Текст книги "Of Beast and Beauty "

Автор книги: Stacey Jay

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

EIGHT

BO

I stand and watch her go, though I would rather be by her side. I like

the feel of her hand looped through my arm, the rich tone of her voice

when she speaks. Her voice is like music from a faraway city, unfamiliar, but

seductive in its strangeness.

Isra is nothing like I imagined she’d be from listening to my baba’s

stories of the temperamental princess hidden away in the tower. She’s

nothing like any other girl I’ve ever met. She is strange and stubborn and

graceless. Rough in speech and rougher of skin, and strangely resistant to

my attempts to win her affection.

I should find her frustrating. I should pity her. Most everyone else

does. The gentle members of court feel sorry for the mad queen’s blind,

itchy, awkward daughter, and even sorrier for me. My bed has been

warmer than usual these past two months. It seems there’s always a

sympathetic woman—or two-lingering outside the door to my chamber

when I quit the great hall for the night.

There’s been no official announcement, but every member of the

court knows it’s only a matter of time. As soon as Isra’s mourning is over,

she will take a husband. A childless queen cannot be allowed to remain

unmarried. If something were to happen to Isra now, with no daughter to

take her place and no husband to remarry and continue the royal line, the

covenant would be broken. Yuan would have no royal blood to sustain the

magic that keeps our land green and fruitful, and our city would fall like so

many of the others.

Isra will marry, and soon, and there is little doubt who the man will

be.

Junjie is the most powerful man in the city, and I am his son. It is only

right that I should be king. It’s understood that Isra will take me as her

husband and I will put aside any distaste I might feel for her peeling skin

and odd ways, in the name of service to my city.

No one suspects that the distaste I feel isn’t for the girl.

As Isra disappears over the gentle swell of the hill with her guards

close behind, a familiar tightness clutches at my throat. I set off toward my

father’s quarters with a heavy feeling in my legs.

How have the other kings done it? How have they lived with a

woman, even loved her—I’ve read the poems the fourth king wrote to his

first wife, have sung the ballads King Deshi composed in praise of his

queen—knowing that her life would be cut short? That her throat would be

opened and her blood spilled in the royal garden, often before she reached

her thirtieth birthday?

Isra’s mother died thirteen years ago. The roses can go unfed for

another ten years, maybe fifteen, but no more. They will have their royal

blood. Isra will never see her thirty-fifth year. If the crops begin to fail or

other evidence is found that the covenant is weakening, she might not see

her twenty-fifth.

She has so little time. It isn’t right that she should live it in darkness.

I don’t care what my baba said, I don’t care what the king made him

promise before he died, I will not see my queen suffer any more than she

must by virtue of her birth. I will see her eyes light up with wonder. I will

see her smile as she looks at me and knows I am the one who restored her.

I will taste her gratitude in her kiss on our wedding night.

It won’t be long. Only two months until her mourning is over. We will

be married when the spring flowers poke their green shoots above the

earth, long before her garden can bear fruit.

I will put a stop to her playing in the dirt as soon as she is my wife. It

isn’t safe for the queen to spend time with a Monstrous. The nobles already

worry that she’s out of her mind to allow the beast out of his cage, let alone

work closely with it. The creature has behaved himself, thus far, but I see

the way he watches Isra, taking in every movement of her hands, every

flutter of her throat. He’s a predator waiting for a moment to strike.

He will not have it. I will have my queen, and the monster will be

returned to his cage. A proper cage, not the tidy quarters in the barracks

that Isra has given him, but a hole deep underground, with stone floors and

thick bars.

A place suitable for a beast.

Isra seems to have a soft place in her heart for the creature, but she

will forget him soon enough. She will be distracted by my gift, then

overwhelmed by my attention, and then, someday soon, big with my child.

A baby will be a far more fitting outlet for her feminine affections than a

Monstrous pet.

She would know better than to treat beasts as human if she’d spent

more time among civilized people. When we’re married, we will move into

her father’s great house near the other high-ranking members of court. We

will attend dances and feasts and spend long weekends watching the

horse-and-stick matches on the king’s green. And when the time comes for

her to go …

For our children, if they are daughters, to go … Or for my second wife

and our daughters to go …

“Bo, I have news from your father.” The boy soldier running down

the path toward me is out of breath and sweating like it’s the dead of

summer.

