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.
Here, there is life again. Ships crowd the harbor, with more lurking offshore, waiting. Dozens of patchy cats stalk the docks like they’re in charge, even while they beg sailors for scraps of fish. The Kalovaxian crews work hard, yellow heads glowing in the sun, but they are all well fed at least. Their pleasantly drunk, raucous voices chant sea songs while they build and scrub and scrape barnacles from the ships’ undersides. It’s strange that there aren’t any Astrean slaves to do the hard work, though I must admit it’s a wise choice. The cannons that line the ships on both sides can easily wipe out an enemy ship—or a Kalovaxian one, depending on who is manning it.
Seeing this lifts my spirits. If the Kaiser doesn’t trust my people with weapons, he must still fear us.
I make a mental tally of the ships so that I can report back to Blaise about them. There are three drakkars in port, mounted with wooden dragon heads at the bows and large enough to carry a hundred warriors each. Farther offshore, there is a ship so large I doubt it could fit in the harbor at all. It’s double the size of the drakkars, and I shudder to think of how many warriors it holds. There are also a dozen small ships bobbing in the waves around it, but as unassuming as they seem next to the large ship, they aren’t to be underestimated. They aren’t designed to be big, they’re designed to be fast. Each one can hold fifty people, maybe less, depending on what else it’s carrying.
Blaise mentioned a new weapon, something called a berserker, but maybe it’s a kind of ship. The Kalovaxians have so many names for their ships, I can’t keep them all straight.
I add up the ships and the men it would take to sail them—nearly two thousand warriors at full capacity, much more than what’s needed for one of their usual raids. And these are only the new ships. There are others in the East Harbor, older but still effective, that could triple that number. What is the Kaiser planning that requires so many? Even as I wonder, I know exactly how I’m going to find out.
At first glance, Prinz Søren blends in with the rest of the crew. He’s helping to rig a gold sail emblazoned with the Kalovaxian sigil of a crimson dragon. His simple white cotton shirt is rolled up to the elbows, exposing strong, pale forearms. Corn-silk hair is tied back from his face, emphasizing his angular jaw and cheekbones.
Crescentia must have spotted him as well, because she lets out a light sigh next to me.
“We shouldn’t be here,” she says to me, her hands clasped tightly in front of her.
“Well, it’s too late now, I suppose,” I say with a mischievous grin. I loop my arm through hers and give it a reassuring squeeze. “Come on, think of it as bolstering the spirits of our brave warriors before they embark for…where? Do you know?”
She laughs, shaking her head. “The North, more than likely. To deliver gems.”
But these aren’t cargo ships. If they were loaded with Spiritgems in addition to those cannons and the ammo to go with them, they would sink before they left the port. Crescentia doesn’t know the difference and I can’t even fault her for that. If the siege hadn’t happened and I’d grown up a naive and spoiled princess, I doubt I’d have any interest in boats either. But most Kalovaxians love their boats more than some of their children, and I had thought maybe it would be something Ampelio and the other rebels could use against them when they rescued me.
We draw the eyes of the crew as we approach, eliciting shouted greetings and a few vulgar comments that we pretend not to hear.
“Is the Prinz looking?” Crescentia whispers. Her cheeks flush and she smiles sweetly at the ships we pass.
I paste a smile on my face as well, though some of these men must have fought in the siege and those who are too young must have fathers who did. Twenty thousand left. Blaise’s words echo in my head and my stomach twists. These people murdered tens of thousands of my people, and I have to smile flirtatiously and wave like I don’t hate them with every part of me. But I do it, as nauseated as it makes me.
Prinz Søren is so focused on rigging the sail that he doesn’t look up with the rest of his crew. His expression is drawn taut in concentration as he ties intricate knots, brow furrowed and mouth pursed. When he pulls the knot tight and finally looks up, his eyes find mine first and linger for a beat too long before shifting to Crescentia. Blaise might be right, ridiculous as it is. I may be a damsel in distress, but the Prinz can’t very well save me from his own people, can he? From his father, from himself? A monster can’t also play the part of the hero.
He passes the rigging to a member of his crew and comes to the edge of the boat, hopping down easily onto the dock and landing a few feet in front of us. Before he can even straighten up, Crescentia and I are both in deep curtsies.
“Thora, Lady Crescentia,” he says when we rise again. “What brings you to the docks today?”
“I was craving some sea air, Your—” I break off when he gives me a look, reminding me of our agreement last night. “Søren.” But at the sound of his given name, Crescentia gives me a sharp, suspicious look. It seems I can’t win, so I hastily shift focus. “We didn’t realize it would be such an event. What are all the boats for?”
His expression wavers slightly. “Nothing of importance. Dragonsbane is just causing a little trouble along the trade route. Sank a few of our trade ships last week. We’re going to bring him and his allies in,” he says.
I can’t bring myself to believe him. Not completely, at least. Not with this much artillery. The Theyn keeps hand-drawn maps hanging on the walls of his sitting room, and though they were never of much practical interest to Cress and me, we used to marvel at the beauty of them and note the differences between the artists’ depictions, how a narrow stream in one was painted as a wide river in another. But I do remember that in no version was the trade route wide enough to hold a boat the size of the one off the coast. In each map, the route was like a piece of string winding through the Haptain Mountains.
