Ash Princess

by Laura Sebastian

  “You’re wrong.” But I don’t even sound convincing to my own ears. “He’s been out of the mines for five years. If he were mine-mad, he would be dead by now.”

  Søren doesn’t argue, but he doesn’t concede either. He licks his dry lips before bringing his eyes back to mine.

  “If he is mine-mad, he’s dangerous, even if he doesn’t mean to be. I meant it when I said I trusted you. Yana Crebesti, remember?” he says. “Will you trust me on this?”

  My feelings for Søren are messy and complicated and hopelessly entangled. But I do trust him, I realize.

  “Yana Crebesti,” I tell him, even as it breaks my heart.

  WHEN DAWN BREAKS, BLAISE IS still asleep next to me, and I’m sure he’ll sleep for a while yet. It’s good, I tell myself. When he was pretending to be one of my Shadows, he was too busy to sleep, and now he’s catching up. That’s all it is.

  But I can’t forget Søren’s words last night, and I can’t rid myself of the feeling that he’s right.

  The door creaks open and Artemisia lingers in the frame, hair blue and silver again. She doesn’t have any reason to hide it anymore, after all.

  “We’re approaching the Smoke—my mother’s ship,” she tells me, without any preamble. “You should get up and try to make yourself look somewhat queenlike.”

  The barb doesn’t sting, mostly because I’m sure she’s right. My hair is stiff with seawater, and the bitter wind last night left my skin chapped and raw. I’m sure I don’t look like anyone’s queen right now.

  “Get them up, too,” she adds, nodding to Blaise and Heron. Her eyes glide over Søren’s sleeping form like he isn’t even there.

  “Blaise needs sleep,” I say. “You and Heron and I can do this on our own.”

  Art snorts, but she doesn’t argue. “You’ll tell him it was your idea when he wakes up, then. He’s not going to be happy he missed it.”

  She slips away as silently as she came, and I lean over to where Heron is sleeping on the floor by the bed. I nudge his shoulder as gently as I can, but he still wakes with a jolt, hazel eyes wide and searching but seeing nothing. He gasps, but it sounds like he’s choking.

  “Heron,” I say, keeping my voice soft even as his fingers grip my arm painfully tight. I know how nightmares like this work, and I know too well how to break the spell. “It’s just me. Theo,” I tell him, bringing my other hand on top of his. “You’re all right, we’re all right.”

  He comes back to himself slowly, blinking away whatever nightmares haunted him. I watch them fade away behind his eyes, his gaze finally meeting mine.

  “I’m so sorry, Your Majesty,” he says, sitting up and letting go of my hands. “I…I thought I was back in the mine for a moment.”

  “You don’t have to apologize to me, Heron, though if we keep Art waiting much longer, she’ll demand a few apologies of her own,” I tell him. “And you can still call me Theo.”

  He climbs to his feet, though he’s so tall he has to hunch over to keep from hitting his head on the low ceiling. He holds out a hand to help me stand, and I take it, more for the brief human contact than because I need help.

  “All due respect, Your Majesty, but I’m not sure I can,” he says with a tired smile. “It’ll be important to remind Dragonsbane of not just who you are but what you are.”

  My stomach clenches and I suddenly regret drugging Blaise’s tea. It’s selfish, but I can’t imagine facing Dragonsbane without him, after everything I’ve heard. I try not to let my fear show.

  We meet Art on the deck, where she’s tethered us to a much larger ship with black sails that billow in the wind. Hundreds of expectant faces watch from its deck and the many porthole windows that dot its hull.

  “You couldn’t have done anything with your hair?” Art snaps.

  “With what? Søren doesn’t keep an assortment of grooming products aboard, surprisingly,” I reply, matching her tone.

  She rolls her eyes. “Then wave, at least, and smile. They’ll tell their grandchildren about this one day. The first time they saw Queen Theodosia.”

  It’s a surprisingly optimistic thought from Artemisia, and I let it buoy me. There will be future generations of Astreans. We will survive. We have to. But as soon as I think that, a sadder thought shadows it.

  “I’ll want to see Elpis’s mother and brother right away to relay my condolences,” I tell Artemisia.

