“Just wait,” Søren tells me, nodding toward the next carriage pulling up. “I’m sure worse is yet to come.”
It’s difficult for my eyes not to glaze over as the introductions drag on, especially since many of them seem identical and I can’t imagine agreeing to marry any of these men.
King Wendell of Grania, for example, is fifty and has already accumulated three wives and what Søren tells me is the largest harem in the world. He is short in stature, with thinning hair that has already gone gray and skin like old milk. When he bows and kisses my hand with soggy lips, his lecherous gaze makes me want to take a bath immediately, though I make do with subtly wiping the back of my hand on my dress. Grania has a large army, Søren tells me with some regret.
There are so many kings! Ten pour out of the next carriage, all of them bickering among one another, taking only a small break to introduce themselves to me. Their names are all a blur, though, and I can’t remember a single one. All of them are rough-faced and in need of a good shave. When they disappear into the castle, the Sta’Criveran courtiers give them a wide berth.
“Esstena is a nation of clans,” Søren explains when they’re gone. “Each of those men is a minor king trying to take control of the entire country. They’ve all been at war for centuries. No doubt they think if one of them marries you, they’ll be able to call themselves high king.”
“Difficult to imagine they’ll be anxious to take Astrea back with so much on their plates,” I murmur. Another lost cause. The Archduke is starting to seem very appealing.
Prince Talin of Etralia is next, accompanied by his father, Czar Reymer—or, as Søren says he’s known, Reymer the Handsome. He must have been once—even now, in his forties, he’s quite dashing. His son is remarkably less so. He’s the one Søren said was rumored to be illegitimate. I can understand why, looking at them side by side: where the Czar is dark-haired and broad-shouldered, with a strong square jaw and high cheekbones, Prince Talin is scrawny and small, with wheat-colored hair and a round, unstructured face. He also hangs back, staring at the ground while his father makes introductions and kisses my hand.
“He’s a child,” I tell Søren when they’re gone. “What is he, ten?”
“Eleven, I think,” Søren says, but he’s fighting laughter. “Don’t worry, I doubt there would be pressure to consummate the marriage for a few years.”
I fight the urge to gag. “No,” I say firmly.
Next is another prince, this one from Brakka. Prince Tyrannius looks far too old to still be a prince—fifty or so, with weather-beaten tan skin and hair that’s gone silver. According to Søren, that’s exactly the problem.
“His father won’t give up his throne. He’s in his nineties and rarely leaves his bed anymore, but he’s holding on to his crown tightly. Rumor has it Tyrannius is planning a coup. I’d imagine you’re a part of that plan.”
I give a dramatic huff and watch Tyrannius exchange pleasantries with King Etristo. “It’s awfully rude of everyone to try to use me to their own ends when I’m trying to do precisely that to them.”
When the next carriage pulls up and its door opens, I have to bite back a gasp. After the parade of men, the woman who steps out is a welcome shock to me before I remember that she’s also competing for my hand. Other women have never appealed to me in that way, though I realize she’s beautiful— strong and golden-skinned with long chestnut hair looped into elaborate braids. Even Søren looks a bit enchanted by her.
“Empress Giosetta of Doraz,” he whispers to me as she approaches, sounding as surprised as I feel. “I didn’t think she would be coming.”
I have so many questions, but before I can ask them, she approaches me and kisses my hand, offering the usual introductions and flattery—did King Etristo send lines to be recited with his invitations?—before moving on to say hello to our host.
“Is an empress like a queen?” I whisper to Søren.
“Doraz is not a matriarchy, though it isn’t a patriarchy either. Giosetta’s parents weren’t rulers—the last emperor chose her when she was a small child and adopted her. He raised her to be empress, just as she’ll choose and raise her own successor.”
I purse my lips. “That’s actually quite sensible, isn’t it?” I say. “Choosing a ruler instead of leaving it up to bloodlines. What will she want from me?”