He’s a chubby new recruit, no more than fifteen or sixteen. Too

young to shave, too green to know better than to call a superior by his first

name, even if that superior is only a few years older. Under normal

circumstances, I would discipline him, but I’m too grateful for the

interruption. I don’t want to think of the future. I can’t, or I won’t enjoy a

moment of being king.

“What news?” I ask, settling for a stern look down my nose rather

than an official reprimand.

“There’s trouble,” he pants. “Captain Fai thinks he’s found a crack in

the dome.”

A crack in the dome. The covenant keeps Yuan’s shelter strong. If the

dome has a crack, it could be seen as a sign that the time for the queen’s

sacrifice grows near.

“Show me,” I order through a tight jaw. “Now. Run. I’ll follow.”

I set off after the boy, sprinting hard across the green and up the

path to the Hill Gate, past fields of stiff cornstalks browning in the winter

chill. I run, and try not to think about losing her before she’s even mine.

GEM

NIGHT falls early in winter. Sometimes, I light my lamp right after

dinner and practice reading or writing with the paper and charcoal Isra gave

me—I’m trusted with flint to light the lamp and can ask for extra oil if it

burns out.

But most nights I still choose darkness and the moonlit view out my

window.

I stand and watch the roses. They are the only flowers still blooming,

as obscenely red as they were in autumn when I was captured. When I was

first moved to my new quarters, I would watch the path through the garden

late into the night, expecting to catch a glimpse of Isra, hoping to learn

more of the roses’ secrets. But after the evening when I told her the story

of the girl and the star, she never came again.

Her absence is disappointing, like so many things about Yuan’s ruler.

Now, as I do what exercises I can in my small sitting room, I watch

the garden path for soldiers. I memorize the timing of their patrols. I find

the weaknesses in their guard. I store away everything I learn and pray to

the ancestors that I get the chance to use the information. Taking

possession of a rosebush is essential, but getting it to my people is what

matters most.

Not if you can’t work the magic. If you can’t, the roses will be no good

to anyone, and you will have failed the Desert People all over again.

I grit my teeth and bend my knees more deeply, squatting up and

down with the heaviest of my new books balanced on either shoulder,

building the strength in my legs, though my muscles still tremble in protest.

I’ll learn the magic. I’ll get the truth from Isra. She already tells me

more than she knows. More than she should ever tell an enemy.

I tell her nothing that matters. I tell her stories to earn her sympathy

and lower her guard. I labor hard beside her and keep my temper in check,

slowly winning her trust. I tease her into thinking we are friends. I play the

damaged weakling, sighing and groaning and stumbling through my work in

the field even though I’m getting stronger every day. By spring I will be

completely healed.

If she lets me out to gather the bulbs in a week or two and I return,

she will let me out again to gather herb shoots in the spring. That is when I

will return to my people. I will bring them the roses and hope and life. I will

see my son.

I have to believe he’s still alive. Our chief knew these months would

be hard. She will have had the women dry the cactus fruit harvest so it can

be rationed throughout the winter. The men will find small game in

burrows beneath the sand; the women will boil poison root until the poison

is gone and only the mealy meat remains. The Desert People will live to see

spring, and I will bring them hope and magic.

With a soft grunt, I shift the books from my shoulders to the floor,

stacking one on top of the other. I stand on top of them, dipping my heels

down and up, building the strength in my lower legs, the running muscles.

I will have to be fast. By the time I escape, every moment will be

precious. Every moment is precious now, but there’s nothing I can do. Not

yet. The best use of my time is to spend it getting stronger, and gaining the

further trust of the queen.

I should have kept my mouth closed today. I don’t owe Isra the truth,

and the Smooth Skins’ outcasts are nothing to me. Let them suffer. They

have food and safety, two things my people would give a year of their lives

for. And their queen cares for them. In her way. Enough to worry about

whether they are soft and pleasing to the eye.

Phuh. Her obsession with Smooth Skin beauty is disgusting. All this

from a girl who can’t even see. She’s planting a garden of dreams to cure an

imaginary disease she’ll never bear witness to, when with a word she could

abolish the outcast camp and end the custom that displeases her.

“Queen of fools,” I mutter.

It’s days like these that remind me why I hate her. I’m grateful for

every one of them. I can’t afford to forget. I can’t afford to enjoy the way

she sighs with happiness when I finish a story. I can’t afford to admire how

hard she works. I can’t let myself grow comfortable on the dirt beside her

as we share bread and apples from the basket she brings. I can never take

her muddy hand in mind and promise her that the winter will end and the

pain and loss she feels will fade the way mine did after my mother’s death.

