“I can see you haven’t begun preparing for the feast tomorrow” Evangeline stated, running her eyes over Zora’s messy, braided hair and plain dress with a look of disappointment. Zora raised her eyes up from the ground, her mother’s condescending pecking igniting a flare of anger in her daughter. She glared at Evangeline in the mirror for a second before answering.
“I wasn’t aware that there was a scheduled celebration, nor do I know the exact reason why the whole country of Cara is occupying Mizra right now…however, I can speculate.” Evangeline cocked her head to one side and pursed her lips together.
“Well, I’ll send a couple of my ladies to your chamber tomorrow after sunset. It will be a special night indeed, my girl, and you must look desirable.” She frowned as she examined her daughter one more time. “Well, as desirable as we can get you to look anyhow.”
Evangeline abruptly stood up and made her way over to her daughter, her silk robe fluttering around her feet as she walked. Her chocolate brown hair lay in waves halfway down her back, and Zora noted the scent of sandalwood on the Queen’s skin as she came closer.
Trying to hide the scent of deception, Zora thought with contempt.
“Do you know why King Andre of Cara and his royal house accompanies us this day?” she asked in a proud, smooth voice.
“I have an idea,” Zora muttered. The Queen waited, allowing Zora a moment to explain herself.
“Are you to marry me off to him?” she snapped. “King Andre? It’s an extremely predictable way to dispose of me, mother. I’d have thought you’d do better than that. I’m not a fool. I saw the trail of Carian nobles entering Mizra this morning. There is no reason for such a large number of people to accompany King DeVore unless it involves some sort of celebration. What I don’t understand is since I am not good enough, according to you, to rule this country after your gone, how did you convince King Andre that I would be a good enough Queen for him?”
Evangeline just looked at her with a blasé expression. “You’re not good enough to rule any country, Zora. You are a deadbeat, just like your father.”
“My father?” Zora repeated out of surprise. Their conversation had just turned in a completely different direction. “What do you mean? You’ve never even mentioned him before.” Zora glared at her mother. “Who was he anyway?”
“He was a nobody,” Evangeline spat back. “A drunken, opium using reject who assaulted me when I was younger than you are now. Did you honestly think I wanted a child at such a tender age? When I had my whole life as a Queen ahead of me? I never wanted you. You’re being denied the rights of an heir because you were born a bastard. Because your father was a loathsome human being whose violent blood flows through your veins. I cannot subject Samaria’s future to the offspring of such a brute.”
She looked down at Zora as the young woman cowered on the footstool. Zora just shook her head back and forth, refusing to believe that her unknown father could be the monster Evangeline claimed he was.
“How could you possible think I’d embarrass myself by offering you to the King of Cara as a wife? Don’t think so highly of yourself, child. Remember that you are nothing but an illegitimate.” She paused, allowing her words to sink in, then continued.
“But you will be married into the House DeVore. King Andre and I have decided that you will wed the Prince of Montanisto, Spencer. He’s the King’s youngest brother and last in the DeVore bloodline to the Carian throne.”
It took a moment for Evangeline’s response to register in Zora’s head. She knew since childhood that she would never come to rule the country that she loved, and it was all but common practice to betroth royalty with royalty in each country to assure only true bloodlines continued in their succession. Somehow in that respect, this arrangement made more sense than that of her wedding the King, but she had a foreboding sense that this marriage was not as beneficial to her as her mother wanted her to believe.
Montanisto, she thought, trying to remember where that township lay in relation to Cara’s capitol, Idenborough. She had never traveled beyond the borders of Samaria because her mother forbade it, except in her secret ventures to the lifeless tundra. She had to study maps, and only that, to know what lands lay outside her home country. Suddenly, it hit her.
“You’re sending me to the Borderlands!” she cried in outrage. Evangeline’s unforgiving eyes board into hers, confirming her conclusion.
“That land will suit you, Zora,” the Queen replied harshly. “It’s sparsely populated, full of vermin, and grotesquely ugly.”
