Ash Princess

by Laura Sebastian

  “Where are we going, Søren?” I ask instead.

  “A little farther,” he says, walking ahead of me a few steps and feeling along the stone walls.

  I frown. “Is that all you’ll tell me?” I ask.

  He glances back at me over his shoulder and smiles. “I thought the element of surprise would appeal to your sense of adventure,” he says.

  “What makes you so sure I have one?” I volley back.

  “Call it a hunch.” He finds the stone he’s searching for and pushes it in. This one moves much more easily than the one I used when meeting with Blaise.

  The outside air kisses my skin, surprisingly chilly and smelling of salt. “The harbor?” I ask, surprised. I step out of the tunnel. Beneath my feet, the ground shifts from stone to sand. Waves crash in the distance. “No. The beach,” I realize, squinting to look out at the horizon.

  I don’t know what I’d been expecting, but it wasn’t this. I hadn’t even thought we’d be leaving the palace.

  “You said you like the sea,” he says, coming to stand next to me. He bends down, sticking the candle in the sand flame-first to extinguish it, leaving it there. “So do I. But that’s not the surprise.”

  He takes my hand as easily as breathing, as if he’s done it a thousand times before. My fingers are entwined with his, his callused palm pressing against mine as he pulls me after him. Though I know this is all a part of a game I’m orchestrating, a part of me wants to let go, not because his touch is repulsive, but because it should be and isn’t. Just as Artemisia pointed out, this is the son of the man who destroyed everything and everyone I loved. The boy who slaughtered nine of my people because his father told him to. I shouldn’t like the feel of his hand in mine, but I do.

  He leads me over a dune and toward the shore, where the waves lap at the sand and a small dark shape bobs just a few feet away. A boat, if it can truly be called that. It’s not a drakkar or even a schooner. It’s a sloop with a large mast, small hull, and a collapsed red sail.

  “You did promise my Shadows I’d be back in two hours,” I remind him. “What exactly did you have planned?”

  “Just a short trip. Don’t worry, she’s surprisingly fast—we’ll have time to spare,” he says.

  I have to gather my dress around my knees to keep it from getting wet as we wade into the water, but once we go deeper I give up and let it go. Søren doesn’t seem to spare a second thought to his own clothes getting wet. The water is up to my hips by the time we reach the back of the rocking boat, and Søren has to place his hands on my waist to boost me up. The skirt of my dress is soaked, but I do my best to wring it out. A second later, Søren lifts himself onto the boat. When he sees my skirt, he gives me a sheepish smile.

  “Sorry, I hadn’t thought about that,” he says. “I have a few sets of clothes downstairs if you want to change into something while that dries. They’re my sailing clothes, so they won’t be what you’re used to, but…” He trails off, catching himself rambling.

  He’s nervous, I realize, though the idea is laughable. Søren is stoic and unflappable, a Kalovaxian warrior down to his bones. How can he be nervous around me, of all people?

  “Thank you,” I tell him. “Are you going to change, too?”

  He nods. “In a minute,” he says. “I’m going to get us moving first.” He walks to the mast and lights two lanterns hanging there, flooding the area with a dim golden glow. He hands one to me before moving on to unfurl the sail.

  I leave him to it and start toward the cabin. The boat is small and sparsely built, in typical Kalovaxian fashion, but there’s a thick wool blanket spread out on the deck, with a wicker basket and another lantern on top to keep it from blowing away in the wind.

  The door swings open with just a nudge and I carefully step down a short set of stairs into the dark cabin. With the light of my lantern to see by, I can make out a room as sparely decorated as the rest of the ship, with a single narrow bed and a rickety set of drawers. Little as there is in the cabin, it’s a mess. The bed is rumpled and unmade, and there are clothes tossed haphazardly on the floor. I can’t resist a smirk at another unexpected side of Søren. Back at court, he’s always so impeccably put together, without a hair out of place or a single wrinkle in his clothes, but here at sea he’s a slob.

