Page 14 of Wicked Prince of Shadows (Wicked Princes #2)

CHAPTER EIGHT

Istaggered a step forward as the Hollow King strode toward the center, my eyes watering immediately. It smelled off here, something like burned earth, rotted meat, ammonia and acid. I cringed and covered my mouth and nose. Cold air licked at my skin as I took in the space around me.

What had this place been? A tiered courtyard with steps between levels that had been converted into a garden?

Or had it always been intended to be a multi-leveled garden and simply fallen into disrepair?

It was massive, built in wide, concentric tiers, each level ascending higher from the courtyard’s heart. No railings at any point.

Pale-grey cracked stones formed broad stepped staircases and broad landings, each level filled with broad planters or massive pots, some holding withered plants and others black-barked trees like the ones in the forest.

It was hard to know where to look, the entire setting dismal and easily blurring within my mind.

Nothing moved. Nothing sang. There were no birds. No buzzing or crawling insects. Not a worm or a trail of tiny brown ants. If anything had ever flourished in this place, it was long ago.

Black vines coiled within some of the planters, bone dry and shriveled. No leaves clung to any branches or stems though a few were scattered across the soil.

I grimaced. Whatever had grown here once had withered long ago, and now all that remained were thorny stalks and brittle skeletal stems that curled inward like broken fingers.

I took another step forward off the path. The crunch beneath my boot made my skin crawl. Ash and silt. No moisture at all. “Has it always been this way?” I asked softly.

“It started dying as soon as our kingdom was dragged here thanks to Good Queen Tanith,” the Hollow King said, making no effort to hide his scorn.

He folded his arms. The deep grey of his skin was stark against the lighter shades around us, and the deep black of his garments made him like a living shadow.

His amber eyes burned, but it seemed for a moment as if grief nearly overwhelmed him.

His eyes shuttered, and then he opened them again, his stern, resolute self present once more.

I couldn’t focus on that though. I just kept looking over the entirety of this garden.

No color anywhere—no green, no gold, no hint of anything that I typically associated with life.

At most, maybe some lichens and moss grew on the dying black-barked trees and saplings.

The stone paths that marked their way throughout were a slightly darker grey than the rest, practically a mockery of color and veined with tight cracks as if they had fallen apart repeatedly and been glued together each time.

“What exactly is this test you have in mind?” I asked, my nose wrinkling with distaste. “Did you only use bird guano for fertilizer?”

His eyebrow arched. “I apologize if the type of fertilizer we gather is not to your preferences, princess, but we must make do with what we have. Your test and punishment is this: Fix this garden before the end of the blood moon’s week, and I’ll let you go free.”

My eyes widened. “Fix…the garden? As in make it bloom? All of it?”

“Yes. Every planter must be brought to full bloom and harvest. Best get busy.” He gave me a flat smile.

Rage rose within me. The prissy shadowy kidnapping bastard! “Do you even know how gardens work?” I demanded, stalking toward him. “Do you think I can just wave my hands and demand the plants grow?”

“Like I said, if you are in fact a gardener—”

“Wipe that smug smile off your face! This isn’t how gardens work. I can’t just defy time itself. Plant magic doesn’t work that way.” I jabbed my finger at his chest.

“It won’t be exactly like your pretty little flower beds back home, darling,” he said with that infuriating smirk. “But everyone has some magic in them that the Witheringlands draws from. If you’re a commoner, it will come through in its own way, painful though it may be.”

I walked over to one of the planters and stuck my finger in the dry dirt.

Like most of the dirt in this place, it was all dead or mostly dead.

I sighed heavily. “Look. I don’t mind work.

I love gardening. But this isn’t a garden.

It’s a tomb. What exactly am I supposed to do here that makes it so I can go home?

Royals can have plant magic too. So I really don't know what you're looking for.”

“Just tend the garden. Make the plants grow and the flowers bloom. Then we’ll talk.

I know what to look for. There’s water in the fountain.

” He indicated a shockingly bare fountain that sat in the middle of the space.

