“After the rebel’s execution,” I say after a moment, choosing my words carefully, “I was disturbed. There was so much blood and I felt sick about it. Søren found me afterward in the hall and I suppose he took pity on me. That’s when he told me to call him Søren. And then I thanked him by vomiting all over him.” I cover my face with my hands in a show of mortification.
“Oh, Thora,” Cress sighs, and her expression shifts. She looks relieved, though she tries to hide it. “That’s awful! How embarrassing.” She takes my hand and pats it soothingly, pitying me once more.
“It was,” I say. “But he was so nice about it. That’s what we talked about at the banquet. I apologized and he said it was nothing to worry about. He’s very kind.”
Cress bites her lip. “But you don’t like him, do you?”
“Absolutely not.” I laugh, trying my best to seem surprised. “He’s a friend, I suppose, but that’s it. And he’s certainly not interested in me. Do you think a boy has ever fancied a girl after she vomited on him?”
Cress smiles, relief flooding her face before she glances at the strewn dresses again and frowns. “No idea of his favorite color, though?” she asks.
“He probably likes black best. Or gray. Something gloomy and serious,” I say, and do my best impression of stone-faced Søren, furrowing my brow and pursing my lips. It’s enough to make Cress giggle, though she quickly covers her mouth with her hand.
“Thora!” she exclaims, trying to come off as chiding but failing miserably.
“Honestly, though,” I say. “Have you ever seen him smile?”
“No,” she admits. “But being a warrior is an awfully serious business. My father doesn’t smile much either.”
Small as it is, hearing Søren likened to the Theyn is enough to remind me who he is and what he’s capable of. Maybe he is kind, but how much blood is there on his hands? How many mothers has he killed?
I force a smile. “I’m only saying that you deserve someone who will make you happy,” I tell her gently.
She thinks about it for a moment, chewing on her bottom lip. “Being a prinzessin will make me happy,” she says decisively. “And being a kaiserin one day will make me happier.”
She sounds so sure of the future in front of her that I almost envy her, even though if I have my say she will never get it. Guilt hits again, but I try to ignore it. I can’t feel bad about Cress not getting her storybook ending when my people are dying. Instead, I reach for another dress, this one a pale blue Kalovaxian gown embroidered with gold flowers. I shake it out and hold it up.
“This is lovely, Cress,” I tell her. “The color will bring out your eyes.”
She considers it for a moment, eyes darting between the dress and me. The wheels of her mind are turning. “It’s boring,” she says finally before looking down at my dress. “I adore yours, though.”
“This?” I glance down at the blood-orange Astrean chiton I’m wearing. “You gave this to me months ago, don’t you remember? You said the color didn’t suit you.”
It was something she did often, ordering the tailor to make dresses she knew wouldn’t suit her so that she had an excuse to pass them on to me. Most of my gowns were once Cress’s, and they’re far more wearable than the ones the Kaiser sends me, which are usually designed to keep my back bare and my scars visible.
“Did I?” she asks, frowning. “I think I might be able to pull it off.” Her mouth purses before curving into a grin. “I have a splendid idea, Thora. Why don’t I try your dress on and you can try on one of mine? Just to see how it looks?”
I cannot for the life of me imagine what would be fun about that, but the only reply I can give is to wholeheartedly agree.
The orange color of my dress looks garish on her, clashing with her rosy skin and yellow hair—which was the reason she never wore it when it was hers—but she isn’t dissuaded. She turns every which way in front of her mirror, looking at her reflection from all angles with a critical pleat to her forehead and a glow in her eyes that I’d find frightening if I didn’t know her as well as I do. It’s a look she’s inherited from her father, but while the Theyn gets it in the heat of battle, Crescentia wears hers in a different kind of war.
It’s only when she has me don a gray velvet Kalovaxian dress that covers me from chin to wrists to ankles in one shapeless heap that I realize it’s me she’s waging war against. I don’t doubt that she believed me about the Prinz, but I suppose Cress isn’t one to leave anything to chance.
