Chapter 41
Forty-One
Alaric spots me as soon as we return to the crowded square, as if he’d been waiting like a lost, lonely puppy.
Less than an hour ago, this would have sent a thrill zinging through my chest. He’s the most magnificent person on this mountain, the king of this great nation, and he’s looking for me.
Less than an hour ago, I would have darted through the crowd, folded myself into his arms, and shared my worries and fears about Cloudia’s condition.
But less than an hour ago, I was a fool.
Now, rage crackles through me like lightning at the sight of him. I want to bluster through the crowd and rain down vengeance on my husband. But I force myself to meet Alaric’s gaze and even muster a wave as Delphine and I make our way toward him.
“How’s Cloudia?” he asks, glancing between Delphine and me, looking so genuinely concerned I could slap him.
“Still alive—for now,” I say. “We were able to stabilize her.”
“Thank the kings.” Alaric cups my face in his hands, regarding me as if the sun itself shines through my eyes. “You’re amazing, you know that?”
His gaze slides down to my lips, and despite all his lies, despite the harrowing memory of Rowenna’s death emblazoned on my brain, my traitorous heart still flutters.
It’s all an act, I sternly remind myself. But my body doesn’t want to believe it. It leans closer to him, like a plant following the sun, craving his light and warmth.
Delphine loudly clears her throat, and I flinch back.
“Thank you for letting me steal Indira during your big celebration,” Delphine says to Alaric. “It was most kind.”
“You know I’d do anything to help you or your sister. Is Cloudia coherent? Did she say anything more?”
On the surface, Alaric’s questions seem innocent.
He cares for Delphine and me, so of course he’d care for Cloudia too.
Especially when her previous mutterings proved so helpful.
But I find myself analyzing his curiosity, picking apart his tone and expression.
Is he too eager? Is he genuinely curious, or is he probing to see how much I know?
I don’t think Alaric could possibly know that Cloudia found the memory of Rowenna’s death—assuming he knows the memory exists at all—but at this point, nothing would surprise me.
He could be responsible for Cloudia’s strange sickness for all I know.
It could be his way of keeping her quiet.
“Sadly, Cloudia didn’t speak,” Delphine says when it becomes clear I’m not going to. “But she’s resting peacefully again.”
“Good,” Alaric says, and I might be imagining it, but I swear his shoulders slacken. Whether that’s because he’s truly glad, or if he’s just relieved his secret’s safe, there’s no telling.
I squeeze my eyes shut, so frustrated and terrified, I want to run back to the palace, cover my head with my pillow, and forget all of this. I want to purge every moment since I arrived on the mountain.
But that’s exactly what the courtiers do, and I refuse to be like them. I refuse to forget the past just because it’s difficult or inconvenient or, in my case, proves how wrong I was. How badly I betrayed my sister.
Alaric drapes his arm over my shoulders, enveloping me in the spicy scent I used to find so intoxicating. Now it just makes me nauseous.
“Shall we dance?” He gestures to the revelers. “You look like you could use a distraction. Visiting Cloudia clearly upset you.”
I hate how well he knows me, how easily he reads me, when I know nothing about him. But most of all, I hate my body’s reaction to him. Despite everything, it still wants to be swept up in his traitorous arms.
“Are you feeling all right?” Alaric murmurs as he spins us in a slow circle. “You seem distracted. Or upset.”
I shake my head—perhaps too fast—because Alaric raises a brow.
“It’s nothing.” I force my lips to smile while inwardly berating myself. Alaric has been deceiving me for weeks. Surely, I can pretend everything’s normal for a single dance? “I’m just tired,” I continue. “It’s hard to see Cloudia so ill and Delphine so worried.”
Alaric’s frown deepens. “What about you? How are you feeling? You’re so pale. And we still don’t know what’s ailing Cloudia. I’d hate for you to catch her illness.”
Or uncover her memories, I think darkly.
But I say, “I’ll be fine.” Then I broaden my smile, kick up my heels, and pretend everything’s perfect. When the song ends, though, Alaric is still considering me with a frown.
“You know you can talk to me about anything,” he offers. “I want you to talk to me about everything, especially if something’s bothering you.”
He always says the right things, knows precisely when to flash his smoldering smile to bend people to his will. And since I’m apparently incapable of hiding my emotions from this man, I decide to tell him the truth—at least a portion of it.
