I made my way across the field, spreading the blood meal until the cask was spent and I’d reached the far edge. I paused, gripping the cold dirt with my toes as if to imprint the memory on my very skin. I did not want to forget this moment, this feeling of the gods holding out their hands to receive the blood Myrilla had offered. I couldn’t stop myself smiling: a bright, strong beam that managed to be solemn and joyful at the same time.
Adam waited until I’d stepped onto the grass before spreading my cloak over my shoulders. Lilianne took the cask and said a few words, but I wasn’t really listening. I stood close to Adam, letting the heat from his body warm me as Lilianne closed the ceremony and replaced the lid on the cask. Adam and I walked behind Lilianne, circling our way through the trees and up the road toward the castle gates. In the distance, the guards spotted us from their posts and rushed to escort us.
“So, the Blooding is done,” said Adam.
My breath still hadn’t fully returned, and my legs felt tired and shaky. “What did you think of it?”
He took a moment before answering. “It was…not what I expected,” he finally said. “The slaughter last night was quick, of course. Still, I pitied the beast, and it seemed almost disrespectful to grind his bones up the way we did. But to see how it was used today, the way you scattered it over the field…it was beautiful. You were beautiful, Alyce.”
I flushed. “Thank you.”
A sharp rock scratched the bottom of my foot and I stumbled. Adam caught my arm and frowned. “Alyce, are you—” He stopped when he saw my naked feet, and glanced at my shoes in his hand. “I’m such a fool. I didn’t realize I was still carrying these. Why didn’t you tell me you were barefoot?”
A laugh escaped me, breaking the solemn air. “I’d forgotten.”
“Well, we can’t have this.” And to my surprise, he knelt down in front of me and slipped my shoes onto my feet, one at a time, as I held his shoulders for balance.
We had just resumed our walk when a small girl darted between the flanks of guards and ran toward us. She had dark hair and beautiful brown eyes, but her cheek was marred by a mottled birthmark, creeping down the side of her neck like a scarlet stain. In her tiny hand she clutched a bouquet of dandelions and purple weeds, which she thrust at me with great pride. It had no sooner left her fingers than one of the soldiers caught her around the waist and began pulling her back toward her father, who was shouting to her from his plow.
“Wait a moment,” I said, touching the dandelion’s petals. My fingertip came away smudged with yellow and I knelt before the little girl. “What wonderful flowers these are; did you pick them yourself?”
She nodded, her round cheeks spreading wide with a smile. “From my field, Lady Queen,” she said carefully, with an unsteady curtsey. “I picked them just for you.”
I looked down at the flowers again, my brow furrowed in confusion. Perhaps it was my bloodstained hands grasping the stems or the scent of the meal on my grain-cloth gown, but that same deep knowledge of the gods rushed through me, touching a part of me I hadn’t known existed. I couldn’t explain or define it, and it vanished as quickly as it came. Tears welled in my eyes as I gripped the flowers tightly and drew the little girl towards me, kissing her forehead. She smelled like sunshine and freshly turned earth. I stood and wiped my eyes. “What is your name?”
“Lamia, Lady Queen.”
“Well, thank you, Lamia. They truly are beautiful.” I reached up and lightly touched her marked cheek. “Just like you.”
The little girl dropped into another curtsey, biting her lip in concentration. Then she waved and skipped back to her father, who was waiting beside his plow. I studied my flowers again, picked with such love and care even though they were just weeds. I felt eyes upon me and looked up to see more farmers peppering their fields, already working hard in the early hour. A swell of gratitude rose in me; Myrilla would be worth nothing but for them.
Just then, one of the workers in Lamia’s field shouted something. He was so far away I couldn’t make it out; I could only see his little hand reach up and snatch his hat from his head, waving it in the air. He shouted the words over and over, like a chant.
