Lady Smoke

by Laura Sebastian

  This is how he looked in Vecturia, before he gave the order to use my people as weapons. I tear my gaze away.

  “Is there an option that doesn’t include marriage?” I ask him, though I know that if there were, he would have said so already. Still, I hope.

  He considers it, reaching up to touch the low-hanging leaves of a tree as we pass beneath its shade.

  “Hypothetically,” he says, “if you were to take the few warriors Erik could offer, plus the maybe sixty percent of Dragonsbane’s crew who may be convinced to follow you—and that’s being optimistic…No, it’s not enough. Not by half. Not by a quarter.”

  I rub my temples and close my eyes tightly, as if I can shut out the reality of the situation. “Then I suppose it’s the Archduke, unless another option comes along.”

  He hesitates. “What if…what if I came along?” he asks.

  I laugh. “Søren, be serious,” I say.

  He stops short, reaching for me, callused fingers taking hold of my arm so that I have no choice but to look at him. “I am being serious. That was your original plan when we were in Astrea, wasn’t it? Divide the Kalovaxians so that some are following me and some are following my father?”

  “It was more complicated than that,” I say. “And the rest of the plan was to kill you in order to start a civil war, in case you’ve forgotten.”

  He winces. “I’m not terribly keen on that part.”

  I shake my head. “Half the Kalovaxians think you’re a traitor. The other half think you weak enough to get captured by a girl. Do you remember what Mattin said on the ship? He thought I’d cast a spell on you. I’m sure he isn’t the only one to hold that belief.”

  He considers it, that same quiet intensity etched into his features. “There are men I’ve fought beside for years who might still be more loyal to me than to my father,” he says. “It can’t hurt to write a letter.”

  “It can if it shows our enemies where we are and what we’re doing here,” I point out. “There is a price on my head, Søren, and if the Kaiser finds out I’m here, I don’t think even Etristo will be able to protect me, especially if he learns we’re planning on robbing him of his cut of my dowry.”

  “We can work through other channels,” he says. “Send the letters through several messengers so that they’re untraceable.”

  “And what would all of that effort get us? A few dozen warriors? It still won’t be enough.”

  He’s quiet for a moment, but the intensity doesn’t fade from his gaze.

  “I just don’t want you to have to do it,” he says finally. “I don’t want you to marry any of them.”

  “And here I thought you liked the Archduke,” I say, keeping my voice light and teasing. “You idolize him.”

  “He’s a brilliant warrior,” Søren agrees before lowering his voice. “But that doesn’t mean he deserves you.”

  His words knock the air out of my lungs, flustering and angering me at once. The anger wins out, because it’s so much simpler.

  “I’m not a prize to be deserved,” I tell him sharply. “King Etristo might treat me that way but I expected better from you.”

  “I didn’t mean it like that,” he says before sighing. “But it’s been…difficult, watching them squabble over you even though I know they’re only fighting for a faraway country, for gems, for money. I’ve held my tongue, Theo, and I won’t say another word about it after this, I promise, but you have to know it’s driving me mad.”

  For a long moment, I can’t think of a single thing to say. I’d thought we were on the same side of this, that whatever was between us was buried so deep now that we could just ignore it. I don’t like being reminded of how recently I thought I was falling in love with him, how even now he has the power to quicken my heartbeat, to turn my thoughts upside down.

  When I don’t reply right away, Søren steps closer to me, his grip on my arm tightening. The scent of driftwood still clings to his skin, and despite all the reasons I know I shouldn’t, I lean into him. His mouth is so close that I can smell the coffee lingering on his breath, so close that if I just tilt my head up, his lips would find mine. The desire to do just that is overwhelming, but instead I bring my free hand up to his shoulder and push him back.

  “It was an act, Søren,” I say quietly, though I can’t meet his gaze. “All of it. I saw you, I knew what you wanted, and I became what you wanted. But it was never me. That girl was only smoke and mirrors.”

