Lady Smoke

by Laura Sebastian

  She gives a derisive sniff, helping me step into the heavy gown, pulling its thin straps over my shoulders. The scars on the top half of my back are on full display, spilling out from the silk of the gown like red and white snakes. No one gapes openly, but I feel their gazes on me all the same and it is somehow even worse.

  “Their presence is unnecessary for such an event,” she says, each word crisp. “But an invitation has now been extended to the Kalovaxian Prinz,” she adds after a moment.

  I’d feel better if Blaise, Artemisia, and Heron were there as well, but at least I’ll have Søren.

  “And my aunt?” I ask, though even as I pose the question I’m not sure which answer I prefer.

  “She has made it clear that her presence is required wherever yours is,” Marial says, though she makes no effort to hide her disdain. She laces up the back of my gown tightly, and after that I can scarcely breathe, let alone keep up a conversation.

  THE ROYAL DINING ROOM IS somehow even more elaborately decorated than my room. Three out of four walls are covered in frescoed murals of cherubs lounging on pillowy pastel clouds, dining on grapes and drinking from gold wine goblets. The fourth wall isn’t much of a wall at all—the top half of it is open, with violet drapes pulled aside to show the sun setting in the distance. A chandelier hangs from the ceiling, but instead of crystals, it’s hung with bits of blue and green sea glass that cast a cool glow on the room. The long, carved-oak dining table is edged with gold leaf and set with seven matching chairs.

  Six of those chairs are already occupied. King Etristo sits at one end, hunched over, his ornate crown slipping down awkwardly on his forehead, but the others stand when I walk in. Etristo is flanked on one side by a man in his thirties who I assume is his son, Avaric, and on the other side by a woman only a few years older than me who is fair and blond as a Kalovaxian but with a rounder, kinder face. She’s also heavily pregnant. On Avaric’s right is a woman with skin the color of rich honey and black hair in elaborately coiled braids. Dragonsbane is next to the blond woman; Søren stands between the dark-haired one and an empty seat at the other end of the table, which I assume is for me. I’m gratified to see that both Dragonsbane and Søren have also been dressed in the uncomfortable but ornate styles that the Sta’Criverans seem to favor. They even managed to get Dragonsbane into a gown of black satin without any straps at all.

  I walk toward the empty seat, though it’s difficult to cross even that small a space in the heeled slippers Marial gave me. Perhaps it would be easier if I weren’t so worried about tripping on the hem of my heavy, gem-laden gown, but as it is I have to take small, careful steps, and an eternity stretches out before I make it to my seat, between Søren and Dragonsbane.

  “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting,” I say when I sit down. It’s as difficult to talk as it is to walk in this gown, but I find that I can manage if I take shallow breaths.

  The others retake their own seats as soon as I’m settled into mine.

  “Not at all, my dear,” King Etristo says in Astrean. “To wait on such beauty is an honor.”

  To the Sta’Criverans I am a pretty thing in a glittering dress, an investment they expect a good return on if Artemisia’s theory about my bridal price is to be believed. I am a tool they think they can use, and Art was right when she said that it’s easier to let them think that. For now.

  So I plaster a smile on my face. It doesn’t feel at all real, but I doubt anyone is looking close enough to notice that. It’s pretty and that will be enough.

  “I’m so grateful for your hospitality, King Etristo,” I say. “It’s more kindness than I ever expected to find from strangers.”

  “Yesterday we were strangers, my dear,” he replies, lifting his gold wine goblet in a toast that I hasten to meet with my own glass, though we’re too far apart for our glasses to come close to touching. “Today we are friends.” He takes a sip before replacing it and I do the same, since not doing so would be construed as an insult. The wine is darker than what we drank in Astrea, more spice than fruit. It burns my throat when I swallow.

  King Etristo coughs before speaking. “All Sta’Criverans speak Astrean, of course, in addition to a few other tongues, though I suggest we keep to Astrean since that seems to be the most common tongue here.”

