by Raye Wagner
I closed my eyes and grimaced. I’d sleepwalked to his bed? Mortifying. At least he’d left and slept on the floor, so he said.
“Did you know you shape-shift?” I asked with a quirk of my lips. “But don’t worry, you’re black, inside and out.”
I edged past him to the couch, where I ate the rest of a loaf of bread and a large wedge of cheese for breakfast. And grapes. An entire bunch. And a small bowl of figs.
Irrik disappeared into the washroom then reappeared as I finished my meal.
Wiping my sticky fingers and smiling, I stood and asked as sweetly as I could, “Are you ready for today, Lord Irrik?”
His only response was a narrowing of his eyes that sent my heart racing now that I’d seen his true form up close. His eyes shifted, and his advance became predatory. I scanned the room, but Irrik was positioned between me and the doorway leading to the stairs. The only escape open to me was off the balcony. So not going to happen. Why was he stalking me? I’d pissed him off plenty in the last day. This was nothing in comparison.
He ran toward me, but I was distracted by a pounding on the door. Before I could move, he’d hooked an arm around my waist, and in a heartbeat, Lord Irrik pulled me off the terrace and into the air. I tried to scream as we plunged to the ground, but the fear was trapped in my chest, and I couldn’t voice it against the rushing wind. Then Lord Irrik was gone and a black dragon held me wrapped in his powerful claws. My mind caught up enough a few seconds later to tell me nothing about being clutched in the digits of a beast was normal.
Don’t be afraid, the Drae said in my mind. We’re landing now.
I wasn’t afraid. Irrik was bound by oath to keep me safe, Drae and human Irrik. The fear that had been trapped in my chest morphed to shock and then . . . joy. Because there was something about the freedom of flight that made my heart light. I wasn’t afraid because all I could feel was elation.
We dipped toward the ground, and I closed my eyes, wishing we could stay airborne. But there was no way I was asking, so I bit my lips closed and enjoyed the last moments of flight into the fields.
I opened my eyes. “Why are we here?” This was where I’d worked yesterday.
My jaw dropped.
The uprooted plants were taller than I was, but most shocking were the potatoes attached to them. Piles of huge potatoes. The size of pumpkins.
The Drae opened his mouth and let out a low rumbling sound. He reared his head back, stretching toward the sky, and bellowed. Vibrant-blue fire shot out from between his fangs at the massive plants and vegetables to the left of me.
I flinched away from the heat, closing my eyes as the acrid smell singed my nostrils.
When I opened my eyes, Lord Irrik stepped away from the field of ash, past me, to the shade of the beautiful willow tree from yesterday, now double the size and a healthy green from when I’d rested my hand on it. He stooped down to the ground by the trunk and picked up a small bag of potatoes there, a look of grim determination on his face.
“Here,” he said, holding them out to me. “You’ve got about an hour to grow these before the king arrives. I suggest you keep them potato size.”
“Why?” Wouldn’t bigger potatoes mean more food for the people? Would Irdelron really care if I could grow big potatoes?
A growl rumbled through Irrik’s chest. “How much power do you want to give him?”
Only enough to stay alive until I could get away. “Not much?”
He rolled his black eyes. “The more powerful you are, the tighter Irdelron will attempt to tether you.”
“You don’t trust him.” I didn’t see how anyone could, but I wanted to hear Irrik’s answer.
“I only trust myself. Everyone else will betray you if they have enough motivation.”
I furrowed my brow. “And Tyr. You trust Tyr, right?” Irrik sent him down to care for me.
He frowned, and his gaze darted to my lips, making me blush. Finally, he said, “Only to a point.”
I’d been jogging for an hour by the time the king’s carriage appeared, bouldering down the mountain path and smashing my peace to bits. I glanced toward the rows where Irrik finished burying the potatoes an hour ago. He’d made me roll each of them in my hands and count to ten. How did he know that would help? If he’d known that all along, why was he only sharing it with me now?
