Lady Smoke

by Laura Sebastian

  Artemisia cuts me out of the gown that the seamstress sewed me into, though she does it with less grace, sending glass beads spilling across the floor, the sound like a hollow rainstorm.

  I pull the nightgown over my head, savoring a few deep breaths. Though I was only wearing the gown a few hours, I forgot how nice it feels to take air fully into my lungs instead of little gasps here and there. Maybe that’s why Amiza and Lilia were so quiet at dinner—they couldn’t breathe, let alone speak.

  “All right,” I say, stepping back around the screen. I’m aware of how ridiculous I must look now, with my loose cotton nightgown and my face fully painted and lacquered, but there are more pressing matters. I join the others in the seating area, taking the open chair next to Blaise. “We’re going to have to speak in Kalovaxian for Søren’s sake. Is everyone all right with that?”

  The others groan but ultimately agree. I can’t blame them—speaking Kalovaxian makes me feel like I’m back in the Kaiser’s court.

  “We need to keep teaching you Astrean, though. It’ll save us a lot of time, to say the least,” I tell Søren.

  He nods. “I feel like an ass, but I’m picking up bits and pieces, I think. Slowly.”

  “What happened tonight?” Blaise asks me in Kalovaxian. “We tried to go with you but we weren’t allowed.”

  “The Sta’Criverans value their exclusivity,” Søren says. “I was surprised they invited me, though I suppose they found it amusing since I didn’t understand a word they said.”

  I tell them about the royal family and their interest in the Kaiser’s treatment of me, how they seemed not just fascinated but enthralled with the details of my captivity and punishments.

  “It’s as if they don’t see me as a person, just a rare collectible with a story attached to it,” I grumble.

  “Sta’Criverans in the capital tend to lead charmed, soft lives,” Søren says. “Especially the royal family. I imagine they draw some excitement over your misery because they can’t quite fathom it to be real. It’s like you’re a character in a play.”

  I frown, but before I can respond, he continues.

  “What was the argument at the end?” he asks, though he looks uneasy. “I understood bits and pieces but…well, it seemed important.”

  Part of me doesn’t want to answer—especially since I’ll have to explain to Blaise, Heron, and Artemisia what virginity even means—but Søren’s right. It is important. The argument isn’t over yet and I can’t keep secrets from them again.

  So I explain the conflict as simply as I can, though I feel my cheeks redden as I do. It takes all I have in me not to shudder when I tell them about the King’s proposed examination. Though he didn’t detail the specifics, they’re easy enough to surmise.

  “It is common practice,” Søren says when I finish, looking a bit green. “You were right to refuse, though.”

  Artemisia nods, but there’s a crease between her eyebrows. “It will make it all the more meaningful when you finally consent.”

  I stare at her, my mouth gaping open. “I’m not consenting to that,” I say. “I thought you of all people would understand—” I break off. Artemisia told me about her assault in the mines in confidence, though Heron was there, too. I doubt she wants that to be common knowledge. “You’re a woman as well,” I say instead. “Would you let them examine you like some sort of experiment?”

  “No,” she says, shrugging her shoulders. “But then, I don’t want to get married.”

  “Neither do I!” I exclaim, louder than I mean to.

  Artemisia remains unfazed by my outburst, merely arching her eyebrows.

  “Fine. I don’t need to get married in order to use another country’s army to reclaim my throne. Is that better?” she asks.

  I roll my eyes but can’t bring myself to answer. “It’s another problem for another day,” I say instead.

  “There are getting to be a few of those building up,” Heron says, his voice quiet and unsteady around the Kalovaxian words he’s probably heard more often than spoken.

  “I know,” I say, rubbing my temples. “And King Etristo said the suitors will arrive tomorrow, so I’m sure there will only be more problems to come.”

