He shrugs again, his eyes focused straight ahead. “What was there to tell? I had nothing to contribute to the discussion—I’ve never been, know nothing of the layout. All I know of it is what he told me. He painted such a lovely picture of it when everything else seemed so impossibly dark and ugly. He told me about how he used to run down the tiled halls, how the mosaics shone like gold in the noon sun, how it was the most beautiful place in the world. He told me someday we would live there together, when this was all over.”
He swallows and turns his face away, but there’s no hiding the catch in his voice.
“And the rest of his family?” I ask. “You said there was no one left. No one with a proper claim to it?”
He shakes his head. “Leo was the last one.”
I consider this for a moment before coming to a decision. “Then if we make it through this, it’s yours,” I say. “If you want it.”
That takes him by surprise. “Mine?”
I shrug. “He made you a promise,” I say. “He might not be able to see it through himself, but there’s no reason it shouldn’t hold. Besides, it looks like a place you would be happy in. Peaceful, away from the capital, close to the Air Mine—what will be the Air Temple once it’s rebuilt. You could oversee that, if you want to.”
For a moment, Heron stares at me, mouth gaping. Finally, he smiles. “I think I would. Want that, I mean. It’s a very grand house, though, Theo,” he says, glancing back at the estate.
“You’re a very grand man,” I reply.
“Don’t let anyone else hear you promising things, or they’ll start lining up,” Artemisia says. “And besides, you won’t have anything to benevolently parcel out if we don’t actually win. Let’s focus on that.”
“I know,” I say quickly. “But sometimes it feels like this war will go on forever. It’s nice to imagine what comes next.”
Artemisia, Heron, and I ride to the front of our formation, where Søren and Maile are already leading the troops. When Maile sees me approach, she gives me a critical once-over.
“That’s not a very practical dress,” she tells me matter-of-factly, eyes lingering on the emerald gown.
“The Kalovaxians don’t expect women to dress practically,” I tell her. “They won’t listen to a word I say if I don’t look the way they expect a ruler to look.”
Maile frowns. “And me?” she asks, gesturing to her own outfit—close-fitting brown leather trousers and a white cotton tunic that looks like it needs a good wash. “As a Vecturian princess, should I change into something more conventionally regal?”
I consider my words carefully for fear of insulting her, before I remember that Maile would likely be more offended by my trying to protect her feelings.
“No,” I tell her honestly. “It isn’t about impressing them. It’s about giving them what they expect. They expect Vecturians to be dirty and ill-mannered and bedraggled. Honestly, you could stand to rough yourself up a bit more. Don’t speak; pretend you don’t understand their language. They’ll assume you’re a simpleton and underestimate you, which will no doubt come in handy.”
For a beat, Maile looks offended, and I open my mouth to apologize, but before I can, she throws her head back and laughs loudly enough to startle the horses.
“Very well,” she says when she recovers. “You trusted my plan to take the Water Mine. I’ll trust your plan here, as diabolical as it might be.”
By the time we’re halfway across the open field, the gates of the estate open and the Ovelgans’ battalion of guards pours through them to meet us, carrying yellow flags to match ours. Parley.
The last parley I held with the Kalovaxians ended with me half-dead. I hope this one will go better.
I take a steadying breath as Artemisia pulls the horse to a stop to wait for the Ovelgans, and the rest of our troops follow suit behind us. Søren dismounts in one easy, fluid motion before helping me down from my own horse in a far less graceful manner. Once both of my feet are firmly planted on the ground, I straighten out the skirt of my gown and force myself to stand up straight.
The thunder of the approaching hooves matches my rapid heartbeat. Søren seems to sense it, glancing sideways at me. He moves to reach out to me but thinks better of it here, in front of my army. I’m grateful for his discretion, but part of me wishes I could entwine my fingers with his and sap some of his unwavering strength. I could use a dose of it right now.
The Ovelgans and their army stop a good distance away, two figures I assume must be the lord and lady themselves dismounting.
“We’ll meet on foot from here, just us and just them,” Søren tells me, his voice low.
I follow him into the open field, away from the security of my army, though I know I still have Søren, at least, with his sword sheathed at his hip. The Ovelgans follow our lead, the two figures on foot advancing to meet us.
As they get closer, I can better make out their features. Lord Ovelgan must be in his late thirties, with collarbone-length blond hair and a strong jawline accentuated by a well-groomed beard. His wife, Lady Ovelgan, is only a few years younger—thirty-five, maybe—with a round, open face and an expression as smooth as polished stone, utterly unreadable. It’s easy to see why she was considered a great beauty when she was at court, though I know that beauty in the late Kaiser’s court was more curse than blessing. She has the look about her of someone at sea, praying to all of her gods that the waters stay calm and a rogue wave doesn’t overturn her small boat.
I almost pity her before I remember that I never asked for this war, either. It barged into my world unprovoked, and all I’ve done is try to put an end to it.
Søren speaks first, bowing his head in a show of respect. “Lord Ovelgan, Lady Ovelgan,” he says to them in turn. “I hope we’re finding you well.”
“I’d be a lot better if you weren’t trying to march a rebel army through my lands,” Lord Ovelgan says, his voice deep and gruff, before reluctantly adding, “Your Highness.”
As forced as the address might be, it’s promising that he used it at all. It means that Søren is right—Lord Ovelgan still sees him as royal, someone to be respected. It means that he is willing to hear Søren out before he makes any decisions and sends word to Cress. He doesn’t spare me so much as a glance.
Søren doesn’t miss a beat. “We can be out of your way in an hour’s time if you’ll let us pass in peace,” he says.
Lord Ovelgan gives a short burst of laughter. “You know I can’t do that,” he says. “You were always a brave boy, and headstrong.”