The wagon bumped and jostled up the curving road, skirting the edge of the wood toward the Sundermount. The sun, hot on my neck, was already beginning to ease down toward the horizon again, and in the distance, black clouds dotted the sky. There was a storm coming, bringing with it a chilling bite to the air.
I shivered, hoping it would hold off until after the coronation.
4
The Castle Asunder
Cerys
WHEN WE REACHED the gates to the castle, it was already midafternoon and chaos filled the grounds. Servants and guards ran about, making sure that everything—and everyone—was in the proper places for tonight. There would be dignitaries from all across the land coming to watch the princess crowned—it was to be a momentous occasion, and she wanted me to be a part of it.
It was an honor. I just hoped I didn’t make a fool of myself.
The castle towered over the grounds, as beautiful as it was old. It was built in a time when the Wildwood clawed and hissed at the castle gates. A thick wall surrounded the outer perimeter of the grounds, with another wall, a little shorter, built of alabaster, encircling the castle itself. Beyond the second wall were the stables and the servant’s quarters, as well as most of the larger trees on the grounds—wisterias dating back generations of Sunders, ancient and enduring. There was a smattering of wagons and carriages parked underneath the wisterias by the stable—quite a few dignitaries had already arrived ahead of the coronation. Most stayed in one of the twenty-seven rooms in the castle’s keep, but I’d seen a few less-important dignitaries hanging about the bed-and-breakfast in the Village-in-the-Valley.
Of course, there was one city that was not represented. Most people in Aloriya considered Voryn, the city in the wood, to be a myth, a part of the story of King Sunder and nothing more. Perhaps a city existed once, but the idea that any group of people could survive in the wood to this day felt more like legend than fact. And yet, with each coronation, Aloriya sent a raven to Voryn with an invitation, as a matter of tradition. The ravens never returned, and Voryn, if it even still existed, never answered.
I pulled up to the gate in the inner wall and stopped the wagon. Servants rushed in and out of the kitchen door, carrying with them platters of food and large swathes of gossamer tablecloths for the feast. Some ran flowers into the garden, others shouted about the esteemed guests needing towels or a hot bath drawn or food. The castle hadn’t been this busy since Anwen’s last birthday a few months ago when the King was still healthy.
I poked the fox on the rump. “Okay, up and go—don’t want the seneschal to catch you here. She’ll skin you and actually make you into a nice hat.”
The fox didn’t move.
“C’mon, stop sleeping. Shoo. Go.”
When I poked him again, he finally took the hint, untucked himself, stretched, and leaped down off the wagon a moment before the seneschal burst from the side door. She looked positively exhausted, her peppery gray hair pulled up into a high bun, the wrinkles across her face deeper and darker than I remembered, like a piece of leather too long weathered. She wore the green-and-purple robes of the Aloriya seneschal, speckled with tiny emeralds, embroidery of stags and ravens and foxes on the hems.
“Cerys! There you are! We’ve been expecting this wagon for hours.” She motioned for a handful of servants to come and unload the wagon. “Go and put them in the royal hall where I marked them! Why are you so late?”
“Papa said noon—”
“Noon! Of course he did.” Miss Weiss simply gave me one of her disappointed, long-suffering looks, and sighed. I hated the way she sighed. It was like every piece of her soul exhaled through her mouth with the dampness of ever-suffering regret. “I thank the old gods every day that you, at least, are prompt, Miss Cerys. You’ll make a wonderful royal gardener when your father retires.”
I turned down my eyes to my mud-caked shoes. “Thank you.”
“And as we are on the subject, Her Majesty informed me that she invited you to join the family for the coronation,” she added. “It is with a heavy heart that I must forbid it.”
I gave a start. “What—why?”
“You are not of royal blood. It falls to me to ensure that the rules we’ve followed for three hundred years are honored. I’m afraid that this is not the young princess’s decision to make.”
“But then she’ll be alone up there, and we’re her family.”
To that the woman replied, “She will need to learn to rule alone.” Then she motioned to the sturdy stone wall that surrounded the royal garden, where Anwen would be crowned. “I believe it’d be best for you to stay out of sight tonight. There are too many dignitaries who remember the tragedy years ago, and seeing you might . . . spark some memories of that day. We want this to be a happy occasion.”
“I can’t go to the coronation at all?” I asked, incredulous. “But—”
“Thank you for understanding,” the seneschal added, a little softer.
There was only room for one survivor of the Wildwood tonight. Two of us would dredge up rumors, and there were already enough of those.
“Yes, of course,” I replied softly.
“There’s a good girl.” The seneschal then turned toward the kitchens again without another word, and left. I bit the inside of my cheek so hard I tasted blood, trying to build a stone wall around my injured feelings, because it wasn’t going to do any good. Once all the bouquets were unloaded, I led Gilda toward the stables, where the stable hand took her from me and unhitched the wagon. The fox crept out from the bushes finally, and followed me as I set off up the hill to the royal garden again.
“I suppose she’s right,” I told the fox, but really I was just talking to myself. “Royal gardeners’ daughters live their whole lives inside garden walls, so it’s rather ironic that I’m not allowed in now. It would almost be poetic if it weren’t so depressing.”
If the fox understood me, he certainly didn’t show it as he went sprinting off toward the bushes after a field mouse and was gone.
5
The Gardener’s Daughter
Cerys
PRINCESS ANWEN SUNDER’S coronation was an affair of dazzling dresses and bright, tailored suits. Men and women danced in radiant circles around one another, hands clasped in the official Aloriya dance, passed down for centuries. It was a dance to signify unity and strength. It was mesmerizing to watch. The guests grew happy on elderberry wine and the heady sound of a thirty-piece orchestra. Lords and ladies from across the continent were here—from the farthest reaches of Eldervale to the Salt Strait to the ruby-colored city state of Eriksenburg in the snowy north. The beautiful day had turned into a dazzling and star-filled night worthy of Anwen’s coronation.
I had watched dignitaries and nobles dance in the royal garden for sixteen years. I knew every turn of the music, every step, every guest who would pass out on the grass (I had a feeling a prince from Eriksenburg would be the first one on the ground tonight). Wen wore a gorgeous dress the color of sunflowers and morning stars. Her dress bared her sturdy shoulders elegantly, cinched at the waist, and trailed behind her like a comet tail. I’d seen her earlier, since I had to deliver the sunflowers that her lady-in-waiting braided into her hair, and she looked like the sun we all orbited around. She didn’t wear much jewelry, and while other guests had sewn jewels and precious gold into their dresses and waistcoats, hers was simple.