Have we always looked this shabby and weak? Or is it just especially glaring beside the Vanzadorians’ gleaming attire and ruthless ambition?
“There are only so many hours of sunlight in the day,” Father continues, “and we have only a few master gardeners to prepare the fields, which is why you can’t take Indira. It would drastically decrease the size of your tribute.”
Technically, Father’s defending me, but I stare down at the spilledwine trickling through the cobblestones, so no one can see the tears brimming along my lashes. It’s just as I suspected. His outburst had nothing to do with loving or protecting me and everything to do with the harvest. It always comes back to the bloody harvest.
Even to my own parents, I’m a master gardener first and a daughter second.
“A captive bride is unnecessary,” Father continues, imploring. “We both need Indira here, cultivating the bagrava. We’re clearly in no position to rebel…”
“You’re in no position tonegotiate.” King Soren brushes past Father and approaches me, taking my chin in his hands. His soft leather gloves are jarring compared to the tightness of his grip, and I shiver as he appraises me with vulture eyes. “I suspect we won’t need Tashir at all once I’m able to cultivate bagrava on the mountain…”
I lurch back, shaking my head. “I won’t—”go with you. Help you grow bagrava.
But Soren snaps his fingers in front of my nose before I can finish. “Gather your things, Indira. We leave at once—with a full load of bagrava.” He gives this last instruction to no one in particular. As if all Tashiri are capable of harvesting and preparing the tribute. As if we all live just to serve him.
“But another shipment isn’t due for half a moon cycle,” Domynic, Father’s foremost advisor, cries.
“Consider it a bereavement gift for my son. Or recompense for withholding essential information about Indira and sending us the lesser princess.”
Hysterical laughter punches from my lungs. Only a fool would deemRowennathe lesser princess.
“The tribute takes days to prepare,” another advisor cries. “It isn’t possible.”
Soren waves a dismissive hand. “I’m certain you’ll find a way. If youdon’t, we’ll take every last bundle of bagrava and level the mountains as we go.”
The crowd of mourners watch in stunned silence as he strides out of the atrium, followed by Alaric and their entourage. No one moves because there’s nothing to do. No way to stop this. Supposedly, we’re allies with Vanzador, which means we should be equals. But Tashir never seems to have the upper hand. Or even a comparable hand.
Without warning, Father takes up a chair and smashes it against the ground, after which he crumples into the splinters and weeps into his hands. The guests whisper and dart nervous glances at each other, growing more and more unnerved the longer the moment stretches and the louder Father wails. We need a confident, commanding ruler now more than ever, so, naturally, he has melted into a puddle.
One of the noble children at my table dashes to her parents and tearfully cries, “We’re all going to die, aren’t we?”
That’s all it takes.
Shouts and sobs fill the atrium as the mourners rush to flee, trampling the decorations and wasted food. The only benefit of the stampede is it forces Mother to spring back into motion. With a look of grim resolve, she wrenches Father up by his livery collar, sinks her ice-cold fingers into my wrist, and drags us back inside the palace.
I assume she’ll take us to the keep, where we’ve always taken shelter during storms or invasions, but instead of following the spiral staircase downward, Mother charges through the tunnels toward the royal residences.
“Where are we going?” I ask as bile licks the back of my throat. The keep is the safest place in the hillock palace. The only place the Vanzadorians won’t be able to reach us.
Instead of answering, Mother rounds another corner and herds us intomychambers. She deposits Father, who’s still hysterical, onto the armchair where I study and shoos me toward the wardrobe with her hands. “Don’t just stand there like a scarecrow, Indira. Change intotraveling clothes and gather your things.”
A warbling cry escapes my lips as the true direness of my situation dawns.
Father only wishes to keep me here because of my gardening abilities, and Mother doesn’t plan to keep me here at all. She’s going to hand me over to my sister’s murderers without a semblance of a fight.
“Don’t pack anything, Indira!” Father suddenly catapults out of the armchair and strides toward us, shrinking only slightly beneath Mother’s withering scowl. “We cannot let them take her, Ianthe! We can’t give in to these outrageous demands. You’re the one who’s always telling me I must be stronger and bolder and make a stand for Tashir. Well, now I’ve done it, and you’re not going to stand with me?”
“It’s too late.” She brushes him aside and flaps her hands at me. “Pack, Indira! They’ll be here any second.”
Father wedges himself between us again. “Soren won’t actually level the mountains. It’s time to call their bluff and assert ourselves.”
“The time to assert ourselves has long since passed.” Mother jabs Father’s chest with a shaking finger. “Youmissed that opportunity, and once again, our daughter must put her life in peril to correct your mistakes.”
This time, when she shoves past Father, he averts his eyes and lets her go.
With sharp efficiency, Mother unfastens the collar of my mourning dress and guides my arms and legs back into the clothes I wear every day: lightweight pants with a myriad of pockets and a loose linen shirt, over which she straps my shoulder holsters and bottles. Then she buckles my hip satchel and uses it to drag me closer.
“I’m sorry we can’t do more to protect you, but perhaps Rowenna can. When you reach Vanzador, locate her things—assuming the Vanzadorians haven’t destroyed them already. Look for her gowns, her books, her stationery, anything and everything she might have left behind, and scour them for clues. Knowing your sister, she would havebeen plotting and planning—”
