“We’re at war,” I tell him. “Trouble is inevitable, and I’m ready to handle my share.”
“Running is the last option,” Artemisia adds. “It’s all well and good to act like Theo’s made of glass—by all means, keep that illusion up once we get to Etristo’s court—but she isn’t. And as much as we might not want to admit it, we need Etristo. We need his help far more than he needs anything from us, and you ought to believe he’s keenly aware of that fact.” She turns to me. “You are sweet and docile and dumb.”
I recoil. “Excuse me?”
She smirks. “Another role to play. You’re very good at playing roles.”
I’m tempted to look at Søren, who’s too busy rowing to talk but can certainly hear every word.
“Let them believe you are dim,” Artemisia continues. “The King, his court, your suitors. If they believe you to be an idiot, they will underestimate you. Let them.”
I swallow before nodding. The idea of going back to pretending to be someone I’m not rankles, but I know she’s right.
* * *
—
Sta’Crivero is a country of sand. As we approach the shore, I scan the horizon but there is little to see. Rolling dunes crest like waves all the way to the horizon, unbroken by trees or any kind of foliage. It doesn’t look like the sort of place where anything could survive.
As the boat beaches, I see a hint of movement on the horizon. A line of white carriages approaches, though the sun’s rays make the shape of them hazy and unclear.
The first thing I notice once Blaise helps me out of the boat and onto the Sta’Criveran shore is the heat. It was hot enough on the boat, but the water surrounding us cooled the air somewhat. On the shore, there is no solace. The sun is so bright I have to squint and shield my eyes to see anything.
The carriages stop a good distance away, fanning out into a semicircle. Now that they’re closer, I can see the open tops, covered only by white cloth awnings. Each carriage is filled with a handful of men and women dressed head to toe in loose white clothing.
“The King and his entourage,” Søren says, coming to stand at my side.
“Is the white of cultural significance?” I ask, dragging the back of my hand across my forehead to wipe away beads of sweat.
“No,” Artemisia says, appearing at my other side. “It deflects the sun’s rays to keep them cool while they’re out of the palace. Once they’re inside, they’ll wear more color.”
I can see the appeal of the lighter garments. My dark purple gown is sleeveless and made of airy silk, but I am already sweating under the heat of the high sun. Even though Heron mended its tears and Artemisia used her Water Gift to clean it, it still reminds me of the last time I wore it, back in the dungeon. Art and Heron did a good job of fixing it—it looks the same as the day Cress gave it to me, which seems unfair somehow, given how much I’ve changed since then.
“They aren’t moving,” I point out, watching the Sta’Criverans watching me.
“They expect us to go to them,” Dragonsbane says, approaching from her boat with Anders and Eriel. She looks uncomfortable in her own gown, black silk and so high-necked that it looks like it’s choking her. “Etristo wants us to remember who is in control here.”
She doesn’t sound happy about that, but she’s resigned. Artemisia moves back as her mother approaches, giving Dragonsbane room to loop her arm through mine and pull me into step with her.
“You’ll let me do the talking,” she says, not bothering to soften the command into a request. “Smile and nod and keep your answers short and charming. You can do that, can’t you?”
I resist the urge to pull my arm from hers, but I’m acutely aware of everyone watching. What she’s saying isn’t so different from what Artemisia said just moments ago, but it feels a world apart. Artemisia told me to act stupid; Dragonsbane is treating me like I am stupid.
“Of course, Aunt,” I say with a saccharine smile. After all, there’s no reason playing stupid shouldn’t extend to Dragonsbane as well. I can’t imagine that her underestimating me won’t end up coming in handy.
As we draw closer, I get a better look at the Sta’Criverans. Though their clothing is similar, the people are all strikingly different from each other. Unlike Kalovaxians, who are uniformly fair-haired and pale-skinned, or Astreans, who are tawny-skinned with dark brown and black shades of hair, Sta’Criverans have a variety of different skin tones, from a near jet-black to the color of the sand around us. And the hair! Though hats cover most of it to block out the sun’s rays, what bits stick out are every color imaginable. Deep bluish black, white blond, fire red, and everything in between.