  She glances sideways at me, but Heron is the first to reply.

  “I’d like to go with you, if you don’t mind,” he says quietly, and I realize he must feel as guilty as I do. He was supposed to fetch her from the Theyn’s after she administered the poison, but he wasn’t able to.

  Artemisia clears her throat. “She died a hero. We’ll sing songs about her one day,” he says.”

  “She was thirteen,” I say. “She was too young to be a hero. I should have let her be a child a little longer.”

  “She never was a child,” Art protests, eyes steely as she stares at the deck of the Smoke, where a rope ladder is being lowered to us. “They took that away from her, and don’t you forget that. They’re the enemy. You gave her a chance to be something other than a victim, and she took it happily. That is her legacy, and turning her into a helpless victim tarnishes it. I’ll arrange for you to meet her family, but that is what you’re going to tell them. You didn’t kill Elpis. The Kaiser did.”

  I’m too shocked to reply, and Heron must be as well. It’s a kinder sentiment than I ever expected from Artemisia, and though it doesn’t alleviate my guilt wholly, it does help a bit.

  “Come on,” Art says when the ladder reaches us. “I’ll go first, then Theo. Heron, you bring up the rear in case she falls.”

  “I won’t fall,” I scoff, though it suddenly occurs to me that I might. After the swimming and climbing yesterday, my arms feel limp and useless, but it’s a short climb, at least.

  “There will be a crowd gathered,” Art continues, as if I hadn’t spoken. “I’ll push through it, so stay close to me. My mother will be waiting in her quarters, away from the madness.”

  She takes ahold of the rope ladder and begins to climb. I wait until she’s a few feet up before following. The pain in my arms as I climb is almost a pleasant distraction from the worry rattling around my mind. I can feel hundreds of pairs of eyes on me, watching me like I’m someone worth watching—worth following—and I’m not sure I know how to be that person.

  When I reach the top, Artemisia’s waiting for me, leaning over the edge to take my hand. Her face is creased with panic.

  “I’m sorry, Theo,” she says, pulling me over the edge of the deck as she whispers in such a rush that I almost can’t hear her. “My mother came out to meet you after all, and there’s something you don’t know—”

  “Theodosia.”

  I know that voice. It sends shivers down my spine and sets my heart racing, fills me with hope that I haven’t felt in a decade. I know it’s impossible, but I would recognize that voice anywhere.

  Art steps aside and the first thing I see is the thick ring of people gathered on the deck around me, all watching with joyous looks on their faces. A few have children on their hips or shoulders. Most of them look like they could use a few extra rations now and then, but none of them are starving, like the slaves in the capital.

  The crowd parts and a woman approaches through the people.

  The woman has my mother’s face as well as her voice, the same dark eyes and round cheeks and full mouth. The same tall, reedy frame. The same untamable mess of black-cherry hair that she used to let me braid. The same freckles one famed Astrean poet referred to as “the most divine of constellations.”

  I want to cry out and run toward her, but Artemisia’s hand comes down on my shoulder and I understand the warning.

  My mother is not alive. I know this. I saw the life leave he
r.

  “Is this some kind of trick?” I hiss as the woman comes closer, mindful of the people watching. My people. I force myself not to cower, not to leap forward into her arms.

  Her eyebrows arch the way my mother’s used to, but her eyes are heavy with sadness.

  “Not an intentional one,” she says in my mother’s voice. “You didn’t think to warn her?” she asks Artemisia.

  Next to me, Artemisia’s posture has gone stiff as a soldier’s. “We didn’t want to risk…If Theo was tortured…” She trails off and clears her throat, turning to look at me. “Theo, this is Dragonsbane.”

  The woman smiles with my mother’s mouth, but it doesn’t have the warmth my mother’s smile always held. There’s a sharpness there, a bitterness my mother never had. “You, however, can call me Aunt Kallistrade, if you’d prefer.”

  “Our mothers were twins,” Artemisia says, but I barely hear her. I barely hear Heron as he climbs over the deck railing and comes to stand on my other side.