Søren shrugs. “Marriage in Doraz isn’t limited to being between men and women….”
“It wasn’t in Astrea either,” I tell him.
“In this specific case, I’m not sure what the protocol would be. It would likely be open to discussion; you may be able to get her to agree to the two of you being partner rulers.”
“That’s certainly preferable to the others,” I tell him.
He shrugs. “I’m sure she’d still want a cut of Astrea. Famed as they all say your beauty is, they wouldn’t have come all this way for that alone.”
Next up is Bindor and one of the high priests Søren mentioned. He’s younger than I expected, with limbs he hasn’t quite grown into and a shaved bronze head that gleams in the afternoon sunlight. He looks at me with his nervousness clearly written on his face.
“His Holiness the High Priest Batistius has been raised in a monastery,” Søren whispers to me. “And in the Bindor capital, women are strictly forbidden. It’s quite likely he doesn’t remember seeing one before.”
I have to stifle a giggle as he approaches me uncertainly. Unlike the others, he doesn’t kiss my hand, only bowing.
“May God smile upon you, Queen Theodosia,” he tells me, his voice shaking.
“And you as well,” I say, which seems to be the right answer. He gives a quick nod before turning to King Etristo.
“Still a no,” I whisper to Søren. “And let’s try to get him home as soon as we can—something tells me Sta’Crivero might well be enough to kill him.”
I almost sag with relief when I realize we’ve reached the last carriage.
A man steps out in a tailored jacket-and-trouser set that matches the violet of his carriage perfectly. He must be around thirty, with milk-pale skin and dark hair that has been styled with so much pomade that it looks like it would be hard to the touch. He holds himself with a kind of practiced air that seems strange, though it takes me a moment to pinpoint exactly why—he holds himself like a man who had to learn to seem powerful, not one to whom power was a natural birthright. During our lessons on the ship, Søren and Artemisia mentioned that there were some countries whose leaders were chosen by the citizens themselves, and I would wager this is one of them.
“Chancellor Marzen of Oriana,” Søren whispers to me, confirming my guess. Chancellors are voted into power and so they can rise from anywhere. “And that will be his sister, Salla Coltania.”
Coltania follows her brother closely in a matching violet gown that hugs her figure. She’s younger than him, but older than me—twenty, perhaps. Her gaze is sharp and serious, her full, painted lips in a permanently straight line.
I open my mouth to ask Søren what Salla means, but before I can, the Chancellor turns his gaze on me. He has the sort of contagious smile that elicits one in return. Even before he opens his mouth, there is something intrinsically compelling about him. I suppose it’s a handy trait to have if you’re going to convince people to vote you into power.
“Our neighbors to the west, my dear,” King Etristo explains. “In fact, they used to be under our domain before they demanded to run things themselves several centuries back.” He turns to the Chancellor. “From what I’ve been hearing, Marzen, many of your countrymen might be missing our unified country after the stress of the election.”
Though his tone is jovial enough, there’s no disguising the bite to King Etristo’s words. The Chancellor’s smile freezes but never falters.
“I can’t imagine that would be the case unless I quadrupled their taxe
s and put a toll on all imports and exports, as your grandfather did,” he says.
Both men fall silent and I half expect King Etristo to leap out of his chair—frail bones and all—and attack the Chancellor, but after a moment he laughs instead, a loud, wheezing sound. The Chancellor joins in and I force a laugh as well, even though I’m not quite sure what’s funny.
“This one has such a sense of humor,” King Etristo says to me. “And charm, that’s why almost half the people in his country voted to elect him.”
The dagger is unmistakable, but again, the Chancellor continues to smile as though everyone in the country were watching him.
“Make sure to make my home your home, Marzen,” King Etristo says, reaching out to shake the Chancellor’s hand. “I’ll have someone explain how the bath works. I know it’s a foreign concept in Oriana.”
