“Isn’t it exhausting to invent so many gruesome and outlandish tales?”
“No. But do you know whatisexhausting? Having to constantly fight for my family, people, and land. But I’ll never stop. I’ll never—”’
“Plot and scheme all you’d like,” Alaric cuts me off. “But I strongly suggest you get busy growing bagrava while you’re at it. Otherwise, my father will stop asking nicely.”
Alaric points over my shoulder to a collection of gardening supplies arranged beside my own door. I must have stumbled right past them before my eyes adjusted to the brightness.
There are pots of soil, watering cans, hand shovels, rakes, and a few small bagrava fruit to harvest for seeds.
Under any other circumstance, I would have leaped headlong into the freshly churned soil and palmed every glistening trowel and spade. Even now, my entire body fizzes, desperate to feel a bit of Tashir in this horrible place. But I turn my back on the supplies and face my husband, arms tightly crossed.
“Expecting me to perform on command isn’t nice,” I retort. “There’s nothingniceabout your father. His merry laughing-ruler act is even more transparent than these glass walls. He showed his true nature when hesmirked through Rowenna’s funeral and allowed Tashir to burn.”
Alaric raises a brow. “How do you know that cruel, blustering tyrant isn’t the act? Maybethisis his true nature, and he only has ruthless moments.”
I bark out a laugh. “Of course you’d make excuses fordear doting Daddy. But your opinion doesn’t count. You know Soren Alaverdi the father, not the ruler. I doubt you’ve ever even heard him raise his voice.”
“You’d be surprised,” Alaric says, averting his eyes. “But that still doesn’t explain why our people love him. They wouldn’t adore a merciless tyrant.”
“They would if they knew the cost of displeasing him. People will do shocking things when they fear for their lives.”
The papers crinkle in Alaric’s hands, and his voice takes on a steely edge. “No one in Vanzador fears for their lives. Our people are safe, happy, and prosperous. My father is far from perfect—believe me, I’m aware—but he’s a good king. Sometimes we must overlook minor flaws and failings for the greater good. It’s called compromise.”
“In Tashir, we call that denial. And last I checked, enslaving an entire nation and killing their crown princess are hardlyminor failings. Your father is a monster—and you’re just like him.”
Alaric slams his papers down on his desk. “What have I done that’s so monstrous?”
“Where to begin?” I muse, my confidence growing the more his unravels. I expect a list to pour from my mouth like summer rain, but as I actually think back on our interactions, Alaric’s crimes are irritatingly few. Other than a handful of winks and verbal jabs, he’s been rather civil.
Accommodating, even.
He convinced Soren to let me walk up the mountain instead of riding in that contraption. Then he carried me a good portion of the way when I got altitude sickness. As soon as we entered the Fortress, he took me to my rooms instead of forcing me to comply with Soren’s demands for a bagrava demonstration. And he didn’t argue, like hisfather did, when Queen Tessa excused me from growing bagrava in her salon yesterday.
“That’s what I thought,” Alaric says, leaning back smugly in his chair. “I’m not the monster here.”
“You might not be a monster, but I’m not foolish enough to think you’re a friend. This is just another tactic, another coordinated effort by you and your parents to bombard me from every angle and convince me to grow bagrava. But no amount of flattery or coercion will make me forget how you killed my sister and enslaved my people. As if I’ll forget you killed my sister and enslaved my people. I won’t be tricked. I’ll die before I grow bagrava for you.”
I expect Alaric to make a snappy comment about how he’d be happy to help me along with dying, but instead he asks, “Who said the bagrava is for me?”
“For your father, then. Same difference,” I grind out.
“Interesting…” Alaric cocks his head and studies me. “Is that what you’ve been told?”
I bristle with cold despite the sunshine blaring through the windows. His reaction is so similar to what Queen Tessa said in her salon—about the bagrava having nothing to do with her husband.
“You really don’t know?” Alaric continues.
His words tunnel beneath my skin like termites. Everything inside me wants to shout,Don’t know what?But I hold my tongue. I won’t be lured into his trap.
After a few interminable minutes, Alaric shoves to his feet with a dramatic sigh. “If we’re done here, I’ll leave you to hunt for killers that don’t exist. Or whatever it is you plan to do while the rest of us work.” He tucks his papers beneath his arm and strides toward his door.
“You can’t honestly consider bedding half the ladies in the kingdomwork,” I call after him.
Alaric chokes on a pop of laughter. “Is that jealousy I detect?”
“Don’t flatter yourself.”
“Then how I spend my time is none of your concern,” he says as he opens the door.
