Page 30 of Wicked Prince of Shadows (Wicked Princes #2)
"Careful," Vetle said from behind me, his voice tight.
"I'm fine." But my voice shook as I surveyed the damage. Nearly every planter bore some damage. “What happens to the plants when the rest…comes back together at midnight?”
“The primary risk is that in the process of mending the planters and architecture that it will crush or pinch the plants,” he said.
“If there is time, it would be wise to maneuver the plants in such a way that the restoration is easy when the magic comes into effect, but there could be other quakes today.” His hand brushed against my elbow.
“Are you all right? Your work has been damaged.”
I shook my head, though the sight of the damaged garden made my chest ache. "It's not about my work. It's about all of you surviving this." I turned to look at him fully, squaring my shoulders despite the tremor in my hands. "We can fix this. We have to."
His expression softened, something flickering in those amber eyes that I couldn't quite name. Before he could respond, footsteps echoed on the landing above us.
"Your Majesty!" Maltric appeared at the top of the stairs, his embroidered charcoal robes billowing as he descended with surprising agility for someone who looked so ancient.
Doctor Rasoul followed close behind, curly hair tied snug against the back of his neck.
Both navigated the broken steps to reach us and bowed as soon as they arrived.
"Maltric. Rasoul." Vetle's voice shifted, taking on a sterner, more commanding tone as he faced them. "Thank you for coming so quickly."
Maltric reached us first, his silver eyes sweeping across the ruined garden with obvious dismay. He frowned, the stitches along his temple pulling tight. "The damage is worse than I feared. The eastern expansion—"
"Will be dealt with," Vetle interrupted. "Right now, we have a more pressing matter." He gestured to me, and I felt heat creep up my neck as both men turned their full attention my way. "Sabine has proposed a solution to our predicament, but it will require some additional consultation."
Doctor Rasoul's eyebrows lifted. “I am intrigued, Your Majesty.”
Vetle explained the plan. Though Maltric frowned, Doctor Rasoul bowed once more. “If my blood may be of service, then I offer it freely. But my magic and skill are in medicine, not plants.”
“It may take it longer to show the proof,” Maltric conceded.
“But the truth should show regardless.” His silver eye gleamed, but his jaw worked.
“Perhaps it would not be amiss for us to examine all the translations and work that have been gathered on this topic. Perhaps there is something that we missed. A few of the ideograms are especially difficult to translate with certainty.”
“How likely is it that the transcriptions you have could have been corrupted or mistranslated?” I asked.
Maltric removed his monocle and polished it.
“It’s always possible. The only certain way to free everyone here is to condemn some other kingdom to the same fate.
But with the rate of the chasm’s expansion and the cycle’s decay, they wouldn’t have any chance at all.
Sabine certainly qualifies as an innocent—”
“There’s a solution other than that,” Vetle responded sternly.
Maltric cleared his throat. “Your Majesty, may we speak in private?”
I tensed at Maltric's words, my fingers curling into the wool wrap. The request for privacy hung in the air like a threat, and I knew exactly what he intended to suggest. That Vetle sacrifice me to save everyone else.
"No," Vetle said flatly. "Whatever you have to say, you may say it in front of Sabine."
Maltric's silver eyes flicked to me, then back to Vetle. His lips pressed into a thin line. "Your Majesty, I understand your reluctance, but we must consider all options. The chasm is expanding faster than anticipated. If we wait too long—"
"We won’t be discussing that option," Vetle interrupted, his voice sharp enough to cut. "Sabine has offered a viable alternative, and we will pursue it."
"But if it fails—" Maltric began.
"Then we find another way." The finality in Vetle's tone left no room for argument. His wings shifted, the skeletal frames catching the pale morning light. "Now, are you going to help us or continue wasting time?"
Doctor Rasoul stepped forward, breaking the tense silence as he lifted his hands.
"I believe what Maltric is trying to express, albeit poorly, is concern for the timeline.
If we pursue this course and it proves unsuccessful, we may not have time for alternatives.
" His gaze softened as it landed on me. "But I agree with His Majesty.
We should exhaust every option before considering. .." He trailed off.
“The inscriptions and translations should be studied as well,” Vetle said.
“Comb over them again and see if there is anything that may have been missed. If it turns out that being made a royal through the operation of law rather than something innate does not work, then we will not have much time to consider another plan.”
Maltric's gaze cut to me, then back to Vetle. "Your Majesty, I must insist we speak privately. There are matters of state that require—"
"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.