The carriage jolts onward as guards mount their horses beside. Through the little window, I catch a final sight of my parents' anguished features before we turn the bend, Ferndale fading behind us.
"Don't try anything foolish," urges the guard captain, his palm resting on his sword hilt. "Prince Thorne doesn't tolerate disobedience."
My fingers sink into the worn leather seat as I swallow the lump in my throat. "What happens to those who fail him?"
His silence is answer enough.
The guards exchange glances that make my stomach twist. I've heard the whispers—five royal gardeners before me all vanished. Some claim executed; others speak of cells beneath the palace where the prince holds those who disappoint him.
The landscape speeds by, familiar trees giving place to wide farmlands. The further north we travel, the stranger the weather becomes. Fields that should be bright with autumn harvest are instead coated with untimely frost. Farmers look up from their labor as we pass, looking glum.
"The winter comes earlier each year," mutters one guard when he thinks I'm not listening. "The land sickens while the king sleeps."
"Quiet," snaps the skipper. "Guard your tongue."
I curl my fingers into my palms, focused on the sensation to keep worry away. All my life I've disguised my abilities, and now I'm being taken to the palace exactly because of them. The irony isn't lost on me.
By midday, we halt at a roadside inn. The guards flank me as we approach, making it plain escape isn't an option. Travelers fell silent at our approach, eyes flitting between my plain village garb and the royal insignia on the guards' uniforms.
"Eat," the captain instructs, placing bread and stew before me. "We ride until nightfall."
An elderly woman across the tavern observes me with knowing eyes. When the guards turn to their meals, she comes under the pretense of clearing surrounding tables.
"Another gardener for the dying grounds," she whispers. "The fifth this season."
"Sixth," I correct automatically.
Her eyes expand. "Then you know what happened to the others?"
Before I can react, the captain's hand clamps on my shoulder. "Time to go."
Back in the carriage, the captain joins me, his grizzled features deadpan. "I saw you talking to that woman."
I steel myself. "She approached me. I said nothing".
He leans forward. "Listen closely. The concerns of the palace are not for general gossip. The prince has opponents who'd exploit any knowledge against him."
"Why does he need gardeners if he just disposes of them?" The inquiry slips out before I can stop it.
His expression softens fractionally. "I've served the royal family for twenty years. Prince Thorne isn't what the stories claim, but he accepts them because fear keeps order while the country faces perils most can't imagine."
I digest this as we travel northward. The landscape is progressively concerning—trees with half their leaves iced and fallen, streams with borders surrounded by ice while it's barely September. Something is fundamentally amiss with the natural balance.
As dusk comes, we ascend a ridge, and I gasp despite myself. The capital city of Thornwall unfolds below us, majestic even in the failing light. White stone walls surround the city, and towering from the middle is the royal palace with its gleaming spires. Even from this distance, I can see the famous gardens encircling the palace—or what should be gardens. Large areas appear brown and lifeless.
"The gardens were once the crown jewel of the kingdom," the captain replies, following my gaze. "Magical plants from every corner of the realm, cultivated by the most competent earth-mages. Now..." He shakes his head.
The carriage lowers into the city gates, joining a queue of merchants and travelers seeking admittance before nightfall. Guards scrutinize each person attentively. When we reach the checkpoint, the captain merely presents a seal, and we're waved through quickly.
Inside the city walls, the contrast is obvious. While the outer rings seem normal with bustling marketplaces and crowded streets, the inner circles are gradually quieter and gloomier. People hurry with heads down, and I detect spots of frost in shadowy places that shouldn't exist this time of year.
"The magical blight affects the city too?" I ask.
The skipper nods grimly. "It spreads from the palace gardens. The royal wards diminish constantly."
"What wards?"
He glances at me aggressively. "You'll learn soon enough."
The carriage stops at an enormous iron gate dividing the palace grounds from the city. More guards arrive, these wearing the silver and blue livery of the prince's personal guard.
"The new gardener?" one asks.
The captain nods. "Straight from Ferndale."
They analyze me attentively. "Doesn't look like much," a guard mutters.
"Neither did the others," his partner replies.
A cold passes through me that has nothing to do with the unseasonable weather.
The gates swing open, and we cross into the palace grounds. Up close, the gardens are much more distressing—elaborate walks twisting between beds of withered flora, lifeless fountains, and skeleton trees. At the borders where the gardens meet the walls, I spy the famous Thornwall roses—the kingdom's namesake—now reduced to prickly brown stems.
The carriage stops at a tiny stone cottage near the eastern gardens. "Your quarters," the captain explains. "The head gardener, Elm, will come for you at dawn."
As I climb down, the palace looms over us—impossibly huge yet somehow muted, as though the stone itself feels the magical drain. A flash of movement draws my attention—a tall figure watching from a high window, gone before I can make out details.
The skipper follows my gaze. "The prince sees everything in his domain," he replies gently. "Remember that."
He hands me a tiny pack with my hastily gathered items from home. There's an unexpected softness in his voice when he adds, "Rest well. Tomorrow will test you in ways you cannot understand."
Inside the cottage, I find simple but cozy furnishings—a bed, washing basin, tiny table with chairs, and a shelf of books about gardening and plant magic. Through the window, I observe guards take positions outside. Not to keep others out, I know, but to keep me in.
As dusk descends, I see something alarming. The garden beyond my window seems to shimmer sometimes, revealing places where the air thins like fabric worn too thin. Through these spots, I sense movement—writhing shadows that retreat when I focus on them.
A faint knock stops my thoughts. An elderly guy with dirt-stained hands arrives, carrying a tray of food. "I'm Elm," he says. "Head gardener—or what's left of one."
"What's happening to the gardens?" I ask directly.
He sets down the tray, peering uncomfortably toward the windows. "The magic dies. The barricades fail. And those things—" he motions toward the shimmering" spots—"they get stronger, hungrier."
"The shadows?"
"Shadowmeres," he whispers. "Ancient monsters that feed on magic. The gardens' magic kept them at bay for years, but now..." He trails off.
"And Prince Thorne? Did he really—"
"Don't speak of the prince unless you're prepared to meet him," Elm interrupts. "Rest now. Dawn comes swiftly, and with it..." He doesn't finish, only bowing as he backs toward the door.
"With it what?" I press.
His eyes meet mine, filled with a mixture of pity and hope. "Your trial begins."
After he goes, I force myself to eat despite my churning stomach. Then I approach the window once more, putting my palm against the cool glass. The earth below speaks to me faintly, the plants—even in their withered state—responding to my presence.
"I hear you," I whisper.
In the distance, a light shines in one of the palace's topmost turrets. A shadow passes before it—tall, straight-backed. Even from here, I feel the weight of observation, frigid and assessing.
Prince Thorne is watching.
I don't turn away. If I'm to face him tomorrow, let him see me now—not shrinking, not crumbling. Whatever happens, I am more than simply another gardener to be used and abandoned.
The land has always spoken its secrets to me. Perhaps it's time the prince learns I'm listening.