Heron swings up in front of me and I knot my hands around his waist, struggling not to look down at the ground. Though the horses seemed large enough when I was standing next to them, sitting on the back of one is a whole other matter. It feels like I’m so much farther up, and the chances of falling off…well, I won’t think of that. Instead, I keep my eyes firmly fixed on Heron’s back and pretend that I’m on solid ground.
But as soon as we take off, it’s impossible to pretend. Each step the horse takes jostles me to my bones, and I tighten my grip on Heron, sure that I’m going to fly off at any moment. The hot, dry wind whips through my hair as we cross into the desert that surrounds the capital, grains of sand stinging my skin. I manage to get my cloak over my face to cover it without falling off. I can’t imagine how the others are doing, since they can’t cover their faces without blocking their much-needed sight.
Somehow, time passes and I don’t fall off. I don’t think I could ever grow used to the jostling pace and the wind, but it eventually does become almost calming in its predictability. The journey yawns out in front of us, but before I know it, Heron is pulling the horse to a halt.
He hops down onto the ground before holding out his arms to help me. “The Prinkiti says it’ll be easier to get into the camp if we go on foot.”
I take hold of his arms and let him help me down, squinting into the distance where I can just make out another wall—this one much different from the one around the capital. That wall was tall and gilded and regal, a promise of what awaited inside, but while the wall around the camp is nearly as tall, it’s a grisly-looking thing of craggy, uneven stones that don’t appear to have ever been cleaned. There is no grand, ornate gateway, instead a small wooden door in one corner that’s easy to overlook.
The capital wall was made to keep people out, I realize. This wall was made to keep people in.
THE TWO GUARDS STATIONED ON either side of the single door wave us through without question, which strikes me as odd until I realize that those swords sheathed at their hips aren’t meant for those trying to enter the camp.
“Visitors happen often enough,” Heron tells me, answering my unasked question. “I was walking around the palace invisibly last night and I heard some people talking about it. The refugees are cheap labor, so people will hire them when they have some kind of task they need done. Jobs no one else wants to do—construction work, sewing cheap clothing, stable mucking. And they pay them next to nothing to do it, because they can.”
Dread coils around my heart and squeezes.
As we come out through the other side of the door, though, I nearly lose my stomach altogether. After the ornate shine of the capital, with its bright colors and elegant spires, the decrepit state of the refugee camp seems all the more ghastly. The streets are cramped and dirty, with clusters of shacks on either side, none of which could be larger than a single room. Thatched roofs look ready to collapse and the wooden doors are moldy and hanging off their hinges. The smell of dirt and rot hangs heavy in the air. I’m tempted to wrap the edge of Heron’s cloak around my mouth and nose again, but I resist, worried about how that might come across to the people who live here.
And the people! Men and women and a handful of children crowd the streets and peer out from cracked open doors, all dressed in dirty scraps of clothes that don’t cover much more than absolutely necessary. A couple of children who can’t be more than five are completely naked and caked in grime. Their hair is matted and cut short or shaved completely, even the women’s. Cheap labor, Heron said, and it shows. They are all callused fingers and rough, sunburnt skin stretched too tight over muscle and bone.
The way they look at us hollows me out until I can’t feel anything, not even the ground beneath my feet. Their eyes are hungry and wary and fearful, like they aren’t sure if I’m here to feed them or spit at them.
“We should have brought food,” I say, more to myself than to anyone else.
The others don’t respond and I realize that they’re as shocked as I am. I didn’t expect to find the opulence of the palace here, but I didn’t expect it to be like this. As soon as I think it, though, I realize how naive that was of me. There is a reason they are kept in a camp still, ten or more years after they arrived. There is a reason they haven’t been brought into the capital or the villages around it. They are seen as less than.
I let go of Heron’s arm and take a tentative step forward, casting my eyes around in search of someone Astrean, though it’s surprisingly difficult to tell what anyone looks like under all the grime. I clear my throat and hope my voice doesn’t waver.
