A thought comes to mind and joins with another—a foolish, desperate idea taking shape. “Erik and I made plans to go back to the refugee camp today to bring more food,” I say. “That’s where I was—visiting Søren with Erik. If there are any Astreans left who may know something about mine madness, maybe they’re there.”
“Maybe,” Artemisia says, though she doesn’t sound sure.
“How much food have you amassed, Heron?” I ask him. It’s a struggle to speak normally with the debris from Blaise’s outburst all around us, but I force myself to. If I dwell on it and what it means, I’ll go mad myself. It’s a problem I have to solve, that’s all, and I can do that while helping the refugees at the same time. I focus on that—the solution rather than the problem—and it’s the only thing keeping me from falling apart.
“Not enough,” Heron says. “But then, I don’t think it’s possible to smuggle enough out to feed them all without it being missed. If I take another couple of passes through the kitchen, though, I should have all that we can carry with us.”
I nod. “Do it, then,” I say. “Erik and Hoa are coming as well, we’re meeting them in an hour. Art, will you see what you can overhear people saying about the earthquake? I can’t imagine anyone would think it was anything other than natural, but I want to be sure.”
They both nod and hurry out, leaving Blaise and me alone.
I wring my hands. Blaise and I go to such lengths to avoid talking about his worsening instability that I’m not sure how to bring it up now.
“I can’t stay in the palace, Theo,” he says after a moment passes in silence. “I can set up a tent outside the capital walls, far enough away that I won’t hurt anyone. But I’ll be close enough to help if you need me.”
“You would leave me here alone?” I ask.
He winces. “Don’t do that,” he says. “You wouldn’t be alone. You would have Heron and Art.”
“It isn’t the same. They don’t see me the way you do. They never knew me before all of this. I need you, Blaise.” My voice breaks and I shake my head. “We’ll go to the camp first. We’ll find information. If you still want to leave after that, I won’t stop you.”
He shakes his head. “We can’t just ask strangers about this. If anyone else finds out—”
“Heron and Artemisia know and they haven’t done anything,” I point out. “They don’t treat you any differently.”
“Because they’re my friends,” he says. “But even Art will if it happens again. Strangers? They’ll try to kill me on the spot.”
“Well, we won’t tell them it’s you. We’ll just ask some hypothetical questions, gather general knowledge.”
“There’s no way that won’t sound suspicious,” he says.
“Then we’ll hide one inquiry in another,” I say, an idea coming to me. “We’ll see if anyone knows something about what happened to Cress, why she has Houzzah’s gift after drinking the Encatrio. And then we can go from there.”
Blaise gives a labored sigh, but he doesn’t disagree, and that’s something.
“Chances are it won’t lead to anything,” he says after a moment, toying with the Earth Gem bracelet I gave him half a lifetime ago. He keeps it tucked in his pocket usually, but now he’s rolling it between his fingers absentmindedly. “There’s no cure for mine madness.”
It isn’t mine madness, I want to say, but I’m not sure it isn’t anymore. What is mine madness, after all, but a gift given to someone unable to handle it? Maybe it isn’t something completely separate from being blessed. Maybe they are two sides of the same coin. I realize with a jolt how little I know about my own country. Though I’m more adult than child now, I understand little more about the gods and the mines than I did at the age of six.
Blaise is holding the Earth Gem bracelet so tightly his knuckles have gone white.
“Maybe you shouldn’t have that,” I say, nodding toward it. “Maybe it’s making it worse.”
His grip tightens even more. “No, it helps,” he says. “It channels it into something manageable, more often than not.”
I bite my lip and look back up at him. “I can’t lose you, Blaise,” I tell him quietly. “If there’s even the slightest chance that we can help you, we have to take it.”
Blaise doesn’t say anything for a moment, his jaw clenched tight. Finally, he nods. “All right, Theo,” he says. “We’ll try. But if it comes to nothing, I’m leaving.”
