Garden of Thorns

by Amber Mitchell

  Marin points to the bed on the right farthest from the entrance. “That’ll be yours. I’ve been using this one.”

  I walk over to it and smooth out the ruffled quilt before sitting on the edge. The woolly fabric is soft against my bare legs, and I run my good hand over it.

  “Anyway,” Marin says, plopping down onto her bed, “I was saying that I’ve never seen the shogun look at anyone the way he looked at you during the council meeting.”

  I make myself busy folding the red quilt I brought up from my cage, careful not to show her my blushing face.

  “I have no idea what you mean,” I say.

  “What were you two doing before we came in there?” she asks.

  My wound stings in response, and I turn over my hand to see that the bleeding seems to have stopped.

  “I cut myself accidently,” I say. “Rayce was just helping me clean it.”

  She snorts. “That sounds like him.” She flips over onto her stomach. “Have you eaten yet? We had supper about an hour ago, but I could go for another portion.”

  With all the stress of the impromptu interrogation, I hadn’t thought about food, but now that Marin’s mentioned it, my stomach growls angrily.

  “I could definitely eat,” I say.

  “Great!” She rolls off the bed. “I’ll grab us some food. Why don’t you change while I’m out? There are some fresh clothes in the top dresser, and I’ve got a spare set of boots you can borrow if we’re the same size.” She motions to a pair of worn brown shoes sitting next to the dresser. “Oh, and don’t forget about this!”

  She tosses the book Oren left for me onto my bed on her way out then disappears behind the curtain. I wonder what she meant about the way Rayce looked at me. The feeling of his breath cooling my stinging cut floats through me, and my cheeks heat again.

  I walk to the dresser and run my hand over its marked wood. Sitting on top of it in the middle is a tall statue of Yun carved out of onyx on a bed of pine needles and dried berries. An offering meant to keep death out. As if that would work.

  I scoff at the statue, picking it up by the bulbous head, and turn it around so its eyes face the wall. Satisfied, I open the top drawer and find a fresh pair of clothes. I shed both the soiled robe Rayce gave me and my costume, throwing the last bit of the Garden onto the floor. I slide into a fresh white under robe and pull over it a yellow cotton robe embroidered with cranes. Marin’s boots are a hair too big but they’ll do for now.

  Heading back to my bed, I trip over the dirty clothes on the floor. Unsure what to do with them, I stuff the tattered robe underneath the bed. My fingers catch on the sequined chiffon skirt of my Garden costume, and I clench my jaw. Before I can dwell too much, I rip a strip of fabric off and shove the costume with the nasty robe where it belongs.

  Plopping back on the bed with the thin piece of fabric in my hand, I watch as the glitter dances in the Zarenite-fueled light. I notice the book Marin tossed on my bed and pick it up.

  Printed on the dark front in silver letters, like stars in the night sky, are the words A Collection of Essays on the Rise and Fall of Varsha.

  With a shaking finger, I reach out to trace the name of my home, anticipating the slightly rough texture of the cover.

  Why would Oren give me this?

  I open the cover and slide the scrap of fabric into the first page like a bookmark.

  His questioning about the star-shaped scars on my feet—a brand given to me at birth—his insistence on telling me about the current state of Varsha, and now this book all swirl in my mind. Even if he believes I might know more than I’m letting on about what happened the night Varsha fell to that traitor’s hands, what’s he trying to say?

  The feeling of his large hand cupping mine when he found out about Fern and the honest ache in his dark eyes mixes with the pit forming in my stomach. I don’t want to believe such a kind man might betray me, but I’ve learned that no one can be trusted.

  A cold sweat trickles down my back.

  No matter what message this book was meant to send, one thing is certain: I have to find out what Oren knows, or everything I’ve been working for could be gone in a flash.

  …

  I haven’t slept on something this soft in as long as I can remember, and still I toss and turn all night, thinking about the book Oren gave me that I shoved under my pillow. It remains there, a thick lump underneath the fluffy surface, seeping into my thoughts.