“We’re looking to talk with someone in charge,” I say in Astrean, trying to channel my mother. She had a way of speaking that felt like it could travel a mile even though she didn’t so much as raise her voice.
There’s whispering at that, low murmurs that I can’t understand, though bits and pieces of it sound Astrean. Finally, a man steps forward. He must be in his late forties with a shaved head and gaunt face. Under the dirt, his skin looks similar to mine, but a few shades darker.
“You speak Astrean well,” he says, in the same tongue, but rougher around the edges, similar to the way Heron speaks it. “What do you want with us?” Though he’s speaking to me, his hard gaze keeps flickering behind me. The rest of them aren’t so subtle about it; they stare just over my shoulder with an intensity that could be described as hate. With a sinking stomach, I turn to see what they’re looking at.
Immediately I realize my mistake in bringing Søren. How can they believe that I’m here as a friend when I bring their enemy with me? But it’s too late now.
I turn back to the man and draw myself up to my full height. “My name is Theodosia Eirene Houzzara,” I tell him. “Queen of Astrea. I want…” I trail off, suddenly at a loss. What do I want? I thought I wanted to see the camp, to talk to other Astreans who weren’t enslaved by the Kaiser. I wanted to talk to those who had been lucky enough to escape, but lucky doesn’t seem like the right word now.
“I want to help,” I say finally, though my voice shakes around the last word.
The man stares at me for an uncomfortably long moment before he throws his head back and laughs, showing a mouth with more gaps than teeth. The sound is hoarse and after a few seconds it turns into a hacking cough.
“Queen of Astrea,” he repeats, shaking his head. “You’re hardly more than a child.”
I try to think of a retort but can’t. He’s right, after all. In Astrea, sixteen was still considered a child, though I hardly feel like one anymore myself. In another life, I would be, but I stopped feeling like a child the moment the Theyn slit my mother’s throat.
Instead of saying so, I shrug. “Maybe,” I allow. “But my mother’s dead and so it falls to me. Who are you?”
He doesn’t answer right away; instead he gives me a long look that I’ve come to recognize. He’s sizing me up. “I remember you, Theodosia Eirene Houzzara,” he says. “You were a babe on your mother’s hip when she came to visit my village some fourteen years ago now, thumb in your mouth and stubborn, defiant eyes that dared anyone to tell you to remove it.”
“I don’t suck my thumb anymore,” I tell him. “But I think you’ll still find me stubborn and defiant.”
At that, he laughs again, but this time I know he isn’t laughing at me. “I suppose you must be, to have come so far,” he allows. “Last I heard, you were being kept as the Kaiser’s toy. I’d ask how you managed to escape but I fear that would be a very long story.”
“Maybe in time I’ll tell it to you in full,” I say. “But for now, suffice to say that I ran away after killing the Theyn, and I managed to take the crown Prinz hostage with me.” I gesture behind me, toward Søren.
It doesn’t feel right to take so much credit. Elpis killed the Theyn; I only told her to do it. And Søren didn’t realize he was my hostage until we wer
e already gone; it isn’t as though I managed to capture him myself. And I couldn’t have done any of it without Blaise and Artemisia and Heron. But that isn’t what this man wants to hear, or what he needs to hear. He needs to see me as someone formidable and intimidating, so that is who I’ll be.
He nods toward Søren. “You call him a hostage?” the man asks.
I lift a shoulder in a shrug. “The Kaiser is an evil man—I doubt anyone here would argue that point, his son included. It turned out the Prinz was more valuable on our side than in chains.”
The man makes a noise in the back of his throat that I’m not sure how to interpret, though his eyes are still wary.
“It hardly seems fair that you know me but I don’t know you,” I tell him.
He eyes me for another few seconds before spitting at the ground between us, not close enough to me to be taken as an insult, but the lack of respect is clear. I’m not his queen, I’m just a girl with a long name.