  A heavy silence falls over us, pushing in at all sides. Tomorrow, suitors will arrive to bid on me, and my country and I will be put on display like one of the Theyn’s war souvenirs. The conversation at dinner tonight will be repeated tenfold with every one of them, I’d imagine, each king and emperor prodding for details of my suffering, each examining me like the hog they’re about to slaughter for their feast.

  “Soon,” Artemisia says with a sigh, pushing herself up to stand. “But not tonight.”

  She traipses across the room to a small cabinet I hadn’t paid much attention to. When she flings open the doors with a flick of her wrists, I see three shelves of wine bottles. She plucks one out at random and brings it back over, using her dagger to pry the cork from its mouth.

  “We’re out of Astrea,” she says, pouring the wine into the water cups on the table. “We’re safe, in a beautiful palace in Sta’Crivero, and the rebellion is alive because of us. That’s cause for celebration, don’t you think?”

  Artemisia’s optimism is unexpected but welcome and I smile when she passes me a cup. One by one, she passes them out to everyone else, even Søren, who looks surprised by the gesture.

  “To Astrea,” Artemisia says, lifting the bottle. “What it was once. What it will be again. And all that we sacrifice for it.”

  And just like that, the pointed tip of Artemisia’s words digs into my skin. I’ve sacrificed enough for Astrea, I want to say, I can’t give any more. But that isn’t true and we both know it. If it comes down to it, there is nothing I won’t give up to save my country.

  Not my will.

  Not my body.

  Not my life.

  It won’t come to that, I tell myself, but deep down I know it very well could. A fair world wouldn’t ask anything more of me, but this is not a fair world.

  We clink our cups together with Art’s bottle and we drink.

  “Are we not going to talk about how absurd this place is?” Heron asks, surprising me. He’s been quiet more often than not since we brought Søren out of the brig, but he seems to be trying. “Everything is drenched in gold and jewels and color. That dress you were wearing must have cost enough to feed a family for a year in Astrea, Theo.”

  I can’t help but laugh, sinking deeper into my chair and taking another sip of the wine. Like the dinner wine, it’s dark and spicy and not what I’m used to, but it’s slowly growing on me. “You’re lucky you didn’t have to wear it. It was suffocating and it weighed more than a bushel of bricks. And that contraption!” I add. “The…what was it? The lifter?”

  “The riser,” Søren says with a snort of laughter. “The men who operate them—that’s their entire job. And most men don’t have the strength to do it, so the ones who do are paid handsomely for it.”

  “Do they ever wear shirts?” Heron asks him. “I’m not complaining, but it is a very…strange uniform.”

  “Shirts get in the way, apparently,” Søren says.

  “A likely excuse,” Artemisia says with a snort. “I’ve heard of a few affairs between the operators and the noblewomen here. It’s fairly commonplace. One of the perks of the job, as it were.”

  “At least until the husbands find out,” Søren adds, laughing. “It happened when I was visiting a couple of years back. This lord was furious and called for the riser operator’s execution, but the King had to deny his request because it turns out a riser operator is more valuable than a nobleman.”

  “Just wait a few years until the towers are overrun with barrel-chested children who refuse to wear shirts,” I say with a smirk.

  The others burst out laughing at the image and it goes on for fa
r too long. As soon as we get a hold of ourselves, a couple of us will make eye contact and then the laughter begins anew.

  It feels good to laugh this freely, the five of us together. To let everything outside the room be forgotten for just a few moments—and even some things inside the room. Heron and Søren aren’t speaking directly to one another, but I’m no longer worried that Heron is going to try to hit him again, and I suppose that’s the best I can hope for, all things considered.

  When we finish the first bottle, I consider calling it a night and sending the others back to their rooms, but I can’t bring myself to do it. I don’t want to be alone. I don’t want to stop laughing. As soon as I do, the reality of what tomorrow will bring will set in, and I don’t want to think about that just yet.

  I drag myself up from my chair to grab another bottle, a lighter wine this time, passing it to Artemisia to uncork.

  We toast to riser operators.

  We toast to the gods.

  We toast to those we’ve lost.