  I glance at Søren, who doesn’t understand a word of what’s being said. He keeps his eyes forward and his expression blank.

  “I’d like to introduce you to my son,” Etristo continues, gesturing first to his right. “Avaric and his wife, Amiza,” he says, motioning to his son and the woman with the braided hair. Etristo gestures to his left. “And my wife, Lilia.”

  I struggle to hide my surprise. I’d assumed the blond woman was one of his daughters, though they look nothing alike. King Etristo is in his eighties at the very least, and Lilia is practically my age. She must be his second wife, or even his third or fourth. The baby she’s carrying can’t possibly be his.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” I say, smiling at the three of them. “You have other children as well, don’t you?” I ask the King.

  He waves a dismissive hand. “My daughters all left home when they were younger than you,” he says. “They’ve done wonderfully for themselves, securing alliances and trade contracts with other countries all over the world. We write from time to time, but visiting one another is…difficult.”

  I nod and make what I hope is a sympathetic noise, though I find I have little pity for a man who sells his daughters to foreign lands to make his own life easier. I’ve been a stranger in a strange court, and though I know that was a different sort of experience, I still remember how it feels to be surrounded by unfamiliar faces, not being able to communicate, missing my family.

  “Well, let’s not stand on ceremony here,” King Etristo says before clapping his hands twice. “I’m ravenous.”

  At the sound of his summons, servants pour in through the side door, each carrying a large gold plate. The smells that waft from the dishes are unlike anything I’ve ever experienced, and I’m not quite sure how to describe them. Spicy, yes, but there’s a sweetness as well and something else I can’t quite put my finger on. When one of the servants sets a full plate down in front of me, my mouth waters at the sight of the food—an array of beautifully arranged vegetables, seasoned rice the color of the night sky, and seared meat of some kind.

  “Small bites,” Søren whispers to me. “Sta’Criveran cuisine takes some getting used to.”

  I smile my thanks but after weeks of hardtack and dried meat, it’s difficult to heed his advice. I want to devour it as quickly as possible, but I force myself to eat slowly, savoring each spice and texture. I must not eat slowly enough, though, because Avaric watches me intently, leaning forward with bright, curious eyes.

  “Did they starve you in Astrea?” he asks me.

  I swallow the bite of fish I’d just taken. “No, never,” I say. “At the palace, I ate the same as any Kalovaxian courtier, though most of my advisors spent years in the mines, doing grueling physical labor on meager rations. And they’ve gotten worse in the last few months, I’ve heard.”

  “Of course,” Avaric says, trying and failing to look sympathetic. “But…well…your aunt told us so many stories of your suffering at the hands of the Kaiser.”

  I buy myself a moment by dabbing at my mouth with a napkin, fighting the urge to glare at Dragonsbane.

  “It was a very difficult decade,” I say slowly, hoping it will be left at that.

  But Avaric doesn’t take the hint.

  “Were you beaten?” he asks. “That must have been awful. How often did it happen?”

  “Yes,” I say, anger seeping into my chest. I’m more aware than ever of my scars, on full display, how harsh and barbaric they are amid all the Sta’Criveran beauty. I wish the dress had sleeves of some sort—some way to hide them, to hide the story they
spell out on my skin. My arms begin to grow warm and I fight the urge to scratch at them. It feels the way it did when I woke up from my nightmare to find my sheets burned. It feels like fire is pressing against my skin from the inside, desperate to seep out. It’s not real, I tell myself, as if I can will myself to believe that. I force myself to breathe through the anger; I imagine ice in my veins.

  These people don’t care about me. They only care about what happened to me, like it’s some kind of sick story written to shock and horrify and entertain them. I grip the arms of my chair so tightly that my knuckles turn white, though at least it distracts from my tingling arms and hands. I keep my face soft, ducking my head and looking up at the Prince through lowered eyelashes.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, letting a hint of tears work its way into my voice. “It’s still so difficult to talk about. But it happened often enough that I fear I will always bear the scars of it, both physically and mentally,” I admit with a mournful sigh. “I survived, thanks in large part to my advisors and my aunt.” I give my aunt a sad smile that she isn’t remotely moved by. She sees right through it, but the Sta’Criverans don’t.