“That color looks so darling on you, Thora,” she says. Her smile is sweet but false. She tilts her head thoughtfully, letting her slate gaze travel over me. “Why, you look positively Kalovaxian, if you ask me.”
Her words rankle, but I try not to show it, forcing a smile instead. “Not nearly as pretty as you, of course,” I say, telling her what she wants to hear. “The Prinz won’t be able to take his eyes off you.”
Her smile grows somewhat warmer as she calls for Elpis to come dress her hair. Her already minuscule sense of subtlety disappears when she instructs the girl to make it look like mine. Elpis gives me a brief, furtive look before setting to work heating up a pair of curling tongs in the dying embers of Crescentia’s fireplace.
“You’ll need something pretty to pin it back with,” I tell Crescentia, taking the opportunity to flip open the lid of her jewelry box and rummage through her wealth of baubles.
Like most court women, her collection is largely made up of Water and Air Gems for beauty and grace, with a few Fire Gems mixed in for warmth during the winter months. Unlike most women, Crescentia has one or two Earth Gems as well. Usually they’re built into sword hilts or embedded in armor to give warriors extra strength, and court women have no use for them, but it isn’t surprising the Theyn wanted his only child to take extra strength where she could get it.
I find a gold hairpin studded with Water Gems so dark they’re nearly black and hold it up. “This would complement the dress prettily, don’t you think?”
She glances at the pin in my hair, set with simple pearls, lips pursing thoughtfully. “If you like it so much, you wear it. I’ll wear yours.”
Too easy, I think, struggling to look put out. I slide the pin from my hair and pass it to her, replacing it with the Water Gem one. I’m not supposed to have Spiritgems, the Kaiser made that plain decades ago, but either Crescentia has forgotten or she doesn’t care at the moment. Either way, I’m not about to remind her.
The Water Gems send a thrum beneath my skin, working all the way down to my toes. The power dances under my fingertips, begging me to call on it. I have no cause to change my appearance, no thirst for water, but the need to use the gems pulls at me until it fills my mind with a pleasant buzz that is never quite enough.
This temptation was never there before the siege, when only Guardians carried a single gem each, but I remember holding Ampelio’s Fire Gem and feeling its power course through me. I remember him cautioning me never to use it, his usually jovial expression suddenly somber and heavy.
I push aside the memory and focus on the task at hand and sift through the jewel box again, pretending to look for earrings for Cress. As ugly as the dress is, I’m grateful for the long sleeves. They make it easy to slip an earring and a bracelet against my wrist, hidden from sight. Pressed up against my pulse, the Spiritgems find a steady rhythm I can’t ignore, echoing my heartbeat.
My fingers linger on a Fire Gem, though I know there’s no need for it. If the other gems buzz through me pleasantly, the Fire Gem feels like stepping into a familiar dream. Everything around me turns soft and light and comforting. It wraps around me like my mother’s arms, and for the first time in a decade, I feel safe. I feel in control. I need it more than I need to breathe. With just an ounce of power, just a touch of fire, I could maybe hold my own in this nightmare. And if I truly am descended from Houzzah, how can calling on his
power be considered sacrilege? But I asked my mother the same question once, and I still remember her answer.
“A Guardian must dedicate themselves to their god above all else, but being queen means dedicating yourself to your country above else. You cannot do both. You can love the gods, you can love me, you can love whomever you wish to love in this world, but Astrea will always come first. Everyone and everything else gets only the leftover scraps. That was Houzzah’s gift to our family, but also his curse.”
I know that she was right, even as I wish she weren’t. It would be so much easier if I could call fire to my fingertips the way Ampelio could, but how would I be any different from my enemies then? I’m as untrained as any Kalovaxian, and most days I don’t give the gods a second thought. I only pray to them when I need something. If I were to set foot in the mines and try to seek their favor, try to train to wield a Spiritgem, the gods would surely strike me down.