“Ah, but I’m simply excited to try some of this Sta’Criveran wine I’ve heard about,” Marzen says, matching the King’s tone. “Is it true it can be used to clean carpets as well? How magnificent to have so many uses for a single product!”
Again, both men laugh and shake hands, though their grips are white-knuckled.
When Marzen disappears into the palace, I lean toward Søren.
“Did I fall asleep at some point and miss the part where they compared the size of their—”
“You see, my dear,” the King interrupts, drawing me back to him, “I’ve found you some fine prospects. What are your thoughts so far?”
I consider my words carefully before answering. “They were all wonderful, to be sure,” I say with a smile. “And I’m so pleased that they all left their homes to come and meet me.”
“You’ll get to know some of them better at dinner tonight,” he says.
Without waiting for my response, he waves his hand and a group of attendants rushes over to lift him out of his chair and into a transport similar to the one he used when we first met in the desert. They carry him inside and the gathered Sta’Criverans follow.
“Thoughts?” Søren asks me as we stand as well.
I think my expression manages to say it all better than words ever could, because Søren stifles a laugh. He eyes me for a long moment. “As badly as I’d like to go back to my room and sleep off this infernal headache, you look like you have other plans.”
“I was hoping to visit the refugee camp,” I admit. “But King Etristo refused. He said it was no place for a girl like me.”
“Something tells me that isn’t enough to dissuade you,” Søren says.
I smile. “Tell the others. We’ll leave in an hour’s time.”
MARIAL DOESN’T LOOK AT ALL surprised when I say I’m not feeling well and would like to rest, which makes me think that I must look as awful as I feel after last night. Which means the suitors were awful liars for telling me how lovely I was all morning.
After Marial and the rest of my attendants help me out of my suffocating dress and unpin my hair from its elaborate style, they leave me tucked into bed in another gauzy nightgown. When the door closes behind them, I wait a moment to make sure no one comes back before throwing the satin quilt off and climbing out of bed again. Comfortable as my bed is, I’m worried that if I stay in it for another moment I actually will fall back asleep, and I can’t do that.
My wardrobe is so full I can’t move the hangers more than a hair’s breadth, and almost all the dresses are embellished and heavy with layer upon layer of material, with so many hooks and buttons and ribbons that I could never put one on myself. After searching for a few minutes, I finally manage to find one that might perhaps be described as plain, if only by Sta’Criveran standards. Bottle-green silk with cap sleeves and a bodice that is somewhat looser than the other dresses I’ve worn. The skirt bells out in a cascade of chiffon, trimmed with small jewels along the waist and hem. Even with the embellishments, it’s far lighter and simpler than anything else in the wardrobe. It will have to do.
It’s a struggle to fasten the hook-and-eye closures that run up the back of the dress without assistance, and for an instant, I nearly call for help from one of my Shadows before remembering that this is a different palace entirely and one without holes in the walls.
I’ve just managed to hook the last closure when there’s a soft knock at the door, and without waiting for a response, Artemisia slips in. She’s wearing her tunic and leggings from the Smoke again, and her cerulean hair is gathered into a messy pile on top of her head. Her dark eyebrows arch almost into her hairline as she looks me over from the top of my head to my toes.
“We’re going to the refugee camp,” she says slowly. “Not a ball.”
My cheeks warm. “If you can find something less flashy in there, I’ll gladly change,” I say, gesturing to the wardrobe.
“Hmmm,” she says with what might be a scoff or a laugh—it’s difficult to tell. “It’s almost as if the King doesn’t want you sneaking out of the palace to go visit the camp. You didn’t bring your clothes from the Smoke?”
“It didn’t occur to me to,” I admit. “And even the purple gown I wore to shore would have been better, but I think they sent it to the launderer when I got here. Or the furnace, maybe,” I add, thinking about the disdain with which Marial’s attendants handled the patched and fraying dress that had been through far more than it was made to withstand.