“What’s he saying?” I looked at Adam in confusion, though his frown told me he couldn’t understand the worker either. It wasn’t long before another farmer picked up the chant, and then two more, as it spread through the fields. Soon the chant surrounded us, so loud and clear the entire kingdom must have heard it.
“Queen of Spring! Queen of Spring! Queen of Spring!”
My body prickled with heat, though I managed to raise my hand and wave in what I hoped was a gracious manner. With a nod to the guards I signaled that I wished to resume our walk. Adam’s feet, however, stayed firm. I looked back at him, expecting him to make some wry comment about my unexpected new title. Instead he was watching me, wearing an expression I didn’t recognize.
“Queen of Spring,” he murmured, in time with the farmers’ chant. “Queen of Spring.”
Chapter 14
With the Blooding behind us and spring waiting just beyond the horizon, the castle became a much happier place. The coughing sickness that scourged Myrilla each winter halted its rampage after only a few deaths. Every day the ground thawed a little bit more, and we began the slow process of replenishing our larders. Supplies from neighboring kingdoms arrived in a steady stream, though whenever I saw a cart fresh from Warkenland or the Sea’s Arm wheeling toward the castle, laden with goods, anxiety tempered my relief. The wheat simply had to grow.
The end of the Blooding brought a change in Adam, too. He seemed brighter, livelier somehow, but in an unusually quiet way. As though saving his newfound energy for an important task. He smiled more often; his smooth cheekbones lifting his cheerful eyes so they crinkled in the corners. The strangest new development, however, came about one dry morning when I arrived at the garden and heard a curious sound rising from behind the walls: music.
I slid the key into the door and turned it. Sitting on the bench with his back to me was Adam. He held a lyre in one arm and strummed it with the fingers of the other. I say “strummed,” but he moved his hand so quickly that his fingers flew across the strings, plucking them individually or in pairs. It created a rippling effect, like water flowing downstream, and sounded unlike any music I’d ever heard. He kept his head down and focused his sight on the strings while I remained frozen on the edge of the garden path. I wondered if he’d heard the door, but confirmed my presence was unnoticed when he closed his eyes and began to sing. It was an old Itomian ballad—so he told me later—and while I’m afraid the translation won’t be very good, I’ve written it here for you anyway:
Winter hid my love away
Cold and deep beneath the earth
May the gods give me the skill to wait
’Til the fingers of Spring bring her forth
Adam’s rich voice filled the garden, startling a few birds from their roosts in the silver pine hedge. He sang with his whole body; I could almost see the words filling his lungs and racing up his throat before tumbling out of his mouth. Still, he didn’t notice me, so I took a seat on a large urn, balancing on the lip. He sang a couple of other songs, and I do believe he would have gone on much longer, but then a gust of wind rushed through the garden and sent the door creaking on its hinges. His fingers stopped and he looked over his shoulder at me, paling in alarm. I kept still on the urn, unable to tear my eyes away. How had he kept this talent hidden for so long?
“Good afternoon, Alyce,” he said, trying to smooth away his surprise. “I thought you might be in the mood for a visit today.”
I couldn’t reply; I was still too shocked. When I didn’t speak, the smile on his face slipped a bit. “I came over the wall, but I didn’t touch a single plant on my climb.” He gripped his lyre and started to stand. “I’m sorry, I should have waited for you to unlock the door first, it was foolish of me—”
“No, no it wasn’t.” I leapt to my feet with
my hands outstretched. “Adam, I’m not angry, I swear it.” Laughter bubbled from my throat. “I loved hearing your music, it was beautiful. I had no idea you were so gifted. Sit back down, please.”
He did, obviously relieved. “Thank you, but you’re too generous with your praise. After all, you’re the one who inspired me to bring my lyre here.”
I laughed. “I don’t see how.”
“I think you do.” His eyes shone, the way they always did when he was about to say something clever. “You know, Alyce, it could be argued that your daffodils and rosebushes are the luckiest citizens in all of Myrilla.”
The corner of my mouth twitched, anticipating the rest of his riddle. “And why, pray?”
