“There were rumors,” Lily says, letting go of my hand.
“Vicious rumors,” Calla adds, following her sister’s lead.
“But you’re here now,” they both finish.
They each tuck a strand of black hair behind their ears simultaneously.
“Only me,” I say.
We stare at one another for a moment as the implication of my words passes through them. Even Star and Sickle’s fingers pause on the bustle of Calla’s skirt. I don’t need to hear them speak to know they’re wondering what I did to cause such a drastic punishment. I can see the twins calculating each mistake they’d made that hurt Star and Sickle and exactly what it costs them.
Even though I know it wasn’t my fault, shame heats my cheeks.
A nine-year-old girl crashes into my side, nearly sending me flying into Calla and Lily. She blurts out a hasty apology and darts behind my voluminous skirt. One of the Seedlings, trained to replace us. Their presence is a constant reminder that any one of us can disappear in an instant. The Gardener always keeps at least six spares ready in case of an accident, or when one of us grows too old.
I twist around to ask her why she’s hiding, and a hush falls over the tent. The little girl presses her lips together, her brow furrowing as she focuses on something behind me.
“As you can see, we take painstaking measures to make sure the Flowers are in top shape for each performance,” comes the voice from my nightmares.
Turning back around, I see the crowd in front of me parting like a river around a boulder. Nothing good can come of the Gardener visiting our tent. The more cynical part of me wonders what else he could possibly do, since he already did the unthinkable just a few hours ago. Fern’s scream still echoes in my head, and I grit my teeth against the pain of loss that makes it hard to breathe. I was supposed to have her back.
The few girls in front of me move to the side to reveal our master dressed in his black silk stage costume as he approaches me. The only pops of color on him besides his yellowed teeth and golden shoes are the plethora of thick golden chains around his neck, the countless golden and jeweled bands around his arms, and the army of rings jammed on every finger. Since our last meeting, the thick kohl around his eyes has been reapplied and his hair has been combed over in a feeble attempt to cover the bald patches.
Standing a good foot taller than him is a trim man I’ve never seen before, in a simple blue ceremonial robe crafted out of very fine silk. White thread in a swirling pattern of jagged suns lines his long sleeves and the opening of the wrap around his chest. His impeccably trimmed goatee is in the short fashion of most Delmarion men and his sharp gray eyes scan the room, striking the perfect balance of annoyance and disgust. Though his lips are downturned, he possesses the strong jawline of a man whose age is impossible to wager.
He strides several inches away from the Gardener at an even pace, with his hands placed rigidly behind his back. The silver hilt of a sword, in the shape of a dragon’s head, peeks out from his side.
At least fifteen Sun soldiers cram inside the tiny tent behind them, pushing girls and lackeys outside. Their chinked silver armor glitters like fish scales in the warm glow of the yellow lanterns.
“And this is the one I’ve been tellin’ you about, Your Imperial Majesty,” the Gardener says, bowing his head and extending a hand toward me.
The Gardener’s words send a shock wave through me. Everything Fern feared is true. If the Delmarion emperor really stands here inside our shabby holding tent, the Gardener must be negotiating some sort of treaty with him to sanction his horror show. If the Garden is legalized, how many more girls will he be allowed to steal? How many others will become my sisters through their blood and tears? The air flies out from my body as the realization comes crashing down on me.
Behind me, the Seedling gives out a tiny squeak then darts outside the tent.
The emperor takes his time turning his eyes to me, and the moment he does, I feel the weight of his assessment. He presses his lips together at whatever he sees before I bow my head.
All the air seems to have left the tent as the emperor marches in my direction. There isn’t a single sound to distract me from what’s happening. His presence overwhelms me, pinning my feet to the ground in a way the Gardener never has. When the Gardener commands we look down, I fight the urge to raise my head, but the emperor’s devastating air of oppression leaves no choice.
The intricately lined edge of his robe comes into view, and panic quickens my pulse. What do common Delmarions even do in their ruler’s presence?
