by Jill M Beene
Samiris swallowed deeply. “How do you know I am trustworthy?”
“Besides the obvious?” Fitzhumphrey said, gesturing toward Artem. “You don’t want to be here. You don’t want to marry me.”
Samiris blinked in the awkward silence, not knowing what to say.
Fitzhumphrey gave her a crooked smile. “Don’t worry. I wouldn’t want to marry me, either. But that’s how I know I can trust you. You have no interest in what I could provide you, or what kind of wealth and power you would have as Empress.”
Samiris was embarrassed by the awkward silence and didn’t know what to say, so she cast her eyes to his desk. “What will you do with the Rojovaca seeds?”
From the corner of her eye, she saw Artem cock his head in contemplation.
“I throw them away,” Fitzhumphrey said. “There’s nothing I can do with them. I can assure you, any rumors you’ve heard of the seeds getting rid of acne is false.”
“Can I have them anyways, if you’re just going to throw them out?” Samiris said.
Fitzhumphrey jerked his shoulders. With his bulk, it looked like a small hill was shrugging. “Sure.”
Fitzhumphrey folded the paper into a clever little packet around the seeds and handed it to Samiris.
She tucked it into her pocket gently. “Thank you.”
“You should go now,” Fitzhumphrey said with a smile. He gestured toward the stacks of books teetering on his desk. “I have a lot of reading to do. I do hope your sister feels better.”
“Thank you, Your Excellency,” Samiris said, curtsying. She didn’t know if she had ever meant the words more. Tears pricked at her eyes. “Thank you.”
Artem scooped up the bottle of red liquid, slipped it into his jacket pocket, and bowed deeply. “Thank you, Your Excellency.”
When the platinum doors swung closed behind them, Samiris turned and gripped Artem’s elbow.
“Thank you,” she said, her eyes glinting with tears that she couldn’t bring herself to feel ashamed of.
“You’re welcome,” he said, eyebrows raising.
“And...” She bit her lip briefly, but it needed to be said. “I’m sorry for misjudging Fitzhumphrey... and you.”
Artem watched her, waited for her to continue.
“I didn’t think either of you cared about others, but I was wrong. I shouldn’t have drawn such conclusions without giving you a chance.”
Artem nodded slowly. “You were right about some things, though.” He swallowed, rubbed the back of his neck. “We became complacent. I became complacent. There is always more that can be done. And I lost sight of that under my...despair.”
Samiris smiled, tremulously. “Then maybe it’s a good thing that I was Chosen. Maybe that was the purpose, to wake up the people who can make some changes.”
Artem considered her, his expression so carefully arranged that Samiris couldn’t read his thoughts. “Maybe.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Well past midnight, Samiris banged on Artem’s bedroom door. She didn’t care that it was late, that neither of them had a proper night’s sleep the night before. She ignored the pain in her arm and calf. Artem came to the door rumpled and bleary-eyed, barefoot and still tucking his shirt into his pants.
“What is it, Samiris?” His eyes darted back and forth behind her like he was trying to see where the danger was.
“You’ve got to come to the garden. Right now.” She was breathless and a little sweaty. Though she had ridden Behemoth back to the castle, she’d still had to hobble up what felt like a hundred steps to reach Artem’s chambers.
“Why? What’s wrong?” He gripped her elbow and peered down the hallway.
“You just need to come now. Bring Fitzhumphrey. Trust me, he’ll want to see this.”
“Why?” Artem said, though he turned back into his chambers and pulled his boots on.
“It’s...no,” she said, shaking her head and starting back down the hall. “I don’t want to ruin the surprise. You need to see it for yourselves.”
A half an hour later, Fitzhumphrey, Artem and Samiris stood side by side in the garden, staring in silence.
“How...” Fitzhumphrey finally asked, his voice trailing off in awe.
“It must not be the fae’s presence that they needed,” Samiris said. “It must just be magic in general. And the curse is magic.”