“I’m sorry we interrupted your plans,” Søren continues. “I can’t imagine much fresh sea air makes it past this lot unsoured.”
“Don’t be silly. It’s an honor to see so many Kalovaxian men working so hard for the country,” I tell him.
I may be laying it on a tad thick. Even Crescentia shoots me a bemused look.
“And you’ll be leading them?” she asks, turning her attention back to Søren.
He nods. “My first time leading a crew of my own,” he admits, his voice thick with pride. “We leave in a week’s time. These are just the finishing touches. The crew goes through them personally, as a way of aligning ourselves with the ship. It’s an old Kalovaxian custom,” he explains to me.
“Well, the old Kalovaxian custom is for the crew to build the boat itself,” Crescentia adds with a dimpled smile. “But it was amended when the boats kept falling to pieces. Warriors don’t make the best shipsmiths.”
Søren’s eyes spark with a laugh that doesn’t quite make it out of him, but she looks pleased with herself. Her dimples deepen.
“That they don’t,” he agrees. “But we can be trusted with the rigging and finishing. Barely. Would you like a tour?” he asks.
Crescentia opens her mouth to politely decline, but I get there first.
“Yes, please,” I say. “That sounds fascinating.”
She pinches the inside of my arm but tries to hide her irritation from the Prinz. Inspecting boats is not how she wanted this day to go, and even I have to admit that boats and fascinating do not belong in the same sentence. But this is a chance to get information.
Søren leads us to the rickety ladder fitted against the hull and helps hand Crescentia up first. Over her shoulder, she shoots me an annoyed look that I try to match with an encouraging one. She has a tendency toward seasickness, and among Kalovaxians, this is seen as a matter of great shame. I’ll have to give her an explanation later to quell her irritation. If she wants a crown so badly, I’ll say, she’ll need to put up with some discomfort.
When Søren hands me up next, I let my fingers linger on the bare skin of his arm a few seconds longer than necessary, the way I’ve seen Dagmær do at parties. It’s a brief touch, barely noteworthy, but the grip of his other hand at my waist tightens. I feel his eyes on me, but I can’t look at him. My cheeks warm as I pull myself onto the ship and then straighten my dress. Cress fidgets next to me, smoothing her hair and adjusting the neckline of her dress, her cheeks bright pink.
Seconds later, Søren is with us, gesturing around at the ship.
“Drakkars can hold a hundred people a ship,” he explains, confirming my estimation. “Every drakkar is fitted with twenty oars and twelve cannons,” he adds as he offers each of us an arm.
We start toward the prow, the ship rocking gently beneath us. I’ve been on Kalovaxian ships only a handful of times over the years, and I can’t help but admire how they’re built—sleek, simple vessels designed for speed, powered by a complicated set of sails and riggings and oars. They’re very different from the Astrean sailboats I remember from my childhood trips around the country with my mother. Those were toys. These are weapons.
His sailors stop their work as we approach, and bow deeply.
“Men, we have the honor of a visit from Lady Thora and Lady Crescentia, the Theyn’s daughter,” he tells them.
There’s a murmuring of polite words, though they all seem to be directed at Crescentia, which isn’t surprising. These men revere her father as a living god.
“And this, ladies, is the finest crew in the world,” Søren says with a grin.
One of the crew, a young man a little older than Søren with surprisingly dark hair and gold skin, rolls his eyes. “He always says that.”
“As I should, Erik,” Søren answers, grinning back. “I assembled all of you myself, didn’t I? Why would I want anyone but the best for my crew?”
“There’s no accounting for poor judgment, Søren,” Erik volleys back, “even if you are a prinz.”
“Especially since you’re a prinz,” an older man with a ruddy, sunburnt face and a large gut adds with a laugh.
The difference between Søren and his father is jarring. I’ve seen his father have men executed for less insubordination, but Søren’s laugh joins his men’s instead, and it feels even more disorienting. Søren looks so much like the Kaiser that it’s easy to think of them as somewhat interchangeable—just like these warriors are the same, more or less, as the ones who stormed the palace all those years ago.
“Are you feeling all right, Lady Crescentia?” Søren asks, concerned.
I look at my friend, who has, I realize, turned quite green in the few minutes we’ve been on board, despite the fact that the ship is well tethered and barely rocking.
“Oh dear,” I cut in, because I suspect that if she opens her mouth to speak, something else entirely might come out, and the Prinz has been vomited on enough for one week. “I didn’t want to say anything earlier, but Crescentia hasn’t been feeling well today. We thought a spot of sea air would do her good, but that doesn’t seem to be the case. We might be better off going back to the castle.” I put a comforting arm around her shoulders and she sags against me.
“It could be a good idea to let her settle before a rough carriage ride back,” Søren reasons. “If I may, there’s a cool place to sit beneath the trees, there. Would you mind?” he asks her.
