For a moment, he’s quiet. If it weren’t for the rustle of his cloak, I would think he’d fallen back in line with the others.
“No,” he says finally. “They’ve already taken everyone I loved. My parents, my sister, my friends. My love. His name was Leonidas. You would have liked him, he had a sharp mind.” He pauses again and I know this must be difficult for him to talk about. I’m suddenly struck by the fact that I don’t know much about Heron at all. He rarely speaks up, and usually only about practical things. I thought he kept to himself because he didn’t care as much as Blaise and me, and even Art, but that isn’t true, I realize now. It’s because he’s cared too much in the past and paid for it. I open my mouth to tell him I’m sorry, to promise vengeance the same way I promised it to Blaise when he told me about his parents, but nothing comes out.
After a moment, he continues and I do the only thing I can. I listen.
“I watched while the guards killed them or took them away when they went mad. I saw it all, and I can only imagine how it could get worse now. But you’ve seen horrors, too.”
I can’t think of anything to say at first. “I’ve been thinking more and more that Artemisia has a point,” I say finally. “The gods from my mother’s stories wouldn’t let these things keep happening. They wouldn’t let the Kalovaxians win.”
Heron makes a sound in the back of his throat. “I wanted to be a priest before, you know. It was the only thing I ever wanted, even as a child, and there have been times over the last decade when I’ve wondered that as well, when I’ve been angry with the gods.”
I glance sideways at him, forgetting for an instant that he’s invisible. I look forward again. “Are you still?”
He doesn’t answer for a moment. “I believe that if the gods could interfere they would, but maybe that’s beyond their reach. Maybe, instead, they can give us what we need to succeed on our own.”
“Like your gift,” I say. “And Blaise’s and Art’s.”
I can’t see Heron, but I get the feeling he’s nodding. “And you,” he says.
I almost laugh but manage to hold it back. “I don’t have a gift,” I say. No one is in this hall, but I’m still careful to speak under my breath and move my mouth as little as possible.
“Maybe you are the gift,” he says. “Descended from Houzzah, the rightful queen.”
There’s that word again, queen. It doesn’t feel like a title that belongs to me, and hearing Heron describe me as a gift to my country also adds more weight to my shoulders. I know he means the words as a comfort, but they feel more like a condemnation. It hurts worse than Artemisia’s carefully thrown barbs or Blaise’s doubtful looks. He believes in me, and I’m sure I’m going to let him down somehow.
He squeezes my arm one last time before slowing his steps to fall back with the others. I turn down the corridor to the banquet hall alone.
For a ball thrown on a day’s notice, Crescentia accomplished an awful lot—not the least of which is the crowd itself. The crush of bodies glitters in the light of the grand chandelier as if the lot of them were dipped in a vat of tar and rolled through Spiritgems. They have all gathered because they admire the Theyn—or because they fear him. It’s hard to say for certain, and it matters little in the end. The result is the same: awed devotion.
They are all masked, like me, but I can tell most of them apart easily after years of paying attention to details.
The woman dressed as a peacock is the Baroness Frandhold, who carries herself like a woman ten years younger and twice as beautiful, chatting with her most recent paramour, Lord Jakob, who is only a scant few years older than me and who made an unsuccessful play for Cress’s hand shortly after she turned sixteen. The baron is nearby, but seems as unconcerned with his wife’s behavior as ever. He’s too busy flirting with a soldier.
Even though I’m not looking for her, my eyes find Lady Dagm?r—but now that she’s married she’s Lady Dalgaard, as only maidens and royals use their given names. The wedding was a hasty affair, the quicker for her father to get his payment and Lord Dalgaard to get his new plaything. Only a few days wed and there are already bruises mottling her exposed arms that everyone pretends not to see. She stands alone, the crowd giving her a wide berth as if her misery is contagious. The Dagm?r I remember was the brightest spot at any gathering, always laughing the loudest, dancing the most, flirting outrageously enough to keep everyone talking for weeks. But now her eyes have gone dull behind her mask, and she flinches from the light and noise like a frightened rabbit.
I shouldn’t feel guilty. My people have endured so much worse. I have endured so much worse. I shouldn’t feel guilty, but I do. I did that to her, and the knowledge weighs heavy on my shoulders.
I force my eyes away from her and search the crowd for Crescentia. She isn’t difficult to spot—all I have to do is look for the Kaiser at the center of it all, the gold crown standing as tall and proud on his head as ever. He doesn’t bother trying to disguise himself in the spirit of the maskentanz, and why would he? He’s far too in love with his own power to pretend to be anyone else for even a night.
I keep my distance, not wanting to draw his attention. Deep in conversation with him, Crescentia looks beautiful. Her own costume matches mine, except that it’s a soft lavender on top, and the scales on the bottom are silver. Instead of pearls, she wears coral, the better to bring out the roses in her cheeks. She might be a girl, and worth little to the Kalovaxians beyond marriage and motherhood, but no one can watch her work the Kaiser and not admire her head for strategy. She wraps him around her finger without ever letting him realize, giving him a dimpled smile here, a shy look there, holding herself tall and proud—every part the prinzessin she wants so badly to be. All she really needs is the Prinz.
The Kaiser’s attention lingers on her longer than I’m comfortable with, but at least it isn’t the way he looks at me. There’s no leer in his gaze, just cold calculation. It’s a shame that S?ren isn’t here to see his future paved out in front of him, but he doesn’t need to be. I feel only a trickle of pity before I remind myself that S?ren will never marry Crescentia. If my Shadows have any say, they’ll both be dead long before that day ever comes.
The thought sours my stomach.
“I’m half sure Crescentia went to all this trouble more to draw you out than to celebrate me,” a stiff voice says from just behind my left shoulder. “She’s been very put out these last few days without you.”
My worst nightmares swim before my eyes, and I have to stop myself from shuddering. I’m grateful to have my dagger so close, even if I can’t imagine actually using it. Being in the Theyn’s presence always feels like suffocating. It sends me into a panic of rapid heartbeats, blurred thoughts, and cold sweat, though I try not to show it. I am suddenly six years old again and watching him slaughter my mother. I am seven and he’s holding the whip while the Kaiser pries my name from my mind. I am eight, nine, ten, and he’s standing over me with a bucket of ice water, a fire poker—whatever the Kaiser instructs him to use to drive Theodosia out of me so that Thora is all that’s left.
He wouldn’t hurt me here. I know that. Still, I can’t help but run through all my secrets, all my plots, sure that he can read them as clearly as words on a page.
“She’s very kind,” I force myself to say. “I’m lucky to have her as a friend.”
“You are,” he agrees, but there’s a threat in his tone that I don’t miss. Of course, everything the Theyn says to me sounds like a threat. The Theyn is a threat, whether he speaks or not.