“I’ll see about getting you something for the future, but this time—”
She breaks off when the door opens again and Blaise, Søren, and Heron slip in, all dressed in plain clothes from the Smoke and long cloaks.
“Ah, perfect,” Artemisia says before they can so much as say hello. She traipses over to Heron and tugs his cloak off. His bewilderment is clear but he lets her take it.
“It’ll swamp me,” I say when she hands it to me. It came down to Heron’s knees and he’s at least a foot and a half taller than I am, with shoulders that are twice as broad.
“Which means that dress will be well and truly covered,” she replies.
I shrug it on, laughing when the hem pools on the ground around me.
“You’ll have to walk carefully,” she says with a smirk. “Though I doubt it will be harder than trying to balance in those heeled slippers they’ve been forcing you into.”
She has a point there. I gather the material of the cloak in front of me and take a few tentative steps. It isn’t too bad, I suppose. Certainly manageable.
“All right, what’s the plan then?” I ask them.
* * *
—
As it turns out, the plan—if it can even be called that—involves walking out of the palace and taking horses from the stable near the front gates. It’s far less subterfuge than I’m used to, and as we walk through the brightly painted city bursting with afternoon life, I can’t help but feel naked, even as I sweat under Heron’s overlarge cloak.
“This isn’t Astrea. You aren’t a prisoner,” Blaise tells me, seeing my discomfort.
“King Etristo doesn’t want me going to the camp,” I remind him.
“And he won’t know,” Blaise replies, jangling a velvet bag of coins, the same one he used to bribe the riser attendant to take us to ground level. “Money solves most problems, I’ve found.”
“And I suppose you aren’t going to tell me where you happened upon so much of it so quickly after we arrived here?”
Blaise shrugs and flashes me a grin that reminds me of how he used to smile in the years before the siege. He’s lighter here, happier than I’ve seen him in a long time. Not that I can blame him for that—it’s easier to feel happier when there isn’t an ax hanging above your neck at all times. Sta’Crivero might not be ideal, I’m the first to admit that, but it’s infinitely preferable to the Kaiser’s court.
Blaise seems to be thinking along the same lines. He looks at the city around us with a peculiar expression on his face, h
alf awe and half fear.
“It is something, isn’t it?” he says, his voice low. “All the color and the art and the happy people…I see the appeal.”
I nod, looking around as well. “You were right, though. It’s not home,” I say.
Blaise is quiet for a moment. “You’re my home,” he says finally, his voice barely louder than a whisper. “The place we happen to be is inconsequential.”
A smile tugs at my lips and I’m tempted to reach for his hand, but with the others here I stop myself. It’s not just about Søren—in the three days he’s been out of the brig he hasn’t said anything that can be construed as romantic—it’s about the others as well. We’re a team. We have to be if we’re going to save Astrea. If Blaise and I form our own team, that would tarnish us somehow.
Still, I let the back of my hand brush the back of his hand as we walk, and the warmth of his skin sends a tremor through me.
* * *
—
Blaise was right—as soon as a few coins change hands, the stable boys bring out four horses for us. Each one tall and intimidating and graceful, ranging in color from a pale reddish brown to black as the night sky. I’m struck again by how even Sta’Criveran horses are embellished with jewels and ribbons braided into their manes and tails, like they’re getting ready to go to some kind of party.
In another life, I would have learned to ride a horse—I might have even been good at it like my mother was—but in this life I wouldn’t know where to begin. I have vague memories of Ampelio leading me around the palace grounds on his horse, but that wasn’t the same thing.
Blaise, Artemisia, and Søren mount their horses while Heron lifts me into the saddle of the one we’re going to share. I was relieved when he offered to ride with me, because at least with him I won’t have to fret about where to put my hands or how close we’re sitting or the warmth of his skin. And I feel a lot safer with him than I would with Artemisia, who I’m sure will take every opportunity to gallop and jump and show off.
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