A sick feeling spreads through my stomach at the idea, but I nod my head. Tentatively, I step forward and fold him into my arms again. At first, his body is stiff and unyielding, but finally he softens, holding me like I’m as fragile as the vase was before he shattered it.
“I love you,” I tell him, my voice muffled against his shoulder. Maybe it is another manipulation, more words wielded like the only weapon I have at my disposal, but that doesn’t make them untrue. It feels good to say them out loud.
Blaise’s breath hitches and a part of me feels guilty. As honest as the words might be, I know my motivations for saying them here and now are tangled. I’m telling him what he needs to hear in order to give me what I want.
I push my guilt aside and focus on Blaise, standing in front of me. Blaise who needs to keep fighting, no matter what. Blaise, who I don’t know how to survive without. I don’t want to learn how to. I just want him, healthy and happy at my side, ready to reclaim our home, save our people, and avenge our parents.
“I love you, too, Theo,” he says, his voice barely louder than a whisper.
Though I already knew that, his words still send a flutter through my chest. I pull back slightly to look at him.
“Then don’t you dare leave me. I don’t care if Glaidi herself tries to usher you to the After. You say, ‘Not today.’ Do you hear me?”
Blaise swallows, the lump in his throat bobbing. “I hear you,” he says.
The words don’t mean much; we both know that people don’t have a choice in when death comes for them—we’ve lost far too many people before their time. But it’s nice to pretend for a moment that we do have some control over it.
ONCE WE’VE EATEN BREAKFAST AND dressed, the four of us go to meet Erik and Hoa by the palace entrance. The sunlight is so bright it’s blinding, and I have to shade my eyes as I step out the front door of the palace. Artemisia reported that the damage from the earthquake was, thankfully, minimal—mostly just cosmetic damage to the palace tower. Nothing more than some broken knickknacks and baubles, a few wall sconces that fell, some cracked tile floors. Nothing that King Etristo won’t be able to have repaired quickly.
Nothing this time, I think, though I force the thought aside.
“Queen Theodosia,” a voice calls out. When my eyes adjust to the brightness, I realize that it’s only Coltania, dressed in a red silk dress that wraps tightly around her figure, highlighting the curve of her waist and the swell of her hips and chest.
Though I’m relieved it’s her and not a Sta’Criveran courtier, annoyance still sparks. Why is she out and about when Søren is locked away in a dank dungeon? She should be working on the truth serum so he can prove his innocence. I can’t imagine she’s doing any work in that dress.
“Salla Coltania,” I say, forcing a smile.
She holds her hands out to take mine before leaning in to kiss each of my cheeks twice. She laughs when she sees my surprise.
“An Orianic custom for greeting friends,” she explains. “An old habit, I’m sorry.”
“Not at all,” I say, though I can feel traces of her sticky red lip varnish left behind on my cheeks. I resist the urge to wipe them away—I know it’s not the same, but it reminds me of the Kaiser marking me with an ash handprint at banquets.
“Did you feel that earthquake earlier? Quite frightful. But it’s a lovely day out now. Marzen and I were going to have another picnic—you should join us.
” She glances at my Shadows, gathered behind me. “Your…companions are welcome to come, too, of course.”
I force a smile. “It was a frightful earthquake, but I understand they’re common in the area,” I say, though I don’t know if that’s true. Coltania frowns, but before she can question it, I continue. “That is a very kind invitation, but I’m afraid with Prinz Søren imprisoned, I’ve decided not to meet with any suitors. He is my diplomatic liaison, after all, and I require his guidance in these matters. Surely you understand—this is a decision that should not be made lightly.”
Coltania’s eyebrows lift. “I didn’t realize his guidance was so necessary to you, Your Majesty,” she says.
I laugh. “Why else would I keep him on my council?” I fake a look of surprise. “Oh, Salla Coltania, you didn’t believe those rumors, did you?” I ask.
She looks torn for a moment before her expression softens. “What rumors?” she asks with a wink.
I change the subject. “I understand that you’re the one helping King Etristo’s apothecaries with the truth serum?”