  Marin wakes sometime later and motions for me to follow her. She leads me through another maze of tunnels on the way to breakfast.

  “I have drills this morning.” She pats the hilt of her sword. “Maybe you could come with me.”

  “Do I have a choice?” I ask. “You’re supposed to watch me at all times, right?”

  She frowns, her brow crinkling as she thinks about my statement.

  “Well, you could go back to the room,” she says, her finger on her chin. “I guess I could station someone to sit with you, but wouldn’t you rather learn how to fight? That way, next time you put a knife to someone’s throat they’ll have a harder time disarming you.”

  “And I’ll have an even harder time convincing the next group of rebels that catch me that I’m not an assassin.”

  She giggles, a high-pitched sound that reminds me of bells, and I instinctively step in front of her to shield her in case a lackey might have overheard us laughing, but then I remember where I am.

  We walk down one of the larger tunnels I’ve been in, wide enough to fit about ten people shoulder to shoulder, and judging by the sea of people filtering through the large space I realize it must be one of the main walkways.

  Women pass us, huddled in little groups carrying fresh laundry, jars of Zarenite, and sewing kits, while others carry swords. A man bumps into me, curving to avoid a small group of children tossing around a ball.

  Every time I saw Rayce’s wanted parchment, I imagined the rebels were like the lackeys in the Garden, but now that I’m among them, I realize Rayce is fighting to protect not only his guards but also their families.

  “This is the dining hall,” Marin says, pulling me from my thoughts. “It’s my favorite place besides the training room.”

  The low, slanting hallway breaks into a room twice as big as the inside of the Garden’s show tent, with soaring ceilings. It does something very few things have ever accomplished since my tenure in captivity: it makes me feel small.

  Sloping wooden bridges are suspended high above our heads, connecting passageways from one side of the room to the other at varying heights. They look like a piece of stitching Tulip’s broken mind might have attempted, crisscrossing through the cavernous room in no apparent pattern.

  The entire room curves like a beehive, and rivets dug into the stone wall spiral down from the dome ceiling like spiderwebs, directing water from somewhere on the surface to wooden troughs on the ground. The same bright green glow from Zarenite saturates the walls, pooling on the floor and showering everything in an emerald tinge, like prisms bouncing through a crystal.

  “We’re on the second breakfast rotation,” Marin says, diving into the crowded room.

  The buzz of voices, plates clinking, and chairs scraping all blends together into a symphony of pleasant noise. Almost every seat tucked into five long tables is occupied as people go about their day.

  Three younger girls giggle to each other as they walk down the main aisle toward us, their plates filled with eggs, warm rice, bright red apples, and thinly sliced vegetables. My stomach feels like a squeezed orange as the smell of cooked eggs and ginger saturates the air.

  “I like it better that way,” Marin continues, cutting around a man carrying a bowl of steaming clear soup. “We get to eat all the leftovers.”

  She heads toward the back of the room where three large openings have been carved into the stone, revealing a room about half the size of this one, with low ceilings, where fifty people buzz around cooking for the rush.

  As we line up to pick
through the buffet, I catch sight of a familiar tall figure among the many women in aprons. Rayce stands over a steaming pot, wielding wooden chopsticks with more confidence than a sword as he flips steamed buns over on a wire rack suspended on the pot’s lid. He fishes one out and blows on it before popping it into his mouth. A smile finds its way to his lips as he closes his eyes to savor the taste.

  An older woman comes up behind him, saying something, and he nods before pulling the pot off the stove to serve his food to the next person in line.

  Whatever he says as he plops two buns onto a man’s plate makes him laugh, and I’m surprised by the genuine happiness on the man’s face.

  “You’re certainly staring pretty hard,” Marin says, her voice singsonging through my daze.

  I blink twice, turning my head back to my plate, which I’ve haphazardly loaded up with more rice than any one person could ever dream of eating.