As we get closer, I realize that the horses hitched to the carriages have jewels woven into their manes and tails that glitter in the sunlight. My first thought is that they are Spiritgems to help them go faster, but no. There are too many different colors, none of them the telltale clear of Air Gems. They are just for show.
I remember what Artemisia said about the Sta’Criverans—they have no need for useful things, so they value pretty things instead.
When we’re halfway between the shore and the carriages, Dragonsbane stops short and I follow suit. The others fall in behind us.
“We can’t seem too eager, can we?” she asks me. “They’ll come the rest of the way.”
I nod, though I’m not sure she’s right. For an uncomfortable few moments, the Sta’Criverans stay put in their carriages, watching us like we’re a group of strange new beasts brought in for them to ogle. A handful of them bring gilded telescopes to their eyes for a better look. Under their expectant gaze and the hot sun overhead, I start to sweat more through my dress, and I will myself not to. That is hardly the first impression I want to make on King Etristo.
I open my mouth to suggest to Dragonsbane that we surrender what little pride we still have and walk the rest of the way to them, when the Sta’Criverans’ attention is diverted to something happening on their side, out of my view.
“Finally,” Dragonsbane mutters under her breath.
Four white-clad men are now making their way toward us, carrying a large cloth-draped box between them. They move quickly, the box balanced between them on metal rods, marching with such ease across the sand dunes that I’d imagine they do this regularly.
The rest of the Sta’Criverans hurry in their wake.
When they’re ten feet from us, the men all stop perfectly in sync before lowering their cargo as one. It’s impressive—I don’t think one of their corners touches the sand a half second before another.
For a long moment, nothing happens. Dragonsbane and the Sta’Criverans gathered behind the box all watch it expectantly, so I do the same. Finally, the white covering parts down the center on one side and a weathered copper hand emerges, pulling the cloth back. Then comes a cane of carved lapis lazuli. With a pained grunt, a figure emerges, hunched over and dressed in the same white as everyone else. The only difference is the crown that circles his bald, spotted head, an ornate thing of gold curlicues and jewels of so many different colors that I can’t name them all.
The man himself is unassuming, and if it weren’t for the crown, I don’t think I would look twice at him in a crowd. Swathed in white and hunched over his gleaming cane, he almost reminds me of a priest from one of the mines, before the siege. Søren and Artemisia were both wrong in their estimates—he is eighty at least, maybe even ninety—and judging by his labored breathing and how painful every step seems to be, I wouldn’t be entirely surprised if he expired somewhere along the ten-foot walk to us. The Sta’Criverans who carried him seem to think the same thing, hovering just behind him as if he might fall at any moment. They must be his personal guards as well as his transportation.
With a wheeze, he waves them off and takes the last few steps alone, until he’s standing directly in front of Dragonsbane and me. Hunched ov
er as he is, he barely comes up to my shoulder, and Dragonsbane towers over him even more in her heeled boots.
“Your Highness,” Dragonsbane says in Astrean, bowing her head. “It is a pleasure to meet you in person. You look very well.”
The King wheezes again, though I think beneath it is a snort of disbelief. He turns his eyes to Dragonsbane for barely a second.
“I never had the honor of meeting your sister, though they tell me you were twins,” he says.
Dragonsbane hesitates for only a beat but it’s long enough to glimpse her discomfort. “Yes, Your Highness. I’m Princess Kallistrade. As Dragonsbane told you in his letters, I’ve recently decided to come out of hiding to protect my niece, Queen Theodosia Eirene Houzzara of Astrea.”
She gestures to me. My full name sounds strange coming from her, like she’s draping a cloak around my shoulders that she doubts I’ll ever grow into.