  “That’s so awful,” Lilia says, clutching the string of pearls wrapped around her pale throat. Her Astrean isn’t as fluent as the others’, still a little sharp around the consonants. “I cannot imagine how horrid that was.” She pauses briefly. “What was used?” she asks, lowering her voice. “A whip? A cane?”

  My jaw clenches and I hold her gaze for a few seconds before answering. “Whatever was handy,” I say. “Though I suppose the whip was the Kaiser’s favorite.”

  I feel a glimmer of satisfaction when she drops her eyes away from me and goes back to her food without another word.

  “And, of course,” Avaric continues, “your aunt also told us what the monster made you do to…what was the man’s name who died?”

  “Ampelio,” Dragonsbane answers without hesitation, her voice level. “Guardian Ampelio.”

  My grip on my chair tightens more until I fear I’ll break the arms off altogether, and I can’t seem to relax my hands. I can’t talk about Ampelio; I can’t give them that piece of my heart, no matter what they are giving me. What happened is between him and me; I haven’t even told Blaise much more than the basics. I can’t exploit what I did for these people’s entertainment.

  Something warm rests on top of my left hand and I look down to see Søren’s pale, rough fingers covering mine, though his eyes stay firmly stuck on his food. He doesn’t understand most of what’s being said, but he heard Ampelio’s name and I suppose he can guess the rest. He was there, after all, when I drove the sword into Ampelio’s back, and maybe he didn’t understand then what kind of torture it was, and maybe he still doesn’t know that Ampelio was my father, but he still saw firsthand how awful it was for me.

  “The Kaiser made it clear that it was his life or mine,” I say slowly, struggling to keep my voice soft. “Necessary as it might have been, I don’t think I will ever forgive myself for it.”

  The table is quiet for a moment, though it’s a pregnant kind of silence that hints at worse things to come. I busy myself with my dinner, hoping that I’m wrong and that the subject will be dropped.

  “The Kaiser is a demon incarnate,” King Etristo says finally. “For what he’s done to you, he will surely spend an eternity suffering in the underworld.” He pauses, but there’s a weight in the silence that implies he’s not quite finished. He looks at me like he’s measuring my every inch with his gaze. “Are you still a…” He hesitates, searching for the word. He must not find it in Astrean, because he switches over to Kalovaxian. “A virgin?”

  I freeze mid-bite, forcing myself to swallow even though I’m fairly certain it will come back up again any moment. Beside me, Søren stiffens; he understands that word and must have cobbled together the context.

  “Are you asking if he raped me?” I ask slowly in Astrean, holding King Etristo’s gaze. Avaric, Amiza, and Lilia flinch from the word and drop their gazes to their plates, but Etristo is unabashed.

  “Yes,” King Etristo says after a moment. “I suppose I am, though there have also been rumors of your involvement with Prinz Søren that I am curious about as well.”

  At the sound of his name, Søren looks even more confused. I hold King Etristo’s gaze for another moment before tearing my eyes away and looking at Søren instead.

  “King Etristo is wondering if your father raped me or you deflowered me,” I explain to him in Kalovaxian, not bothering to lower my voice.

  Søren’s face reddens, more in anger than embarrassment, I think.

  “No,” he says to King Etristo in biting Astrean. It must be one of the few words he’s picked up.

  King Etristo throws his hands in the air as if he’s being attacked. “I apologize if you take offense to my question,” he says, which doesn’t sound like much of an apology at all. “But you understand that I must ask it before we continue on our road to finding you a husband. Most men of high birth would never take a sullied woman for a wife.”

  I frown, unsure where to begin with that sort of logic. I decide to call out the worst of it. “I would be considered sullied even if it had been rape?”

  King Etristo smiles tightly and shrugs his shoulders. “It is how it is,” he says. “Men marry women who are chaste, and take women who aren’t as mistresses. Surely this is not surprising to you—they have the same customs at the Kalovaxian court, as I understand it.”

