I REMEMBER WALKING TO THE SOUTH Harbor with my mother when I was a child. It only takes fifteen minutes or so on foot, but Crescentia prefers carriages. Her slaves ride outside, next to the coachman, to leave more room inside for us. I don’t know what we need so much room for. The carriage is spacious enough that both of us could lie down on the benches and still leave enough room for both girls to sit as well.
“Does my hair look all right, Thora?” Crescentia asks me, patting at it idly as she looks out the window.
“It’s lovely,” I assure her. And it is—everything about Crescentia is lovely. But after meeting with Blaise, every word I say to her has the shadow of a lie.
“You look very pretty, too,” she says, glancing at my neckline again before her eyes dart back up to my face. She’s quiet for a moment, but her eyes are probing, as if she can see all my secrets laid bare. For a second, I could swear she knows about my meeting with Blaise, but that’s impossible.
“You’re acting strange today,” she says after a moment. “Are you all right?”
The truth bubbles up inside me. Of course I’m not all right, I want to tell her. I killed my father, eighty thousand of my people are dead, and I’m risking my life plotting treason. How can I possibly be all right?
I’ve never had to keep secrets from Cress before; she’s the first person I want to tell anything. But I’m not a fool. Cress might love me, but she loves her country more. She loves her father more. In a strange way, I can’t even begrudge her that. After all, can’t the same be said about me?
“I’m fine,” I say instead, forcing a smile she sees through immediately.
“It isn’t anything to do with that awful trial, is it?” she asks.
Again, her use of the term trial scratches at my skin like jagged fingernails. I ignore it and give her a brief nod. The trial isn’t the best explanation to give Cress for the difference in my behavior, but it’s at least a partial truth. “It was quite alarming.”
It’s such an understatement that it’s almost laughable, but there isn’t anything funny about it. I hope she’ll take the hint and change the subject, but instead, she leans toward me.
“He was a traitor, Thora.” Her voice is gentle, but there’s a warning there as well. “The treason law is clear and decreed by the gods themselves. The Kaiser had no choice, and neither did you.”
Not my law, I think. Not my gods.
And besides, what of the Kaiser’s treason? He had my mother removed from her gods-given throne. Crescentia’s father cut her gods-blessed throat. If treason should be left up to the gods, why are men like her father and the Kaiser still alive while my mother and Ampelio are dead?
“You’re right,” I lie with a smile. “I feel no guilt over the man’s death, truly. No more than I would feel for stepping on a roach.”
The words taste foul, but the lines of her expression smooth as she takes my hands in hers. “My father told me that the Kaiser was impressed with your loyalty,” she says. “The Kaiser thinks the time is right to find you a husband.”
“Does he?” I ask, raising my eyebrows and trying to hide my surprise and horror at the idea.
Cress and I often talked about marrying any number of the boys our age. It was a game to us, our favorites changing as often as our gowns, but the constant was that we would do it together. We would marry brothers or friends and raise our children to be as close as we are. It was a lovely fantasy, but that’s all it ever was. A marriage will never happen, I realize—I’ll be long gone by then. Soon the time will come when I will never see Cress again, and I can’t help but mourn this. She’ll always think of me as a traitor. Any children we might one day have will grow up on opposite sides of a war.
“What else did they say?” I ask, though I don’t think I actually want to know.
Something dark flickers across her expression and she leans back again, releasing my hands. “Oh, I can hardly remember. More of the same, really, about how you’re proving to have the heart of a true Kalovaxian.”
I wonder what else was said that she refuses to repeat. Did they gloat about my mother’s death? Or did they make comments about my marriage bed? Maybe they called me a savage or demon-blooded. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve heard any of those things, but Crescentia’s been sheltered enough to miss them. Everything in her world is so pretty and shiny and full of good intentions. I don’t have the heart to crush that.
“That’s very kind of them,” I tell her with what I hope passes as a demure smile. “Did they have anyone particular in mind?” I ask, already dreading the answer. After all, whoever the Kaiser has picked out for me won’t be one of the boys Cress and I gossiped about.
She hesitates for a moment, eyes darting away from mine, confirming my fear. She busies herself by smoothing out the folds of her already pristine skirt. “Lord Dalgaard has expressed a great deal of interest in you, apparently.” She struggles to sound conversational, but doesn’t quite manage. I don’t blame her. Whatever horrible name I was expecting, Lord Dalgaard is infinitely worse.
In his seventy years, Lord Dalgaard has had six wives, each younger than the last and each dying suspiciously within a year of her marriage. His first wife lived long enough to give him an heir before her body washed up on the shore of whatever country the Kalovaxians had invaded at the time. She was too mangled to tell what exactly had happened to her. Other wives were claimed by fires, by mad dogs, by falls from cliff tops. Even before they died, they wore bruises the way other women wore jewels, curling around their necks and arms and littering any other scrap of exposed skin. His wealth and closeness with the Kaiser made him untouchable, but his reputation was making finding a seventh wife tricky.
Of course, his marrying me would suit everyone just fine. He would have a wife no one would care what he did to, the Kaiser would collect a hefty price, and I would be even more a prisoner than ever.
I turn my focus out the window to hide my face, but immediately wish I hadn’t. Outside, the capital whirrs by, and though the city has been this way for most of my life, it makes my stomach turn.
Once, beautiful villas of polished sunstone stood proudly along the shore, glittering in the sunlight like the ocean itself. The streets were broad and lively, watched over by sandstone sculptures of the gods that towered tall enough to be seen from the palace windows. Once, the capital was a pretty scene where even the poorest corners were at least whole and clean and cherished.
Now the villas are in disrepair from the siege. Even after ten years, chunks are missing from walls and roofs, patched up poorly with straw and plaster. The limestone doesn’t shine the way it used to, now caked with dull white sea salt. Once-busy streets are all but abandoned, though every so often I see an emaciated, specter-like frame peer at us through a broken window or disappear into an alley.
These are my people, and I have failed them with my fear, with my inaction. While I’ve cowered, they’ve starved, and my mother has watched me from the After with shame.
When the carriage finally turns in to the harbor and pulls to a stop, I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’ve been holding.