A Varshan curtsy comes to mind, but considering this is the man who barred the passage between here and my home, I doubt he’d find any honor in it.
The emperor’s hand hooks underneath my chin quicker than a snake’s strike and wrenches my face up. His gaze cuts into me, sharper than the blade at his side, but beyond the ferocity in his eyes is a question I can’t interrupt. Or rather, one I don’t want to. His intensity nearly brings me to my knees.
He lets go of my chin. “This is your star?” he asks, his voice low. “Spin.”
I clench my jaw at his clipped order but remember Fern’s warning to act scared and obey without question. Even though she isn’t with me any longer, she still had the foresight to help me.
Not that fear isn’t coming easily. It takes every ounce of my will to control my limbs so they don’t shake under the harshness of the emperor’s gaze.
I spin very slowly, fighting the sickness that washes over me at knowing I’m being appraised like cattle.
“How utterly disappointing,” he says when I come full circle.
He continues to stare directly into my eyes as he speaks to the Gardener.
“She better be worth what you say, peddler.” The emperor turns away from me. “Otherwise, every single participant in this criminal band will pay with their heads.”
For the first time ever, a flash of fear colors the Gardener’s face red, and he levels me with a glare that threatens to split me in two. If Fern were alive, it would have been enough to scare me, for her sake.
“You’ve nothing to fear, Your Imperial Majesty,” the Gardener says, waddling after the emperor to catch up with him. “Everything will be perfect tonight, and your people will be talking about this Spring Ceremony for years to come. Now let us continue on to my quarters so you can see with your own eyes the other part of our beautiful arrangement. It won’t disappoint.”
“It better not,” the emperor says.
The soldiers clear out behind their leader, leaving the tent nearly empty. My legs give out and I drop in a pile of silk and chiffon, trying to catch my breath. The buzz of people whispering, the ripping of combs running through hair, and the lackeys shouting orders with extra vigor filter through my daze.
I’m not sure how long I sit there, trying to erase the feeling of the emperor’s gaze from my skin. None of my sisters bother me as I fight my fear.
Finally, two pairs of hands rouse me from my panic, and I look up into identical faces fixed in concern. Calla and Lily lean down next to me, resting their heads against mine.
Fern’s death and the emperor’s warning about my sisters paying with their lives for the Gardener’s ambition pulse through me, and I want more than anything to tell the twins I will free everyone tonight. But this knowledge would kill them if anyone overheard us, and if something happens to me, I won’t let them pay for my mistakes.
“Listen,” I whisper, looking each of them in the eyes. “No matter what happens, you know I’ll always come back to all of you, right?”
They glance at each other, talking without ever moving their lips, and shift to the right. Everything about tonight has made us uneasy, and I know my question isn’t helping.
“Of course,” they say in unison.
One of the younger lackeys signals with his four-fingered left hand for the twins to head to the front of the tent.
“Sprout well,” I say.
Both of their mouth
s split into stage smiles, but their dark eyes simmer as they follow the lackey into the music-soaked night.
I sit on the nearest bench, not even feeling the splintered wood catch against my skirt, and barely notice as each Flower is called away to the stage like plucked petals in a game of “he loves me, he loves me not.” The questions running through my mind blur together in a confusing jumble, each one screaming for attention: What’s the emperor getting out of a treaty with the Gardener, and why did Fern think it was so important to stop that she’d risk dying for it? Louder than everything else is the single thought that allows me to stand up when the four lackeys charged with escorting me to the main tent signal me forward.
The thought aids me as we walk toward the Garden. It follows me as we step over a beautiful blue carpet that lines the opening of the palace directly up to the mouth of the Garden, sparkling like a river. It dances between the glowing lanterns shaped like bubbles that hang suspended at different heights on either side of the carpet on invisible wire and infuses the cherry blossom petals painstakingly arranged around the tent to depict images of the Delmarion goddess Lin with an otherworldly beauty. Even the luxurious top of the plum tent that peeks out over the grand castle wall locking it inside doesn’t scare me.