  The words make little sense to me. All I know is that I am staring into the face of my mother, a face I thought I would never see again. There are things I forgot about her, like how thick her eyebrows were and the bump at the bridge of her nose. I forgot how pieces of her hair would stand on end unless they were smoothed down with grease.

  “Eirene was born five minutes before I was,” the woman with my mother’s face continues. “Small distance as it was, it made her the heir and me only the spare.”

  “If my mother had a twin, I would have known it,” I say, still unwilling to believe what I can see.

  She shrugs. “I was halfway around the world for most of your life,” she says. “Court was never my place. I’m sure we would have met eventually, if the siege hadn’t happened.” She pauses and presses her lips together, her eyes softening as they take in my face. “I can’t express how glad I am to have you here. It feels like getting a piece of her back.”

  She says the words, but I can tell she doesn’t mean them. They’re for the audience, not for me, and I know I should say something similar. I clear my throat.

  “Looking at you, I can’t help but feel the same,” I tell her, even as I remind myself that she is not my mother. I don’t know this woman, and I certainly don’t know if I can believe anything she says.

  I draw myself up to my full height. “I’m sure we have many things to discuss, Aunt,” I tell her, pasting on the fake smile I always wore at court. The one I hoped I would never have to wear again.

  “We do,” she says, matching my smile. “I hear you’ve brought me a present.”

  I think of Søren, asleep with his limbs bound.

  “Prinz Søren is not for you. He is a political prisoner,” I say. “He’ll be treated as civilly as possible while he’s with us.”

  Her nostrils narrow. “You expect us to keep a Kalovaxian fed while the rest of us eat half rations?” she asks. “What justice is that?”

  “The time for justice isn’t here yet,” I say levelly, raising my voice so the crowd can hear me as well. “We’re still playing a game we have little chance of winning, and the Prinz is the only card we have. We need to keep him healthy and whole or else he’ll be useless.”

  Dragonsbane’s eyes flick over her shoulder to the crowd before she turns back to me, smile broader and more false than before.

  “Of course, Your Highness. I’ll see to it.”

  She shouts to two men on the fringe of the crowd. “Bring the prisoner to the brig.”

  “I’ll be checking in on him to make sure he’s being taken care of,” I tell her.

  When she turns back to me, her smile has gone feral. “I don’t think that’s necessary,” she says. “Or wise, for that matter. There are already those who say you’re too fond of him.”

  The words are a well-aimed jab, and I struggle to keep my face neutral. Next to me, Heron tenses like a bow ready to snap.

  “You’ll be wary of how you speak to your queen,” he says, and though his voice is soft, there is a level of danger there.

  Dragonsbane’s eyebrows dart up in amusement. “I was merely sharing some advice with my niece. People say things, and we must be aware of them before they hurt us.”

  “Then let them say as much to my face,” I tell her, keeping my voice cold. “In the meantime, you’ll give him half of my rations.”

  “And mine,” Heron says a second later.

  For a second, I think Artemisia might repeat the sentiment, but in the presence of her mother, she’s shrunken in on herself, quiet and unsure for the first time since I’ve met her. I understand. After all, I don’t have many memories of my mother angry, but I’m sure she looked the same way Dragonsbane looks at me now—jaw tight, eyes hard, mouth pursed. I can’t help but feel like a child again, about to be sent to my room. But I am not a child. I am a queen, and I have faced far worse than her. So I stand straight and meet her gaze until she finally drops hers and speaks:

  “As you wish, Your Majesty.”

  THE LAST PERSON WHO CALLED me Ash Princess was the heart’s sister I orphaned.

  We played together as children, learning to dance and pretending to be fantastical creatures, but when we meet again it will be as enemies. I saw the hatred in her eyes, felt her wrath like a hurricane ripping at my skin. She won’t stop until she has my head, and I did that to her. This I do regret.

  But she was right, in a way. I was a princess made of ashes; there is nothing left of me to burn.

  Now it’s time for a queen to rise.

  “A book is a gift” was something Mrs. Lloyd, my first-grade teacher, was fond of saying. I remember that lens shifting into place and seeing books the way she did as something precious and priceless. I didn’t realize at the time just how many people would go into dreaming up, creating, and wrapping it into the gift it is now.