  Søren winces before his own mask falls into place. He takes another step back from me, his fingers releasing my arm. The skin he was touching suddenly feels too cold, even in the Sta’Criveran heat.

  “As I said before,” he says, the words crisp-edged, “I’ll go back to holding my tongue.”

  He leaves me standing alone in the garden. What anger I felt toward him slips away quickly, but I’m not sure how to describe the feeling left behind. It’s like walking down stairs and thinking there’s one more step than there is. My whole world seems suddenly off-kilter. Nothing I said was a lie—it might even be the most honest thing I’ve ever said to Søren—but the words still tasted wrong.

  THE SWORD SWINGING TOWARD MY face is blunted, but it’ll still hurt plenty if it actually hits me. I duck my head, throwing my arm up to protect myself. The blade hits with a dull thwack that I’m sure will leave a bruise.

  “Ow,” I say to Artemisia, shoving her sword away.

  We’re in my room after lunch, finally having one of those lessons we discussed on the Smoke. It’s difficult in my room, with all its heavy, oversized furniture, but we’ve managed to clear a space big enough for us both to move around. I bore no illusions about my skills with a sword, but I expected Artemisia would at least go easy on me at first.

  No such luck. She hadn’t even wanted to use practice swords, though I’m glad I insisted—if our swords were sharp she would have killed me by now. As it is, I’m on the floor by the fireplace and she’s standing over me, one hand on her hip, the other still holding her weapon like it’s an extension of her arm.

  “Your arm is gone now,” she says, bored. “Not your dominant one, though, so I suppose you still technically stand a chance.”

  A chance. I could have four arms and still not stand a chance.

  “I surrender,” I tell her. “Can we start at the beginning? How to stand? The proper way to grip a hilt?”

  Artemisia raises one contemptuous eyebrow. “I suppose,” she says, disdain dripping from every word. “Get up.”

  It’s not as easy as it sounds. She’s already left her mark on both of my legs and my left arm, and every one of my muscles screams as I make my way to stand. At least she brought a set of clothes from the Smoke for me; I’m not sure I’d be able to so much as lift a sword in one of my stiff, embellished Sta’Criveran gowns. It’s easier to move in leggings and a tunic, though it’s difficult to imagine I could fight worse than I already am.

  “Legs shoulder width apart,” Artemisia says, kicking the inside of my calves until my feet are sufficiently separate. “One slightly in front of the other for balance.”

  I oblige, though I feel somewhat ridiculous. Artemisia examines me with a critical eye before giving me a firm shove with her free hand. I wobble, but manage to hold my ground. She nods.

  “Good enough,” she says. “Now lift the sword.”

  I do and she grips my hand, adjusting my fingers. Again, it feels awkward, but steadier than it did before. It’s bigger than my dagger and much heavier, but Art says it’s a good size to start with.

  “When you’re defending yourself, you’ll want to cross your body with your sword. Let’s say the attack comes from above.” She poses my arm so the sword is above my head, parallel to the ground. “Then they go for your left leg,” she continues, moving the sword across my torso until it’s in front of my left leg and slightly to the side. “Attacki
ng from the outside will only push your opponent’s weapon into you—hardly the desired effect.”

  “You couldn’t have told me this before you covered me in bruises?”

  She smirks. “I thought they would add a little more weight to the lesson. Shall we go again?”

  “I suppose we have to,” I say with a sigh. “You aren’t going to teach me how to fight back?”

  “Of course I will,” Artemisia says with a shrug. “As soon as you get the hang of defending yourself. One step at a time.”

  This time I manage to fend off a couple of hits before her sword thwacks my elbow hard enough to send a jolt of pain through my whole body. I drop my sword and it clatters to the ground.

  “I get the feeling you’re enjoying this,” I mutter, holding my sore elbow.

