SØREN SET UP THE ROYAL family’s private terrace for our lunch and spared no luxury in his effort. The table is carved from solid marble and so heavy that I’m sure it took a small army—and a fair share of Earth Gems—to drag it out here from the formal dining room where it normally resides. On the table is a painted vase filled with fresh-cut marigolds at peak bloom and four gold place settings. All of it belonged to my mother once, and if I try hard enough, I can see her sitting there, across from me, sipping spiced honey coffee and talking about silly things like the weather and my lessons, blissfully unaware of the battalions closing in around us.
The sun is high in the sky when Cress and I step out onto the pavilion, and it streams through the red silk awning, casting the space in a garish light, but the view from here is breathtaking—all rolling ocean and cloudless sky and a few ships so small they’re the size of my pinky nail.
So much distance, I think. In ten years, I’ve never gone farther from the palace than the harbor. It’s easy to forget how big the world really is, but from here I can see miles and miles of ocean in three directions.
One day soon, I’ll be free again.
Prinz Søren and Erik stand up when Cress and I approach, both of them dressed in traditional Kalovaxian suits. I wasn’t expecting Erik, but I’m glad to see him. He treated me like a person, which is more than I can say about most Kalovaxians. It’s difficult to say whether Erik or Søren looks more uncomfortable in the layers of silk and velvet, though I suppose it must be Erik. At least Søren’s suit was made to fit him. Erik’s is clearly secondhand, too tight in some places, too loose in others.
“Ladies,” Søren says, bowing as we curtsy. “I’m glad you could join us. You remember Erik. From the ship?”
“Of course,” I say. I don’t have to look at Cress to see the blank expression on her face. She only had eyes for the Prinz that day. I doubt she could have picked Erik out from a crowd if she’d been asked to.
“It’s good to see you again, Erik,” I add with a smile.
His quick blue eyes dart between Cress and me in amusement. “You as well, Lady Thora. You both look lovely, of course,” he says, pulling my chair out for me. When he goes to push me in, he drops his voice low so that only I can hear it. “Did you lose a bet of some kind?”
I stifle a grimace. “Crescentia was kind enough to lend me her dress.”
“Yes,” he says, barely holding back laughter. “Very kind.”
“And let me guess,” I say wryly, glancing at Cress, who’s already drawn Søren deep into a conversation about a letter she received from her father. “Our Prinz was kind enough to invite you to enjoy a good meal before you set off to Vecturia?”
He lifts a dark eyebrow and drops his voice as well. “I was mistaken, Thora. It’s only trade-route issues. Far less interesting.”
He’s as bad a liar as Søren, unable to look at me when he does it.
I fake a laugh. “Trade routes, Vecturia. To me, one is as interesting as the other. I don’t even know where Vecturia is,” I lie.
He smiles, relieved. “I won’t lie to you, Thora. I’ve got a month or so of hardtack and watered-down ale to look forward to. Søren offered me a good last meal as a distraction today, and I couldn’t take him up on it quick enough.”
He glances pointedly to the other end of the table, where Crescentia and Søren are in conversation about the Theyn, though Søren’s eyes keep darting about like he’s searching for an escape. They meet mine briefly before slipping away again.
I turn back to Erik, raising an eyebrow. “They make a sweet couple, don’t they?”
“I don’t think sweet is the word Søren would use,” Erik says, lowering his voice to a whisper. “The Kaiser has been pushing the match since Søren got back.”
Søren clears his throat loudly across the table, shooting Erik a pleading glance. “Erik actually got his start with me under your father’s command as well,” he tells Cress. “Isn’t that right, Erik?”
“Duty calls,” Erik murmurs to me before leaning toward Cress.
“That’s true, Lady Crescentia. I was twelve at the time. It felt like I was meeting a god,” he says. “In fact, would you do me the honor of taking a walk around the pavilion while we wait for food to arrive? I can tell you stories about him you’d find quite amusing.”
Cress frowns, eyes narrow. She’s about to refuse with some excuse or other, but Søren cuts her off.
“Erik is the most gifted storyteller, Lady Crescentia,” he says. “I think you would enjoy walking with him for a moment.”
Crescentia’s nostrils narrow—the only outward sign of her displeasure, and one that likely went unnoticed by Søren and Erik. With a gracious smile, she rises and takes Erik’s proffered arm, allowing him to escort her to the edge of the pavilion, casting a wary glance at me over her shoulder.
Søren reaches for the crystal wine decanter and moves his chair a few inches closer to mine as he pours me a glass, the liquid as red as fresh blood. He doesn’t look at me, instead focusing on the task at hand and taking his time with it. A lock of golden hair falls into his eyes, but he makes no move to push it aside.
