Chapter 35
Thirty-Five
“What in the name of the kings is going on here?” Alaric roars.
The nearest caretaker, who was collecting empty soup bowls, shrieks and fumbles her tray.
Dishes clatter noisily to the floor, and several of the other nurses scream.
The patients, however, blink slowly at the commotion—if they notice it at all.
Most are staring silently up at the ceiling, returned again to stone.
Delphine and I slink into the room, keeping our backs against the wall, as Alaric shouts and stomps down the long rows of beds.
“Under whose orders do you operate? Who gave you the authority to open this facility and use bagrava in this way?”
The ground noticeably shudders with each of his steps, and for the first time since arriving on the mountain, I see a glimpse of Soren’s temper in him. I see how easy it would be for them to lose control of their power in a fit of anger or outrage.
“Someone had better start talking!” Alaric bellows when none of the nurses come forward.
“Settle down,” a familiar voice drawls from the far side of the room, and a wave of revulsion washes over me.
I want to run—far, far away—but Delphine reaches for my hand and squeezes it tight as Garitt Von Nevus emerges from the shadows.
His velvet robes and glowing complexion look especially ridiculous here, in this sea of plain white sheets and sallow faces.
“Von Nevus,” Alaric spits. “Somehow I’m not surprised to find you here. Who are these people, and why wasn’t I aware of this facility?”
Von Nevus smirks and casts his eyes about the room, breaking into a full-blown grin when he spots me. “Ah, good. You brought Indira.”
The sound of my name on his lips makes me want to scream.
“Answer me!” Alaric roars. “Now!”
“It’s so unbecoming for a prince to throw a tantrum like a toddler.” Von Nevus tuts and leans casually against a bed frame. “And yelling will do no good. I don’t take orders from you.”
“You’d better start if you want to leave this warehouse alive,” Alaric warns, raising his hands.
Beneath our feet, the stone floor shudders even harder.
“Alaric!” I cry out with alarm, but his attention remains fixed on Von Nevus.
“Tell me!” Alaric commands.
When Von Nevus still doesn’t answer, fractures zigzag up the plaster walls of the warehouse. The bed frames rattle and clank, and the nurses who haven’t already fled bolt without a backward glance at the helpless patients.
The thought of taking even one step closer to Von Nevus makes me want to vomit, but I force myself away from the wall. I refuse to let Alaric lose control the way his father did. And I refuse to let Garitt Von Nevus have any power over me.
I stride down the row of beds, catch Alaric by the elbow, and yank him backward. “Think about what you’re doing!” I shout, giving him a meaningful look when he snarls down at me.
His hands drop to his sides with a thump, and he falls back a few steps, the fury on his face morphing into horror and shame. Before he spirals too far, I tighten my grip on his arm, like Delphine did for me, and tell him to look at me. Breathe with me. Slowly, in and out.
“Thank you, Indira,” he whispers.
“Yes, thank you, Indira,” Von Nevus interrupts, wiggling his fingers in a mocking wave. “So nice of you to intervene on my behalf.”
“It had nothing to do with you,” I snap. “I would have let Alaric level the building and bury you alive, if not for the patients.”
Von Nevus lets out an exaggerated huff. “Why is everyone so touchy today? If you had let me finish”—he turns to Alaric—“I was going to say, I don’t serve you yet. But I will someday, which is why I’m willing to compromise now. So long as it’s of future benefit to me.”
“You’re despicable,” Alaric says. “We’re in a warehouse full of sick Vanzadorians, and you’re thinking of how it can benefit you.”
Von Nevus shrugs. “I’m not responsible for their condition.
I’m simply taking advantage of an opportunity—which doesn’t harm them further, I should add.
If that’s despicable, so be it. I personally think it would be worse to squander the opportunity to make some good come from this awful situation. ”
“What do you want?” Alaric bites out.
“To be lead advisor under your rule,” Von Nevus says without a breath of hesitation.
