Prologue
My sister wore chains on her wedding day.
They jangled from her wrists like bracelets and squeezed her neck like a collar. They cascaded from her waist in a waterfall of silver, cutting deep furrows into the earth—long straight planting rows that trailed her as she emerged from the hillock palace and paraded down High Street.
When Father saw her, his cheeks flamed red as a beet and he covered his eyes, afraid of what the Vanzadorians would think. What sort of bridechoosesto wear chains instead of silk?
A stronger king would have been proud of Rowenna’s defiance. A strongerfatherwould have been charging into battle, refusing to let our enemies take her. But there Father stood, as useless as a rock, retreating into the blackness of his mind.
Beside him, Mother shook her head with disapproval, though I swore the tiniest of grins teased her lips.
On the opposite side of the road, the Vanzadorians stood in their too-straight lines and too-little clothing, whispering and pointing as if Rowenna’s chains were more shocking and inappropriate than thebejeweled jackets that revealed theirbarechests.
Ro didn’t so much as blink at our parents or her future husband. She was playing to the throng of Tashiri planters crowding the streets behind us like an overgrown flower bed. Every man, woman, and child in our kingdom had come out to see her wed, and they roared their approval of her styling. She blew them kisses and waved in long arching strokes—clinging and clanking the chains to their full advantage.
Rowenna had always had a flair for the dramatic, but this was extravagant, even by her standards. Instead of wearing the traditional wedding wrap of Tashir—a gorgeous gown that Mother’s seamstresses had spent months hand-beading with tiny purple bagrava buds—this gown was made entirely of chain mail. It poured down her arms in big, belled sleeves, then cut close to her figure like a bodice. And the skirt—the skirt!—must have weighed nine stone. Nearly as much as Rowenna herself. Yet, somehow, her steps were smooth, her face serene, as she rattled like a prison wagon toward her future husband.
The poor Vanzadorian prince couldn’t keep the horror from spreading across his face like a blight.
I slapped a hand over my smile.
Where, in all the green hills of Tashir, had she found so many tiny rings of steel? It would have taken months to collect so many.Years. Our sentries wore wooden armor, not chain mail. And who had constructed the gown in secret?
Actually, I knew the answer to that.
Haddesh, the blacksmith’s apprentice, had been in love with Rowenna for as long as I could remember. He would have gladly forged each ring himself, heedless of the burns and backbreaking work, if it helped Rowenna make this final statement as the crown princess of Tashir. So everyone would know this was no ordinary wedding—not even by royal standards, which often necessitate political unions—because there was nounitybetween Vanzador and Tashir. Rowenna was a captive bride, and she wanted her new “family,” and our people,to always remember that.
Ro winked at me as she passed—her eyelids painted gold, her brown hair plaited with zinnias. “Do you think they’re ready for me?” she whispered conspiratorially.
She wanted me to laugh and clap and play into her bravado. My reaction mattered, more than all the rest. But my smile withered like a weed-choked flower, and my hands instinctively shot out, grasping for the chain mail rings. Praying they were strong enough to hold her back. Even ifshewas ready to go to Vanzador,Iwould never be ready to let her go. To be left here.
Alone.
“Indira,” Father scolded.
I snatched my hands back and dropped my gaze to my boots, drowning in shame. I would be in Tashir, with our parents, surrounded by our people.Rowennawas the one being sacrificed to Vanzador. Yet I was the one sputtering, stumbling.
Falling apart.
“Chin up, little sister. Their cold, craggy mountains can’t crush a girl made of steel.” She chucked me under the chin and gestured proudly to her gown. Then she sauntered up to the altar.
But Rowenna was never a girl made of steel. Beneath that gleaming armor, she was as green as any sapling. A tiny bud, just beginning to reach toward the sky. Full of such potential, but still incredibly delicate—like everything that comes from the earth.
Like all of us from Tashir.
One
One year later
I’m in the royal garden, sweating like a salted eggplant, when I hear the scream. A long jagged cry that rattles the cornstalks and shakes the heart-shaped leaves of the newly sprouted bagrava.
I immediately think of Rowenna.
Not because she’d scream like that—my sister would rather die than look so weak—but because it reminds me of the screams that filled my head the day she left.
They day the Vanzadorianstookher.
The trowel I’m holding slides through my fingers…which is when I realize they’re shaking.