Seeing the Kalovaxians wield power that they didn’t earn, that they didn’t sacrifice for, has always made me sick to my stomach. I will not go against my gods and risk their wrath. Besides, I am too much like the Kalovaxians already. This is the line I will not cross.
SØREN SET UP THE ROYAL family’s private terrace for our lunch and spared no luxury in his effort. The table is carved from solid marble and so heavy that I’m sure it took a small army—and a fair share of Earth Gems—to drag it out here from the formal dining room where it normally resides. On the table is a painted vase filled with fresh-cut marigolds at peak bloom and four gold place settings. All of it belonged to my mother once, and if I try hard enough, I can see her sitting there, across from me, sipping spiced honey coffee and talking about silly things like the weather and my lessons, blissfully unaware of the battalions closing in around us.
The sun is high in the sky when Cress and I step out onto the pavilion, and it streams through the red silk awning, casting the space in a garish light, but the view from here is breathtaking—all rolling ocean and cloudless sky and a few ships so small they’re the size of my pinky nail.
So much distance, I think. In ten years, I’ve never gone farther from the palace than the harbor. It’s easy to forget how big the world really is, but from here I can see miles and miles of ocean in three directions.
One day soon, I’ll be free again.
Prinz Søren and Erik stand up when Cress and I approach, both of them dressed in traditional Kalovaxian suits. I wasn’t expecting Erik, but I’m glad to see him. He treated me like a person, which is more than I can say about most Kalovaxians. It’s difficult to say whether Erik or Søren looks more uncomfortable in the layers of silk and velvet, though I suppose it must be Erik. At least Søren’s suit was made to fit him. Erik’s is clearly secondhand, too tight in some places, too loose in others.
“Ladies,” Søren says, bowing as we curtsy. “I’m glad you could join us. You remember Erik. From the ship?”
“Of course,” I say. I don’t have to look at Cress to see the blank expression on her face. She only had eyes for the Prinz that day. I doubt she could have picked Erik out from a crowd if she’d been asked to.
“It’s good to see you again, Erik,” I add with a smile.
His quick blue eyes dart between Cress and me in amusement. “You as well, Lady Thora. You both look lovely, of course,” he says, pulling my chair out for me. When he goes to push me in, he drops his voice low so that only I can hear it. “Did you lose a bet of some kind?”
I stifle a grimace. “Crescentia was kind enough to lend me her dress.”
“Yes,” he says, barely holding back laughter. “Very kind.”
“And let me guess,” I say wryly, glancing at Cress, who’s already drawn Søren deep into a conversation about a letter she received from her father. “Our Prinz was kind enough to invite you to enjoy a good meal before you set off to Vecturia?”
He lifts a dark eyebrow and drops his voice as well. “I was mistaken, Thora. It’s only trade-route issues. Far less interesting.”
He’s as bad a liar as Søren, unable to look at me when he does it.
I fake a laugh. “Trade routes, Vecturia. To me, one is as interesting as the other. I don’t even know where Vecturia is,” I lie.
He smiles, relieved. “I won’t lie to you, Thora. I’ve got a month or so of hardtack and watered-down ale to look forward to. Søren offered me a good last meal as a distraction today, and I couldn’t take him up on it quick enough.”
He glances pointedly to the other end of the table, where Crescentia and Søren are in conversation about the Theyn, though Søren’s eyes keep darting about like he’s searching for an escape. They meet mine briefly before slipping away again.
I turn back to Erik, raising an eyebrow. “They make a sweet couple, don’t they?”
“I don’t think sweet is the word Søren would use,” Erik says, lowering his voice to a whisper. “The Kaiser has been pushing the match since Søren got back.”
Søren clears his throat loudly across the table, shooting Erik a pleading glance. “Erik actually got his start with me under your father’s command as well,” he tells Cress. “Isn’t that right, Erik?”
“Duty calls,” Erik murmurs to me before leaning toward Cress.
“That’s true, Lady Crescentia. I was twelve at the time. It felt like I was meeting a god,” he says. “In fact, would you do me the honor of taking a walk around the pavilion while we wait for food to arrive? I can tell you stories about him you’d find quite amusing.”