  I step gingerly over crumpled clothes and a few empty overturned tin cups and plates, making my way toward the set of drawers. Inside I find simple linen trousers and a white cotton shirt with buttons down the front. Both are far too big for me and I have to roll them up at the ankles and elbows to manage to move in them, but they’re comfortable and, though they’re clean, they still smell like Søren—salt water and fresh-cut wood.

  When I emerge back onto the deck, the sail is fully open and Søren is at the helm, his back to me. When he hears me approach, he turns around and immediately laughs at the sight of me.

  My cheeks warm. “It was the best I could do,” I say, tugging uncomfortably at the too-big shirt and making sure the trousers haven’t fallen too far down over my hips.

  “No, it isn’t that,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s just…strange to see you in my clothes.”

  “Not as strange as it feels,” I point out, glancing down at the trousers. I don’t think I could ever get used to wearing men’s clothes.

  His laughter subsides. “You still look beautiful,” he tells me, making the heat in my cheeks double. “If you’d like, you can go back in the cabin, where it’s a little warmer.”

  It’s my turn to laugh. “I don’t mean any offense, Søren, but I’ve never seen a room as messy as your cabin,” I tease.

  Now he’s the one blushing.

  “Besides,” I continue, turning my face up to take in the open sky, “I like it up here.”

  When I glance back at him, he’s watching me with a peculiar expression that sets my stomach fluttering. “Do you need help?” I ask him.

  He shakes his head. “That’s the beauty of Wås. She doesn’t need a crew, just me,” he says before tossing me a box of matches. Small as it is, it’s the most dangerous thing I’ve been trusted with under such little supervision. I can’t even use a steak knife when I eat alone in my rooms, though I don’t know who they think I’ll try to kill. Hoa? Or maybe they’re worried I’ll try to kill myself.

  “Can you light that lantern?” he asks, nodding at the one set up on the blanket.

  I tell him I can, though I’m not sure that’s the truth. I’ve seen other people light matches, but I’ve never done it myself. My first attempts are clumsy; I snap a couple of sticks before one finally sparks and frightens me so much I nearly drop it. I just manage to light the wick before it burns my fingers.

  “Wås,” I echo when it’s lit. I stretch out next to the lantern and lie down on my back, staring up at the black velvet sky above, studded with thousands of diamonds. There’s a chill in the air, but it’s just enough to dull an otherwise warm evening. “You named your ship after the goddess of cats?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “We still have about an hour and a half,” I remind him, propping myself up on my elbows and watching as he adjusts the angle of the sail to catch the wind. His white shirt ripples and lifts in the breeze to show the hard muscles of his stomach. I try not to stare, but he catches my look and smiles.

  “Fair enough. Give me one minute.” He trims the sail once more and ensures we’re heading in the right direction, then goes down to the cabin to change.

  While he’s gone, I lie down flat and stare up at the stars overhead. For the first time in a decade, I’m alone. I’m out of the palace, with the sky stretching out around me and fresh air in my lungs. It’s feeling I never want to forget.

  A few minutes later, Søren comes back and sits next to me, closer than I think he would dare if we were anywhere else. I sit up and lean back on my hands. There’s stil
l an inch between us, but even that space feels like the air in the second before lightning strikes.

  “So. Wås,” I prompt.

  His ears turn red. “My father gave it to me for my seventh birthday, but it was barely more than a hull then. It’s tradition for a boy to build his own first ship. It took four years before she was seaworthy, and another two before she was anything to be proud of. Now she’s the fastest ship in the harbor.”

  “Impressive,” I say, smoothing my hand over the polished wooden deck at the edge of the blanket. “But what does that have to do with cats?”

  His fingers pick at a pill in the wool. “The docks are overrun with them, as I’m sure you’ve seen. Of course, the more experienced sailors knew to scatter orange peels on their decks to keep the cats off the boats, but no one thought to tell me that. I suppose they thought it was funny to see an arrogant prinzling step onto his embarrassment of a ship only to find dozens of cats lying in wait. What was worse, the cats took a liking to me. A few of them would follow me around the dock like ducklings trailing after their mother. The men started to call me Wåskin.”