  We toast to ourselves.

  We toast to the past.

  We toast to the future.

  By the time the early dawn light is streaming through the windows, I’m only barely conscious. I’m sprawled out on my bed with Artemisia on one side and Heron on the other, both of them snoring quite loudly. Blaise is stretched across the foot of the bed, doing battle with Heron’s long legs to make room. He isn’t sleeping, just staring at the ceiling with glassy, faraway eyes, but it’s the closest I’ve seen him come to it since I drugged his tea. Søren sleeps on the sofa instead, one of the decorative throw pillows over his face to block out light and sound.

  The last thing I think before letting my mind fade into darkness is to wonder if we will ever get to a point where he truly is one of us.

  EVERYTHING FEELS NUMB BUT MY head, which is pounding, intensified tenfold by the bright sunlight beating down on the palace steps. My mouth is dry as sand, and even though I’ve been brushed and buffed and painted by Marial and her team again, I feel like last night is written plainly on my face. My mind is a fog, but in a way, I suppose that’s a good thing—I’m too exhausted to remember to be anxious.

  The suitors are arriving in a long procession of canopied carriages that weaves through the white stone streets.

  “Not to worry, my dear,” King Etristo says from his seat next to mine, misreading my expression. “There are a lot of them, but this will only be a brief introduction. The whole event should take an hour—two at most.”

  An hour or two. I stifle a groan. I can’t imagine sitting out here more than a few minutes, even if the chairs brought out for the royal family and me are comfortably padded and somewhat shaded with palm fronds. Between the hot sun and my aching head and the dress pinching my ribs, I feel like I’m going to pass out.

  But I smile at King Etristo in a way I hope looks natural. His manner toward me has cooled since my outburst last night, though outwardly he’s been nothing but polite. When I apologized for my words, he accepted it with a strained smile.

  “Wonderful,” I tell him. “I’m so excited to meet everyone. Thank you so very much for putting all of this together for me.”

  It sounds like too much to my ears, but King Etristo only returns my smile and pats my hand with his, the skin of his palm wrinkled and clammy. “It’s a pleasure to help, my dear, after everything that has befallen you.”

  I lean back against my chair and glance at Søren, who is standing behind me and slightly to the side. The others are pressed farther back in the crowd of Sta’Criverans gathered behind us—even Dragonsbane, much to her displeasure. But Søren is on full display, though whether he is being shown off as an ally or just as a trophy is unclear. Since King Etristo is still speaking Astrean and not bothering to translate, it’s difficult to imagine he sees him as anything more than decoration.

  I translate what the King said and Søren nods, but his face is paler than usual and there are dark shadows under his eyes. I had those this morning as well, before they were painted and powdered into oblivion.

  “Last night, it felt like I was fluent in Astrean,” he says. “But I can’t remember a word of it today.”

  I laugh, though it makes my head ache even worse. “Whatever it was you started speaking last night, it was not Astrean,” I tell him. “You kept talking about amineti, but apart from that I didn’t hear a single Astrean word.”

  His cheeks redden. “I suppose that’s one of the only ones I remember,” he admits.

  My own face grows warm as I remember the night I taught him the word, demonstrating with more amineti—kisses—than I could keep count of.

  “Well, you’re sober now,” I point out. “Can you tell me about the suitors when they arrive?” I lower my voice, casting a glance toward King Etristo, who is deep in conversation with his son. “I have a feeling my official introductions will be much rosier than the truth on their side and mine.”

  He nods, though a crease appears between his brows.

  I turn back to King Etristo, drawing his attention away from his son and to me.

  “After the introductions are made, I would like to visit the refugee camp,” I tell him.

  King Etristo looks at me like I’ve just suggested we jump into lava. “Why on earth would you want to do that?”

  It’s a struggle to hold on to my smile. “You’ve been so kind to take in my people over the years, and those from other fallen countries. I would enjoy seeing people from Astrea, and I think it would help them to see me, to know that I’m trying to get us home.”

