The thought makes my heart stutter and break. Ro and I shared most things in life, but I have no desire to share this—to shareAlaric—withher.
I whirl around to gauge the prince’s reaction, praying he’ll protest. He must be just as averse to this as I am. But he’s laughing as the guards playfully elbow him, and when he catches me staring, he winks.
My cheeks burn, which only makes Alaric’s entourage laugh harder.
“Something tells me the princess hasn’t got much experience in the bedroom…” one of the guards jeers.
“Not to worry, sweet pea,” another calls. “Alaric has enough experience for you both.”
“I’m sure she’ll be a quick study,” the first guard says to Alaric in a mock whisper, “what with all of her time spent handling zucchinis…”
“And cucumbers!” another guffaws.
I can’t stand to be near them a second longer.
With a withering glare, I grab the water horn and stomp away from where they begin making camp. No one follows me. They know I won’t run. I can’t if I want to protect my people and avenge Rowenna.
My only choice is to plow ahead to Vanzador and find a fracture in the bedrock of their mountain. No one is invincible. Not even Soren and Alaric Alaverdi. So while they wink and mock and threaten me, I’ll whittle away at the foundation of their fortress. I’ll find a weakness in Soren’s power—or in the people or the land itself—and I’ll use it to destroy them.
I uncork the water horn and pour it over my face, scrubbing at the streaks of soot and dried blood.Notfor Alaric. I don’t give a fig if he finds me repulsive. I’m washing for myself—to remove the terrible stench of burned bagrava and to clear my head, figure out my first move.
It’s as I’m untangling my hair from its disheveled topknot that inspiration comes. Instead of returning my hair to a tight bun as I planned, I weave the top portion into an intricate seven-stranded braid. The very same braid Rowenna wore on the day she married this very same prince. I even manage to find some poppy cuttings in my haversack that aren’t too wilted, and I add them to the plait. They aren’t the vibrant zinnias that crowned Ro’shead like fire, and my hands aren’t nearly as nimble, but all in all, it’s a good likeness. Most important, it makes me feel stronger. More like my sister.
People have always remarked on our striking similarities: dark hair and eyes, golden skin sprinkled with freckles. I take a handful of mustard seeds from my pack, crush them into powder, and dab it across my eyelids—to imitate the shimmering gold she wore on her wedding day. Now, if only I had chain mail…
I want to be Ro’s perfect likeness. I want Alaric and his father to see the ghost of his murdered bride rising from the grave for vengeance, as I utter my marriage vows.
When I’m satisfied with my appearance, I return to camp to test my handiwork.
The guards are perched on rocks around a fire, cooking lumps of unidentifiable meat on sticks.
“Want one?” The man I rode with holds out a greasy blob, but I shake my head and twist my face with disgust.
“That doesn’t look fit for a dog,” I purposely goad them. So they’ll look up and see Rowenna’s face in mine. So they’ll realize I’m not going to let them kill her and carry on as if nothing happened.
But there’s no pulse of recognition. No inkling of guilt. Instead of dropping their skewers and blinking with shock, the guards simply exchange exaggerated eye rolls.
As if my sister never even existed.
Their blatant disregard for her life makes me want to dive at them like the hunting crows we raise in Tashir—tenacious predators that keep the locusts from destroying our crops—but I save my energy. If these fools don’t remember Ro, it’s a reflection onthem. They probably weren’t even in attendance at the wedding.
Soren and Alaric, however, won’t be able to ignore the similarities between my sister and me. And they’re the ones I need to frighten.
They’re the ones who must pay for her death.
I stomp past the fire toward a tent the guards must have erectedwhile I washed. Lanterns burn within, projecting Soren and Alaric’s silhouettes on the fabric. They’re pouring drinks and lounging on cushions, as if they haven’t a care in the world. As if they didn’t just leave my entire life and kingdom in ashes.
Put them in their place, Rowenna whispers.
Yesterday, I wouldn’t have dared to speak to the Vanzadorian king, let alone confront him, but yesterday I wasn’t living for myselfandmy sister. I wasn’t carrying the weight of an entire country on my shoulders.
I clench my fists, march up to the tent, and duck through the flap. “You’ve kept me waiting long enough. Let’s get this wedding over with.”
Both men fly to their feet, and Soren bellows an unintelligible threat, but I hold my ground and let them take in my appearance, hoping they see Ro’s bent and bloody limbs, her bruised and sunken face. After a long beat, filled with more blinks of confusion than recognition, however, King Soren chuckles and claps his son on the back.
“Look how eager she is to marry you!”
Alaric laughs along, but the grin doesn’t quite reach his eyes. And I catch him squinting sideways at me when he thinks I’m not looking.