Cress frowns, eyes narrow. She’s about to refuse with some excuse or other, but Søren cuts her off.
“Erik is the most gifted storyteller, Lady Crescentia,” he says. “I think you would enjoy walking with him for a moment.”
Crescentia’s nostrils narrow—the only outward sign of her displeasure, and one that likely went unnoticed by Søren and Erik. With a gracious smile, she rises and takes Erik’s proffered arm, allowing him to escort her to the edge of the pavilion, casting a wary glance at me over her shoulder.
Søren reaches for the crystal wine decanter and moves his chair a few inches closer to mine as he pours me a glass, the liquid as red as fresh blood. He doesn’t look at me, instead focusing on the task at hand and taking his time with it. A lock of golden hair falls into his eyes, but he makes no move to push it aside.
I’m painfully aware of Cress just a few feet away. Though she’s out of earshot and politely listening to Erik’s story about his first battle under the Theyn’s command, her eyes dart to me every few seconds, wary and suspicious.
The whole court wants to see Søren and Cress married, it seems. Cress and her father certainly want it, and Erik said the Kaiser was pushing for it as well. The only one dragging his feet about it is Søren, and I don’t understand why. Kalovaxian marriages are never about love—that’s what affairs are for. Marriages are about power, and as such, marrying Cress should suit Søren just fine.
“Thank you,” I say to him when my glass is full.
His bright blue eyes snap to mine and linger for a moment before he shakes his head and drops his gaze. He knows I’m not thanking him for the wine, but for talking to his mother for me, for saving me from becoming Lord Dalgaard’s latest victim.
“Don’t mention it,” he says. I can’t tell if it’s modesty or a command.
We lapse into a tense silence again, full of things that can’t be said, lies that I’m worried he’ll see through. Just over an hour ago, I was casually planning to murder him, but sitting across from him now—a living, breathing person—it seems impossible. I fear my plots are written across my face. Finally the silence becomes unbearable and I settle instead for almost-truths.
“I don’t think I’ve ever spoken to your mother privately before. It was…enlightening. I like her.”
“She likes you, too,” he says.
Across the pavilion, C
ress’s looks are getting more pointed, her eyes boring into me no matter how many reassuring smiles I give her. I angle away from Søren, deciding to stop looking at him as well. Which makes my job even more difficult; Søren will be leaving again soon, so my time is limited.
I can make it up to Cress later, ply her with excuses and flattery and delusions about Søren really being interested in her. For the first time in ten years, I let my own needs take precedence over Cress’s.
Playing the damsel in distress always leaves me with a sour taste in my mouth, but I can’t deny its effectiveness.
“I asked a lot of you when I asked you to stop my engagement,” I whisper, making my voice small and fractured, like a dam about to break. “I’m so grateful that you did, truly, but I would hate to think doing so caused trouble for you. I just want to apologize—”
“You never have to apologize to me,” he interrupts, startled. He lowers his voice. “After everything that’s been done to you, the scars on your back, the things he’s made you do. You should hate him. You should hate me.”
“I don’t hate you,” I tell him, and I’m surprised to realize it’s the truth. Whatever I feel for Søren, it isn’t hate.
Pity, maybe.
Heron’s voice echoes in my mind, asking me if I was capable of killing Søren. Yes, I’d told him then, and that’s what the answer still has to be. Pity or no pity.
Søren’s eyes search my face, but now I can’t look at him. I keep my gaze trained on the gold silk tablecloth, remembering my mother’s dark, freckled hands smoothing it down, tugging at its corners so that it lay flat. She always fidgeted when she was nervous, and I’ve inherited that habit. It takes all my self-control to keep my hands motionless in my lap, not to twist my napkin or twirl the stem of my wineglass. The Spiritgems are still caught firmly between the sleeve of my dress and my skin, but I’m worried that any movement will set them loose and I’ll have no way to explain that.
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