Nestled among the burning white stars littering the night sky is my truth. The thing that keeps me moving: tonight is the last night I will see any of it. Whether I live and escape or die fighting for my freedom, I will never make this walk again.
Chapter Four
Though the entrance beckons us forward, my four escorts make a hard right, skirting along the side of the tent fabric. The lilting sound of a violin floats out into the star-soaked night. Accompanying it like a dancer to the melody is the soft sound of chatter and bell-like clinking of glasses from the audience.
I keep pace with the front two lackeys, my head bowed in perfect submission. The other two box me in from behind, whispering back and forth as we make our way to a wooden ladder around the back.
“I heard the glowing men have been spotted in town tonight,” Gen, an older lackey who’s been with the Garden since before I arrived, whispers to the other one.
“My sister says they’re ghosts,” Fa says. “Seen them with her own eyes.”
“Nah, they’re just men with torches out to scare the simpletons.”
“They’re spirits,” one of the lackeys in front of us adds. “The gods sent them down to walk the earth, displeased with the lot of us.”
I curb the urge to tell them that magic doesn’t exist. I’m not even sure their gods do. And if by some small chance they are actually real, they’re cowards for letting us Flowers suffer at the hands of their worshippers. We reach the rickety ladder in the back, and I grab the nearest rung, feeling the wood shake as it accepts my weight.
Leaving any prying eyes on the ground, I duck into the slit in the tent near the top. The moment I break the barrier, the intoxicating mixture of roasted fish, steamed rice, and freshly baked red bean buns rises up to greet my nose.
Tiptoeing onto the platform barely wide enough to fit me in my costume, I make my way across to the center of the tent, high atop the Garden. Directly across from me, a lackey walks on a matching thin beam with a torch in his hand, fueling the limelights that create green spotlights on the stage below.
My gaze follows one of the lights down. Even now, after hundreds of performances, the beauty of the tent steals my breath.
Thousands of candlelit glass bubbles hang suspended from blue silk swathing the ceiling, casting the room below in a golden glow. Thirty musicians adorned in traditional emerald robes spin the sultry tones of Varshan music into the air like silken webs, a few well versed in the lyre and lotar from my home. Long tables circle the room, the guests sitting shoulder to shoulder on elaborate silver and blue silk pillows. Several of the Wilteds hand plucked by the Gardener for their beauty sashay around in revealing chiffon costumes with gold pitchers, filling up drinks and flirting as they go. Every form of pleasure is on full display tonight. It’s hard to believe such beauty could have come from the imagination of the Gardener.
The only inclination that this night is any different than the countless others before it are the jade and gold statues depicting the goddess Lin that dot every entrance, to honor her during this first night of the Spring Ceremony. After so many years on the wrong side of the gate, I know only from snippets and whispers that this is the first of six nights of festivals. In the middle of the tent, Calla and Lily twist around the dance floor in a dizzying blur of blue and purple silks, the swathes of their dresses that they leave behind resembling plucked petals on grass. Though none of the patrons are permitted to touch us without the Gardener’s permission, they have paid for the chance to look at the way our curves form and gawk at the exposed pieces of us. I turn my attention to the swathe of white silk attached to a beam in the ceiling, as more of the twins’ bodies become visible, and expertly wind the fabric around my leg.
With everything in place, I push off the platform. The fabric’s long tail stays secure in my fingers. After the twins are finished, I’ll let it drop, a stark white ribbon in a room swallowed in black, and untwist it, the fabric unwrapping as I hurtle toward the ground. But for now, I’m suspended in midair more than three stories up. Falling right now would mean certain death.
But already, the vise that has clenched my gut since Fern’s death loosens and my shoulders relax. For this moment, I’m free, and it’s a feeling I plan to keep. Someone in the audience has no idea they’re about to become part of the show. Part of my plan for escape.
