“Unfortunately, it’s all that’s left. The best parts of me are in the ground—with Rowenna.”
I toss the fabric in his face, turn on my heel, and march to the nearest banquet table. It’s heaped high with fried squash blossoms, fresh pomegranate wine, and basil-encrusted cheese, all of it artfully arranged with flowers, herbs, and berries, creating a feast for the eyes that rivals the feast for the belly. I scowl at it all, even as my mouth waters, because, once again, these are luxuries we can’t afford
The line of Tashiri mourners knows this, and they respectfully fill their plates, admiring the exquisiteness of the meal and remarking on the freshness of the beans and the sweetness of the tomatoes. The Vanzadorians, on the other hand, dig into the spread like the wild boars that tromp through the woods and flatten our mushrooms. They take one bite of the sweet, speckled corn before tossing it to the ground and pour mead down their chins instead of into their mouths. They chomp, slurp, and toast amongst themselves, as if this isn’t a somber occasion. As if the rest of us aren’t present and deserve no acknowledgment for the feast.
Fury wavers at the edges of my vision like heat rising from a pot.
Rowenna told me all about the Vanzadorians’ disgusting food, and even more disgusting manners, in her letters. She said their water tastes foul due to minerals and sediment, and they gnaw on massive slabs of overcooked, unseasoned meat that’s as bland and gray as their mountains. reparation or pride in the presentation. But they clearly aren’t struggling to enjoy themselves now. One of the prince’s attendants lets out a juicy belch, garnering raucous cheers from his comrades.
“Couldn’t you have poisoned their dishes?” I mutter as Birdie bustles by with a tray of cheese-stuffed dates.
She snorts indignantly. “And lose my reputation as the finest cook in Tashir, not to mention my head?”
“You could have done it discreetly.”
“And then what? Watch the mountains crumble?” Birdie blows a lock of hair out of her sweaty face. “Be patient, love. The rockheads’ll be gone soon enough. Ididcut the cantaloupe slightly larger than usual—due to running out of time—but if we have any manner of luck, one of them will choke.”
She bustles away with a dark chuckle, and I move among the tables, filling my plate with all of Ro’s favorites. Then I look for a place to sit.
But Rowenna isn’t here. Neither is Haddesh. And sitting with my parents is out of the question. There are at least a dozen of Father’s advisors and their families in attendance, but none have bothered to save a space for me, and I can’t blame them. I’ve because I never bothered making friends with anyone other than my sister. It wasn’t intentional; there’s nothing wrong with any of the courtiers. Rowenna and I just preferred when it was the two of us. And after she was gone, it was too awkward to try and fit in. You can’t ignore people for sixteen years, then expect to be welcomed into their circle, even if you’re royalty.
Which leaves only Lewis.
He waves a forkful of mashed potatoes a little too eagerly from the corner, but I pretend not to see him and plunk down at the children’s table, next to ribbon-haired girls and bespectacled boys, all from Tashir’s highest-ranking families. I should probably know their names and what their parents grow. Rowenna would. She would have regaled them with tales of her adventures, loving how they hung on her every word and stared at her with enormous button-mushroom eyes. But I don’t have a clue where to start, and I don’t have the will to try, so I tuck into my food and pretend not to notice their raised brows and lolling mouths.
I eat until I’m stuffed to bursting, mostly to avoid conversation, but also because Birdie has truly outdone herself. By the time Father standsto close the banquet, I’m slumped over in my chair like a frothing slug, dreaming of my bed and the sweet escape of sleep. Hoping against hope I’ll wake up and this will all have been a bad dream.
“In honor of my daughter, Rowenna Ilissium Harrak, I wish health to your bodies and bounty to your fields!” Father says. His voice is so weak and wispy, there’s no way it carries to the farthest tables. He can’t even manage to lead a toast, yet somehow he’s supposed to lead this country. But everyone raises a glass and echoes the appropriate refrain anyway—probably because they feel sorry for him.
“Bounty to our fields!”
The room breaks into applause, but before anyone can drink, King Soren clears his throat and rises from his seat at the Vanzadorians’ table.
Father fumbles his wine glass, spilling a bit down his robe. “I didn’t realize you wished to speak. My deepest apologies, Soren. I should have offered—”
Soren silences Father with a flip of his hand. As if Father’s a dithering valet, not an allied king. “I have nothing to say of dear Rowenna that these services haven’t already said far better and more eloquently.”
The five glasses of pomegranate wine I downed in quick succession churn in my stomach, and hateful words bubble up my throat. “You have nothing to say about ‘Dear Rowenna’ because you didn’t actually know her. Or care about her. Take your false pity back to your loathsome mountains.”
The children surrounding me giggle, their noble parents frown and murmur, and Father looks like he swallowed a watermelon whole, but King Soren smiles even wider.
“I will happily return home just as soon as we discuss how this tragedy affects the treaty between our nations…”
A hush descends on the hall like late spring frost. Somewhere down the banquet table, a spoon clatters into an empty bowl. Several ladies gasp.
This isn’t the first time Soren has wanted todiscussour treaty, and every time the terms get worse for Tashir.
I clench my fists, trying to uproot the panic twining through my chest. He’s toying with us, trying to intimidate Father. Soren would never rescind his protection. Not when he and Alaric need the bagrava just as desperately as we do. They don’t use our precious plant to improve farming conditions in Vanzador or to induce euphoria like the Marauders, but to amplify their ability to move the earth—which might be even more unforgivable. Somehow, they’ve found a way to twist Earth Mother’s gift, taking the miracle that saved our ancestors from starving to death on the Tomb Flats, and using it to crumble and carve out the land rather than fortifying it. And the worst part is, we don’t have a clue how they do it.
Over the years, Father has arrested scores of heretics who were caught experimenting with bagrava, trying to imbue themselves with power like Soren’s, but none have ever come close to replicating his abilities. All we know is Soren and his son continue to grow stronger, while we’re forced to watch our planting fields go fallow due to insufficient bagrava to condition the soil. Just this fall, three more fields were reclaimed by the Tomb Flats. Even if we have a hearty yield this harvest, there’s a good chance we’ll run out of grain before the winter’s through.
Father forces a cough—his best attempt at sternness. “Let’s retire to my office, Soren. This isn’t the place to discuss such matters—”
“The treaty states that Tashir will send a monthly shipment of bagrava along with a princess for my son to wed in exchange for our protection,” Soren forges on.
“Which we did.” Father gestures wildly in the direction of High Street—to the burial grounds at the road’s end, where Rowenna lies.
“Unfortunately, Rowenna is no longer with us.” Soren holds out his hands, as if he’s blameless in all of this. “And without proper motivation, I’m concerned you’ll no longer feel obligated to send the quantities of bagrava we require.”