Alaric barks out a laugh. “You’re daft to think—”
I step down hard on Alaric’s boot and shoot him an insistent look. Von Nevus is the only person who can tell us what’s happening here, so for now, we need to appease him.
Alaric closes his eyes and sighs. “I’ll take it under consideration—if your information proves useful. And truthful,” he adds sharply. “Who are these people? Where did they come from, and why are they ill?”
“These”—Von Nevus holds out his arms—“are the people—or, in some cases, the children of the people—who have chosen to sacrifice the largest quantities of their memories to the earth. Many courtiers do it for the wealth and status born of a large endowment. While commoners do it for appealing incentives like lower taxes, repaying debts, and educational opportunities. For whatever reason, these people poured so much of themselves into the ground—in order to fuel your power, I want to remind you—that there’s nothing left,” Von Nevus says with a theatrical frown.
Alaric’s face crumples with confusion. “I don’t understand.”
“We aren’t made of an infinite amount of memories.
If a person sacrifices too much, they no longer have enough life essence to support themselves or the children they create.
Nothing left with which to sustain or make a soul, leaving bodies without proper substance to animate them, as you see here. ” Von Nevus turns a slow circle.
“No.” Alaric staggers back. “That can’t be true.”
I want to agree, but it explains why the courtiers are so distant and distractable, why people are mysteriously vanishing, and why Soren needs more and more bagrava.
Of course sacrificing one’s memories would have long-term consequences. The Vanzadorian people are draining their vitality more every day. Every hour. And minute.
“No,” Alaric growls repeats with more vehemence. “Our people choose which memories to give—and how much to give. They would never sacrifice more than is sustainable.”
“Tell me, Your Highness, how are they supposed to know when they’ve reached their limit? Is there a bell that rings to let them know their social climbing days are over?”
Alaric looks pale and dazed. He fumbles to respond.
Von Nevus fills the silence with another devastating blow. “We tried to mitigate the problem by adding bagrava to the water supply, which has helped to slow the epidemic, but it’s like trying to dam a river with a twig.”
I clutch my throat, feeling sick. How much bagrava have I unknowingly consumed? I should have realized, should have recognized the flavor. But how could I when I’ve never tasted it before? When Rowenna’s letters blamed the flavor on mineral deposits?
“We bring the worst patients here,” Von Nevus continues, “so as not to frighten and upset the rest of the population.”
“But don’t their families notice they’re missing?” Delphine speaks up for the first time.
Von Nevus shakes his head. “The majority of families have chosen to forget their ailing loved ones, rather than live with the pain of losing them in this harrowing manner.”
“You mean the families have been compelled to forget,” Alaric says through clenched teeth. “My father forces them to purge the truth about their loved ones, doesn’t he? To ensure everyone continues depositing memories.”
“It’s not our place to question or criticize the king,” Von Nevus says.
“If you are unable to move the earth, we won’t be able to keep the Marauders from scaling the mountain, and our mines won’t yield half as much.
Not to mention our society as a whole will collapse.
It’s built around rewarding those who give the most.”
“What happens to these people who have already sacrificed too much—or never had enough to begin with?” Alaric gently leans over to touch the cheek of a boy no older than five. The boy doesn’t look up or even flinch, and it reminds me of the hollow shell cicadas leave behind when they molt.
“They die,” Von Nevus says gravely. “Most of these people would be dead already, if not for this rigorous bagrava treatment—which I suggested, by the way.” He straightens his robes proudly.
“When I saw how the bagrava tea soothed and stabilized the queen and her courtiers following a memory sacrifice, I hoped it would help these people too—fill the void where memories should be. And it does, to an extent. It prolongs their lives for months, sometimes even years, and allows them a few hours of normalcy each day, as you just witnessed.”
I look from one vacant face to the next, my heart throbbing painfully.
“What’s the point?” I sputter. “This isn’t sustainable.