In front of them, a wide swath of healthy Rojovaca flowers grew in the moonlight. They glowed, giving off a pulsing red light, and seemed to hum with energy.
“You planted them?” Artem said. His voice sounded scratchy.
“I thought it was worth a try.” Samiris shrugged.
In the next instant, Samiris found herself engulfed in Fitzhumphrey’s embrace. He was shaking, and with a start, she realized he was crying. With difficulty, she extracted an arm and patted him awkwardly on his large shoulder. She looked at Artem with wide eyes that begged for help, but was shocked to see that he looked a little misty, too.
“Do you know what this means?” Fitzhumphrey blubbered into Samiris’ hair. “I can send the tonic to anyone. Anyone who asks for it.”
Samiris laughed at the thrill of that thought, and Fitzhumphrey finally released her. Before she could take a full breath, she was clasped in Artem’s strong arms.
Samiris chuckled. “Do you know how angry Narcise and Ladonna would be at me right now?”
“I don’t understand how this is possible,” Fitzhumphrey said. “Every book I’ve ever read states that Rojovaca needs fae proximity to grow.”
Artem shrugged. “Maybe it just needs magic? I’m not sure if you’re aware, but things at the castle seem to grow well in general.”
Artem shot a look to Samiris, who understood. He would still keep the secret of what they were doing in the kitchen garden.
“It’s not a complicated recipe. We could start making it in large batches and just handing it out.” Fitzhumphrey turned toward them. “Do you think you can figure out how to distribute the tonic to those who need it most, without the problems of last time?”
“If you send out a royal proclamation stating that the tonic was free for whomever needed it, then flooded the market, that would prevent it from having a high price on the black market,” Artem said. “I would recommend sending the shipments out under guard though, just to be safe.”
“And maybe you would consider sending out shipments of food along with the tonic, if the kitchen gardens have any extra,” Samiris said, carefully. “I’m sure it would be a great help to those who need it, and it would mean a lot coming from the Crown Prince.”
“That’s a wonderful idea,” Fitzhumphrey said, his eyes still rapt upon the glowing Rojovaca. “I’ll leave that to you to organize, Lady Samiris.”
And just like that, Samiris’ secret project had Royal backing. She grinned.
Artem shook his head and laughed, turning to Fitzhumphrey. “When would you like to get started?”
“Now,” Fitz said. His eyes still watered as he looked at the magical plants, but his jaw was set. “Right now.”
A week passed. Samiris’ calf still was sore when she walked, but she was antsy, unable to sit still. Until word came from Faro that the tonic had worked, she wouldn’t be able to rest. Samiris came back to her chambers from a meandering walk around the castle to find Gia and Aster sitting at the dining table, staring at six huge, paper-wrapped bundles between them.
“What’s that?” she said.
“You told us,” Gia said, faintly. “But it’s different when you see it.”
“See what?” Samiris said, flipping back the paper that covered the package. “Oh.”
“Captain Trego said he kept the ones that he and his horse killed, but the rest of them were yours.”
Samiris fingered one of the Northern wolf pelts. The grey belly fur was soft, short and close
, like velvet. The white fur was longer, but just as soft. “What’s the point? What are we going to do with them... give them to people in the Sands so they can stay warm at night?”
Aster’s eyes widened, and Gia clasped the top pelt to her chest as if she thought Samiris was going to grab the enormous fur and run away with it.
“Do you have any idea how much--” Aster began, but Gia silenced her with a curt hand motion.
“I have a couple ideas for them.” Gia bundled the fur back into the paper wrapping and re-tied the string.
“Fine,” Samiris said with a shrug. “Any news from Faro?”
“Nothing yet, my lady,” Aster said, her wide eyes still on the bundles. “You know I’ll come and find you the second there’s word.”
“Fine,” Samiris repeated, chewing on her thumbnail. “I’ll be in the garden.”
Artem was the lone figure in the garden when she arrived.
