced holes.
Then I snuggle seeds into each bed, cover them up, and give them a good drink of water.
Once the entire planter is prepared, I press my hands to the earth and lower my head until my cheek brushes the dirt.
The incantations we use to nourish common plants is different from the words we sing to the bagrava, and the tingling in my chest isn’t nearly as intense. But it’s still so comforting, empowering, and normal, I burst into tears.
Of course, Alaric strides into our solarium at that very moment.
He looks as immaculate as ever in a black jacket that nearly brushes the floor. The high collar and thick cuffs are embroidered with golden filigree, and the contrast of the glittering gold against the inky black makes his long lean frame almost glow in the harsh sunlight.
When he spots me, he halts in the doorway and stares as if I’m covered in blood rather than dirt. “What in the name of the kings are you doing? You’re supposed to be in my mother’s salon.”
“I wasn’t aware I had a schedule to keep,” I snap. “Or that you watch my comings and goings so closely. I’m flattered.” I bat my eyelashes and smile sharply, hoping my bravado hides how fast my heart is hammering.
Gardening is a sacred experience. With Earth Mother’s incantations on my lips and her soil in my palms, it’s the closest I can come to being part of the land itself.
A moment far too personal and intimate for any Vanzadorian to witness, let alone the crown prince.
I feel even more exposed than if he walked in on me naked.
Alaric rolls his eyes, strides to his desk, and rummages around until he finds a pair of scrolls. “You wish I kept a closer eye on you.”
I bark out a laugh. “That’s the last thing I want.”
“Are you sure? Because your expression when I walked in said otherwise.” Alaric lets his mouth fall open dramatically and blinks at me with wide fluttering eyes. As if I looked anything like that.
“You surprised me! And interrupted a sacred moment! Of course I was a bit flustered. But it has nothing to do with—” I gesture up and down his flashy visage, hoping to seem dismissive and unimpressed. But Alaric’s smirk broadens, and my cheeks feel like they’ve been burned by the blistering sun.
I can’t believe I sought him out after my confrontation with Von Nevus, even subconsciously.
He would have mocked me just like this. The glimpse of vulnerability I saw at the end of our previous encounter in this room meant nothing.
It was a carefully choreographed act, like everything else in Vanzador.
I silently thank Earth Mother for sending me Delphine instead—a true ally with an actual heart. Someone who understands the bond between sisters.
“I’m just pleased to see you’re finally getting to work,” Alaric says as he saunters toward the planting beds.
“Speaking of, don’t you have somewhere else to be?” I mutter. “You’re always nattering on about your important princely duties.” I wave my trowel toward his door, but Alaric continues stalking closer.
“No one will miss me for a moment. In fact, Father would want me to survey your progress.”
“I hope you’re prepared for disappointment, because I’m not growing bagrava. None of this is for you—or your father.”
Alaric’s perpetual smirk finally falters, and it brings me an inordinate amount of joy.
“What are you doing, then? What are you growing, if not bagrava?”
“I don’t see how it’s any of your business,” I say archly.
“I’m the crown prince. Everything is my business—especially if it has to do with my meddlesome wife.”
“I thought you weren’t going to address me as such.”
“Believe me, I don’t want to. But your actions now reflect on me, so I don’t have a choice. Now, tell me what you’re doing, or I’ll come over there and dig around myself.”
I let out a long beleaguered sigh. “I’m helping a friend who’s ill.”
“But you don’t have any friends here.”
“How would you know that unless you’ve been watching me?” I challenge.
Alaric sputters, and it’s even more satisfying than honey mead at harvest time. The sweet, sweet taste of victory.
“Run along, back to your important business.” I give another dismissive wave of my trowel, but instead of retreating, Alaric stubbornly perches on a chair near my planting bed and cants forward so he’s hovering over me.
His cloying scent invades my nostrils—the same hint of wind and leather I remember from the Tomb Flats, but now it’s accompanied by something spicy too. Cardamom, perhaps? The combination is far too heady and intoxicating, and I force myself to cough loudly.
“Must you sit so close?”
“I need a good view. I’ve never known a master gardener who’s also a healer. I must bear witness to such talent.”
“Fine.” I stab my trowel into the soil and breathe deeply, so the loamy scent covers up his stink. Then I push the dirt around, pretending to be busy, while I wait for Alaric to get bored and leave.
As expected, he sighs after just a few minutes. “Aren’t you supposed to use magic? Anyone can plant seeds and wait for them to grow.”
“Even I can’t grow something from nothing. The seeds must first be planted before they can be coaxed. But that never crossed your mind, did it? You think you’re above the laws of nature.”
“No,” Alaric says with surprising vehemence. Then he adds, more softly, “I don’t, actually.”
I bark out a laugh. “Have you seen this glass solarium? Your opulent palace? The entire Fortress is extravagant and excessive, carved out of the mountain without thought for the integrity of the earth or the well-being of your own people—whose precious memories fuel your power.”
Alaric’s eyes darken, and he shakes his head.
“You’re oversimplifying. Just because you don’t understand something doesn’t make it wrong.
I can use my power to widen the mine shafts and provide work for my people while still preserving the mountain’s natural integrity.
Just as I can reroute an avalanche to stop it from obliterating innocent lives and homes without redirecting so much snow that the rivers and water supply are affected.
My power isn’t at odds with nature. I work with the earth—like you,” he adds, and the statement is so ridiculous, his expression so unexpectedly earnest, I want to tilt my head back and howl with bitter laughter.