  “I’m just hungry,” I say, moving along the line, careful to avoid looking at the steamed buns.

  “Looks like you’re hungry for something hot and steamy,” Marin says, laughing.

  We make our way through the line, Marin filling my plate with all the things she wants me to try, but she must sense my hesitance to approach Rayce and doesn’t insist we grab what he made. Even though I’m relieved at not having to speak with him after being caught staring, nothing I wind up with looks half as appetizing as the food he made.

  We head back to the main dining area, which is now half empty, leaving plenty of seats to choose from. My gaze stops on a very tall man hunched over the table, eating his breakfast. I recognize Oren’s neat black ponytail and unusually thick build, but I’m surprised to find he’s eating alone.

  Now that I’ve spotted him, I wonder if now is a good time to mention the book to Marin without sounding too suspicious.

  “Marin,” I say as she leads me in his direction. “Does Oren often lend books to people?”

  She tilts her head at my question, nearly dropping the cup of water in her hand.

  “Not really,” she says. “I’ve tried to borrow a few before and he shooed me out of his office.”

  “I wonder why he gave me one, then,” I say.

  She shrugs. “You should go ask him. He’s sitting right over there.”

  “I guess I could.”

  Marin nods, tipping her head to a group of two men and a woman dressed in the same deep green tunic uniform she wears. “I’ll be right over there if you need anything.”

  She waves with her free index finger then heads in their direction.

  Walking on the points of my toes to keep my heels from clicking, I walk past Oren, leaning over to see what he’s doing. Tucked between his nearly empty plate of fish and rice is an open hardcover book and a piece of parchment that he’s using to take notes.

  In looped handwriting far too delicate for his large hand, he scribbles, “Deception wins wars with the least amount of casualties.”

  He doesn’t look up as I pass him, so I sit a few chairs away and dig my chopsticks into the mountain of rice like I’m not interested in what he’s doing. While his nose stays planted in the book he’s reading, I take my time studying his face, trying to pick up any detail that will reveal his intentions.

  Apart from the fact he has a small mole on the top of his left cheek, I don’t learn anything new. I jab my chopsticks into the rice again and take a huge, unsatisfying mouthful.

  “If you have a question for me, child, just ask,” Oren says.

  I jump, nearly choking on the rice sticking in my throat. I take a large gulp of water. “How long have you known I was here?”

  He pats the seat by his side without looking up from his book. “Since you came out from the food line.”

  I frown, shoving my plate across the table and then plopping down next to him. I’m acting like a child, but I don’t care.

  The hint of a smile touches his mouth.

  “What can I do for you?” he asks, snapping his book shut.

  I pick up a grain of rice, balancing it between both chopsticks.

  “I guess—” I stop, not sure how much I should reveal. Oren lays his large hand on the table, and the memory of it enveloping mine when he found out about Fern gives me the courage to continue. “I wanted to know why you gave me that book on Varshan history.”

  He raises a bushy eyebrow, and my gut drops.

  “I mean, it isn’t like my family was important enough to be in there,” I say. “So it wouldn’t really be relevant to me anyway.”

  Our gazes meet, his brown eyes partially obscured by a comically small set of round spectacles on the tip of his nose. I want to laugh, but the way he’s staring at me feels just as intense as the way the emperor did. Not harsh but purposeful.

  He’s waiting for me to fill the silence. That’s what the guilty do. I’ve seen it countless times when the Gardener would confront a lackey who’d bragged about stealing when he was drunk the night before.

  “Just because your family might not be recorded between the pages doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be interested in the state of your home. When Varsha was taken by force, it changed everything.”

  I stare at my plate, no longer hungry.

  “Is it true the man on the throne now was the previous king’s general?” I ask, careful that my voice doesn’t change tone.

  “Yes,” Oren says, pulling out his ornate dragon pipe. “It’s a shame, too. Varsha was very impressive under the old king’s regime. I quite enjoyed my time there.”