  Thank you to all of my stellar agents. Laura Biagi, who found Ash Princess in her slush pile and saw the potential in it, and in me. To Jennifer Weltz and Ariana Philips at JVNLA for extending the reach of my book to an audience I never could have imagined. And to John Cusick, for always being there to talk me through my anxiety attacks and writer’s blocks.

  Thank you to Krista Marino, the best editor I could ask for. Thank you for your guidance and your vision. Thank you for your patience. Thank you for seeing the story I was trying to tell and helping to shape it into the best book it could be. Thank you to Jillian Vandall, my incredible publicist, for her tireless energy and contagious enthusisam. Thank you to Monica Jean for all your insight and dedication. Thank you to Elizabeth Ward and the rest of the Underlined team for being so friendly and letting me hang out with them at conventions. And a huge thank you to Beverly Horowitz, Barbara Marcus, and everyone at Delacorte and Penguin Random House. This section alone could have taken up ten pages if I let it, but I am so excited to see Theo’s journey through with all of you by my side.

  Thank you to Billelis and Alison Impey for giving me the most beautiful cover I ever could have imagined. It’s in large part thanks to you that many people will pick this book up in the first place.

  Thank you to Macmillan UK and my editor there, Venetia Gosling, for connecting with Theo’s story and bringing it across the pond. And to Greene & Heaton and my UK agents, Eleanor Teasdale and Nicola Barr, for finding Ash Princess the perfect home in Britain. I am eternally grateful.

  Thank you to my parents for always being in my corner. You raised me to persevere, and I would not have lasted through the setbacks and rejections without that. And to my little brother, Jerry, whose fearlessness and dedication has always been an inspiration. I know that we will always have each other’s backs, even when we’re terrorizing one another.

  Thank you to Deborah Brown and Jefrey Pollock for being my NYC family and trusting me to take care of your brilliant kids. Your support over the years has meant the world to me.
And thank you to Jesse and Eden Pollock, for the constant inspiration and for reminding me who, exactly, my audience is. Eden often read scenes as I wrote them, and her feedback was incredibly astute. Jesse was too young, but I hope he’ll enjoy it one day—sorry in advance for all the kissing scenes.

  Thank you to my friends. Madison and Jake Levine, for almost twenty-five years of friendship. Cara Shaeffer, forever my inspiration in all things adulting and immature. Emily Hecht, for helping me embrace the weirdest parts of me. Lexi Wangler, for keeping me sane while in the publishing trenches. Patrice Caldwell, Lauryn Chamberlain, Cristina Arreola, Jeremy West, and Jeffrey West, for all the coffee and writing dates and snark.

  Thank you to my fellow Electric Eighteens for all the support and commiseration and friendship. A special shout-out to my fellow NYCers, who have become incredible friends over the last year—Arvin Ahmadi, Sara Holland, Sarah Smetana, Kamilla Benko, Kit Frick, Emily X.R. Pan, Kheryn Callender, Melissa Albert, and Lauren Spieller.

  Thank you to the many authors who provided so much guidance and support through the publishing process. Adam Silvera, Julie Dao, Gayle Forman, Melissa Walker, Libba Bray, Holly Black, Zoraida Cordova, Dhonielle Clayton, Karen McManus, S. K. Ali—I’ve been a fan of all of yours for some time, and I feel so lucky to now be able to call you friends as well.

  Thank you to Maya Davis, whose insight was instrumental in fleshing out the cultures and characters.

  Thank you to Molly Cusick for her support when I was going on submission and for answering questions I was afraid to ask my agent (and for helping me realize that was ridiculous).

  Thank you to Birch Coffee on the Upper West Side and the incredible baristas there who kept me caffeinated and focused.

  And last, but certainly not least, thank you to Mrs. Lloyd for planting the seeds for my lifelong love of reading and writing. They grew.

  LAURA SEBASTIAN grew up in South Florida and attended Savannah College of Art and Design. She now lives and writes in New York City. Ash Princess is her first novel. To learn more about Laura and her book, follow @sebastian_lk on Twitter and @lauraksebastian on Instagram.