I can certainly never tell her that she is out of her mind, and all the

rest of her people with her, if they don’t see the beauty in her. In her green,

green eyes, in her smile big enough to light a room, in the way she walks

like she’s dancing with the ground beneath her feet, each step careful and

graceful and—

“Fool,” I whisper as I step off the books and move closer to the

window.

I grit my teeth and direct my gaze toward the roses—reminding

myself why I’m here—just in time to see a woman creep from the shadows

of the orchard. I can’t see her face or what she’s wearing in the dim

moonlight, but I know immediately who she is.

Isra. I recognize her walk, the way her hips sway beneath her clothes,

the careful reach of her toes as she moves across unseen terrain. I know

her. I do. Even in the dark.

The knock on the door is soft, but it still makes me jump.

I feel like I’ve been caught doing something worse than staring out

my window. Maybe I have. I can imagine what Gare would say about my

knowing a Smooth Skin girl so well.

The knock comes again, and I turn slowly to face the door. My

evening meal came hours ago. There shouldn’t be anyone near my room

until morning. The Smooth Skins have great trust in their locks and keys.

The only time I’m guarded is when the soldiers escort me to the queen’s

garden.

So who is here now?

The flap at the bottom of the door swoops open, and a small package

slides along the floor. I tense on instinct, my claws shuddering in their beds.

I approach the bundle carefully, keeping an eye on the still-swinging

flap of wood through which my meals are shoved. This is the first time

something else has come through. I squat beside the package and unfold

the linen holding it together. Inside is a piece of paper with simple words

written in an even hand, and a thick coil of rope with a large hook on one

end.

I begin to sound out the words on the paper, but haven’t gotten past

“Gem, I need—” before the sound of a key turning in the lock makes my

head snap up and my claws extend.

I lift my arms as the door swings open to reveal Needle, Isra’s maid,

standing on the other side. Her large brown eyes get even bigger when she

sees my claws, but she doesn’t scream or turn to run. She only blinks and

swallows and points a thin finger to the package.

Having my claws out begins to feel … strange.

“Ridiculous.” That’s the word Isra uses for the hated dresses she’s

forced to wear to the Smooth Skin eating rooms and the endless Smooth

Skin banquets. In some ways, Isra is a stranger here, too. I know that. I

know that’s why Bo treats her like an invalid and her advisors treat her like

a child. Still, I didn’t expect this note. There are some words I can’t work

through, but I understand enough to decipher its meaning.

I finish, and I am … shaken.

If anyone finds out what she’s done, she really will be locked away in

that tower of hers. Not even a queen can go against her city’s wishes like

this and not be punished. At least, not a queen like Isra, a blind, broken

queen without the love of her subjects or the trust of her council.

I have to stop her. And if I can’t stop her, I will have to help her. I may

hate her, but I need her. She’s the only reason I’m allowed out of this room,

my only chance to steal a future for my people.

I hand the paper to Needle, who wastes no time tearing it to pieces.

She’s loyal to Isra, then. That’s something. Maybe not enough to keep the

soldiers from discovering mine and Isra’s absence, but it’s something. I take

the rope with the hook and begin to move past her, but she stops me with

a hand on my arm.

I look down and down and down at her. She is half a meter shorter

than Isra and more fragile in every way, but the stubborn glint in her eyes

reminds me of the queen.

Her lips move without sound. I watch her, and after a moment I think

I understand her silent plea.

Keep her safe. Please. Keep her safe.

Maybe Isra does have the love of at least one person.

“I would never hurt her,” I assure Needle in a hushed voice.

She stares up at me for a long moment before stepping back and

pointing to the end of the corridor, where a window large enough for a

Desert Man to crawl through opens out onto the royal garden. The guards

passed down the path outside the barracks only a few moments ago. I

should have just enough time to reach Isra, talk her out of leaving the city,

and get back to my cell undiscovered.

I don’t waste my breath telling Needle more lies. I turn and run.

NINE

ISRA

I step into the garden, shaking all over, but not from the cold. I’m

barely aware of the cold. I’m racing inside. My pulse rushes like the river

beneath the city, wild and reckless and angry.

And frightened. I’m frightened, too.

I’ve been frightened my entire life, but that fear was different from

this. The former was a monster hiding in the shadows at the end of a long,

winding lane. This fear is Death reaching for my throat with both hands, so

close that I can hear his cold breath seep from his lungs.