“One thing I can’t figure out...why didn’t you just ask Lord Kinsley for the money to help your sister? He could have sent servants, money… Why did you just run?” Artem asked, hours later.
They were loading a wagon for another shipment to the Sands.
Samiris scoffed. “Why ask someone for something if you can take care of it yourself? Besides, that’s his money, not mine.”
“It’ll be yours when you marry him,” Artem grumbled.
“If I marry him, that is.” Samiris stacked another bag of flour into place.
“He hasn’t asked you to marry him, yet?” Artem watched her closely.
“Oh, he’s asked me,” Samiris said, hefting a bag of flour. “I just haven’t given him an answer yet.”
“The most eligible bachelor in the country has asked you to marry him, and you didn’t say yes?” Artem raised an eyebrow.
“According to Narcise, he’s the third most eligible bachelor in the country. And I haven’t told him yes yet because I’m not sure I want to marry him.” She heaved the bag of flour up into the wagon bed then scrambled up behind it to lift it into place. Her calf muscle whined in protest and she ignored it.
“Who’s the first and the second?” Artem asked.
“What?” Samiris asked, stacking another bag neatly into the pile.
“The most eligible bachelors, according to Narcise. Who is first and second?”
“Fitz and then you. But her list is just ranked by size of bank account, so don’t feel too superior about it.”
“I think that’s how most ladies rank men,” Artem said, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.
“Not me,” Samiris said. “I rank them by fitness levels and their posteriors.”
“Is that so?” Artem said, raising an eyebrow and grinning. “Where do I fit in that ranking?”
“Third. Fitz comes in first, naturally. And you’re right behind Lord Ettlesby. It was a close call on posteriors for that one.” Samiris smiled innocently.
“Lord Ettlesby?” Artem croaked.
Lord Ettlesby was famous around the court for his gluttony. He was first one to a banquet table and the last one to leave. He waddled side to side like a gelatinous duck, and his guest room had to be located on the first floor when he visited, for he was no longer able to climb the stairs. His knees had bent together under his mass, as if they were seeking support from one another.
“Lord Ettlesby?” Artem repeated. “You’ll pay for that one.”
He grabbed a half-full bag of flour from the floor and chucked it up at Samiris, who narrowly avoided it hitting her in the stomach by catching it. On instinct, Samiris upended the bag on Artem’s head. Phoof. Artem froze as he was covered by a layer of fine white dust. Rigid as he was, he resembled a statue covered in snow.
Samiris doubled over laughing. She cackled as Artem shook off his arms and wiped his eyes clear. She howled when he shook his hair, raising another cloud of white powder around him. Her eyes were screwed shut with her mirth, so she never saw the retaliation coming. She felt the wagon lurch below her, then she was alight, her stomach over a strong shoulder, her knees clasped behind by a firm arm. Still, she giggled.
“Put me down!” she managed to screech.
But it was five strides over to the watering trough. Samiris came up spluttering, the water nearly freezing. Now Artem was the one laughing. Then she remembered the bucket behind her, and grabbed it, stood and splashed him full in his mirthful face. His expression was a comedy of shock, then calculated intent. He spluttered and stalked toward her, and she hopped out of the trough and took off running toward the garden, her boots squelching in time to her steps.
Samiris could hear him thundering behind her, so she grabbed a tomato from the vine as she ran down the garden row, and dared a glance behind her. Artem was quickly overtaking her, his strides longer than hers, his facial expression focused and predatory.
Samiris winged the ripe tomato at his head and gave a shriek of shocked delight when it hit him square in the face, splattering. He bellowed his indignation. Samiris didn’t stick around to enjoy the aftermath of her successful hit. She knew Artem well enough to know that her tomato to the face would not go unanswered.
Samiris took off like a streak toward the castle and did not stop until she was leaning, chest heaving, against the inside of her own closed door.
Samiris was sitting through yet another afternoon luncheon in the garden when Aster came running. The maid slipped the note into Samiris’ hand and stood back. Samiris’ hands were shaking as she tore open her sister’s wax seal.