  Oren visited Varsha and knew the old king? I wonder when he was there, if I ever passed by him on the sandy streets of the large marketplace without knowing. He pulls out a small metal contraption and lights the tip of his pipe.

  “I was given this by the previous ruler,” he says, tapping the tip of the dragon’s mouth. “I imagine it’s one of the only remaining artifacts from his collection.”

  The dragon’s jeweled blue eye stares me down, captivating me in its deep gaze. My fingers twitch at my side, longing to feel the cool ivory against my skin. Its beauty is unmatched and almost as enchanting as the thought of the man who gave it to him. Oren’s smile widens, and he pulls the tip from his mouth, holding the heavy-looking device toward me.

  “Would you like to touch it?” he asks. “I promise he won’t bite.”

  He chuckles at his own joke.

  I look away. “No, that’s okay.”

  If he’s suspicious of anything, he’s clearly not going to clue me in through conversation. I grab my plate and stand up.

  “I’d better hurry to practice with Marin,” I say, still unable to look at him. “I appreciate you answering my questions.”

  Oren catches my wrist before I can move, his fingers gently wrapping around it. “Take care of yourself, Rose. I’m looking forward to watching you thrive here.”

  He lets go, turning back to his notes. I blink slowly and walk over to Marin, who rises with her group, her plate completely clean. My mind circles through the conversation I just had with Oren, trying to find a place where he slipped up but always coming back to his last words. After so many years in the Garden, I never thought I’d see any man show concern for me the way Oren has. Almost like a father.

  I push the thought from my head.

  But I can’t fight against the smile that slips onto my mouth as I head with Marin into the training room.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Training with the Zareeni guards pushes any thoughts of not sleeping tonight out of my head. By the time Marin and I crawl back to our room, I have aches in muscles I didn’t even know existed. My eyes refuse to remain open even before my head hits the pillow.

  The piercing peal of a flute stretches out into the night, wrenching me from a deep sleep. I jump up, the chill of the rock floor seeping into my bare feet. The world around me swirls, all gray stone and blackness. In the dreariness, the only thing that stands out is the stark white bandage wrapped around my hand. I press my eyes closed to stop my chu
rning stomach and grit my teeth against the sound of Fern’s scream rising to meet the flute.

  I force my eyes open to stare at the bandage, willing myself to stay in the present. But I’m slipping, crumbling to the floor, knees hitting cold stone, and I only vaguely register it. I’m being pulled back. Back to the night the Gardener captured me and my life changed forever.

  My caretaker, Hanna, leads me back to that dark room where the family that hid me let me stay with their daughter, Zara. It’s so small it barely fits a rickety, old armoire and the bed Zara and I share. The scratchy cream sheet is pulled up past my nose, and Zara’s deep breathing fills the night. Something slamming in the next room wakes us, and we both sit up. The screaming that follows sends my fingers underneath the pillow for the knife I’d stashed there.

  Zara dives under the bed, but I tuck myself under the armoire. We both stay still, staring at each other while the screaming continues.

  Footsteps on the wooden floor. The creak of the door opening on rusty hinges. And then I see him. The man that would become my tormentor stands in the doorway, but just in front of his bulbous belly is Park, the boy next door.

  The first time we spoke had only been through scraps of paper pushed back and forth across a clothesline the buildings shared. He was three years older than me, about the same age difference as Zara and me, but he never treated me like a child. Those secret scribblings had grown quickly into hide-and-seek and sneaking sweets and dreams of a future I thought I wasn’t allowed to have anymore.

  “I’m afraid they’ll find me,” I whispered up into the stars one night.

  “Who?” he asked, and because he’d kissed my knee when I’d fallen yesterday, I knew I could trust him.

  “The people who want this,” I said and showed him the ruby I’d stolen from Hanna the night before just to have a piece of my mother near me.

  He turned to me, took my hand in his. “Don’t worry. I won’t let anyone hurt you. I promise.”

  And for the first time since I left the safety of my father’s arms, I felt safe.