  Child of Wås. Hardly the most ferocious of nicknames. I give a snort of laughter and try to hide it before I realize Søren is laughing as well. I don’t think I’ve heard him laugh before, but something’s changed in him since we left the palace. He’s softer, more open here.

  I wish he weren’t, because it makes him easy to like.

  He shakes his head and smiles. It’s the first time I’ve seen him really smile, unguarded, and it sends all thoughts of plots and murder out of my head completely for an instant. For an instant, I let myself wonder what this would be like if I were just a girl having a secret rendezvous with a boy she might like. It’s a dangerous path for my thoughts to walk, but if I’m going to get him to fall in love with me, he needs to believe I care about him, too. So I can let myself, just for tonight, believe it’s that simple.

  “It was a well-earned nickname, I’ll admit,” he says, cheeks reddening. “And I’d taken a liking to the little beasts. They weren’t bothering anyone. The ship was just warm and smelled like fish.” He shrugs. He tries to keep the story light, but there’s a darkness in his eyes that won’t lift.

  “Your father didn’t like his heir being associated with the goddess of cats,” I guess.

  His mouth tightens. “He thought it was unbecoming for any Kalovaxian, let alone a prinz. He told me that either I could take care of it or he would. I was nine, but I already knew what that meant. And I tried, but orange peels wouldn’t work. They’d gotten so used to me, so attached, that there was nothing I could do to keep them away.”

  “So he had them killed?” I guess.

  Søren hesitates before shaking his head. “I did it,” he admits. “It seemed…nobler. They were my responsibility. And I made it as painless as I could. I poisoned the water I set out for them. No one called me Wåskin after that, at least not to my face.”

  He’s staring straight ahead, blue eyes unfocused and expression back to its usual hard-edged frown.

  It’s the sad story of a sheltered child. Dead pets aren’t so tragic when you’ve seen your mother slaughtered, when you’ve stabbed your own father in the back even as he sang you a lullaby. But still, Søren’s pain was real. So was his disillusionment. It was the moment he stopped being a child. Who am I to say that it wasn’t awful?

  “I’m sorry,” I tell him.

  He shakes his head and forces a smile. “My father didn’t get to be kaiser by being a kind man. You should know that better than anyone.”

  “And here I thought he got to be the Kaiser because he was born into the right family.”

  He gives me a sideways glance. “As a third son,” he says. “You haven’t heard the story?”

  “Your mother told me about her wedding. Was that a part of it?” I ask, frowning. The Kaiserin had said he had killed his siblings, but for some reason I’d imagined them younger. I’ve seen the way second and third sons move through the world. They’re hungry for attention and affection from anyone around them, or else they try their hardest to sink into the background. The Kaiser does neither. He owns the ground he walks on, the air he breathes. I suppose I assumed he’d been born like that.

  Søren shrugs. “My father wants things and he takes them,” he says. “Everyone else be damned.”

  The words send a shock through me. No one dares to speak like that about the Kaiser, and I didn’t expect it from Søren of all people. They may not be close, but he’s still his father. I’d thought it would take more effort to turn Søren against the Kaiser, but the Kaiser seems to have done a good enough job of that on his own.

  “As captain of this fine vessel, I have the right to make a few rules,” Søren says with a sigh, interrupting my thoughts.

  “Rules?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

  “Well, one rule,” he amends. “No more talk of my father.”

  I laugh, even though my mind is whirling, puzzling out how to push Søren’s feelings about his father further, how to twist them more in my favor. But there is time for plotting later; tonight I need to just be a girl alone on a boat with a boy she likes. Tonight I need to be Thora.

  “I like that rule,” I tell him, surprised to find that it’s the truth. I should be trying to coax more information out of him, but the prospect of a conversation that isn’t darkened by the Kaiser’s shadow is too much to pass up. “What happens if we break it?”

  Søren softens, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Well, there is a plank,” he says. He sits up and opens the wicker basket, pulling out a bottle of wine. “There aren’t, however, any glasses.”