Samiris,
I cannot tell you how grateful I am for what you have done. The tonic is working; even yesterday holding a pen was not possible. I am getting better, and you should not worry.
The physician and the servants were not necessary, but are tending to our every need. Thank you. Father says to thank you for the provisions you sent, as well. We are very comfortable, and you need not worry about us. I will write more as I am able.
All my love,
Tamrah
My darling girl,
You have always made me so proud, and you continue to do so. I love you.
Your father
Samiris blinked in the sunshine of the garden. Once, twice. Then she read the letter again, flipping the parchment over to make sure there was no other script. A physician? Servants? Provisions?
She frowned. If her father hadn’t added a note in his own script, Samiris would have feared that Tamrah was not being helped by the tonic at all, that she had been in the grip of a fever dream when she wrote this letter. Samiris vowed to ask Artem about it when they were alone.
Samiris turned in her seat to smile at Aster, and handed her the note back. When she turned back to the table, Artem’s eyes were intent on her face, the question plain on his face.
“I just had a letter from my sister,” she announced to the table, with a big smile. “She is doing very well.”
This announcement was largely met with raised eyebrows and stunned silence. Samiris rarely spoke to anyone. But Artem smiled along with her, the corners of his eyes crinkling.
“How interesting,” Narcise said, rolling her eyes. “Please, tell us more.”
Samiris just grinned at her. Nothing was going to ruin her good mood today, not when her sister was well on her way to being healthy again. Samiris’ own wounds were healing. She was left with nothing but a niggling ache in her leg, and it could have been so much worse. Her heart swelled with unexpected gratitude toward the man sitting down the table from her.
He was her best friend, she realized with a start. Artem, Captain of the Royal Guard, Duke of Malon, Chief Arsehole of Teymara had become her closest friend. Not with pretty words, not by agreeing with everything she said, not by letting her have her way. No, their friendship had been bought at a far higher price. He had been there for her, consistently. His actions ha
d forged a friendship even when his words often infuriated her.
Samiris realized Artem was still watching her. His smile had faded, replaced by an unfathomable expression. It was the look he wore in public to hide his thoughts. Samiris had not yet perfected that ability. Her thoughts were always visible in her expressions, so she shook her head and stored her thoughts about Artem’s friendship away for later, when she could safely pick through them alone.
“What is your favorite food, Captain Trego?” Ladonna asked, her tone excited, as if she was breathless to hear his answer.
Without missing a beat, he said, “Anything made with flour. That, and tomatoes. I can’t get enough of them lately.” His expression was as serious as if he was discussing military strategy.
Samiris tried to control the ridiculous grin spreading across her face, but it was as useless as trying to dam a river with her bare hands.
“Really? Tomatoes?” Ladonna said, her forehead wrinkling in concentration.
“Yes,” Artem said. “Why, just the other day I had to wash tomato seeds out of my hair.”
“Oh, my,” Ladonna said, awe evident in her voice. “I’ve never met someone with such a passion for tomatoes.”
Samiris was giggling silently now. She clasped a cloth napkin to her mouth to hide her laughter, but she was nearly crying with the effort of keeping her hysterics under control.
Artem turned his full gaze onto Samiris and the corners of his mouth twitched as he said, “Yes, the only thing I enjoy more than tomatoes is sweet, sweet revenge.”
“What a masculine response,” Ladonna said, her voice breathy, her eyes wide in admiration. She pulled a delicate porcelain tray of sliced tomatoes closer to Artem’s plate and served him. “Here, have some more tomato slices. They are quite lovely with the soured cream sauce.”
“Thank you, sweet lady,” Artem said.
He ate several slices of tomatoes. Each time Samiris thought she had her laughter under control, Artem would look her way with a serious expression and begin chewing with exaggerated relish, and she would giggle again. The conversation flowed easily around them; no one noticed the silent back and forth that occurred.