27.2: Prismatic Petals

27

Iridea

When things went to shit, I used to go to Evelena’s garden. Seeing as I’ve run away from home, I find the nearest servant and ask if there’s a garden in the castle. They point me in a direction and I wander until a cool breeze ruffles the hair on my arms. I must have worked my way around the Castle where the sun breaks into the mountain. I follow the shafts of light until I reach a wide circle of elegant pointed arches, possibly elven in style.

Somehow, in the constraints and darkness of the palace a colourful garden grows. Four arched doorways at even points begin four stone pathways which all stretch to the centre of the garden, breaking it into segments with plants from, I presume, the homelands of each Castle race or the countries of Zyrona since the paths circle one last section at the garden’s centre. Out of tune flute music floats from a window far above. It lingers in the tunnel opened for the sun, one note after the next.

I enter through an ivy tunnel which blocks the sun from the frail petals of Xeorkan flowers. It isn’t dark enough yet for the luminescence of some, but I marvel at how this section must look at night. Names creep as whispers: orchids under the guiding lamp of crawling lilups, hanging sunshine, unforgiving purple peppers (not deadly but a challenge to consume). I feel some weird sort of distant comfort in recognising these plants, even though my time in Xeorka is one that holds faded memories. Are there any plants from Stellina’s time? If I brought her here would it help her relax or would she become more volatile?

When I emerge from the tunnel, I am met by a spiral of flowers that spins from the soil toward the sky. These I have only heard in legends: they originate along the Eastern Myan coast where the Light Elves used to live. Somehow they still possess the magic they held centuries ago. A gardener wobbles on a ladder to trim the sprawling roots of other flying flowers. My attention is ensnared by their soft dance. Sunbeams pass through their petals and refract. Rainbows erupt, flitting on the walls of the garden.

After some time, they descend to the ground and nestle into the soil. The next section contains many plants I recognise - so it must be divided by country - as Amara filled her bouquets with them. Most are nameless to me. A deep violet flower draws me in. It looks almost black but a hint of purple wavers within the shy bud, closed to the sun. Despite their timid nature, they sprawl everywhere in the section, infesting whatever they can touch. Another gardener works at removing them from the soil, sweat beading across his brow. Something about them tickles my memory, but I can’t place them. Their colour is a shocking resemblance to the pitch of magic I wield…

“Nightshades?” A soft voice startles me. I spin around. A boy with cloudy grey eyes recoils from his place behind me. His ears lift into a light point. Pockmarks dance over his dusky brown skin. He wears a cloak of feathers, just like the King’s. What does that make him? The King has neither Queen or heir.

“Last I heard, it’s not polite to creep up on ladies,” I snap. His cheeks flush and he looks away. For a moment, it seems like his cloak tightens around him, like how I pull my wings to me. When I blink, it’s just as pretentious and limp as before.

“S-sorry, I j-just noticed you were looking at the nightshade f-flowers.”

“Nightshade?” I look back at the inconspicuous buds. The name seems suitable, albeit, uncreative.

“Yes, they originate from the late S-star Elf city.” He kneels to admire the flowers, his expression relaxed. The corner of his lip is fixed in a slight curl to give an opening for perfect teeth. He raises his hand to cover a cough and looks up at me. I notice a black ring around his pupils.

“Are you here for my f-father?” he asks, as if he’s had to escort guests, or rather girls I think as he scans my figure, to the King before. Who else could his father be? His cloak isn’t exactly inconspicuous. But why would his existence be kept secret? And who is his mother?

“I’m with the Star Elf.” I rush to clarify, “You are the Prince?”

“The…the Star Elf?” His eyes blaze wide. His head ticks to the side and he winces just before a barrage of coughs shakes his shoulders. He seems surprised by the mention of Stellina, but surely he knows of her presence. He may not have been introduced to us, but he’s definitely been informed. Maybe he’s just surprised of my alignment with her. He clears his throat, “Um, y-yes. Wh-when did she g-get here?”

Does he not know?

“We’ve been here almost a month now.” Again, his reaction is shocking. His eyebrows shoot to the clouds and that tick happens again. He looks pained. His eyes dart to the shadows between the arches surrounding the garden.

“I shouldn’t be here,” he mumbles. His gaze shoots to me as if remembering I’m here then they flick to the tunnel that mimics the Xeorkan environment. His head ticks toward the tunnel in a manner which is indecipherable from his previous reaction but could also be a signal. He repeats the movement stronger, involving his whole body into making his intention clear: he wants me to go into that dark tunnel with him.

“What? Wh-“ before I can refuse, he coughs and grabs my hand. He yanks me towards the tunnel and, quite literally, throws me in. I collide into a leafy wall. Blood rushes into my face, filling my veins with fire. “What-“ He clamps his hand over my mouth. He actually clamps his hand. Over. My. Mouth.

“Do not trust my f-father. You and the Star Elf are in danger.” I spit into his palm. He draws it away in disgust and wipes it on his pants.

“I could’ve guessed that jackass.” I make to get as far away from this maniac as possible but I don’t get far when he speaks again.

“He is m-more cruel than you realise,” he says.

“What-” I turn to face him. “-is he aligned with Hyxver? Now that would be predictable.” I laugh at the idea - my first thoughts of the King being correct - but stop when the Prince shakes his head vigorously.

“Not that. He hates the C-cursed One for all the wrong reasons. No. His p-plan is already in action; he w-wants-“

“Your majesty,” he is interrupted by Eric who, for once, is stripped of his pretentious silver armour in favour of a military uniform with silver threading and colourful tassels along his chest. For all the Shade’s dread, he looks like a bird. His blue eyes, colder than his sister’s, shift to me.

“Iridea,” he says, devoid of kindness. Despite wanting to get out of the former conversation, I stand my ground.

“Can’t you see we were having a conversation, Eric?” I ask. Whatever the Myaners say about apples not falling far from their mother tree, Eric’s apple must have hit the ground and kept rolling. Eric’s jaw clenches.

“The King was saving the Prince’s introduction until later. Forgive me for following orders.”

“Orders aren’t what make you such an ass,” I scoff, “you chose your King.”

“I chose my country,” he responds, but his attention is already turned to the Prince. Effectively, he dismisses me from the conversation. “Your father would like you to continue resting. Please allow me to guide you back to your chambers.”

The Prince’s former passion fades from him at once and he stands like a doll: arms stiff, knees bent. He casts his head away from me. His black curls bundle in front of his eyes. Eric turns sharply and leaves the tunnel. The Prince’s legs stretch to follow him when he stops and tilts his head back.

“T-they bloom at n-night,” the Prince explains, “the flowers. You should come back and see them.” Then, he leaves, trailing after Eric like a broken shadow. My body is rooted to the spot while I process all this new information. The King is not aligned with Hyxver, or at least, if he is it is solely for his benefit. He is certainly keeping his son from our small party and the entirety of Myan, making him appear as the sole ruler but why hide a heir? To keep him safe? Who and where is his mother? Is she hidden within the depths of this mountain as well? It would also appear that his son, the Prince, has information he would like to share with me - unless he just wanted to share flower fun facts which I doubt.

A crack bursts my thoughts and causes me to jump. A curt scream follows it and, in quick succession, a fit of coughing. My muscles brace to bolt. I dart out of the dark tunnel. No one but the gardeners occupy the garden, their heads bent to the soil. The shadows between the arches lend no comprehensible figures except servants passing through the pointed frames in haste, a bit quicker and more frantic than before.