Blood Oath (The Darkest Drae Book 1)(51)

My sweat and spit had caused patches of the potato plants to erupt into massive potatoes—that were now ash. I doubted the king would be happy with the large bald patches between them. I’m sure there was a way to make a whole field uniformly luscious and plentiful and normal, though I had no idea how to make that happen. It wasn’t like I grew up with any instruction. Aside from rolling the tubers in my hands and lying in the freshly overturned dirt—courtesy of Irrik’s powerful wings and claws—doing dirt angels, I had no idea how to go about any of this.

—Phaetyn or Faking?— —Ryn, Last and Worst of Her Kind—

—Patchy Phaetyn, Can’t Bring Home the Bacon—

—Skill-less Ryn, Still Skill-less, Even Though Her Spit is Magic—

The king’s carriage dipped and disappeared in a valley, and I hurried to the revitalized willow tree where Irrik hadn’t risen. Silent guards had arrived steadily in the last half hour in preparation of the monarch’s visit. Having them watch had been disconcerting, but Irrik barked at me, and I cared more about not having him yell than having them stare.

“Do you think it worked?” I asked, leaning against the willow tree. I rubbed my hand over the bark, staring at how different it was now compared to last night. The pale leaves had darkened to a vibrant green, and the trunk itself seemed thicker. Could I grow it large enough to take over a whole Harvest Zone? That would be cool.

He shrugged, finally deigning to stand, but didn’t meet my gaze. “Guess you’re about to find out.”

I surveyed the Drae, who still had me completely thrown. He’d planted smaller potatoes in the ground to fool the king into believing I was less powerful? But why help me? The only conclusion I came up with was that he either helped or hindered, depending on which suited his agenda. As to what his agenda was, I had no idea. Like no freaking clue.

“Thanks,” I chirped sarcastically. “That’s super helpful.”

Turning toward me, he met my gaze, but his expression remained completely flat. “I wasn’t trying to be helpful.”

Hinder it was.

We made our way to the king across the overturned dirt, Irrik several steps in front of me as I pushed my feet into the sunbaked dirt. As we neared the king, I stole a peek at his face. Drak. My feet tripped over each other. He was pissed. A definite step below his usual mild fa?ade, which meant he was in viper mode. And the worst thing? Jotun was behind him, a cruel smile on his lips as he stared at me.

“The progress seems . . .” the king started as he turned to survey the area, his grimace hardening into a glare. His cold gaze flitted over me to Irrik. “Quite thin.”

He held a handkerchief over his mouth and nose as if I smelled bad. I thought back to the last hour. I probably did stink. Served the stupid king right.

“I agree,” Irrik replied without glancing my way. “She’s lazy.”

My mouth dropped open, and I turned to him. I’d been busting my butt! How dare he?

The king shifted his attention to me. “Is that so?” He pointed at Jotun and asked, “Do we need to add more incentive?”

I snapped my mouth shut and wiped the glare from my face, bowing to hide my frustration. Mumbling, I said, “I’m still figuring out how it works.”

Made more difficult by the Drae who’d burned everything to the ground in the last couple hours to allegedly help me. Only now he was throwing me under a moving cart. Having Jotun here wouldn’t help me grow anything, except more hate and bruises.

The king gave me a kind smile, which made my skin crawl instead of offering assurance. “Of course, you are, dear Phaetyn. Of course.” He chuckled like I was a niece he held a soft spot for. “Just don’t take too long, or I’ll have to see if Jotun’s brand of motivation is more convincing.”

His threat hung heavily in the air between us. As if I didn’t have enough pressure on me. Grow the entire kingdom food, Ryn. Be quick about it, Ryn. I’ll torture you if you don’t, Ryn.

Irrik snapped his fingers at a guard in a green aketon. “Dig.”

The guard frowned and looked around. The Drae growled and picked up a nearby garden hoe, chucking it at the man. “Dig.”

“Where, my lord?” the guard stammered.

“In the ground, you idiot. Anywhere.” Irrik pointed at a mound of freshly turned dirt. “There.”

The guard hurried over and dug the hoe into the soft soil. He pulled the tool back, and two large potatoes tumbled from within the bunched dirt.

Those spuds were larger than the ones Irrik had put in the ground. Much larger.

“But what’s this?” the king neared. “Potatoes.” His gaze narrowed, and he pointed. “Dig there.” He pointed to a spot where Irrik hadn’t buried potatoes.

The guard dug, but nothing came up.

“It only works in patches,” I offered lamely. “I’ll try to smooth it out.”

The king smiled back at the potatoes. “Yes, dear Phaetyn. Do that.” His expression smoothed, and he stared at Irrik for several moments before giving a curt nod. “Make sure it works.”

Oh, great. I wondered if I was the it he referred to. Probably.

I’ll get right to work, A-hole.





22





The king clambered back into his carriage with all his silky layers and jewels, but I didn’t breathe properly until Jotun and the guards dispersed and the blood-red vehicle was out of sight.