“They have the rare privilege of hearing you sing.”
I stared at him. I’d never, not once, mentioned that peculiar habit to him. Or to anyone else, for that matter. “How do you know that?”
“I heard you. Back in the autumn when I watched you vanish through that door day after day. One morning I walked the outer length of the walls dozens of times, just listening to your voice.”
I didn’t know whether to feel appalled or flattered. “You never told me that.”
He gave me a wicked grin. “Well, at first I wasn’t sure it truly belonged to you. I had a difficult time believing such a sweet, gentle voice could belong to the icy woman I’d married.”
With a cutting look, I folded my arms and raised a challenging eyebrow. “Perhaps if you’d given me more reason to be sweet and gentle you wouldn’t have needed to sneak through the gardens like a prowler.”
“Fair point,” he conceded. “As always, your queenly logic triumphs.” He looked down at the lyre in his hands. It was a magnificent instrument, carved from wood so pale it looked almost golden, the catgut strings pulled tight. An etched garland of laurel leaves graced the curved edge. Influenced by the herdsman, I felt sure.
Adam raked his fingers over the strings; the bright sound sent cold tendrils tickling my spine. “I’ll be on my way, Alyce,” he said, placing the lyre in a wooden box and snapping it shut. “I only wanted to stop by to give your flowers a different taste of music. Now that you’ve arrived my presence is superfluous. Enjoy yourself. I’ll see you at dinner.”
He gave me a little bow and walked to the door, but before he could vanish on the other side I called after him. “Adam, wait!”
He paused, and I was pleased to see a hopeful look on his face. “I’d like it very much if you stayed,” I said. “If you have time. After hearing your music, the flowers will never be satisfied with my voice all on its own again.”
I expected him to refuse, but he stepped into the garden once more and shut the door smartly behind him.
“Very well,” he said. “As my muse commands.”
• • •
At least once a week thereafter Adam brought his lyre to the garden. First he’d sit on the bench and spend several minutes bent over the instrument to tune it. He plucked the strings and adjusted their tightness in a way that must have made sense to him but that I, whom the gods did not deign to bless with musical talent, could not understand. Once satisfied he’d sit up straight, clear his throat, and begin to play. I recognized none of the tunes—they were all Itomian—but he played everything beautifully.
For all his confidence in other matters, Adam was strangely shy when it came to his music. The first few times he played I’d stopped what I was doing to watch him, devoting all my attention. But when I noticed his red face and clumsy fingers, and the way he flicked his eyes over at me if he happened to make a mistake, I found a way to subtly return to my work. Far from finding my inattention offensive, he actually played much better when I wasn’t staring at him. Every now and then, however, my curiosity got the better of me and I’d study him from the corner of my eye. His fingers flew over the strings with precision and grace, the result of years dedicated to study. I marveled at his talent. Sometimes he asked me to sing while he rested his fingers, arguing that if the plants didn’t hear my voice they’d forget to grow. I always obliged, singing either the familiar Myrillan melodies I’d practiced on my own, or attempting a new Itomian piece just so he’d laugh at my attempts to imitate his accent.
One warm afternoon Adam stopped playing his lyre and set it in his lap. I glanced over, expecting him to request a song, but he was frowning at the sky.
“What is it?” I asked. The last of the crocuses had bloomed in patches of gold and purple and white, accompanied by eager weeds. I’d worked for days to remove them and was ready to start clearing the soil around the silver knight’s shield and yellow sunbird wings.
He sniffed deeply. “There’s something different about the air today.”
“What do you mean? I don’t smell anything.”
“It isn’t a smell, precisely. It’s the feel. I’m not sure, Alyce. Something isn’t right.” He plucked absently at the lyre. “When did it last rain?”
I opened my mouth to reply, then stopped. I hadn’t the faintest idea. “I don’t remember,” I admitted. “It must have been weeks ago. Before the Blooding, even.”