My sweat and spit had caused patches of the potato plants to erupt into massive potatoes—that were now ash. I doubted the king would be happy with the large bald patches between them. I’m sure there was a way to make a whole field uniformly luscious and plentiful and normal, though I had no idea how to make that happen. It wasn’t like I grew up with any instruction. Aside from rolling the tubers in my hands and lying in the freshly overturned dirt—courtesy of Irrik’s powerful wings and claws—doing dirt angels, I had no idea how to go about any of this.
—Phaetyn or Faking?—
—Ryn, Last and Worst of Her Kind—
—Patchy Phaetyn, Can’t Bring Home the Bacon—
—Skill-less Ryn, Still Skill-less, Even Though Her Spit is Magic—
The king’s carriage dipped and disappeared in a valley, and I hurried to the revitalized willow tree where Irrik hadn’t risen. Silent guards had arrived steadily in the last half hour in preparation of the monarch’s visit. Having them watch had been disconcerting, but Irrik barked at me, and I cared more about not having him yell than having them stare.
“Do you think it worked?” I asked, leaning against the willow tree. I rubbed my hand over the bark, staring at how different it was now compared to last night. The pale leaves had darkened to a vibrant green, and the trunk itself seemed thicker. Could I grow it large enough to take over a whole Harvest Zone? That would be cool.
He shrugged, finally deigning to stand, but didn’t meet my gaze. “Guess you’re about to find out.”
I surveyed the Drae, who still had me completely thrown. He’d planted smaller potatoes in the ground to fool the king into believing I was less powerful? But why help me? The only conclusion I came up with was that he either helped or hindered, depending on which suited his agenda. As to what his agenda was, I had no idea. Like no freaking clue.
“Thanks,” I chirped sarcastically. “That’s super helpful.”
Turning toward me, he met my gaze, but his expression remained completely flat. “I wasn’t trying to be helpful.”
Hinder it was.
We made our way to the king across the overturned dirt, Irrik several steps in front of me as I pushed my feet into the sunbaked dirt. As we neared the king, I stole a peek at his face. Drak. My feet tripped over each other. He was pissed. A definite step below his usual mild façade, which meant he was in viper mode. And the worst thing? Jotun was behind him, a cruel smile on his lips as he stared at me.
“The progress seems . . .” the king started as he turned to survey the area, his grimace hardening into a glare. His cold gaze flitted over me to Irrik. “Quite thin.”
He held a handkerchief over his mouth and nose as if I smelled bad. I thought back to the last hour. I probably did stink. Served the stupid king right.
“I agree,” Irrik replied without glancing my way. “She’s lazy.”
My mouth dropped open, and I turned to him. I’d been busting my butt! How dare he?
The king shifted his attention to me. “Is that so?” He pointed at Jotun and asked, “Do we need to add more incentive?”
I snapped my mouth shut and wiped the glare from my face, bowing to hide my frustration. Mumbling, I said, “I’m still figuring out how it works.”
Made more difficult by the Drae who’d burned everything to the ground in the last couple hours to allegedly help me. Only now he was throwing me under a moving cart. Having Jotun here wouldn’t help me grow anything, except more hate and bruises.
The king gave me a kind smile, which made my skin crawl instead of offering assurance. “Of course, you are, dear Phaetyn. Of course.” He chuckled like I was a niece he held a soft spot
for. “Just don’t take too long, or I’ll have to see if Jotun’s brand of motivation is more convincing.”
His threat hung heavily in the air between us. As if I didn’t have enough pressure on me. Grow the entire kingdom food, Ryn. Be quick about it, Ryn. I’ll torture you if you don’t, Ryn.
Irrik snapped his fingers at a guard in a green aketon. “Dig.”
The guard frowned and looked around. The Drae growled and picked up a nearby garden hoe, chucking it at the man. “Dig.”
“Where, my lord?” the guard stammered.
“In the ground, you idiot. Anywhere.” Irrik pointed at a mound of freshly turned dirt. “There.”
The guard hurried over and dug the hoe into the soft soil. He pulled the tool back, and two large potatoes tumbled from within the bunched dirt.
Those spuds were larger than the ones Irrik had put in the ground. Much larger.
“But what’s this?” the king neared. “Potatoes.” His gaze narrowed, and he pointed. “Dig there.” He pointed to a spot where Irrik hadn’t buried potatoes.