A mixture of betrayal and disbelief gripped Zora’s heart. She didn’t know how to react, what to think, what to say. Her mother stood over her gleaming in pride, like it was her sole purpose in life to emotionally damage her only child, and she’d finally succeeded. This didn’t seem right. Evangeline had no other heir to her throne and no family ties besides Zora, her one and only daughter. Instead of treasuring her, Evangeline was shipping her to the very outreaches of the Realm.
Cara was the southern most country of their Realm, and Montanisto was a township located on a relatively large isthmus that separated a tributary from the dense, decaying swamplands that lie for spans to south. The swamps ran further than any mortal had ever ventured and returned to tell about it. Zora knew nothing about these precarious lands, and no one else did either. It was called the Borderlands because no one knew what lay beyond. Prince Spencer governed a small, dark land doused in the stench of rotting bogs that surrounded them, and she was to become his wife.
Zora’s heart began to race as anger slowly consumed the dread that she’d originally felt. Beads of sweat populated on her forehead, and her breath became hotter, quicker, trying to compensate for her accelerating heartbeat.
Frantically, she searched her mother’s face for some sign of compassion or empathy, some indication that her mother was doing this to her for some sort of benefit, not degradation. Instead she was met with an icy countenance full of enmity and spite. Zora’s heart beat heavily as hatred towards everything her mother ever did to her took control.
Zora was unusually aware of the small fire that blazed peacefully in the corner of Evangeline’s chamber. She felt awkwardly hot, as if the fire was burning right under her feet, and she could feel the air feeding its blaze. Her eyes left her mother’s and darted over to the orange flames that danced on the singed logs. Ever so slightly, she lifted her hand and felt for the heat of fire across the room. It licked at her fingertips eagerly. Slowly she beckoned it towards her mother, urging it to devour her. She watched as the flames grew larger and began crawling out of the hearth and unto the floor, like groping hands clawing across the stone.
Evangeline put her hand under Zora’s chin and forced her to look her in the eye. “You should be thanking me, Daughter” she whispered, “for no good fortune such as this will ever be bestowed upon someone like you in these lands.” Jolted, Zora lowered her hand and faced the Queen as the growing flames recoiled at the loss of her touch and retreated back into the hearth.
“You are the abomination to this country,” Zora sneered, “and you are unfit to be called a Samarian Queen. Not me. I am a Daughter of the Mountain, and this is my land. Some day I will return and take what is rightfully mine, even if it requires usurping my own kin.”
Zora’s eyes darted quickly back to the hearth in the corner of the room where the same fire burned, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. She gave the Queen a challenging stare one more time before she turned and stomped out of Evangeline’s chamber, ignoring the curses that were being yelled after her by her mother.
Chapter 6
At the brink of dawn the next morning, Zora was out of bed and down in the main grounds visiting Mizra’s modest little greenhouse. The beginnings of Samaria’s capitol, Alumhy, began a thousand metes away from the fortress itself. The grounds between the fortress, which was guarded by a massive iron gate, and the city itself, served as the Queen’s personal gardens. It was one of the most
esoteric places Zora could be.
The garden was ancient, bathed in thick green grasses, manicured bluebeard shrubs, and a handful of gurgling wishing wells that were scattered throughout the gardens. Further away from the fortress’s fortified entrance was a family of willow trees whose drooping limbs and grey mosses provided refreshing shade from the sun’s mean afternoon glare.
Zora hadn’t been able to sleep a lick after the meeting with her mother, which is why she found herself visiting the greenhouse so early and tending to the green things growing there. She had to keep her mind occupied somehow. Zora kept going over and over in her head the events of the previous evening, trying to cope the best she could with the fact that in the blink of an eye, she had been stripped of everything she held dear. The sorrow she felt about being so casually uprooted from her home was more devastating to her than the nervousness she felt about being wed to a man she’d never met before. Samaria was a part of her and she belonged here, not in the swamplands of Montanisto.