  Again, King Etristo pats my hand and smiles at me like I’m a charmingly misbehaved puppy.

  “You are kindness incarnate, my dear, but the camp is no place for a girl like you.”

  I open my mouth to argue and quickly close it again. After last night, I need to watch my step more carefully, even if the temptation to slap his hand off mine is almost too much to bear.

  What does that mean, a girl like me? And can he truly consider me a girl while at the same time planning my marriage to men who, if Søren’s intel is to be believed, are mostly much, much older than I am? The Kalovaxians believed children became adults at fifteen, though at least they were consistent. In Sta’Crivero I am both infantilized and sexualized, and I’m not sure what to do with that.

  * * *

  —

  The line of carriages snakes forward until the first one pulls to a stop in front of the palace. I straighten up in my chair, catching myself in a very un-regal slouch. Finally, we seem to be starting.

  Two men dart from their place at King Etristo’s side and go to meet the arrival. One rolls out a thin red carpet that leads right from the steps of our dais to the steps protruding from the carriage. The other opens the carriage door with a sweeping bow that has a few more flourishes than seems practical.

  Several tense seconds pass before a man emerges from the carriage door, forgoing the steps and simply hopping down onto the carpet. He’s tall—taller than Søren even—and broad-shouldered, with umber skin and close-cropped black hair that is already receding in the front, though he can’t be more than twenty-five. He has a severe face with sharp bones and a mouth that looks like it’s permanently down-turned. His eyes are dark brown and intent below thick eyebrows.

  He makes his way down the red carpet and up the stairs of the dais, one hand idly reaching to his hip, where I’d imagine a sword would usually rest in its scabbard. He must have been told to leave that behind today—it is against Sta’Criveran law to approach the King with a weapon.

  Beside me, Søren makes a noise of recognition as the man approaches. “Archduke Etmond of Haptania,” he whispers to me, his voice tinged with awe. “Brother of the King there, but everyone knows the King is sterile. Etmond is next in line. One of the best military minds I’ve ever met—he’s turned the tables in battles where he
was outnumbered ten to one.”

  Søren sounds half in love with Etmond already, but there’s something about the man that I can’t quite place. He seems to have trouble looking anyone in the eye, even when he approaches me with a stiff bow.

  “Archduke Etmond, may I present Astrea’s famed beauty, Queen Theodosia,” King Etristo says.

  The Archduke’s eyes dart toward Søren and narrow before turning back to me. “Queen Theodosia,” he says, reaching out for my hand, which I offer. He bows to me again, kissing my knuckles. His thick mustache scratches my skin. “Your beauty is indeed legendary. It’s an honor to make your acquaintance.”

  He speaks like he’s memorized what he’s meant to say, rambling it off in a flat tone, his eyes not quite meeting mine.

  “It’s an honor to meet you as well, Archduke Etmond,” I say. “I’m so pleased you came all this way.”

  His bushy brows knit together. “Haptania is only a day’s journey, Your Majesty,” he says. “I didn’t have to come very far at all.” He seems to hear the implication in his words as he says them, because he straightens up and clears his throat. “What I mean to say is that any journey to have the chance to meet you would be considered short, and I would have gladly traveled much longer if I’d had to.”

  The Archduke is ushered into the palace, his entourage of Haptanian courtiers trailing behind him like baby ducks.

  “I don’t think he cared much for me,” I whisper to Søren.

  He laughs. “I wouldn’t take it personally. His mind doesn’t work the way yours or mine does. He understands charts and figures and diagrams—he’s an ace at chess—but he has more difficulty with people.”

  I smirk. “It seems like perhaps you should marry him,” I tell Søren. “You seem enamored enough already.”

  Søren shrugs. “He’s brilliant, though from a personal standpoint I don’t think he’d be a good husband for just about anyone, you and me included.”

  I sigh. “Well, we aren’t looking at this from a personal standpoint, are we?”