“Yes, it seems the least I can do to get to the bottom of this mess. After what happened to the poor Archduke—and what nearly happened to you!”
“Tragic,” I agree. “I am glad that you’re helping. With all your scientific skills, I’m sure Søren’s name will be cleared in no time and we can get back to business.”
She inclines her head. “Of course, Your Majesty. I will do my best, though it could take as long as a week, depending on the availability of some of the rarer ingredients.”
I reach out to squeeze her arm. “I believe in your talents. Please enjoy your picnic and tell your brother I say hello. Hopefully, I will be able to spend time with you and Chancellor Marzen again soon.”
When we walk away from Coltania and down the palace steps, Artemisia comes to walk beside me, leaving Heron and Blaise trailing by a few feet.
“I honestly can’t tell if you like her or not,” she remarks.
“I don’t think I know myself,” I admit. “I respect her, at least.”
As we come down the steps, I search the bustling crowd for Erik and Hoa. In their Gorakian brocade, they should stand out, but I see no sign of them. When we reach the bottom step, two figures approach, covered from head to toe in ecru robes. With their hoods drawn up over their heads, their faces are cast in shadow. At first, I think they must be two of the Manadolian priests, who always wear dour, conservative clothes, even in the sweltering heat, but when one draws his hood back slightly, giving me a look at his face, I realize it’s Erik. Which means that the smaller figure beside him must be Hoa.
“That is quite a disguise,” I say to him in Kalovaxian. “Though it seems a bit unnecessary.”
“Easy for you to say,” he mutters. “The Sta’Criverans don’t spit at your back and call you enta crusten.”
I frown. “Enta crusten?” I repeat.
His face reddens. “From what I gather, it’s Sta’Criveran for ‘the cursed.’ A bit of a blanket term for Gorakians. It seems our presence is being blamed for that earthquake. Apparently, Sta’Crivero has not had an earthquake in centuries.”
I struggle to keep my expression even. “Is that so?” I ask before I remember something. “Søren said the Sta’Criverans thought of the refugees as cursed, that they locked them up behind that wall to keep their curse from spreading.”
As if being conquered by the Kaiser and ravaged by his Kalovaxian armies were a disease that can be passed from person to person, country to country. As if it were that simple.
“You should keep your hood up then,” Heron tells Erik, glancing around to see if anyone’s noticed him. “At least until we’re out of the city.”
Erik sighs but draws his hood back up, though not before winking at Heron. “Seems a pity to hide this face from the world, but I suppose you’re right.”
As the group of us files through the city streets, I glance over to see that Heron’s face is the color of strawberry jam.
* * *
—
Erik, Hoa, and I fall back so that Blaise, Heron, and Artemisia can barter for horses without worrying about us being recognized. The unfortunate side of it is that we can only take three horses. I’m all right with the arrangement, since I can’t ride anyway, but Erik seems a bit miffed at the idea of sharing a horse with another rider.
“I haven’t ridden as a passenger since I was a child,” he says.
“If you’d rather lead the horse, it doesn’t matter to me,” Heron tells him, though he’s having trouble looking Erik in the eye as he says it. “I mean…if you want to ride with me. You could ride with Blaise, too, or Art, I suppose, though I doubt either of them would let you take the reins.”
Erik is surprised for a moment, looking at Heron like he’s not quite sure what to make of him. “All right,” he says finally. “Thank you.”
Heron shrugs and looks away again.
“I’ll take Theo, then,” Artemisia says in Astrean before Blaise can offer. “Blaise, you’ll take Hoa.”
Hoa looks confused, having understood only her name. I quickly translate for her.
Hoa considers this for a moment, sizing up Blaise before giving a decisive nod. “He will do,” she tells me.
“As much of a pain as it is, I think we’ll have to speak Kalovaxian so that everyone understands each other,” I say. “Otherwise we’ll have to keep translating for Erik and Hoa.”
