“Are you sure about this?” I ask, slowing down just a little.
“Yes.” Rion tightens his hold on me, countering my silent protest. “There are places you should fear to tread in this world, but as long as we are there together, Princess, we will be able to shed light on those valleys of darkness.”
“Valleys of darkness or Varyes of Darkness?” I ask. Rion’s laughter and his bravery are infectious as we make our way to the secret garden. As much as I want to talk to him about the future, I can’t help but want to indulge myself in the memory of our past fun, too.
Before my father died, it was almost a game. Afterward, it was nothing but an activity in stubborn daring. Rion would insist on it, saying it was a matter of honor and a challenge to his authority, and I would indulge him out of secret affection and forbidden excitement. As long as I was secure in my father’s love and Rion’s companionship, I never truly worried even if we were caught.
Now that my household position is precarious, and my heart even more so, I feel the painful joy of paradox inside of me: it is a great risk, but one that chances a great reward.
Rion, for his part, seems to be in complete agreement. He pulls me into one of the servants’ passages, keeping hold of my hand as we walk sideways through the narrow stone walls.
Just before we emerge, we see a wooden door off to the side. It’s locked, but I don’t get a chance to tell him before he begins to fight with the handle.
“Let me take care of this,” I say, stepping forward. I pull out a hair pin from one of the pockets hanging under my skirts; a few twists and turns, and the old habit proves its strength despite my lack of practice over the years.
Rion picks up my hand again and kisses it. “Well, thank you, Princess.”
“I didn’t do it for your kisses,” I say, but he arches his brow playfully.
“Perhaps you did it merely for my happiness?”
“My own,” I say. “I’d rather not have to explain to the Queen why your shoulder is hurt after you’ve only just arrived.”
Rion grins, but he still refuses to let my hand go as he opens the door and we climb down a long stairway.
It’s dark inside, almost as dark as the High Tower’s stairs had been. Just as I wish I’d brought the candle I’d left there, I stumble on a cracked step.
“Careful.” Rion plucks me up from the ground with shocking ease and quickly shifts my feet across his arms. I fall into him rather than onto the ground, and I’m unsure of which is more uncomfortable.
“Thank you,” I say, already moving to get free.
“You’re welcome,” he says, but he doesn’t let me go. He strides onward and downward, and when I move to wiggle free, he shakes his head.
“I’ll take care of this part,” he says.
“No one’s carried me around since I was a little girl,” I argue. “This is strange.”
“You’ll make it worse if you struggle,” Rion points out, and, even without looking at him, I know he has a smirk on his face.
That certainly hasn’t changed at all.
Rion always liked being the hero when we were younger.
As my arms curl around his neck, I notice for the first time how well Rion is dressed. His shirt is black and his pants are tucked into tall leather boots, well-worn by weather and overuse. It makes sense why I didn’t see him in High Tower until he revealed himself.
I also have to admit, with more light, I can see the sharper lines that have appeared on Rion’s face since we were last together. His cheekbones more pronounced, while a small scar peeks out from under his right ear. His eyes are brighter, and there is enough stubble on his face to make me very aware of his strength.
“What is it?” Rion asks me.
I blink, realizing we have reached the bottom of the stairs. “What?”
“You’re staring at me.”
The way he says it turns the tingling into a trembling, and, this time, I am not afraid—but I am not foolish, either.
“I missed you,” I admit softly, sliding down from his arms. My slippered feet touch the stone floor, but I cling to him as I slowly regain my balance.
Some part of me realizes he is slow to let me go, too.
“I know my mother made your life much more difficult,” he begins, but I shake my head and stop him.
“Even if I had been pampered to the highest levels of Pommierian society, I would’ve missed you.” I wave my arm, gesturing around us. “You don’t really think I’ve had a lot of adventures like this in the last few years, do you?”
Before Rion can reply, small clanging noises chime out and echo into the doorway before us. We quickly scoot back into the shadows and listen for an opening to move forward with our quest.
“It’s the changing of the guard,” Rion says. “Perfect.”
“We came here while there’s the most amount of guards.” I shake my head. “Perfect.”
“Perfect indeed, since we’ve done this before.”
“But there’s really no need to make this harder,” I say. “I’ll never understand you sometimes.”
“I wanted to come with you, just like we used to. Doesn’t really matter what time. And the challenge just adds to the fun.” Rion nudges me. “Besides, if you’d come up to the High Tower earlier, we could’ve been here hours ago.”
“Don’t blame me if we get caught!”
“I would never,” Rion says, clearly enjoying himself.
“Never get caught or never blame me?”
“Both.” He grins, before he gives me a sincere, solemn look. “Ebony.”
“What?” I’m a little perplexed at the sudden change, but I don’t think Rion really understands what has changed since he’d left. I am not a princess disobeying orders for the fun of it. I am a servant risking my future now.
“I promise there will be more adventures to come,” he whispers, and for all my concern, his sweetness makes me relax, if only momentarily.
He takes my hand again. “As long as we survive this one, of course. Now let’s go. The guards are moving into their usual routine, and all we have to do is let them do it.”