Surely, Soren must see that. My people can’t produce enough bagrava to meet your demands now, and if what you claim is true, the number of ailing Vanzadorians will only grow.
Even if Tashir could produce enough bagrava without sentencing ourselves to starvation, it doesn’t actually give these people a good quality of life. A few hours a day is hardly enough.”
“So should we just let them perish?” Von Nevus asks. “You’re beginning to sound even more stonehearted than us, Princess.”
“No. Of course not. That’s not what I meant.” I blink around the dismal space. “Their suffering should be eased, of course, but the greater problem needs to be addressed. People need to stop giving memories.”
Von Nevus laughs. “Don’t try to solve problems you know nothing about. If you want to be useful, cultivate more bagrava.”
“But no matter how much bagrava we have, won’t there eventually come a time when everyone is ill?” Delphine asks. “When no healthy children are born? What does King Soren plan to do then?”
Von Nevus gives a full-bodied shrug. “King Soren says we must focus on the present, and the best way to serve and protect Vanzador now is by keeping his power as strong as possible.”
“He doesn’t care about the bleak future because he plans to dump it on me,” Alaric says, gazing at the rows and rows of cots with a haunted look in his eyes.
I slump against the wall, overcome with exhaustion.
For so long, I thought Soren used our bagrava to fuel his power, but the truth is so much worse.
Keeping sick people alive might seem like a nobler cause, but by nursing these people with bagrava, it allows Soren to continue collecting memories and amassing power without consequence.
“Did Rowenna know?” I ask Von Nevus. “About this place? About the sickness?”
“I brought her here once, so she’d know the full breadth of our situation when she became queen.”
If Rowenna knew Vanzador was imploding, would she still have tried to steal the gemstone triad?
Especially if she knew our people would have to sacrifice memories in order to fuel its power?
Or would she have been content to stand by and watch Vanzador consume itself?
Rowenna was never a patient person, and she would have seen the flaws in that strategy too—without Soren feeding power into our mountain range, we would be left exposed to the Marauders.
So what did she choose? And how, exactly, did that choice result in her death?
When I first arrived in Vanzador, I would have twisted myself into knots trying to untangle this complicated web.
I wouldn’t have been able to move forward unless I knew I was following in her footsteps with exactness.
But, as I look at Alaric and Delphine standing beside me, and all the people in need of help in this hospital, I realize I have options Rowenna never had, because I’ve let people in when she never did.
Unlike her, I am willing to pivot from my original plans and admit my way isn’t the only way—or even the best way.
My sister and I may have hiked the same treacherous path leading up this mountain, but we arrived at two very different destinations. One an ending, the other a new beginning, and I am choosing to build rather than burn.
I turn my back on Von Nevus and the dreary hospital, and charge back toward the palace, my mind racing as fast as my steps.
There have to be other sources of power.
Other means by which Alaric can move the earth without draining the life essence from his people and depleting our bagrava stores.
A way Tashir and Vanzador can both thrive, as true allies.
Alaric and Delphine chase me back through the streets, demanding to know where I’m going and what I’m doing, but I don’t stop until I’m back in the solarium, sinking into the soft soil of my planting beds—my sanctuary. The only place I can make a difference.
“We shouldn’t have to live like this—with our people suffering and dying on both sides,” I say, looking up at my panting maid and bewildered husband. “We’re all sacrificing so much and still losing. It’s madness.”
“What other choice do we have?” Alaric asks with an exhausted sigh.
I raise my chin and confidently say the very words I swore I never would.
“I’m willing to cultivate bagrava in earnest for the sick Vanzadorians, if you’re willing to search for alternative ways to fuel your power.
There has to be something more sustainable than memories.
If we work together instead of against each other, we can all prosper instead of limping along, clinging to half the life and opportunity our people deserve. ”
Alaric fiddles with the chains on his jacket. “You know I would happily agree, but I doubt my father will.”
“So we’ll make him,” I say resolutely.