“I didn’t realize it had been so long. How have the farmers watered their crops?”
“They irrigate from the river, provided it’s high enough. And during the winter they collected snow for their underground cisterns, melting it as needed.”
He nodded, though he didn’t look satisfied. “I see.” Then he resumed his playing, the lighthearted tune doing nothing to relieve the troubled frown on his face.
• • •
Adam remained quiet through the rest of the day. We had grown closer during the course of the past few months, talking and laughing like friends over our shared meals. But that evening we ate in near silence, just as we had in our first weeks of marriage. At that time I had welcomed his reticence, wanting nothing more than to delay any communication whatsoever. Now I found it quite unbearable. My attempts to draw him into conversation withered in the air between us and fell dully to the table. Even Turius couldn’t provoke him into joining the spirited debate taking place around us, concerning the upcoming boar season back in Itomius and all their boyhood memories of hunts past.
When the miserable dinner finally ended, Adam was late coming to bed. I was nearly asleep when he slid under the covers beside me and murmured goodnight. I rolled to my side, ready to ask him why he was so disturbed, but I drifted off just as the words formed in my mouth.
It wasn’t long, however, before I got my answer. It felt like mere minutes later that I was jolted awake by someone pounding very loudly on the chamber door. Adam leapt out of bed in a flash, dagger in hand, and tore it open.
It was Starten, Turius’s head man. “I beg your pardon, Lord King,” he said, with more grace than I expected from a man face to face with a naked king brandishing a blade. “Fire has been spotted on the mountains.”
Fully awake now, I sat up in bed. “Where, exactly?”
“The second range,” he said, still addressing Adam, to my annoyance. “In the east.”
Adam dropped the dagger and threw on some clothes. “Show us at once.”
I tossed the covers aside and pulled on my dressing gown. The cold stone floor nipped at my bare feet as I grabbed a candle and padded down the hall after Adam. He walked so fast I could barely keep up. Starten led us through the darkened corridors and up the winding steps of the northern tower. I felt slightly sick, unable to avoid the rush of memories from my uncle’s reign. The nights I had slept in the tower opposite this one, terribly alone, looking up at the high windows in the hopes that someone would help me. The days of endless boredom and fear. Starten pushed open the door and I hesitated before crossing the threshold.
Adam looked back at me. “Aren’t you coming?”
I nodded, forcing myself to enter the circular room. I forgot all about my reluctance, however, when my gaze settled on the opposite window. A bright red line shone on the uppermost mountain peaks, thin and distant. Harmless looki
ng, if one didn’t know any better.
“Can the people see it from below?” asked Adam.
Starten shook his head. “No. The valley is too low to view a peak that far away. This is the only spot in the kingdom high enough. We can’t even smell the smoke down here yet.”
“Good,” said Adam. “We don’t want to start an unnecessary panic, especially if the threat is legless. Let’s agree to keep this quiet for now and concentrate on planning an evacuation if necessary. We do nothing unless the wind changes.”
Adam’s confident voice did nothing to calm my racing pulse. For an agricultural kingdom like Myrilla, fire was devastating. We had just blooded the fields; we’d be left with nothing if the flames came down the mountains. The earth was so dry it wouldn’t take more than a sneeze to spread the blaze. Stepping closer to the window, I licked my fingers and thrust my hand into the open air. The breeze was light and warm. “The wind’s from the west,” I told him, my voice thick with tension. “If it shifts to the south—even the slightest bit—it’ll charge directly toward us.”
Adam cleared his throat. “And what will that mean for Myrilla?”
We watched each other, neither wanting to admit the possibility that everything we had worked and prayed for, every stake in our treaty, every hope we had dared, could be devoured by flames. I looked out the window again. The red line seemed so far away, I couldn’t imagine the ruin it would cause if it crept any closer. We’d have nowhere to go, no escape whatsoever.
I turned back to Adam, knowing he wouldn’t want me to mince words.
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