Together, Rion and I sneak past the nighttime guards, who are busy changing places with the day’s watchmen. Rion is right; the guards have marched in and out, day after day, year after year, with only slight variations to their weekly service.
As we manage to slide into the shadowy, overgrown hedges in the castle’s small, hidden keep, Rion speeds up.
“Come on, we’re out of earshot,” he says, picking his feet up into a run.
“I’m following just fine,” I retort, letting some of my laughter free at last.
For a small garden, there is a seemingly endless amount of variety. There are trees of different sorts, spices and vines, and even a small pond where the lily pads bounce with little frogs.
“Do you think the Queen is looking for a frog prince to marry?” I ask, pointing to a particularly vibrant-green frog. “I can’t imagine she’d enjoy kissing any of these.”
“I can’t imagine any of them would enjoy being kissed,” Rion says, and we end up laughing while I lean down and try to catch one myself.
It takes me longer than I would’ve liked, but when I finally grab one, I show my prize to Rion.
“Should I kiss it instead?” I ask.
“Don’t get its hopes up, Ebony,” he says. “A fair maiden who breaks the magic surrounding its body shouldn’t be the one to break its heart, too.”
“Perhaps freedom is the better gift, when compared to love and pain.” I laugh quietly, even if Rion doesn’t, and then I let the little frog go. I watch as it hops into the water, enjoying its happy splashes.
Marula has its share of watering holes and small rivers, but the water here in Pommier is much cooler and much more clear; I dip my hands into the pond and let its chilly sweetness run down through my palms. I try not to think of my mother as I sit there. She died when I was very young, but there are a few clear memories I have of her.
One is from when I was probably four or five, during the end of the rain seasons. My mother would go out and help with our community’s wash. She bundled up her hair much as mine is knotted up now, pulled on a loose, batik-patterned dress, and worked alongside the other women and children.
There were several members of both her family and my father’s; there was a line of black-skinned women up and down the riverbanks, some made beautiful by life, others beaten down by it, but my mother greeted everyone with kindness. She would introduce me and some of the people would even give me gifts.
I remember we had some missionaries in our tribe, and some of their friends and children came there to settle with us. One of the ladies, an elderly lady with the whitest hair I’d ever seen, had a piano in her small cottage.
My mother was awed by the musical instrument, even when I threw my palms down on the keys, pounding out a cacophony that would make the devil shrink back in fear.
If I close my eyes, I can still see it all as it happened, as clear as daylight inside my mind. My stubby, four-year-old fingers caressed the piano keys, wondering at the ebony and ivory sticks that lay together. They were so separated, and yet so interconnected.
I didn’t know it at the time, but it was an obscene luxury, and when the lady died, the missionaries all said it was her wish for my mother and I to have it.
After my mother died, some of the lady’s daughters taught me how to play, though I never moved past the beginner levels.
I pull my hands out of the water and dry them off. Rion is watching me intently again, and I realize it is because I’d been humming.
“It’s a sonata,” he guesses, and I shrug.
“It’s an old song a lady from Marula used to play for me.”
“A missionary from Pommier?”
I shrug again. “I don’t remember for sure.”
“Perhaps it’s a hymn,” Rion suggests. “Are there words?”
“I don’t think so.” I chuckle before I hum a few more stanzas. “I doubt it. I want to dance to this one.”
“Then it’s a waltz you want.” Rion comes closer to me and offers me his hand.
I shake my head and blush. “Not right now.” I pick at the skirts of my servant’s outfit. “I’m not dressed for a waltz, am I?”
“That doesn’t matter.”
“It shouldn’t,” I say quietly. “But it does.”
And it does, too, more than I want it to. I need my dress to remind me of my status, especially if Rion actually wants to dance with me. I really don’t want to have to explain to him, and I am glad when he changes the subject again.
“You should write your own songs,” he says, reaching down and pulling me to my feet. “I’m not the only one who loves it when you sing.”
“If I sing, you should play.” I glance down at Rion’s hands as he holds mine. “Assuming you’re still able to.”
“Your family’s tribe and others kept me in constant practice while I was away,” he assures me.
Our shared love of music is part of the reason we eventually became friends. There were thousands of memories I had of him playing on the palace piano, figuring out new chords and arrangements with me, trying to put my words and stories from Marula down into song. My father would sometimes join us, never saying much. I knew he liked to think of my mother, and, when I was tired, I would go and sit in his lap and watch him just enjoy Rion’s music.
Before I can ask Rion if he’ll play a song for me later, another frog hops into the water behind me. The small plop enough of a noise to startle me, and I nervously laugh.
“I’ve forgotten how odd this place is,” Rion says, changing the subject. “I used to think it was scary in a fun way. I know there’s no telling what my mother has done with it lately, but it still seems a lot more strange.”
“I know she is enamored of magic,” I say carefully, glancing over at the thorn-covered walls. “Viola’s mentioned it a few times.”
Vi had told me before of some of the queen’s interests; it wasn’t too surprising, given that the mirror-slaves were a consequence of her love of magic. But there are other things I prefer not to think of that were whispered inside the Queen’s court and within the palace walls.