Despite her queasiness, Crescentia can’t agree fast enough. I move to go with them, but Søren stops me. “Stay for a few more minutes,” he says. “Erik will continue the tour. You seemed so interested before.”
“I was. I am,” I agree, a little too quickly. “Are you all right, Cress?”
Crescentia nods as she straightens up so she isn’t leaning on me anymore. Her eyes are nearly twice their usual size as they flit between Søren and me. She looks even greener, but somehow I think that’s more to do with nerves about being alone with the Prinz than the sea itself. I give her a reassuring smile as Søren helps her off the ship.
I’m supposed to be seducing the Prinz, not passing him off to Crescentia, but that can wait for another day. These ships were built for something, and I have a strong suspicion that it wasn’t to defend a trade route from a pirate who was—as of my meeting with Blaise last night—hiding behind a forest of cypress trees a mile outside the capital.
“Which parts of the ship were you interested in seeing, Lady Thora?” Erik asks me.
As we begin to walk, the other crew members go back to their duties, not sparing me another glance. If Cress were still here, they would be hanging on each word and gesture, but fine clothes or not, I am still Astrean and therefore not worthy of their attention. Which will only make it easier to gain information.
I don my most innocent smile and link my arm through Erik’s.
“I’ve heard stories about the berserkers. Are they as fearsome as they sound? I would love to see one.”
His forehead creases, and he’s quiet for a few seconds before answering. “I’m sorry, Lady Thora. We don’t have any on board at the moment and…well, I’m not sure the Kaiser would approve of showing you any, if you don’t mind me saying so.”
“Oh, of course,” I say, biting my lip and fidgeting with the end of my braid. “I’m flattered, really, to be thought of as so dangerous.”
He laughs, the tension smoothing from his forehead. “Anything else you would like to see?”
I think for a moment, tilting my head to one side and trying to look slow-witted, even while my mind is churning. “I’m not entirely sure. It’s been such a long time since I was on a boat, sir,” I say finally.
I can tell by looking at Erik that he has no title. He’s too dark in hair and skin, and the palms of his hands are rough with hard calluses. His clothes have been torn and mended a dozen times over. If I had to guess, I would imagine he’s not full Kalovaxian, but rather the product of the siege of Goraki—the last country the Kalovaxians conquered before Astrea—taken pity on by whichever highborn man fathered him.
His neck flushes red at my address and he hastily waves it away. “There are no sirs, or lords, or even prinzes on a ship, Lady Thora,” he says.
“Then perhaps there should be no ladies either,” I reply, earning a laugh.
“Fair enough,” he says. “Why don’t we start with the bow and work our way back?” he suggests.
“Oh yes, please,” I say, following him toward the front of the ship. I keep my eyes wide and eager, ready to hang onto his every word. If he’s feeling confident and important, he’s more likely to let something slip he shouldn’t. “I would love to get a better look at the dragon figurehead. Is it true they’re as popular in the North as birds are here?”
“I wouldn’t know, La—Thora. I’ve never been farther north than Goraki,” he says, solidifying my suspicion.
“Well, they must be magnificent at any rate, though I don’t know if seeing them is worth braving the cold weather,” I say.
An idea suddenly occurs to me, though I know it’s a dangerous one that could turn bad very quickly, especially after my berserker question might have already raised his suspicions. But the threat of a partnering with Lord Dalgaard is nipping at my heels.
“I hope it won’t get too chilly in…oh, where was it Søren said you were going? I’ve never been very good at geography,” I say with my best attempt at looking sheepish.
He gives me a sideways glance, but if he finds anything strange about the question, he doesn’t say. He clears his throat.
“The names do tend to run together,” he agrees. “But not to worry—the Vecturia Islands are only a bit north of here.”
That was easier than I expected. Too easy, I can’t help but think—though why should Erik think my question was anything other than an idle query from an idle mind? It’s practically small talk.
The Vecturia Islands. I repeat the name over and over in my mind, determined to remember it. Something about it pricks my memory, but I can’t place it. Hopefully, Blaise will be able to the next time I see him.
Crates of ammunition are stacked next to cannons. I run the numbers in my head quickly. From what I can tell, it looks like each box can hold roughly ten cannonballs, and there are five boxes sitting at each cannon. Søren said there were twelve cannons….That’s six hundred shots altogether. And there are a fleet of these warships, with the largest operating as the command ship, where Søren will give orders from.
“There are an awful lot of cannons,” I say as we walk past another cluster of them.
“The Vecturians are barbarians,” Erik says with a dismissive shrug, though that word chafes. It’s the same word the Kalovaxians use to describe Astreans, though the Kalovaxians are the ones who thrive on war and bloodshed. “We aren’t anticipating too much trouble, but we need to be prepared,” he continues.
I decide to press my luck.
“That sounds dangerous,” I say, biting my lip. “I can’t imagine what would make that journey necessary.”
He opens his mouth to answer, but after a second of hesitation, he closes it again. “Kaiser’s orders,” he says with a tight smile. “I’m sure he has his reasons.”
“He always does,” I reply, hoping my smile looks more natural than it feels.