Barely an hour after she’d arrived in the gardens, Zora ran into Milo who had risen early, like normal, to start his day of work. She didn’t mind his company, and for the last couple of hours the two had been working silently alongside one another in the greenhouse. Milo knew by her silence that something was wrong and had decided to forego lessons because of it.
“How in the world did you come across thorn root?” Milo asked Zora. He held the pointy red root close to his face for examination. “I know for certain the Flower Traders haven’t been to this city in a couple of months. The roads damaged from the rain floods still haven’t been rebuilt.” He glanced over his shoulder, giving the young woman a quizzical look. “Regardless, this root is way too fragile to have harbored above ground for so long.”
Zora smiled in response to Milo’s stupor before reaching over and grabbing the poisonous root. She cried out affrightedly as a sting of pain radiated through the tip of her finger. She had squeezed the root too hard, and it slyly bit her. Milo was quickly by her side, taking her hand in his and isolating the injured finger, making sure the poisonous root didn’t dig its way underneath her skin. Ironically, the pair watched as the toxic thorn gravitated to the outside of her skin instead of being drawn inwards, almost as if it knew not to harm her.
Zora met Milo’s eyes as he used his sleeve to mop up the little bit of blood oozing from the bite. He gave her hand a tender squeeze while holding her gaze steady. Releasing herself from his grasp, Zora turned away from Milo and set the thorn root down in the pot of damp soil. She watched as it dug itself beneath the earth and erected its crimson spout upward.
Zora cleared her throat. “Well, to answer your previous question about the thorn root… I’ve been growing some things myself, in the vacant land by the Shoulder. I planted them about a year ago and tend to it when I can get away from the meddlesome eyes of the house staff. No one ever ventures that far from the valley anyway, so I figured mother would never know. Besides, it’s nice to have some privacy while doing something I like.”
Milo’s eyes opened wide in surprise. “That land is an anathema to this beautiful country,” he claimed. “But I swear, you can make a forest spring up from a desert. Most unnatural.” Zora laughed at the compliment, even though she completely agreed with his assessment of her abilities.
“I wish the traders would make a stop in Samaria, even though I know they won’t. No one trades with us anymore. Still, there are several new brews I’m interested in trying. They’re recipes I found in some of the books you brought with you from Rienne, but I need specific herbs that I can’t seem to find locally.”
She seemed a bit troubled as she said this, and almost involuntarily, her hand went to her slender waist and rested on her hip. “This insomnia is driving me mad,” she admitted with a frustrated pout. “I need something to appease them before I loose my mind. Every single concoction I’ve brewed and tried has failed miserably. Or made it worse.”
Milo’s thoughts immediately went back to what he’d encountered in the library and the seeds he’d found at the bottom of her teacup. The memory of a lifeless Zora being ravaged by haunting visions deeply disturbed him. She’d told him before that she suffered from nightmares and sleeplessness, but he’d never witnessed its toxic effects until the other night. He’d decided not to tell her what he’d seen, or that he’d carried her to her chamber and put her to sleep after her trip to the mines. Obviously, she didn’t remember it anyway.
Instead Milo said, “Zora, I have a friend right here in the valley that may be able to help you.” Zora immediately perked up when she heard this.
“You do?”
“Of course! I’ve known her for years. Back home she was a healer, so naturally she has a large selection of herbs in her possession from all over the Realm. Probably more than even the Flower Traders possess. If you like, I can set up a time for you to meet her.”
“I would like that, very much. Would tomorrow be good? There isn’t much time left for me here, before I leave for Montanisto.” Milo smiled at her with sudden eagerness and excitement.
“I’m sure tomorrow will be fine. I’ll be sure to notate how to get to her house from the city and have Arianna bring it to you via letter. How about I meet you there.”
Zora took this moment to study her friend. At times he looked so feeble and emaciated that she wondered if he’d be able to make any kind of trip, local or not. She could tell he had been a tall man once, for the length of his legs and arms didn’t seem quite proportionate to the rest of his twisted body.
