“It’s because you’re a queen,” she retorts.
I put my boots on as quickly as I can, though it doesn’t seem quick enough for Art, who taps her foot impatiently. “Well, you can always call yourself Princess Artemisia if you think it will help,” I tell her, pulling the last set of laces tight and getting to my feet.
Art looks like she could happily bite me. Technically it’s the truth—as the daughter of an Astrean princess, she can claim the title herself, if she wants it. But I think she’d rather claim a swarm of bees.
“Don’t even joke about that,” she snaps. “And come on.”
She turns on her heel and stalks out of the tent, leaving me to trail in her wake. The sky is still dark, the sun a mere hint at the horizon, but the camp has been packed up, ready for our departure in what should have been an hour’s time, though perhaps even that was too late. All around, the camp is in chaos, with people running about in a panicked haze. “We’ll have to get you a tiara,” I continue to Art, hurrying to catch up with her and trying to calm the fear working into my own heart. I have to shout to be heard over the bells and the sound of the crowd. “Definitely work on your diplomacy skills.”
She ignores my words, taking hold of my arm and pulling me through the crowd toward the mob of warriors already standing at the gate of our camp in a single row, a human wall with mismatched armor layered over their clothing and swords in their hands.
“What’s happening?” Art asks them. Not one turns toward her. Instead their eyes stay fixed on the horizon. But Art is not one to be ignored. “Her Royal Majesty, Queen Theodosia, would like to know if her life is possibly in danger, if that isn’t too much trouble,” she says, pitching her voice louder.
At that, one of the warriors turns around.
“Neither of you should be here,” he says, before lifting his helm. Spiros. He barely looks at me, and doesn’t meet Art’s gaze at all. “You were told to keep the Queen inside her tent.”
“And yet I wasn’t told why,” Artemisia counters. “Don’t you think she has a right to know what’s happening in her own camp?”
“As soon as we know what he wants, the Queen will be the first to know. But for now, he’s a threat,” Spiros says, his voice firm.
“He,” I echo. In my dream, Cress said she’d send a single messenger. “Is he a berserker?” I ask.
Spiros glances at me, nodding once. “That’s our theory, Your Majesty,” he says. “But no one is keen on getting close enough to him to put it to the test. He’s making his way across the field slowly, and we’ve got archers waiting on the order to shoot.”
“And who’s giving that order?” I ask, but Spiros shrugs. “Can you tell if the man is Astrean?”
Spiros shakes his head. “He looks Kalovaxian to me, though I suppose he could be from any number of the northern lands. Pale skin, yellow hair.”
“If he’s from the North, he couldn’t be a berserker,” I point out.
“Likely not,” Spiros agrees. “But if he gets too close to camp, when he goes off, he could take all of us with him. No one wants to take that risk.”
Another warrior turns toward us. “He’s yelling something,” she says. “Hard to tell what it is.”
“He’s close enough now for us to make out his face,” a third warrior shouts, spyglass raised to his eye.
I step toward him, holding my hand out. “May I?” I ask.
The warrior—another one of Dragonsbane’s crew, I suspect—looks to Spiros for permission. He must give it, because the warrior passes the spyglass to me, stepping aside so there is space for me to see. I lift the spyglass to my eye.
It takes a moment to find the lone approaching figure, and a bit longer to focus the spyglass enough for his face to become clear. With shaking hands, I lower the spyglass and pass it back.
“I know him,” I say. “One of the Kaiser’s messengers.”
“Why would I waste troops on a mission when a single messenger would be plenty?”
It was only a dream, I tell myself again, but doubt nags at me. I push the thought from my mind and turn back to Spiros.
“Let him approach the gate, and hear what he has to say. Then bring the message to me. I will gather the other leaders and we’ll decide how to proceed.”
Spiros nods. “It’ll be done.”
“And, Spiros?” I say. “He can’t know that I’m alive. If he does, he’ll tell the Kaiserin, and she’ll bring every battalion she has back here to kill me. We aren’t ready for that.”
He considers this for a moment. “I’ll give the order.”
* * *
—
The tension in the former commandant’s office is palpable, heavy against my skin like I just walked into a bathhouse. Dragonsbane helped herself to the leather chair behind the commandant’s desk, and is leaning back with her boots up. Though she looks perfectly at ease, she clasps her hands so tightly in her lap that they are beginning to turn white at the knuckles.
Maile and Sandrin have taken the other two chairs. Sandrin offers me his chair, but I shake my head. It’s hard enough to be in this room. I doubt I’ll be able to sit still.
Instead I walk toward where Erik stands beside the window, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. As soon as I approach, though, he shoves off the wall and crosses to the far side of the room. Part of me wants to follow him, to make him talk to me, but what then? There is nothing new I can say to him. Rescuing Søren is impossible right now; as soon as it isn’t, we’ll put a plan into motion. The words don’t even sound reassuring to me.
No one says a word while we wait for news—a sharp contrast from our last meeting. Then, we were all talking over one another, but now it is silent. I’m not sure which I prefer. The bell has finally stopped ringing, and the camp has gone so quiet that every gust of wind and bird’s chirp makes me jump.
The Kalovaxians were never going to let us keep the mine. We knew this. Cress knew it when she promised it, just as I knew when I accepted it. That wasn’t really what we were trading—it was my death for the chance for my people to recuperate enough to fight. But I’m not dead, and with most of our troops already departed, we are nowhere near being prepared for a fight, so I suppose neither of us got what we wanted.
She doesn’t know I’m alive, though. She can’t. Even in my dream she thought I was as much a vision as I thought she was. And now what do I think? Even in the silence of the tent, I can’t sort out an answer to that. The idea that my dream of Cress was anything more than a dream is too ludicrous to entertain.