It was so plain I hadn’t even noticed it, the structure and markings making it appear more like a placeholder than an actual fountain.

I stepped closer to confirm there was actually water in it and noted that there was a well in the center with a bucket set inside, but it was at such an awkward angle, I’d likely bang my knees and elbows trying to draw it up. “Why did no one make this more accessible?”

“It once was, but things change,” he said in response.

“Get to it. You won’t be allowed out of the garden until the end of day, and when daylight comes tomorrow, you will be escorted out and taken back to your room.

Those are the terms of your punishment. You have until the wedding, little dodo. Don’t disappoint me further.”

I turned back to the garden, biting back every insult clawing at my tongue.

Fine.

If he thought this was going to break me, he had no idea who he’d taken.

I’d worked in gardens that fought me harder than this…

mostly because they were alive. Carving out beds for herbs and vegetables in a thick-rooted forest was far tougher, especially with all the risks that came from being in an actual forest with predators who could hide in the vegetation.

I sighed, dragging my hands across my face.

Entitled royal.

I tore a strip of cloth from my sleeve and used it to bind my thick hair off my neck and out of my face. Was there any chance this was a real test?

Probably not.

It was just busywork, a way to keep me occupied and pretend I had a real chance.

If he didn’t believe I was a commoner by now, he probably never would. And why would he? It sounded like the curse was lifted either way.

My death would mean nothing to him or anyone here.

A knot formed in my throat.

All right. Breathe.

I’d figured something out. I always did, and it never came about from feeling too sorry for myself unless I was working hard at the same time.

The watery sunlight beat down upon me, and I closed my eyes to collect myself.

I could do this. I’d endured worse clearing rocks out of an amaranth plot with nothing but three buckets and two friends.

We’d had to work hard and fast to prep in time for it to be planted.

Otherwise, there’d have been no amaranth to barter or trade.

Enola had offered to help pay off our debt, not understanding that we were responsible for most of the gold amaranth people loved so much.

Not everything could be bought or freed with money.

Sometimes the root cause had to be addressed first.

I walked to the nearest planter and knelt beside it, running my hands through the lifeless soil. It crumbled between my fingers like ash, leaving a gritty residue on my skin.

This soil needed life desperately, but there were seeds in here. I uncovered a few beneath the black vines. I had no idea what kind they were. Great. This would all just be a big test. Sighing, I buried them again.

Above me, the scrape of boots on stone made me glance up. Two guards stood at the highest tier, silhouettes against the harsh sky. One had a hand on his sheathed sword, the other folded his arms, but both were watching me intently. It looked like Six Stitches and Broken Nose.

Great. Babysitters.

"All right," I muttered to myself. If they wanted to watch, they could watch. I needed to at least cooperate for a time to get them to lower their guards while I figured out another better plan. "First things first."

If I was going to have any chance at all, I needed to understand what I was working with.

I moved systematically through the tiered garden, examining each planter, testing the soil, checking the withered stalks for any signs of life or seeds within the dirt.

All had some. Most looked dead, though sometimes I felt a small flare of something as if it wanted to wake up.

Maybe dormant was more accurate than dead.

I wiped the sweat from my brow with the back of my hand and knelt beside another wide, crumbling planter with a large trellis that leaned out of the back.

The air was still too quiet, the silence pressing against my skull like a vice.

I shoved both hands into the loose ash of the soil and felt for even the faintest sign of root structure.

There was none. Just grit.

My fingers came up coated in dust, my skin stained grey.

I fluttered my fingertips and murmured a few gentle words.

“Alyu namu palo.” A simple life spell to test the life and health of seeds.

In most plants, it would result in a small spurt or a green scent.

Something sparked lightly within the soil, weak as a dying man’s whisper.

Nothing more.

But I kept trying.

The light overhead shifted, the watery sun dragging slowly across the sky like it too resented being here.

Hours passed. I lost track of them somewhere between hauling water from the crooked fountain and scraping grit from between the planter roots with my bare fingers.