Junjie tried to keep the news quiet, but there was little chance of

that. The court is still in mourning. There is no music or dancing or

playacting to provide entertainment. The only thing to do is talk, and the

ladies and gentlemen of the court excel at that, especially when the subject

of discussion is something so compelling.

And terrible.

A crack in the dome. It was all anyone could whisper about: “Is it

truly there?” “What caused it?” “How long will it take to assess the

damage?” “What will Junjie do to ensure the safety of the city?”

Not, What will Queen Isra do? No one thought to seek my council.

Junjie was the one they turned to for guidance. My name was never

spoken, but I was at the heart of every hushed conversation that drifted to

my giant ears. If the dome is cracked, it will be seen as a sign that the

covenant is weakening. If the injury can be easily repaired, the panic may

pass for a time, but the damage is already done.

I press my fist against my lips to hold back the whimper rising in my

throat. I knew the day of sacrifice would come, but I didn’t expect it would

be so soon. My life can’t end now, not when I’ve scarcely had the chance to

live it.

I lean over, resting my palms on the bed surrounding the roses,

digging my fingertips into the rough stone. I take a deep breath, grateful for

the cold air that softens the roses’ perfume. I don’t want my head filled

with their ominous stench. I wouldn’t have come here at all, except it

seemed the safest place to meet Gem.

I focus on my breath until it grows smooth and, finally, my heartbeat

slows.

I can’t lose hope. The crack might not be a crack at all. It could be

detritus from the desert stuck on the outside of the glass, a trick of light,

or … something else entirely. ( Please, please, let it be something else.) The

fissure is too high up for it to be seen clearly, even with a spyglass. The

soldiers will have to send a man to take a closer look, which means rigging

the rope-and-pulley system the city hasn’t used in half a century.

Bo says it will take at least three days to set up the equipment, and

that he will be the one to strap on the harness and be hauled out into the

void to assess the situation. He promised to keep everyone away from me

until then, and to alert Gem’s guards that the Monstrous won’t be working

in the field for the rest of the week. I told Bo I wanted to be alone while I

waited to see what effects giving up my morning tea will have on my

constitution, but I know he assumed it was fear that made me retreat to my

tower.

He seemed afraid, too. His arm shook as he escorted me to my door.

His lips trembled when he pressed a kiss to my cheek.

I touch the place now, and swear the patch of skin still feels colder

than the rest. It was the first time Bo has dared a kiss since the night he

thought we were both infected with poison from Gem’s claws.

“Maybe he only kisses queens who are about to die,” I say aloud,

fighting the sudden urge to giggle. There’s nothing funny about the mad

thing I’m about to do. There is nothing funny about what will happen if Bo

fails to keep his word. If Junjie or his guards enter the tower and discover

my absence, they’ll know Needle was keeping my disappearance a secret.

They’ll jail her. Or worse.

Probably worse.

The smile on my lips prunes into a worried pucker. Needle is taking a

terrible risk to help me prove I’m a queen with more to offer my people

than my blood. I can’t forget that for a moment. I will go carefully and

quickly, as soon as my eyes arrive.

I’ll have Needle to thank for that, too. If she can manage—

The sound of boots scuffing along the path interrupts my thoughts. I

pull my shawl farther over my head and crouch down by the wall, hoping

the shadows will conceal me. I hold my breath as three soldiers—maybe

four, it’s difficult to tell– scuff, scuff by on the other side of the circular

planter.

If they’d taken the other fork in the path, they would have seen me.

My breath rushes out in an unsteady stream, and my legs suddenly

feel wobbly. I sit down hard, the paving stones grinding against my sit

bones through the padding of my old gray overalls layered over my new

green ones. I have on long underwear, too, and a shawl and sweater. It will

be cold in the desert.

The desert. I’m going out into the desert. This isn’t a plan; it’s an act

of desperation. But what choice do I have? There isn’t time to waste. I have

to trust my instincts and hope with everything in me that luck is on my side.

And Needle’s side. And Gem’s.

Gem. What if he doesn’t meet me in the garden? What if—once

released from his room—he runs for the nearest gate? What if he kills the

soldiers guarding it and escapes into the desert, never to return? He’s still

weak, but there’s a chance he might try it. Maybe even a good chance.

I push my shawl back around my shoulders, feeling trapped by the

heavy wool, but before I can drop my arms back to my side, I feel it—a vine

snaking around my wrist and pulling tightly.