“I’m just missing Rowenna. I wish she could be here to see everything we’ve accomplished and take part in the victory.”
I carefully watch Alaric for a slip in his composure—for a twinge of panic or remorse at my sister’s name. But there’s nothing.
He truly remembers nothing.
Which means it’s time to remind him.
***
Three days later, Alaric stands at the head of my planting beds in our solarium, admiring the mature crop of bagrava I’ve been tending night and day since the moment I left the coronation festival.
“It’s so beautiful,” he says with hushed reverence.
I nod because it’s true. The yield is almost flawless: thick green stalks, as tall as my waist; bright indigo flowers, softer than velvet; and delicate serrated leaves, sharp as a razor.
It’s as fine a crop as any I’ve grown in Tashir, not due to perfect growing conditions, but because I’ve spent every minute of the past three days coddling the seedlings. Anything to speed the process along so I don’t have to stay on this mountain a second longer than necessary.
Anything to avoid Alaric.
The less time I spend with him, the less likely I am to get re-ensnared by his calculated charm and devastating beauty.
Thankfully, growing bagrava for the sick has been the perfect excuse.
Every time he’s come to talk, I remind him bagrava needs silence.
Every time he tries to take my hand and lure me away for a stolen moment, I remind him the crop could wilt if I step away.
As king and queen, we have to put the well-being of our people above our own desires.
If I’m honest, the bagrava has always been my excuse—even back in Tashir.
Tending plants has always been easier than cultivating relationships.
Keeping my head down and my hands in the dirt always yielded better results than sticking my nose in political matters where it didn’t belong.
I have no business trying to lead. I’m as pathetic and useless as my father.
The one time I decided to trust my own judgment and rely on other people, I ended up aligning with Rowenna’s killer.
What about Delphine? a tiny voice cries from the rotten, soggy compost of my heart. And Elodie? You don’t have to cut them all out.
But I do. I’ve been keeping both girls at an arm’s length since the celebration—declining Elodie’s invitations and being purposely vague with Delphine about the next steps of my plan to steal Alaric’s gemstones. I have to protect them.
If I fail, I’ll fail alone.
“How many people will this treat?” Alaric asks, bringing me back to the solarium. “Can we reseed these planters immediately? I’d like to see if we can give the sick more than a few hours of relief each day.”
Each question makes my hackles rise higher, and I barely stop myself from slapping his hand away when he strokes a rounded bagrava fruit. Now that I’m no longer blinded by his charming smile and clever lies, I can’t believe how transparent he is, how I didn’t see through his act.
I reach for the reaping scythe propped against the wall, more than a little tempted to swing it at his neck and take my vengeance immediately, but, since I’d never make it out of the Fortress covered in his blood, I lop off an entire row of bagrava with one artful swing and flash a sweet smile over my shoulder instead.
“The first thing we need to do is process the bagrava to preserve its potency. Then I can churn the beds and replant. I’m sure I can cultivate enough to experiment with the dosages—especially if it’s combined with the tributes my people send.”
“Can’t we just take the crop straight to the healers?” Alaric asks with a frown. “Why process it if it doesn’t have to be transported across the Tomb Flats?”
“The fruit can be used right away, but the leaves and flowers must be pressed and baled in damp conditions to help the cuttings retain moisture. Otherwise, they’ll quickly lose potency.”
Lies. All of it. The leaves and flowers are useless, but Alaric doesn’t know that.
“I didn’t realize the cuttings could be used in addition to the fruit,” Alaric muses. “You’ve never sent them as tribute.”
I shrug. “Your father only demanded the fruit. So that’s what we sent. But now that we’re truly unified, I’m willing to give everything we have to offer.”
More lies. I just need an excuse to get Alaric away from the palace and his guards. Somewhere remote and secluded—like the mountaintop where Soren died. It seems fitting both father and son should face their reckoning there.
Alaric glances around the blindingly bright solarium and frowns. “Damp conditions will be difficult to find. The air in the palace is drier than a bone from all the hearth fires.”
“That is a problem.” I furrow my brow and pretend to think hard. “What about the caves up the mountain? They are spacious and damp, and no one will disturb us there,” I say, as if the idea just occurred to me.
Alaric peers out the window, at the pelting wind buffeting the cliffs with snow. “It will be a difficult hike, especially carrying all of this bagrava, but if you think it’s best…”
“I do.” I bend over and begin gathering the sheaves into my arms.