“Shame he couldn’t make it to shore himself,” King Etristo says to Dragonsbane. “I would have liked to meet this elusive pirate.”
“But then he wouldn’t be elusive, Your Highness,” Dragonsbane says with a smile.
King Etristo makes an annoyed noise in his throat before finally turning to me. His watery eyes rake from the top of my head to my feet. I force myself to stand tall and proud.
“Queen Theodosia,” he says after a moment, his voice raspy and quiet enough that it nearly disappears into the air. Though the action costs him, he attempts a bow.
“King Etristo,” I reply, dipping into a curtsy. I decide to speak Astrean as well, since he seems to understand it. “I’m so grateful for your generous hospitality and your interest in my situation.”
“You’ve been through quite an ordeal, I’ve been told,” he replies. His Astrean is passable, but clumsy, too heavy to pass for a native speaker. “We are happy to come to your assistance against these Kalovaxian beasts, though I see you are bringing one into our midst. How peculiar.”
His eyes dart over my shoulder to where Søren is standing beside Heron, Blaise, and Artemisia. King Etristo regards him in much the same way he looked at me, as if trying to decide exactly what he might be worth to him. He doesn’t spare so much as a glance at my other advisors—I imagine he doesn’t think them to be worth anything at all without a pedigree to back them up.
“The best sort of ally is one who understands the enemy, don’t you agree?” I say, looking back at the King with the kind of smile I haven’t worn since Astrea—the kind that’s been thoroughly coated in honey. “Who understands the Kaiser better than his own son?”
“Mmm,” King Etristo says, though his eyes linger on Søren and his mouth purses.
“He’s proven his loyalty,” Dragonsbane says, drawing King Etristo’s eyes to her. “And if that loyalty ever falters, he will be quickly disposed of. Isn’t that right, Theodosia?”
I would be a fool to miss the tone of her voice, the condescending smile, the way she looks at King Etristo as if to say Children will be children, what can one do? I want to retort, but I hold my tongue. Let him think me a silly child—let her think me a silly child.
“Of course, Aunt,” I say.
King Etristo grunts before looking back at Søren and switching to Kalovaxian. “Last time I saw you, Prinz Søren, you were answering to another sovereign. Of course, you’re hardly the first man to be swayed by a pretty face.”
I worry that Søren will say something we’ll all regret, but King Etristo doesn’t give him a chance to reply before continuing in Astrean.
“And what a pretty face it is, my dear,” he says, lifting my hand to his dry lips. “A shame for a girl like you to be alone in this world, but that is what we are here for, no?” he asks, glancing behind him. It seems to be a rhetorical question but the crowd murmurs in agreement. “Our other honored guests will arrive tomorrow, and you will all stay in the palace with me.”
Without another word, he drops my hand and turns away from us, hobbling toward his carrier and climbing inside. As soon as the white cloth settles behind him, he’s lifted into the air and we are ushered into an empty carriage led by a duo of bejewled horses. After we’re settled, the driver snaps the reins, and with a jolt, we begin our journey across the sand.
THE WALL THAT SURROUNDS STA’CRIVERO’S capital city is so tall that I can’t quite tell where it ends and the sky begins. During the hour-long journey, there was little more to see than sand. It stretched out in every direction, rippling over the land in wavelike patterns. Only twice, I spotted signs of a village in the distance, not large enough for more than fifty people.
“Eight in ten Sta’Criverans make their homes in the capital,” Søren had said during our lesson. “The conditions outside it are brutal—scalding summers with little opportunity to find food and water, and the winters aren’t much better.”
“Why do even the two in ten remain outside?” I had asked.
Artemisia had shrugged. “It’s home,” she’d said.
Now, looking up at the wall from the outside, I wonder if it’s more than that. The city hardly looks inviting and I know that walls are generally built for one main reason—to keep people out.