I almost cry out in surprise, but manage to stifle the sound at the last

moment. The guards are still too close; I can’t afford to make any noise. I

try my best to quietly wrench my wrist free, but the roses are stronger than

I realized. The vine tugs my arm up and over my head, drawing my hand

into the thick of the flowers’ nest. I clench my fist—hoping to protect my

fingers—only to feel a thorn meaner than any I’ve yet encountered dig into

the thin skin between my knuckles.

“Ah!” I gasp as blood spills, hot and sticky, down the back of my

hand, making my true eyes fill with tears even as my borrowed eyes open

on the city.

I see a tower– my tower—rising from the surrounding fields like

some spiny creature from another world. The roses have never shown me

the building where I’ve spent my entire life, but I recognize it immediately:

the sharp gold curves of its many roofs, its red stone walls and balcony

jutting from the top like a stubborn chin.

My borrowed eyes swoop toward the entrance at the tower’s base,

where a boy with a silky black braid, high cheekbones, and bow-shaped lips

that any woman at court would envy stands clutching a pair of muddy

slippers. The boy is Bo—there is no mistaking those lips—and the slippers

are mine, the ones I threw into the flowers the night of my coronation.

Bo lifts his hand to knock on the door, while, far away in the garden,

my heart beats frantically in my chest. Bo has come to return my slippers,

and to demand to know how I managed to lose them in the first place, no

doubt. There’s an anxious look in his eyes, tension at the edges of his

mouth, and an almost guilty twitch in his neck as his head turns from side

to side, making sure the other guards’ eyes are averted.

I suddenly realize what a good job Bo has done of hiding his true

feelings. He cares for me more than I’ve assumed—there is genuine

concern in his expression—but he also fears for my mind more than I ever

would have guessed. He worries I’m more than odd. He worries I’m

touched by my mother’s madness, and that one day the queen he’s come

to care for may become a madwoman who’ll try to kill her children in the

night.

I don’t know if it’s the roses’ magic or my own intuition, but I am

certain that is what Bo feels. And I’m just as certain that he won’t leave my

tower without knowing how I managed to leave my shoes in a flower bed

only feet from the Monstrous’s cell.

I have to go. I have to go back to the tower. Now.

No sooner is the thought through my mind than the thorn withdraws

from my flesh and the vine loosens its grip on my wrist. I pull my hand back

to my chest, pressing it tightly to my sweater until I feel the bleeding stop.

Breath coming fast, I draw my knees to my chest. I am preparing to

leap up, run back to the tower, and hope I can make the climb up to the

balcony without being spotted by Bo or the guards—when the greater

implications of what has just happened hit hard enough to make my bones

weak all over again.

The roses knew. Somehow they knew what I was planning and they

don’t want me to go. They showed me just enough to make me afraid,

before setting me free.

But should I really be afraid? I wonder as I scoot away from the

containing wall, out of the roses’ reach.

It’s late, nearly midnight. Bo knows better than to come to my rooms

at this hour. If he finds the door locked and neither Needle nor I answer, he

might very well decide to leave and return tomorrow. Tomorrow, when

Needle will be at the tower to tell him I’m not feeling well and turn him

away.

Now that there’s no thorn buried beneath my skin, that scenario

seems as likely as the one I fear. More likely. But the roses didn’t want me

to think clearly; they wanted me to run along back to my prison. It could be

they simply have the interests of the city at heart—it is dangerous for me to

leave, to take such a risk when I am unmarried and the covenant is

unsecured—but the vision felt more insidious, the inexorable grip of the

vine more possessive than concerned.

As I rub the bruised skin around my new wound, I begin to doubt for

the first time in my life what I’ve been taught about the royal garden. The

legends say the roses grew after the first queen’s blood hit the ground, a

symbol of the sacrifice she’d made and the covenant that would keep Yuan

safe.

But what if—

“There you are.” Gem’s voice comes centimeters from my ear, close

enough to make me gasp. My ears are sensitive, but I didn’t hear a thing

until he was close enough to touch.

By the moons, I’m glad he’s here. I’m so glad not to be alone with the

roses. I’m weak with it. Strong with it. My blood starts to rush again; my

bones rediscover their sturdy centers.

“Thank you for coming.” I find his chest with my fingers, flattening

my palm against the thick fabric of one of his new shirts, hoping he can feel

my gratitude as clearly as I feel his heart thudding beneath his ribs.