  I laugh, sitting up as well. “How barbaric,” I tease.

  “The plank or the lack of glasses?” he asks, uncorking the bottle with his teeth.

  I consider it for a moment. “The lack of glasses. The plank is tolerable, I suppose, provided it’s well polished.” He passes me the open bottle of wine and I take a small swallow before passing it back to him. It’s barely a sip, but I need to keep my wits about me. “What else did you bring?” I ask, nodding toward the basket.

  He takes a significantly longer swig before passing the bottle back to me and digging through the basket. He pulls out a small chocolate cake, still warm from the oven, and two forks.

  “Forks!” I say, clapping my hands in glee. “If you hadn’t brought forks, I think I’d have gladly walked off the plank.”

  He holds one out to me, but pulls it back when I go to take it. “Just promise you won’t stab me with it?” he says. His voice is teasing, but guilt ties my stomach into knots.

  “Don’t be silly,” I say, keeping my voice light. “If I killed you here, however would I get back to shore?”

  He smiles and passes me the fork. I’m not sure if it’s the cake itself or everything else—the ocean, the sense of freedom, the way Søren’s looking at me—but it’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted. Though the cake is large enough for four people at least, it’s only a matter of moments before there is nothing left but crumbs and both of us are overstuffed and lying on our backs with our heads angled together.

  It’s so easy, I realize, to pretend to be the sort of girl who likes him. It makes me wonder how much I’m actually pretending. I’m comfortable around him. Talking with him like this, saying things we shouldn’t, feels as natural as breathing.

  He must feel it, too, because he turns his face slightly toward me. “What’s the Astrean word for cake?” he asks.

  It’s a dangerous question. After the siege, anytime I spoke Astrean, I would be hit. A sharp slap across the face, a fist to my ribs that would leave a bruise, a kick to my stomach that knocked the breath from me. I didn’t speak a word of Kalovaxian back then, but I learned quickly. Speaking Astrean now with my Shadows is one thing, but it feels like a trap to speak it with a Kalovaxian prinz. Wh
en I turn to look at Søren, though, his face is open and guileless.

  “Crâya,” I say after a second, before frowning. “But no, that’s not right. That refers to a lighter cake, usually lemon or some kind of citrus. Those were more common. This would have been called…” I trail off, struggling. We didn’t have chocolate cakes very often, maybe once or twice that I remember. I close my eyes, trying to recall. “Darâya,” I say finally.

  “Darâya,” he echoes, his accent abysmal. “And wine?”

  I hold up the bottle. The wine is light and crisp, and though I’ve only had half of what Søren had, I can already feel it working its way through me, making my mind buzz.

  “Vintá,” I say. “This one would be a pala vintá. If it were red, it would be roej vintá.”

  “Pala vintá.” He takes the bottle from me and takes another gulp. “Ship?”

  “Baut.”

  “Wind?”

  “Ozamini. Our air goddess was called Ozam, so it came from that,” I explain.

  “Hair?” He reaches out to touch mine, twirling a lock around his finger. I watch him, entranced. I inch closer without thinking. These are Thora’s feelings. They cannot belong to me, can they?

  “Fólti,” I say after a second.

  “Ocean?” I can feel his breath against my cheek as he moves closer. His face takes up my entire view, blotting out the sky, the stars, the moon. All I see is him.

  “Sutana.” The word is barely an exhale. “The same as Ozamini, but this time for the water goddess, Suta.”

  “Kiss?” His eyes never leave mine.

  I swallow. “Aminet.”

  “Aminet,” he repeats, savoring each syllable.

  I should be prepared for his mouth drifting toward mine. Little experience as I have, I know it’s coming; it’s what I’ve been working toward, after all. But I’m not ready for how much I want him to do it. Not me as Thora, the broken girl, or Theodosia, the vengeful queen. Just Theo, both and neither. Just me. And maybe out here, with no one to see us but the stars, I can be that girl for just a moment.