The guard dug, but nothing came up.
“It only works in patches,” I offered lamely. “I’ll try to smooth it out.”
The king smiled back at the potatoes. “Yes, dear Phaetyn. Do that.” His expression smoothed, and he stared at Irrik for several moments before giving a curt nod. “Make sure it works.”
Oh, great. I wondered if I was the it he referred to. Probably.
I’ll get right to work, A-hole.
22
The king clambered back into his carriage with all his silky layers and jewels, but I didn’t breathe properly until Jotun and the guards dispersed and the blood-red vehicle was out of sight.
“Next time, keep your mouth shut,” Irrik snarled.
Thinking to dig holes by each plant and put a drop of sweat in each, I stooped to pick up the forgotten hoe. I froze before slowly standing, my anger flaring. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me. Don’t make me repeat myself.”
Glancing back, I opened my lips to retort, but the hoe slipped from my grip, and the edge sliced through my forefinger. Blood welled as I bellowed, “Ouch!”
“Sto je dovraga,” Irrik snarled in his freaky language and turned to face me. Glaring, he asked, “Are you completely incompetent?”
After a month and a half of abuse, fear, starvation, and grief, I saw red. I swiped my bloody finger over the sharp edge and swung the hoe in a wide, vicious circle, then released it straight at the Drae.
His eyes widened, and my jaw dropped as the tool careened toward him. Irrik raised his arm to protect his head and the blade sliced into his forearm.
“Mistress Moons.” I covered my mouth with my hands, and the hoe dropped to the dirt with a thud.
Irrik ran his fingertips over the deep gash. Black blood dripped down his arm. “Did you . . . just attack me with a garden hoe?”
I was a fool. Irrik was bad, but Jotun was worse. If Irrik died . . . I rushed to him, crying out, “It had my blood on it!” My hands fluttered over the grotesque wound. “Tell me what to do. I don’t want it to kill you.”
He moved to look at me, a curious expression falling over his face. “You regret hurting me?”
“What? No. Well, killing you, yes.” My stomach rolled at the thought of murdering something, someone, anyone. “How long will it take to set in?” I asked him, trying to remain calm. “Should we try cutting off your arm?”
Lord Irrik’s brows rose. “Cutting off . . . ?” He broke off and threw his head back in laughter. The gruff waves of it rolled across the potato field.
Did Phaetyn blood make Drae go mad first? Would he lose his sanity and go berserk? Would he turn on me?
Irrik continued to laugh, wiping his eyes when his laughter brought tears. He wasn’t going mad.
“Well, die then,” I snapped, picking up my Drae-killing weapon.
The laughter faded. “Your blood won’t kill me, Ryn.”
He said my name. Then his words registered, and I gaped in surprise. “What? Yes it does. I’m a Phaetyn. You’re a Drae.” I lowered my voice. “I’m your weakness.”
Lord Irrik glanced away, a shadow falling across the top of his face. “No. It just can’t.”
“Why?” I pressed. “Does he know that?” The king had seemed adamant my blood was the bees-knees of Drae poison.
“No,” the Drae said. “If you value your life, you won’t breathe a word of it. Not to anyone. To Irdelron, you are nothing more than a drop of water in the bucket, a foolish Phaetyn, and if the—” He glared in affront at my raised hand.
“A drop of water!” My eyes were like saucers. “That’s it? I thought for sure I was worth two.” Grinning, I dropped the Drae-killer and hustled over to the beautiful willow. The stream it hung over was more of a disheartening trickle, but there was enough for what I planned—what Mum had figured out long ago. A worker’s station wasn’t far away, and I jogged over and rifled through the spades and pitchforks until I located a wooden pail.
I hurried back to the stream and placed the pail in front of the strongest current—a lazy rivulet. My finger, upon closer inspection, had already sealed, but dried blood still coated the digit. Once the pail was full, I wobbled back to the willow tree and set the pail down.
“What are you doing?” Lord Irrik inquired, standing over me.
Huh, he really doesn’t seem to be dying. Add another puzzle to the heap.
“Making magic fertilizer.” I stuck my bloodied finger in the water and swished it around, watching as the blood flaked off and dissolved in the cool liquid. Then, picking up my pail of garden juice, I tottered to the nearest row and walked down, dribbling the water on the anemic dirt.