Ba-bump, ba-bump, ba-bump, bababump bababump bababump. The

beating grows faster as we sit in silence, our foggy breath mingling between

our faces. Mine is hot, but his is so much hotter and it smells nothing of the

cabbage he refuses to eat. Gem’s breath is fresh sawdust and sweet smoke,

chestnuts and celery root, as sharp and clean as the winter air. It’s a good

smell, a healthy smell that makes me wonder how breath like that would

taste on a kiss.

Ba-bump … bump. My heartbeat stutters, and I pull my hand away

from Gem’s chest so quickly that I hit my own throat and begin to choke.

“Are you all right?” He lays a hand on my shoulder, the same

shoulder he tore open months ago, the one that bears a tight, sleek scar

from the claw that cut the deepest. But now Gem’s claws are sheathed and

his fingers are careful, gentle.

He’s never touched me like this before. We haven’t touched in

weeks, and even then our only contact was in anger—my fists on his chest,

his hands at my wrists, my fingers on his throat, his claws at mine. But this

is not anger. This is … something else.

“I’m fine.” My whisper is hoarse. I clear my throat. “We should go.

The patrol—”

“They’ll be back soon,” he interrupts, his voice gruff. He pulls his

hand from my shoulder, leaving my skin colder. “Go back to your tower. If I

run, I’ll be back in my cell before I’m spotted.”

“No!” I say, louder than I mean to. I bite my lip, then whisper, “No.

We have to get the bulbs. I know of a secret door out into the desert. No

one will see us go, and Needle will make sure we aren’t missed.”

“And how will she do that?”

“I’ve canceled your escort to the field,” I explain, ears straining to

catch the scuff of boots. “No one will come to your room except to bring

meals. Needle says she can convince the girl who delivers them to allow her

to take over for the next few days. That should be enough, shouldn’t it?

You said it wouldn’t take more than three days. Two, if you were quick.”

He grunts. I can tell he isn’t impressed with the plan. “And what of

the queen? Won’t someone notice your absence?”

“I told Bo I don’t wish to be disturbed,” I say, throat tightening

around what I’ve left unsaid: the crack in the dome waiting to be

investigated and the fact that Bo stands at my tower door right now, and all

the rest. “He’ll honor my wish to be left alone for a few days, and Needle

will turn him away if he does not.”

Gem makes another dubious sound. When he speaks again, I can tell

he’s closer. His breath is warmer. It whispers across my lips, prickling my

skin. “If your people find out you took me into the desert with no one to

protect you, or prevent me from escaping, they’ll think you’re more rattled

in the brain than they do already. Junjie will lock you away, and you will

never rule this city.”

“I will never rule this city if I run back to my rooms,” I hiss. “I must

give the people a reason to see me as—or at least remember me—as

something more than …”

“More than?”

“The garden will prove I am a good and useful queen,” I say, cursing

myself for nearly losing control of my tongue. I don’t want Gem to know. I

don’t want him to treat me the way people treat a girl who has been

marked for death since her very birth. “The garden will—” A faint thud

sounds from the direction of the orchard. I freeze, falling silent, until Gem

whispers—

“An apple falling to the ground. There is still fruit on the limbs at the

very top.” Disgust creeps into his tone. “Your people have so much, you

leave food to rot.”

My answer. I have it. I know how to make Gem come with me. I hate

to make promises I might not be alive to keep, but I have no choice. “Help

me tonight,” I say, “and I will do what I can for your people.”

“You can do nothing.”

“Not now,” I agree. “But if we fetch these bulbs, and the herbs we

need later … If my garden is a success and my people are healed and learn

to love me, they’ll respect my judgment. Come summer, when the first of

the crops are in, I’ll convince the council to send a portion of what is ours

into the desert.”

“The herbs may take months to work. My people can’t wait that

long.”

“All right,” I say, growing increasingly desperate the longer we linger.

“Then I will send food as soon as I can. I’ll convince my advisors it’s

necessary, a peace offering to keep the Desert People from returning to

free our captive.”

“And who will deliver this peace offering?”

“You will. I’ll talk with Junjie. I’ll persuade him that you can be

trusted to return when your errand is through.”

“Can I?”

“You’re here now,” I say with more confidence than I feel. “You

wouldn’t be if your father’s promise didn’t mean something to you. You’re

honorable. I’ll explain that to Junjie.”

Gem’s laugh is soft but parsnip-bitter all the same. “You think he’ll