Artemisia rolls her eyes. “I hate speaking in this language,” she says in harshly accented Kalovaxian, mispronouncing a few words. “It feels like yet another violation.”
Hoa looks at her like it’s the first time she’s seen her. “I’m sorry,” she says. Her Kalovaxian is more fluid but still uneven.
Artemisia is surprised at the apology and gets a bit flustered—a new look for her but one that I can’t help but take some pleasure in.
“It’s all right,” she tells Hoa after a moment. “I just meant…It was nothing against you. I was only complaining.”
“She does that a lot,” I tell Hoa. “You shouldn’t take it personally.”
Artemisia glowers at me but doesn’t protest, just pinches my arm.
“And for that,” she tells me, “I’m going to ride extra fast.”
My stomach churns in anticipation.
“Then I’ll vomit all over you,” I reply.
Hoa laughs, a sound I’ve never heard before. It’s a melodic laugh that reminds me of birdsong at the start of the day. It’s beautiful.
MY THREAT OF VOMIT SEEMS to have worked—the horse practically glides over the flat expanse of the desert with Artemisia at the reins. She leads the pack the whole way there, but I find I don’t mind the speed as much as I thought I would.
When we arrive, Heron, Blaise, and Erik unload the packs of food attached to each of our horses while Hoa, Artemisia, and I start for the gate. I can’t help but glance over my shoulder at Blaise as we go, looking for signs of his outburst only hours earlier, but he’s just as he always is and there is something both comforting and disconcerting about that.
The guards outside are the same as last time, with the stone faces and the curved blades sheathed at their hips. When we approach, they barely spare us a look.
“We’re here to…” I start, but trail off. How was it phrased last time? “Look for labor. And we’ve brought payment for past labors,” I add, gesturing behind me at the boys carrying the food.
The guards exchange skeptical looks, but apparently they don’t care enough to call me out on the lie. With an annoyed sigh, one of them opens the single door, ushering us through.
Again it is like hitting a wall of hot, stale air that smells of disease and rot. I’m expecting it this time, so I don’t react, but Hoa is not prepared. Next to me, she coughs and gags, covering her nose and mouth with an a
rm to block out the stench. Her dark eyes dart around the decrepit camp—the small houses that are falling apart, the dirty streets, the people in their torn clothes, some of whom are so skinny that their bones jut out beneath their skin like they aren’t fully of this world.
For a moment, there’s horror and disgust and sadness in her expression, but just as quickly as it appeared, it seals itself away behind her mask of placid stoicism.
Suddenly, I see it—that other life she lived before I knew her, the emperor’s daughter she once was, raised to greet every situation with a level head and diplomacy. Never emotional, never vulnerable. I can’t believe I ever saw her as anything else.
“There are refugees from every country the Kalovaxians have conquered here,” I explain. “Some families have been here for generations. They speak a kind of mishmash language, words and phrases taken from one country or another. And there is a council of Elders who represent each community. That’s who we’ll be meeting with.”
A group of children—the same ones from our last visit—run up with their hands out, wide smiles stretched over crooked teeth. I can’t help but smile back, as much as the sight of them with their protruding ribs and grimy faces breaks my heart. I dig into my pockets and take a handful of jewels I picked off of the dresses left in my closet. One by one, I pass them out to the children who cling to my skirt and tug at my arms.
“Ojo,” one of them shouts, and the others quickly join in, chanting the word until their voices blend into one.
Next to me, Hoa stiffens. I don’t know what the word means, but she does.
She clears her throat. “ ‘Prinzessin,’ ” she says to me. “Ojo was our word for it in Goraki, what we called the daughter of the emperor. It was what they called me then. It’s what they’re calling you now, though you’re more than a prinzessin. They don’t know that yet, but you will show them.”
She sounds so sure of me, more sure than I’ve ever felt. For so many years we suffered side by side. She was a stranger, sealed away behind her silence and the distance she kept to protect us both. But I was not a stranger to her; I was a girl she bathed and dressed and put to bed every night. She saw more of me than she did of her own son.
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