When Rion only nods, I let the subject fall off into silence. I know Rion, an observant Christian and God-fearing prince, did not like to think of his mother’s obsession either. He likely heard the rumors and suspected there was much more truth to them than he would’ve liked.
“It’s almost time for breakfast,” Rion says, tugging on my hand again. “Let’s go this way.”
We turn away and walk down a roughened trail, headed further into the garden. It is as we walk that I notice the oppressive quietness. The air seems thicker, and for all its beauties, the Queen’s garden has no birds or bees or butterflies to complement its charm.
“Here.” Rion holds out a red apple to me. “Take it.”
“No, thank you.”
“Why not? I know you’re hungry.”
I cross my arms as my stomach rumbles, but I stand my ground. “It’s red.”
“Is that your main objection?” Rion laughs. “Red apples are the best.”
“You’ve always thought that, but I’ve always disagreed with you.” I reach up and pull down a yellow apple from another nearby tree.
Rion wrinkles his nose. “The golden ones are too sweet.”
“I’m surprised you don’t like them, after all those years eating Maruli fruit.” I take a bite of my apple and feel instantly vindicated. There’s a subtle spiciness that’s lost in the sweetness of its juice. I revel in the taste of it on my tongue. “Maybe it’s the color?”
“I don’t mind that at all,” Rion insists. “I enjoy Maruli fruit, but it’s much more tangy and blunt.”
“Oh, yeah?” I take another bite. “What’s so great about the red ones, then? Besides the color?”
“Pommier is known for its apples, especially the red ones.” He holds out his apple to me again. “Try it. Unless you’re afraid I’m right.”
I arch a brow at him. “I won’t be lured in as Eve was.”
“You know, most historians actually think that it was a pomegranate,” Rion says. “And technically, we are in Mother’s garden, where everything is off limits. So you’re sinning anyway. You might as well sin on a wishing apple.”
“A wishing apple?” I roll my eyes. “I know you wanted to come here like we did as kids, but there’s no reason to treat me like one.”
“Mother always told me the red ones were wishing apples.” Rion holds out the apple to me again. “One bite and all your dreams could come true, if you truly believe.”
“Believe what?”
“Believe that you deserve your wish, I guess.”
I look at the apple and then back at him. “Why don’t you eat it then? Aren’t you worthy of your wish?”
“You’ve always known me so well,” Rion says. “I could never deserve a wish so grand, but it is not something that should be wished for, either.”
I swallowed another bite of my golden apple, mildly surprised at how thick it felt in my throat. “What is it that you want, then?”
Rion’s eyes, so bright and green, meet mine for a long moment, before he reaches over for my hand. He snatches my apple away from me, letting his mouth fit over where mine had been before he takes a bite.
If I thought swallowing was hard before, it is nothing compared to how hard it feels to breathe.
“I want you to sing for me.” His words are soft but distinct, but I am certain he is not talking about actually singing. There is a look of hunger in his eyes, one he wants me to respond to, and not just in a manner of beauty but also one of love. And not the love of a confidante or childhood friend—no, he wants the simple love that comes when a man and a woman exchange hearts, and long-awaited passion is allowed to bloom.
“Rion.” Warmth stirs inside of me, and I lean into him, my eyes slowly closing as he draws closer to me.
Only to jump back as a voice snaps out through the garden.
“Rion, is that you?”
Queen Varyes’ voice cuts through me like a sword, draining me of all my nerve. My hands fly to my mouth as I let out a small yelp in surprise.
Rion whirls around, looking for the source of the sound. “Mother?” he calls back.
“Rion, we’ve been over this,” Queen Varyes yells back, much more firmly this time. “This is my garden. You’re not to bother my plants or pick the fruit from my trees.”
Rion and I exchange guilty looks, before the queen appears, making her way toward us, and Rion quickly pushes me away.
“Go,” he whispers to me. “Out the back door before she sees you. No need for both of us to get a lecture.”
Or a beating. The thought alarms me, especially as I realize how much time has gone by.
“I should go anyway,” I whisper. “The other servants will be looking for me.”
“Ebony.” Rion’s jaw goes rigid. “I’ll talk to Mother about what she’s done to you and the other Maruli. I’ll see that things are changed. Please, just give me some time.”
My nose prickles with oncoming tears, as I am overwhelmed with gratitude.
“Rion!” The Queen’s tone is much more forceful this time, and I visibly flinch at her approach.
“Go.” This time, Rion pushes me, trying to get me to leave faster. I dig in my heels, reluctant to leave even if it means getting in trouble, too.
“What about you?” I ask.
“I’ll be fine, of course.” He leans down and presses a small peck of a kiss on my cheek. The warmth I felt before blazes into heat, and my heart melts and falls into his hands.
Just like my destiny. I frown, scolding myself. I had always been able to trust Rion with my friendship. I could trust him with my heart and my fate.
As if he knows my thoughts, Rion nudges me again. “I’m supposed to protect you, remember?”
Nodding, I step away from him, grateful I get the chance to compose myself.
He is right, after all. The Queen has already found him out, and she is clearly unhappy. There’s no telling what she would say or do to me in order to punish me.
How are Rion and his mother even related?
Northern Lights, Southern Stars Page 3