Page 47 of Wicked Prince of Shadows
"No." Vetle's voice was iron. "Sabine stays."
"Then I must insist more firmly." Maltric drew himself up, his voice deepening "As your advisor and your friend, it is my duty to counsel you on difficult decisions, and some conversations are not appropriate for?—"
"For the innocent woman whose life you're about to argue I should take?" Vetle's eyes flashed. "Speak plainly, Maltric."
The silence that followed pressed against my chest like a physical weight. I could feel all three men's attention on me, could sense the calculation behind Maltric's silver eyes even as he kept his expression carefully neutral.
"Very well," I said, surprised by how steady my voice came out. "I'll give you your privacy."
Vetle turned sharply, his brow arching and his shoulders tensing. "Sabine?—"
"It's fine." I forced a brittle smile, but my heart warmed to see the concern in his eyes. "I should check on the plants anyway. See what can be salvaged and what needs to be prepared. Everything that can be harvested should be."
I turned and picked my way down the fractured stairs, testing each step before committing my weight. The broken marble was treacherous, gaps yawning between tiers where the earthquake had torn through, no single tile perfectly even. My heart hammered with each careful placement of my foot, but at least the fear of falling gave me something to focus on besides the conversation happening above me.
The tension in the air was thick enough to choke on. Even from down here, I could sense it—the weight of Vetle's anger, Maltric's determination, Doctor Rasoul's careful neutrality.
Vetle’s gaze burned into my back as I descended, but I didn't look up. What would be the point? Maltric wanted to discuss sacrificing me, and honestly, I couldn't fault his logic. One life for hundreds. It was a simple equation.
I reached the bottom tier and crouched beside one of the toppled planters. Rich dark soil had spilled across the pale marble in a fan pattern, and somehow the plant—a twisted thing with ash-grey leaves—had righted itself. Its roots had already begun burrowing into the cracks between stones rather than in the planter.
Stubborn thing. Refusing to die even when everything around it was falling apart. But it was growing in the wrong spot. Through no fault of its own, it would die. Especially if it kept putting its roots down in this place.
My hands trembled as I began scooping soil back into the planter. The physical work helped, giving me something concrete to focus on. But I couldn't stop my mind from spinning.
Vetle had defended me. Twice now he'd refused to even discuss the option of my sacrifice, and that warmth in my chest when he'd called this my garden?—
I was being foolish.
Sentimental.
He was a king facing the extinction of his people. How long could he really hold out against the obvious solution? How long before the weight compelled him to make the one choice that would save them if this one play to make me a royal did not work? Horrific as it was for me, one soul being obliterated was better than thousands.
I pressed my palms into the cool soil, letting it ground me. The voices above had dropped to murmurs I couldn't quite make out. Probably for the best.
The planter was heavier than I expected, but I dragged it closer to one of the intact sections of wall. My arms burned with the effort, and sweat beaded along my hairline despite the morning chill. I worked methodically, moving from one damaged planter to the next, salvaging what I could.
More fruit had ripened overnight. As I studied them, I realized most had corollaries from my home as long as you accepted that the coloration would be quite distinct and the texture different as well. The pomegranate tree had another five pomegranates ripe and ready for harvest with more on their way. At this rate, they’d probably be ripe before sunset. I set each one in a small stack by the fountain, then moved to the next planter. This one looked as if it helped something similar to grey zucchinis, some as large as my forearm.
I plucked one from the vine, testing its weight. Solid, firm—probably edible if my guess was right. The vine itself had grown so thick it had cracked the planter it sat in, roots spilling out like veins seeking purchase.
Behind me, voices rose sharply. I couldn't make out the words, but I recognized Vetle's tone—clipped, angry. Maltric's response was calmer but insistent.
I set the grey zucchini with the pomegranates and moved on. A cluster of what looked like mushrooms had sprouted near the fountain's base, their caps a mottled charcoal and cream. I'd never planted mushrooms. They must have been dormant spores in the soil, awakened by whatever magic I'd channeled into this place. Was that a good sign or neutral?
"Can I help?"
I jumped, nearly dropping the zucchini as I whirled around. Osric stood three steps above me, his white hair wild and his amber eyes bright with mischief. He wore a clean tunic today, charcoal grey with silver stitching along the collar, and his small black boots were polished to a shine at the front but scuffed on the sides.
"Osric." I pressed my hand to my chest, willing my heart to slow. "You startled me."
"That means you need help." He hopped down the steps with the confidence of a mountain goat at play. "Is this for the big dance?"
"If you want to help me, of course." Despite the somberness, I couldn’t suppress a smile at his earnest expression. "And what dance are you talking about?”
"Oh." He crouched beside me, examining the rows of fruit I'd laid out. "They do a dance where we get out all our special clothes and colors on the night before the blood moon cycle ends. You’ll have fun." His grin was infectious, all childish hope and enthusiasm. “And maybe…Fahlda will dance with you.”
“Fahlda?” I raised an eyebrow at him, frowning.
