Thankfully, I don’t need my parents’ love or encouragement. I haven’t needed it for a year now—not ever, if I’m honest. Rowenna and the bagrava have always been my roots, and I choose to focus on that—onher—as I sprint into the billowing smoke.
With every step, the air grows hotter. I can’t see more than a few lengths ahead, but I clumsily hurdle three stone walls and land in the largest bagrava field. Flames hungrily consume the rows. Deep indigo smoke tries to curl up my nostrils, tickling and tantalizing, promising unimaginable pleasure if I stand a little taller, inhale a little deeper.
I spit out a cough and drop to my knees, taking short, shallow breaths. I would never break our promise to Earth Mother—never choose my own selfish pleasure over the well-being of my people and the land.
Slowly, I drag myself forward on my elbows, belting the sacred incantations to the bagrava. My words are weak and choppy and scrape my ash-clogged throat. But a few leaves still unfurl in response. Energy ripples down their stalks and into the earth, and my body welcomes the invigorating thrum.
If the other master gardeners are anywhere near the fields, they’ll feel it too. They’ll hear the bagravas’ cry for help. If we all work together, and if Jareth can beat back the worst of the blaze with irrigation water, we might be able to salvage enough fruit to condition the scorchedground and replant a few fields of grain.
As I sing, I harvest any fruit remotely close to ripe and stuff it into my satchel, but most of it’s still green and shrinking by the second. And there’s still no sign of Jareth with the water.
That child at the banquet was probably right.
We’re all going to die.
Don’t think like that, Rowenna commands.Keep singing. Keep moving.
Her words are a steady heartbeat in my ears. Her ghost hands wrap around my wrists and drag me down the next row of bagrava. Then the next. But all the soothing incantations in the world can’t strengthen plants that have burned to a crisp.
When the fire is close enough to snap at my fingers, I shrug out of my satchel and swing it at the blaze. I know it’s too high and hot to smother, but I keep swinging anyway, because I have to do something. Have to keep fighting.
I strike the blaze again and again, spinning so wildly, lashing out so desperately, I assume I must have lost my balance when my knees hit the rocks. But then the earth heaves again, lurching as it would during an earthquake, and I spot them. Six dark figures streak through the ash and rubble, riding horses much faster and sleeker than our plow animals.
The Vanzadorians.
Their velvet waistcoats flap like enemy banners. Their golden buttons and chains flash like swords as they gallop toward our storehouse.
They’re really going to do it—take all of our bagrava and leave us to perish.
“No!”
The force of my voice startles me, carrying over the crackle and whoosh of the flames. It sounds like hundreds of Tashiri planters are screaming with me.
A moment later, I realize it’s because they are.
At least two hundred gardeners pour from the storehouse, armed withshovels, hoes, and rakes, prepared to defend our home and our bagrava to the death. The sight should comfort me—a mob that size should easily be able to cut down six invaders—but with a flick of King Soren’s wrist, the ground opens like a hungry mouth, gnashing my people in its jagged-rock teeth before spitting their bloody carcasses into a sinkhole.
This time when I scream, Rowenna screams with me. And that’s what breaks me—the hopelessness of it all. Even if every soul in Tashir rises up in rebellion, it won’t be enough. The Vanzadorians will never stop.
Not unless someone stops them
Not unlessyoustop them, Rowenna whispers. And it could be a hallucination born of the noxious bagrava fumes, but I swear I see her face in the curls of smoke—her eyes brimming with love, pride, and conviction. Urging me to be brave. To do this—for her and for Tashir.
This is how you keep your promise. This is how you avenge me.
“What can I possibly do?” I cry.
Go with them to Vanzador and find their weaknesses. Punish my murderers and burntheirkingdom down.
There are a million things wrong with her plan—or lack thereof—but I trust Ro, so I press a kiss to the clover on my wrist and sprint forward, toward the storehouse. If we don’t stop the Vanzadorians from taking the remaining bagrava, there will be nothing left of Tashir to save.
The earth continues to buckle and tilt as I run, dumping me perilously close to the gash Soren ripped in the world. The wounded hands of my people grasp at my clothes and reach for my ankles, begging me to pull them up. And I want to. I want to save them all. But Ro won’t let me stop.
Faster!she shouts in my ear.You’ll save more people by saving the storehouse.
The Vanzadorians are nearly there. A dwindling line of brave gardeners are all that stands between Soren and our stores of harvested bagrava.
Faster!Ro cries again.