Suddenly, Zora felt a surge of affection consume her heart. She loved Milo; he was the only grandfather-like figure she’d ever had, and she’d spent more time learning from him in the last three years then all of the years spent with other tutors in her short life. She was grateful to have someone who cared for her and was able to teach her so much. She desired to stay in Samaria and continue living the simple life she had been, with friends such as Talan, Arianna, and Milo. However, with the recent turn of events, Zora knew that life as she knew it would soon come to an end.
She felt tears beginning to form in her eyes and turned away from her friend, letting his question hang in the air. “Yes, Milo, that all sounds fine,” she replied with her back towards him. With her emotions about to erupt, Zora didn’t want to be inside the greenhouse any longer, despite how much she enjoyed it.
“Would you like to go walk around the gardens?” she asked her friend.
“This noonday heat is getting to me,” Milo admitted. Zora nodded in agreement. She went to grab the old man’s extended elbow and let him escort her out of the greenhouse.
The odd couple, a young woman and a handicap old man, walked peacefully together through the shady haven of Mizra’s gardens, enjoying the cooler temperatures than that of the greenhouse. Finally, the pair chose to seat themselves on an oval shaped fountain fashioned from the blue rock that made Samaria famous. He seated himself with a plop on the stone and a small groan.
The few years Zora had known this enchanting old man, she could never put an age to him. His eyes were neither blue nor green, but a mixture, and deep crow’s feet crept out from their corners. The laugh lines from his big smile were well drawn into his cheeks and forehead so that his eyes seemed to be smiling at Zora even when his mouth was not. Zora bent over and cupped her hands in the cool water flowing from the fountain, taking a sip from it to quench her thirst from the midday heat.
Milo watched Zora, inconspicuously, out of the corner of his eye, careful not to let her see him studying her. He did that a lot, actually. Zora was a quiet and serious young woman. The circumstances of her upbringing, including the absence of affection from anyone close to her, had forced Zora to be somewhat guarded and emotionless on the outside. However, in this regard the significant amount of time Milo put into studying Zora seemed to pay off, as he could tell when Zora was worried, sad, and even happy when no one else could. At this very moment, when the sun was at its warmest, and the
y were surrounded by the succulent scent of yellow jessamine flowers, Milo could concentrate on nothing other than the overwhelming airs of sorrow that emanated from Zora.
“My dear,” Milo prompted gently, feeling bold enough to address Zora’s state of disquiet. “Do you feel like talking about what’s bothering you?” His voice trailed off as he felt Zora’s petite frame stiffen up in defense next to him.
“No, I do not. And it’s none of your business,” Zora grumbled, severing his question in half. She stared straight ahead of her, into the garden’s unending zigzag of colors, her body taut like a statue. A moment passed before she sighed deeply and turned towards him, the rigid stone mask she always wore replaced by one of sheepishness.
“Milo, I’m sorry I was brusque…I didn’t mean anything by it, honest.” She finally seemed to relax, leaning back slightly and stretching her legs out in front of her. The afternoon rays of sunlight filtering through the willow leaves sunned her face and neck.
“Unbeknownst to me till yesterday evening, my mother, the Queen, has promised me to Prince Spencer DeVore of Montanisto. He’s the Carian King’s youngest brother and ruler to that small township on the Borderlands. Tomorrow’s eve, mother is arranging a feast with our visitors in honor of our betrothal and as an opportunity for Prince Spencer and I to publically commit to each other before the actual wedding. There will be witnesses from both sides of the family so there is no backing out from either of us. We leave for the Cara the day following.”
Zora felt her throat tightening as she explained all of this to Milo, her emotions unable to be contained any longer behind her apathetic countenance. Milo sensed the feelings of betrayal Zora had towards her mother and the involuntary heartache she felt about leaving behind her home country.
“You’ve traveled all over the Realm,” Zora said. “Have you ever been to Montanisto? Can you tell me anything about the land I am to oversee? Is it beautiful like Samaria?” Her questions were innocent. Hopeful.
Azurite (Daughter of the Mountain Book 1) Page 9