  “Yes,” I admit. “But surely you didn’t take anything I’ve said to be a commendation of their behavior?”

  At that, King Etristo’s face reddens. “There’s no need to take offense, my dear,” he says. “If what you say is true, you have nothing to fear. After all, my own wives—both departed and still with us—underwent an examination before we were married to ensure their virtue. My daughters did it before their weddings. Amiza did as well, isn’t that right?” he asks.

  “It is tradition,” Amiza says, but she doesn’t look at me. Instead, she keeps her eyes on her plate.

  “The examination is a simple thing, easy to endure,” King Etristo says, waving a dismissive hand.

  I force a saccharine smile. “You’ve undergone it yourself, Your Highness?” I ask. “That makes sense. If highborn men should only marry chaste women, then surely highborn women should only marry chaste men.”

  “Theodosia,” Dragonsbane hisses at me, her face sharp and drawn tight.

  I’m tempted to point out her own hypocrisy in taking his side. After all, she can hardly claim to be a virgin, having had two children. But I hold my tongue and smile innocently at King Etristo.

  “I’m sorry, Your Highness,” I tell him, fluttering my eyelashes. “It’s just such a strange custom for such a civilized world. There’s a reason you can’t find the word virginity in Astrean. The concept doesn’t exist.”

  The table is quiet for a moment. “Well, this is not Astrea,” King Etristo says. “The suitors will begin to arrive tomorrow, so it would be our hope that you will have the examination before meeting them.”

  I don’t know what that examination entails, but I don’t need to. Even though whatever it is will prove that I haven’t been touched in that way, I shouldn’t have to prove it. It shouldn’t matter. I know that I’m supposed to be sweet and pliable and unassuming in order to keep the Sta’Criverans’ favor, but this is a line I will not cross, not even for Astrea.

  “Unless the men will be going through similar examinations before they meet me, I will not,” I say. “Marrying me will bring these men untold riches when we take back Astrea. If they want to forfeit that wealth because they’re too preoccupied with tradition, they are welcome to. I’m sure there will be plenty who would rather have the money.”

  DRAGONSBANE MANAGES TO HOLD HER tongue for the rest of the quiet, tense dinner and even during the riser ride back t
o our floor. Her mouth stays tightly pursed the entire time, eyes hard and staring straight ahead. Once we’re in the hallway, though, and it’s only her, Søren, and me, she grabs hold of my arm and spins me to face her, fingernails digging into the soft skin of the underside of my arm.

  “Tomorrow, you will apologize to King Etristo and consent to whatever examinations they feel necessary.”

  Søren steps between us.

  “If you don’t remove your hand,” he tells her in Kalovaxian, his voice low, “I’ll do it for you, and it’ll be an unpleasant experience for both of us, but certainly more painful for you.”

  Dragonsbane clenches her jaw and stares at him for a moment, as if debating whether or not his honor will actually let him hurt a woman. Wisely, she decides not to take the risk and releases my arm.

  “You will apologize for your outburst,” she says again, not taking her eyes off me.

  “Of course, Aunt,” I say finally, pitching my voice higher and softer. “I’m sure King Etristo will understand how alarmed I was at the thought of having my person prodded at again after all the abuse I suffered at the hands of the Kaiser. And I’m sure he will agree that it would be best to wait at least until I’ve recovered more. If the husband I choose insists upon an examination, I will comply before my wedding.”

  She looks at me with narrowed eyes. “You’re playing a dangerous game,” she says.

  It takes effort to hold back a laugh. “I’ve played worse.”

  * * *

  —

  Blaise, Heron, and Artemisia are already waiting in my room. I suppose I should have expected that—of course they’ll want to know about the dinner. Of course I’ll have to tell them, mortified as the thought makes me.

  But first I need to get out of this torture device of a dress.

  “A little help, please, Art,” I say, grabbing a nightgown from the armoire and stepping behind the painted trifold screen. “And you might want to bring your dagger.”