Using my torso to get the fabric spinning, I focus on the crowd. The majority of the men sit upright, taut as an arrow against a bowstring, their eyes alert even through the haze of rice wine and women surrounding them. Unlike our usual patrons, who would be sloppy with drink and half crazed by now, this crowd remains politely subdued. Though they are all uniformed in the traditional robes this evening calls for, most wear on their right arms a blue band that signifies high rank in the emperor’s army.
Their wives sitting beside them alternate between clasping their goblets a little too tightly and burying their faces in their napkins, careful not to dishevel their dark hair piled high and shaped like butterflies and spitting fountains. Their long silk robes display every shade of spring, and large flower hair combs glitter with jewels.
Every face hides behind an ornate mask, each one honoring the flora or fauna of spring, as is tradition. I can’t imagine how much dust each one had after spending so long in disuse. Even though all faces are covered, it’s still easy to spot Delmar’s emperor, Galon, in the same simple outfit from before. Remembering his presence earlier causes the fabric in my hands to slip just slightly as I relive the way he passed judgment on me like a piece of meat.
Even he joins in on the festivities, which he’s rumored to loathe, adorned in a large round mask molded into the shape of an ant head. The sharp mandibles jut out on top of the onyx headdress like twin swords. Though most of the other masks look like they’ve been passed down from generation to generation, his shines with a freshness that could only come from something newly crafted.
A mountain of on-duty Sun soldiers guard his back and sides, standing alert, with gleaming swords fastened to their belts. My newly formed plan requires audience participation, but I’m hard-pressed to find a suitable subject among the high-ranking warriors. Any one of them could outmaneuver me in a fight, thwarting my only chance at escape. My heart begins to pound, and desperation bleeds into my determination.
A flicker of green light catches my eye, and I look farther down the long table, searching for the source in the darkness below. But instead, I catch a figure seated near the end, his gray silk robe and carved wolf mask lacking the finer details of those around him. The blade of a knife tucked in his belt reflects light back at me. It looks nothing like the glowing green that caught my eye. A trick of the light. If I can grab the blade and throw him to the soldiers befor
e they chase after me, I might have a chance to escape and then circle back for the others. The moment the Gardener realizes I’ve slipped away, he’ll empty out his ranks to search for me, his star, leaving the others unguarded long enough to sneak them out. It isn’t a solid plan, but it’s better than waiting for the Gardener to pick a Seedling as my new Wilted to take out my fabricated misdeeds on.
The music stops before I can think any further. With a deep breath, I shift into position for my opening roll, body rigid and parallel to the ground. The shrill, snaking melody of the flute drifts up to me. It grates against my skin as my vision flashes red with Fern’s blood. I can almost hear her screams mingling with the instrument as the lights dim on the world below. I fight to stay in the present and block out the music as three bright green limelights draw the crowd’s attention to high above them. The tail of the silk slips from my fingers and flutters down like a waterfall for the ground.
Then, I let go.
Chapter Five
For the audience, it looks like the ground comes toward me too fast, but I know better. Though the fall only takes seconds, when you know what you’re doing, those seconds multiply like raindrops. All you have to do is trust the silk to catch you. Which is why I get to twelve inches above the ground before the fabric snaps into place.
The audience’s gasps switch to oohs and aahs of delight as I twist up the silk, lacing my arms through the fabric to climb higher. Even our host sits up straighter. I start spinning with a twist, letting my body slide sensually through the air. The wind catches my hair, caresses my face in a cool kiss even as their gazes sting my body, every strip of my bare skin raw and exposed.
I go through the motions, my hands and feet recycling what they’ve done for years. The art of aerial dancing originates from my homeland, but few Delmarions have ever seen it live since the emperor closed the border ten years ago.
My body remains on display, but my mind strays to the blood near my cart, the only thing left of Fern. I wonder what her life might have been like if she hadn’t been sold to the Gardener. What all of our lives might have been like. I know one thing for certain: Fern shouldn’t be reduced to a mere stain on the grass because of one man’s whim.
Garden of Thorns Page 3