“Sandrin,” he says finally. “Of Astrea. Nevarin in particular.”
Heron clears his throat. “I grew up not five miles away from Nevarin,” he says. “In Vestra.”
A gap-toothed smile stretches over Sandrin’s face. “I knew a girl in Vestra,” he says. “I think I might have married her if the Kalovaxians hadn’t come.”
“I think I might have done a lot of things if the Kalovaxians hadn’t come,” Heron replies.
Sandrin nods, along with most of the people in the crowd around him. “Who are you?” he asks.
“Heron,” he answers, before gesturing to Blaise and Artemisia and giving their names as well. “We were in the mines for years,” he says, eliciting gasps and murmurs from the crowd. “Until a man named Ampelio rescued us. He taught us how to use our gifts, and he told us that if anything should happen to him, we were to find the Queen, save her, and follow her.”
“We’ve done as Ampelio asked,” Artemisia says, her voice unusually thin. I don’t think I’ve ever heard her say his name. “And she’s brought us here.”
“You’re Guardians,” Sandrin says, eyes alight with sudden understanding.
I half expect Blaise to deny it, but instead he inclines his head. “We are Guardians,” he agrees. “And she’s our Queen.”
Sandrin looks between us for another moment, appraising. After what feels like an eon, he nods. “Come on, then,” he says, voice weary. “I’ll introduce you to the others.”
SANDRIN LEADS US THROUGH THE crooked, dirt-caked streets, and I spy skittish, spectral figures peering out from doorways as we pass, until we reach a house at the end of one of the lanes. It looks very much like all the others: the thatched roof is collapsing in places, and the walls are a hodgepodge of scrap stones that I’d imagine are left over from other building projects. The wooden door is too small for the frame, leaving gaps of space. Hardly a door at all, really, since I can’t imagine it keeps much out.
The door swings open and a woman appears in a ragged dress that has been torn and patched over so many times it’s difficult to imagine what it looked like originally. Her skin is a deep, russet brown and her hair has been plaited close to her scalp so that I can see rows of skin between the dozen or so braids. It’s difficult to tell her age, though if I had to hazard a guess I would say she’s in her fifties. Her face is made up of sharp angles, and she has the narrow, suspicious eyes of a person who has seen far too much bad to expect anything else out of life.
“Tallah,” Sandrin says before approaching her alone and launching into a long spiel of words that I can barely understand, though I do manage to pick up some pieces that sound Astrean. Visitor. Help. Queen. Child. Others sound half-familiar—there’s a word that sounds like it might be traitor, but it’s been twisted and embellished too much for me to be sure. Most of what he says, though, I can’t make any sense of whatsoever.
“That’s five languages,” Søren says next to me. “I heard Astrean and Gorakian and Kotan. I think that was Tiavan and Lyrian as well.”
“Six,” Artemisia says, a bit smug. “You missed the Yoxian. I think I heard Manadolian as well, but it’s so close to Kotan that it’s difficult to tell them apart when everything’s being mixed together like that.”
“Those are all countries that have been conquered by Kalovaxia,” I say. “All countries who would have refugees here.”
I can’t help but think of how much Cress would love hearing about this. She’s always had an ear for languages and could teach herself a new one in a matter of months. Dissecting and analyzing a language made up of an array of different ones would be a party for her.
I push the thought of Cress aside and focus on Sandrin and the woman—Tallah? Was that her name or something in another language I didn’t understand?—who are now deep in a hushed conversation punctuated every few seconds with a glance in our direction.
“I only understand the Astrean,” I admit. “Does anyone know what they’re saying?”
Artemisia makes a humming noise under her breath. “I only have a passing understanding of most of the languages, but I believe they’re arguing over whether they should trust us or steal whatever food or valuables we have and send us on our way.”
“That’s encouraging,” I mutter under my breath. “Did we bring food?”