—The Last Phaetyn has the Last Laugh—
—Everyone Respects Ryn After She Does the Impossible—
Maybe I would wait to see if it worked before shouting my victory to every Harvest Zone.
“That was a decent idea,” Irrik said from behind me.
I rolled my eyes. “Don’t sound so surprised. Anyway, I thought I was incompetent.”
“You are. But maybe you won’t always be so inept.”
Fire-breathing jerk.
For the next several hours, I did the same, substituting good ol’ spit when my injured finger was clean. I’d covered around half the rows in the field by that time. I had no idea if this would work or what the best concentration was. I’d have to work on it so the vegetables didn’t show up oversized, or we’d have to go through the whole “tricking the king about Ryn’s powers” routine again. With that in mind, I began to put less spit in the buckets from the halfway point and less still a few rows later.
After another eternity, I groaned and straightened, holding my hands behind my back to stretch. A cursory glance at the Drae told me he was still alive but asleep, or perhaps he just wished to appear asleep so I’d leave him alone.
The sun showed the time to be around three or four in the afternoon, and I was achy and sore from lugging around a full pail. Not that it mattered how I felt. I picked up the pail for another trip, and my heart panged with memories of helping Mum in gardens not that long ago. I turned to gaze in the direction of Harvest Zone Seven. Did our house still stand empty? Had someone seized the opportunity to move into the empty abode? Was Mum’s garden dead? My garden, I realized. I knew better now. My mind ran back to all the times she’d poured the bath water in the gardens or soaked blood-soaked rags after I’d hurt myself. What happened to that water afterward? Had it gone into our neighbors’ gardens and the other gardens mother had regularly traveled to around the kingdom?
I’d always assumed the ointment she rubbed on my skin when I was hurt was to help me heal. After witnessing how quickly I healed, I knew this couldn’t be true. Tyr had used it on me, too, and I made a mental note to ask him when I next saw him . . . if I saw him again.
Mum had kept so many secrets from me. Was anything about my childhood true?
The faint
clamor of voices broke over the hill a few fields away. I raised a hand to shield my eyes as people appeared—farmers come to work the Quota Fields, by the look of them. They turned my way.
I peered to where Lord Irrik still slept and then back, heart in my mouth. Did I know these people? There were around ten of them. They were coming closer.
After Irrik hadn’t killed a single guard today, I had no doubt the king had tightened the rules of protecting me. But I was also sure the new rules wouldn’t protect these men and women.
They were getting too close.
I held up my hands in a stop position and thanked the Moons when they halted. One of the men in the middle raised his hand in the air and made a fist.
My body trembled.
“Arnik,” I choked. Hope burst forth inside me, and I took three steps closer before remembering the fearsome Drae at my back, and what he could do.
If I ran away, he’d kill all of them.
Had Tyr managed to get a message to Dyter or Arnik? Was that what had led them here? Or had word spread about the king, his guard, and the Drae at the potato fields. Had they come to see what was happening for themselves?
I raised my fist in the air, and tears slipped down my dirty cheeks as a grin spread over Arnik’s face.
Hope bubbled in my chest, and my desire to escape became a desperate need. I wanted to race to Arnik, to my friend, to the safety and the ignorance of my former life. What if Tyr hadn’t spoken to them? I didn’t want to rely on anyone else, which meant I had to at least try. I stepped forward, but Arnik and his friends were pointing at the slumbering Drae by the vibrant willow tree. One by one, they disappeared back over the mound until only one remained. Arnik looked at me for another few seconds.
Then he disappeared, too.
“You’ll be taken somewhere else tomorrow,” Irrik said on the walk back. “And somewhere else the day after. The king wants you working throughout the kingdom.”
“What?” Fatigue fled as panic hit me. I’d hoped Arnik would come back. How would he find me again if I was constantly changing locations? How would I get my message to him? “What about the rest of the potatoes? I mean, there are still lots more rows—” I stumbled and fell forward, scraping my palms on the path. I hit it in frustration. Why was nothing working for me? All of it. Everything was against me.