“Invasion. Marauders.”
My eyes instinctively go to the jagged mountain range standing sentinel over our fields. Three years ago,King Soren used his power to erect the rocky barrier along the length of Tashir’s border in exchange for monthly tributes of bagrava and my sister, when she came of age at eighteen. He promised it would seal the Marauders out, and so far, it has. The robbers haven’t stepped foot in Tashir to loot our bagrava in so long, memories of the relentless raids of my childhood have finally begun to soften.
But one scream from Mother, and they rise again, like phantoms from the shadows. I can hear the Marauders’ horrible whoops as they raze and pillage the fields, see their ferocious, giddy faces as they inhale the purple smoke and spiral into mad euphoria, feel Rowenna’s clammy hand in mine as we huddle in the underground keep for hours, praying they don’t take the entire crop.
Focus, Indira, Ro commands.You can’t help if you’re unraveling.
“Of course I’m unraveling!” I fire back, as if she’s really here. Seeds and soil, I wish she were. I’ve never faced the Marauders without her.
We’ve upheld our end of the treaty. Tashir is safe, Rowenna maintains with steely resolve.
But what if this has nothing to do with the treaty? What if the Marauders found a way to circumvent the mountains?
I leap over a stone wall that separates the growing fields from the royal residences and scan the myriad of colorful doors and windows nestled into the hillside. Nothing seems out of place, but there also isn’t a soul in sight. No trace of the servants and courtiers who are always streaming in and out like ants from a hill.
“Birdie!” I cry as I bang into the smokehouse. The sudden dark of under the hill washes over me, and my boots knock into the buckets of grease beside the ovens. “Birdie, what’s happening?” I cry again. But our flour-cheeked cook isn’t at the ovens or the stove, no matter that supper should be served in half an hour.
Panic sprouts anew in my belly and propels me into the pantry. Empty. Cold cellar. Also empty.
“Jareth! Despina!” I call for Father’s valet, for Mother’s attendant. But silence echoes back through the tunnel halls. There isn’t even a guard making methodical rounds.
I duck down the nearest servants’ tunnel and sprint toward the receiving courtyard, my breath ragged, my mind conjuring every worst-case scenario.
There’s no need to panic, Rowenna orders insists.The Marauders would start with the fields, not the palace. The bagrava is of greater value than anything in the kingdom. Don’t let—
“I’m not as brave as you!” I shout, feeling like a fool for ever thinking I could be.
“Mama?” I call as I burst into the dying scarlet light of the courtyard—still stabbingly bright compared to under the hill. My terrified voice echoes in the eerie quiet. Why is it so quiet? Hundreds of people are packed into the plaza—practically every courtier and servant from the palace—but none of them are speaking. Or even whispering.
I stumble over a stable boy and ram into a cluster of chambermaids, all with their hands to their mouths.
“What’s wrong? What is it?” I ask, but they just stare at me with eyes as wet as river rock. The knot of terror in my stomach slides up into my throat. “Someone answer me!” I beg as I shove past the maids, searching for a familiar face.
At last, I catch sight of Birdie near the front and call her name, desperate for her hearty, comforting smile. But tears flood her cheeks as soon as our eyes meet. The courtiers in front of her sob into leaf-embroidered handkerchiefs. Beside them, Despina wails on Jareth’s shoulder.
“Where’s Father? What’s happened to Mother? Is it the Marauders?” I babble to no one in particular.
Mother’s scream rises again, as if in answer. The shrill ring of it echoes off the windows and porticos like the slash of a reaping scythe.I batter through another cluster of onlookers and at last they come into view—Father, standing as still as an ancient oak tree, and Mother, splayed across the cobbles near his feet. Her ornate silver gown is filthy and rumpled, and I’m so focused on finding a horrifying splash of red in the fabric, it takes me an entire minute to notice that she’s draped over a box. A long wooden box, held shut with a padlock and chains.
Behind the box stands a line of black boots with spiked soles. The kind worn on slippery mountain slopes, not a garden bed. My gaze continues upward, taking in the fitted breeches, the vibrant jewel-toned jackets, and the smooth bare chests, before stopping finally at the stone-cut faces of the Vanzadorians. They truly look more granite than flesh, crowned with dark hair and cool indifference.
Most of the entourage has the decency to keep their eyes on the ground, but the two tallest men in the center boldly meet my stare: Rowenna’s husband, Alaric Alaverdi, the crown prince of Vanzador. And his father, King Soren Alaverdi.
But where’s my sister?
I spin around, searching the crowd again. “Where’s Ro?” I demand. “What’s going on?”
She sent no word of a visit. I’ve written her nearly every day, begging for this very thing. Even a short visit.They can’t hold you hostage on the mountain for the rest of your life, I argued, to which she assured me they could.
But now they’re here. Without her.
She’d never allow it.
Choking on unease, I dodge around Mother, and the corner of the box bashes my shins. But I don’t feel pain. Only icy panic, seeping through my core. “Where is she?” I whisper.
No one answers. And the weight of every eye in the courtyard drills into me.
When a soft hand comes down on my shoulder, I shriek as I whirl around. Then I want to shriek again because my father has never lookedmore weathered and blighted—his skin gray, his eyes hollow.