“Just lunch,” Heron says. “But I can wait another couple of hours to eat.”
My stomach grumbles in protest, but I ignore it and nod. “I can, too.”
The others agree, though we all know it won’t be enough. Lunch for five won’t do much to feed the thousands here.
I step toward Sandrin and the woman.
“We only have a little food, but you’re welcome to it,” I say in Astrean, making them both stop their arguing and look at me. “As for valuables, we have some coins and my dress, though I hope you won’t take that from me, since it would be difficult to explain its absence to King Etristo. If he learns I came here, he’ll prevent me from returning. I’d like to return and bring more food.”
They both stare at me for an uncomfortably long time before the woman lets out a loud, irritated sigh and says something to Sandrin again. Most of it is lost on me but I hear the Astrean word for child again. I open my mouth to protest, but before I can she starts back inside her house, beckoning us to follow.
* * *
—
The woman’s house is only a single room a quarter of the size of mine in the palace. There is a small stove in one corner, four threadbare mattresses on the floor, and next to nothing else. Somehow, though, there are six other people crammed into the space, three men and three women, all with shorn or braided hair and ragged clothes. Not one of them is wearing shoes, even though the ground is barely cleaner than it was outside.
The woman who led us in motions to me.
“Queen Theodosia of Astrea, come to be our savior,” she says, her Astrean passable but heavily accented.
There are some chuckles from the others, but I try not to let them bother me. I can’t blame them for seeing me as a naive, overambitious child, can I? It might not even be that far from the truth.
“King Etristo has invited me to stay in the palace as a guest,” I explain. “He hopes to find me a husband with armies to help us defeat the Kalovaxians and reclaim our home.”
There’s more laughter at that, though the loudest comes from Sandrin.
“Queens don’t marry,” he says. “Have you been among the barbarians so long that you’ve forgotten that?”
My face grows hot.
“Some traditions are difficult to keep in times of war,” I say, choosing my words carefully.
No matter how true the words might be, Sandrin still scoffs. “One might argue that it’s most important to keep traditions in the midst of difficulty.”
Annoyance prickles at my skin. I don’t want to marry either, but I’m certainly not doing so becau
se it’s easy.
“If you have an army you’re hiding somewhere, I’d be happy to take it, but I doubt that’s the case. If you have another suggestion, by all means, I would love to hear it.”
That, at least, seems to silence them. Even Sandrin looks somewhat cowed. Unfortunately, no one actually offers a suggestion.
“I’d heard of the refugee camp here and I suppose I’d gotten it into my mind that I would find happy Astreans here, ones lucky enough to have escaped the Kaiser’s tyranny.”
“Tyranny is everywhere, Your Majesty,” Sandrin says quietly. “The Kalovaxians don’t own the concept.”
“That’s very philosophical.”
He shrugs. “So was I, before,” he admits, voice becoming thin and wistful. “People used to travel hundreds of miles to hear me lecture on philosophy.”
“You’re Sandrin the Wise,” Heron says suddenly. “My mother heard you speak once. She said your mind had been gilded by the gods.”
Sandrin gives a harrumph. “She wasn’t the only one,” he says. “Now I’m Sandrin the Elder of Astrea.” He gestures to the people gathered behind him. “These are my fellow Elders, one from every country here. We keep the peace and we do what we can to make things easier.”
“I can’t imagine that’s a simple job,” I admit.
“It isn’t,” says another man, pale-skinned with close-cropped hair the color of copper.
I glance back at my friends, who all look the same way I feel. Shaken, like the world has shifted beneath their feet. And so full of guilt that it just might drown us. It isn’t our fault, I remind myself, it’s the Kaiser’s. But still, I should have known about this. I should have done something. Blaise catches my eye and nods, a thousand words passing between us without us voicing a single one out loud.
I turn back to the Elders.
“What can we do to help?” I ask.
* * *
Lady Smoke Page 16