  Artemisia doesn’t deny it, and her eyes twinkle as she picks up my sword for me, passing it to me hilt first. “My mother was not exactly a nurturing teacher. It was largely a matter of learning from my own errors.”

  “Well, if your skills are any kind of testament, it works,” I say. “You’re one of the best fighters I’ve ever seen.”

  It might be the first time I’ve made Artemisia smile in a way that seems completely genuine, not mocking or sarcastic or at someone else’s misfortune. It’s a small, brittle smile, almost shy, though that’s never been a word I’d use to describe Art.

  “My mother never really knew what to do with me,” she admits. “I thought that if I could become good enough, strong enough, hard enough, she would be proud of me, though I think that possibility died when my brother did.”

  Her brother, the one who died in the mines. The guard who murdered him was the first person Artemisia killed, though certainly not the last.

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  She shrugs again, but her shoulders are tight and the movement looks sharp and violent. “Around that time, I stopped wanting my mother’s approval anyway, so we arrived at an impasse.” She frowns at me. “Talking won’t make you better, you know. We’re going again.”

  I’d rather keep her talking, but I lift my sword and fix my stance, even though my arm is starting to shake under the weight.

  This time when she hits, there seems to be an extra dose of power behind it, and even though I block it, the force makes me take a step back. She doesn’t give me a chance to recover, instead matching my step and swinging again, to my right hip this time. I block it, stumbling another step back, but my foot tangles up in the edge of the rug and I fall back to the ground, landing hard on my rear.

  “Does it help?” I ask, scrambling back up to my feet. “Hitting someone instead of talking?”

  She only glowers at me. “Would you like to try? If you fought half as well as you talked, we would actually be getting somewhere.”

  I feel my face heat up. “Queens are supposed to speak better than they fight,” I point out. “One day, Astrea won’t be at war and she’ll need a leader.”

  “Better you than me,” she says. “Let’s go again.”

  I groan. “I need a break and some water,” I say. “Ten minutes.”

  Artemisia purses her lips. “Five,” she says, though mercifully she sets down her sword and sits on the sofa that has been pushed back against the wall.

  I walk toward my basin and pour us each a cup of water. After I pass one to her, I sit next to her.

  “Søren’s being difficult.” The words force their way forward even though I don’t really mean to say them. His confession in the garden is weighing so heavily on me, though, and there is no one else I can talk to about it. Blaise and Heron are out of the question and the idea of confiding in Dragonsbane is laughable. I take another sip of water and continue. “I thought everything was all right between us, but yesterday he said he didn’t want me to marry someone else because he still has feelings for me.”

  Artemisia takes a long sip of her water, glaring at me over the rim of her cup.

  “And?” she asks me when she’s done, wiping away the droplets left on her top lip with her sleeve. “Do you expect me to ask you how you feel about that? I can’t stress how little I care about your feelings, Theo,” she says.

  “I was only talking,” I say, trying to hide my hurt. “It’s what friends do.”

  She gives a snort of laughter. “We aren’t that kind of friends,” she says before leveling a look at me, like she can see straight through to my heart. “I’m not her, you know. I’m not your Kalovaxian friend.”

  Artemisia knows Cress’s name, but she won’t say it out loud. I’m almost glad she doesn’t, because I don’t think I’d be able to hold on to a neutral expression. Even now, I falter.

  “I didn’t say you were,” I tell her. “I only meant—”

  “The extent to which I care about Søren is limited to his use to me,” she says. “If you want to talk about alliances he may have to other countries or intel he might possess about Kalovaxian battle strategy, I’m happy to hear it. But if you want to wax poetic about his muscles or his eyes or whatever nonsense you find handsome, I would recommend finding someone else. Or better yet, keep it to yourself. It makes you look like a weak sixteen-year-old girl, and that’s hardly the image you want to be presenting to those who would look to you for leadership.”

  Her words sting and burn through me. I set down my water cup and pick up my sword.

  “Let’s go again,” I tell her.