I’m painfully aware of Cress just a few feet away. Though she’s out of earshot and politely listening to Erik’s story about his first battle under the Theyn’s command, her eyes dart to me every few seconds, wary and suspicious.
The whole court wants to see Søren and Cress married, it seems. Cress and her father certainly want it, and Erik said the Kaiser was pushing for it as well. The only one dragging his feet about it is Søren, and I don’t understand why. Kalovaxian marriages are never about love—that’s what affairs are for. Marriages are about power, and as such, marrying Cress should suit Søren just fine.
“Thank you,” I say to him when my glass is full.
His bright blue eyes snap to mine and linger for a moment before he shakes his head and drops his gaze. He knows I’m not thanking him for the wine, but for talking to his mother for me, for saving me from becoming Lord Dalgaard’s latest victim.
“Don’t mention it,” he says. I can’t tell if it’s modesty or a command.
We lapse into a tense silence again, full of things that can’t be said, lies that I’m worried he’ll see through. Just over an hour ago, I was casually planning to murder him, but sitting across from him now—a living, breathing person—it seems impossible. I fear my plots are written across my face. Finally the silence becomes unbearable and I settle instead for almost-truths.
“I don’t think I’ve ever spoken to your mother privately before. It was…enlightening. I like her.”
“She likes you, too,” he says.
Across the pavilion, Cress’s looks are getting more pointed, her eyes boring into me no matter how many reassuring smiles I give her. I angle away from Søren, deciding to stop looking at him as well. Which makes my job even more difficult; Søren will be leaving again soon, so my time is limited.
I can make it up to Cress later, ply her with excuses and flattery and delusions about Søren really being interested in her. For the first time in ten years, I let my own needs take precedence over Cress’s.
Playing the damsel in distress always leaves me with a sour taste in my mouth, but I can’t deny its effectiveness.
“I asked a lot of you when I asked you to stop my engagement,” I whisper, making my voice small and fractured, like a dam about to break. “I’m so grateful that you did, truly, but I would hate to think doing so caused trouble for you. I just want to apologize—”
“You never have to apologize to me,” he interrupts, startled. He lowers his voice. “After everything that’s been done to you, the scars on your back, the things he’s made you do. You should hate him. You should hate me.”
“I don’t hate you,” I tell him, and I’m surprised to realize it’s the truth. Whatever I feel for Søren, it isn’t hate.
Pity, maybe.
Heron’s voice echoes in my mind, asking me if I was capable of killing Søren. Yes, I’d told him then, and that’s what the answer still has to be. Pity or no pity.
Søren’s eyes search my face, but now I can’t look at him. I keep my gaze trained on the gold silk tablecloth, remembering my mother’s dark, freckled hands smoothing it down, tugging at its corners so that it lay flat. She always fidgeted when she was nervous, and I’ve inherited that habit. It takes all my self-control to keep my hands motionless in my lap, not to twist my napkin or twirl the stem of my wineglass. The Spiritgems are still caught firmly between the sleeve of my dress and my skin, but I’m worried that any movement will set them loose and I’ll have no way to explain that.
Crescentia has stopped even pretending to pay attention to Erik, though he’s gesturing wildly as he tells some exaggerated story. Her eyes are locked on mine, sharp, suspicious, and a touch resentful.
I sit up a little straighter and turn away from Søren’s surprised face. “Cress,” I say, infusing my voice with warmth and camaraderie, hoping it’s enough to make her forgive me for monopolizing Søren’s attention. “Come tell the Prinz about the book your father brought you from his voyage to Elcourt. The one about the one-handed knight?”
Crescentia leaves Erik behind without hesitation, hurrying back to the table and retaking her seat on Søren’s other side, Erik retaking his own seat a moment later. Her face flushes with delight and she launches into a description of the folktale and the illustrations that accompanied it. Søren, for his part, listens raptly but I can barely pay attention to a word she’s saying. The small distance between Søren and me no longer feels cramped with things unsaid. Now, it’s full of unspoken promises.
I try not to look at him, not wanting to cause any more tension between Cress and me, but it’s impossible not to. When our eyes catch halfway through lunch, it sends my heart racing.
Because I’m succeeding, I tell myself. I have him where I want him and soon—so soon—I’ll be free. But that’s not it, not entirely. There’s more to Søren than I like to let myself think, and as much of a traitor as it makes me, I like him.
When the time comes, I’ll still kill him. I just might feel a little bit guiltier about it than I thought I would.