Not us, though. We pause in front of ornate, heavy gates and they creak open, guided by an elaborate set of ropes and pulleys. It’s a slow process, but as the capital gradually comes into view, I gasp.
Though Astrea’s capital as it exists in my childhood memories is the most beautiful place in the world, even I have to admit that the Sta’Criveran capital might be her equal.
On the journey here, my eyes grew accustomed to the bright sunlight, but the splendor of the capital makes them ache all over again. No matter where I look, everything is either polished gold or richly colored, a blinding beauty that is almost gaudy in its overwhelmingness.
Dozens of spindly towers rise over the streets like golden blades of saw grass, so delicate that I worry a light wind will send them toppling. No two are the same exact color, and atop each one a flag hangs limply in the still air. Closer to the ground are rows of houses and shops with flat roofs and large windows, each wall painted with its own work of art. One shows two human figures dancing in bright clothing, while another shows the night sky, littered with stars that seem to actually sparkle. Some are painted more simply, with colors swirling over the surface.
Even the roads look like they should be on display somewhere—each brick is glistening white and without so much as a scuff mark that I can see, despite the mass of carriages and crowds of people trampling over them.
“They have magic,” I say, because there is no other explanation. “I thought Astrea was the only country that did.”
Dragonsbane’s laugh is mocking. “No magic,” she says, shaking her head.
“But the streets are so clean,” I argue, “and the air is cooler, and those towers can’t possibly be staying up there on their own.”
“You were right, no other countries besides Astrea have magic the way you do, apart from the gems they buy from the Kaiser,” Anders says. “But because they lack magic, they strive to replicate its effects with advancements in science and…” He pauses, searching for an Astrean word. After a moment he gives up. “Technology,” he finishes. I’m not sure what language that is, but it’s certainly not Astrean. He continues, “The streets stay clean because they are coated with a compound that repels marks and stains. The air is cooler because the capital was built on an underground spring. The towers are held aloft because they were built to exact specifications that a team of mathematicians devised.”
“Science and technology,” I repeat slowly, sounding out the strange word. Science is at least a familiar concept, the study of organic materials and chemistry and medicines and plants and animals, though I have a feeling this kind of science is something entirely different from what I’m familiar with. I can’t begin to guess what he means by technology, though,
and I’m too embarrassed to ask. This seems like something I should know. It’s one thing to act like a fool, but I’m painfully aware of how little I know about the world outside of Astrea. Artemisia and Søren might have prepared me for the suitors, but they didn’t prepare me for this.
* * *
—
I can’t imagine how the palace can be any more exquisite than the rest of the city, but it is. Instead of the single towers spread throughout the city, here there is a cluster of at least two dozen spindly towers of various heights and colors, each with a conical roof topped with its own flag. The tallest tower is at the very center, painted a rich red, and it has a flag that is crisp white with an orange sun.
I don’t have to ask anyone to understand that the flags are the sigils of different families who live in those towers and that the largest therefore must belong to the royal family.
“It really is something,” I murmur to Blaise. Our earlier fight lingers distantly in my mind, though neither of us has acknowledged it since. I don’t think either of us wants to acknowledge it. Try as I might, though, I can’t forget the thrum of the wood around us when Blaise lost his temper, as if the whole ship was about to shatter into nothing but splinters.
“It’s very…pointy,” he says, shrugging his shoulders. “I prefer home.”
Home. What was it I told Blaise when we left? “It’s only walls and roofs and floors.” And maybe that’s the truth, but now that he’s said it, I can’t help but feel the ache in my gut for my palace—not as it was the last time I was there, with its burnt garden and cracked, dirty stained-glass windows and the Kaiser sitting on my mother’s throne, but how it was before the siege. The Sta’Criveran palace would have dwarfed it, but Blaise is right; I prefer it, with its round rooms and domed ceilings and the gold and mosaics and stained glass everywhere you looked. Sta’Crivero is beautiful, but it will never compare to the memory of home that I cling to.
Lady Smoke Page 11