  She smirks and gets to her feet, picking up her own sword.

  I still lose, but this time I manage to get in a few sloppy hits of my own before she hits me hard on the shoulder.

  “That’s more like it,” she says with a satisfied nod. “I’ll have to irritate you more often.”

  I snort. “I’m not sure that’s possible,” I say.

  We are interrupted by a sharp knock on my door. I freeze, panic coursing through me, but Artemisia only laughs.

  “Relax,” she says. “We aren’t in Astrea. We aren’t doing anything wrong.”

  I smile slightly. “Still,” I say, “I doubt sword fighting is King Etristo’s idea of ladylike behavior.”

  She shakes her head. “Gods, I’m glad I don’t have to be around him as often as you do. I think I’d kill him.”

  She says it casually enough, but I can’t help but wonder how serious she is.

  “He must be in his eighties,” I tell her, crossing the room to answer the door. “It wouldn’t be a fair fight.”

  I pull open the door to find an attendant waiting, dressed in a uniform in the King’s colors of white and orange, which likely costs more than she makes in a year. Her eyes widen as she takes in my own outfit.

  “Queen Theodosia?” she asks, flustered.

  “Yes, that’s me,” I say with a smile that I hope will put her at ease, but it seems to have the opposite effect.

  She holds out a letter with shaking hands, her eyes dropping to stare at the floor.

  “From His Highness, King Etristo,” she says.

  “Thank you,” I say, taking the letter.

  Before I can ask if there’s anything else, she scurries back down the hall.

  “Frightened little thing,” Artemisia says from behind me. I ignore her, opening the letter with my pinky nail. “Well?” she presses.

  I scan the letter quickly—it’s quite short.

  “ ‘Dear Queen Theodosya’—he spelled my name wrong,” I say.

  She shrugs. “Probably not him; I’d imagine it was dictated.”

  I know that it’s a small thing and I shouldn’t be annoyed, but my name was taken away from me for ten years. Now that it’s mine again, seeing it butchered hurts more than I thought it would. I continue.

  “ ‘Another suitor has arrived in hopes of wooing you. You will meet Chief Kapil of the Vecturian Isles at dinner tonight.’ ”

  “T
he Chief of Vecturia?” Artemisia asks, frowning. “But he’s got to be over a hundred. Maybe one of his sons?”

  “It doesn’t say that,” I tell her, wrinkling my nose. “It sounds like it’s the chief himself.”

  Artemisia considers it for a moment. “Well,” she says finally. “I suppose it’s a bit like the boy Prince, isn’t it? I doubt the man is capable of consummating, so you might luck out there.” She manages it with a straight face but I can tell she’s holding back laughter.

  I take a small pillow off one of the sofas and throw it at her, but of course she nimbly ducks out of the way, laughing even harder.

  “Not that it would do me much good anyway,” I say. “Vecturia doesn’t have the kind of resources to take on the Kalovaxians. Especially after the battle a few weeks ago, they can barely afford enough food, never mind armies.”

  “The Chief must know that as well,” Artemisia points out. “Why come all this way and pay that much when he doesn’t stand a chance?”

  “I don’t know,” I admit. “But I suppose I’m going to find out.”

  MARIAL HAD A DIFFICULT TIME covering the marks my practice with Artemisia left, but now they are barely visible, buried under so many creams and powders that my skin looks unnatural, like a painted doll’s. It also itches terribly.

  “Stop fidgeting,” Dragonsbane snaps as we walk down the hall toward the dining pavilion. “And for gods’ sake, try to control yourself around the Emperor.”

  My cheeks grow warm. “Erik is a friend.”

  “A useless friend,” she counters. “You would be better off spending your time making new ones.”

  I force myself to swallow down a retort.

  “What do you know of the Vecturian Chief?” I ask her, to change the subject.

  She scoffs. “He’s a doddering old fool. You don’t want to marry him.”