For his part, Søren gives her a smile, like everything is normal and we are just going to have a normal dinner together, discussing normal things like the weather.
“Welcome to our home, Prinz Søren,” Lord Ovelgan says, inclining his head toward Søren. He pauses, long and deliberate, before turning to me and adding, “Queen Theodosia.”
I smile, satisfied. Small a thing as it is, hearing my true name in the mouth of a Kalovaxian feels like a triumph all its own. Not Lady Thora, not Ash Princess, but Queen Theodosia. There is power in names, after all, and his calling me that would be nothing short of high treason in Cress’s eyes. It’s a good sign.
“Have you met Emperor Erik of Goraki?” I ask, motioning to Erik. He takes the cue and bows with more grace than I could manage even with my full sight. Somehow, the scarf tied around his missing eye doesn’t make him any less handsome, especially when he’s dressed in his Gorakian brocade robe. Instead it lends him an air of mystery and roguishness, like a tragic hero in a ballad. He doesn’t look at all like he did when I first met him, in his ill-fitting Kalovaxian clothes, an outsider who never felt comfortable in his own skin.
“Emperor,” Lord Ovelgan says, with some hesitation. “It is good to see you again.”
“I wish I could return the sentiment, my lord,” Erik says with a grim smile. “But as you can surmise, I can’t see very well these days.”
Lord Ovelgan shifts uncomfortably, eyes darting around as if he’s looking for help.
“I noticed,” he says carefully. “I’m sure it’s quite a story.”
Lord Ovelgan gestures around the entryway. The room is only lit by the chandelier overhead, and it’s just bright enough for me to make out the ornate stairway, the deep red carpet, the walls painted in gray and gold. “Welcome to our home. Your guards are welcome to wait here in the foyer, but dinner will just be us,” he says before looking at his daughters, placing a hand on each of their shoulders. “Karolina, Elfriede, off to bed with you. Say good night to our guests.”
“But, Father,” the older one says, her bottom lip jutting out in a pout. “It isn’t fair. I’m ten years old now, and that’s old enough to stay up. I want to talk to Søren.”
“The Prinz,” Lady Ovelgan corrects gently, taking hold of her daughters’ hands and passing them to a waiting Kalovaxian servant woman—their nanny, I would imagine. “And there will be time for that another day. But we need you to be good girls and go straight to bed. All right?”
In a huff of protest, the girls let their nanny lead them off.
“Where is Fritz?” Søren asks, watching them go. “He was only a baby the last time I saw him, but he must be almost five now—”
“He’s ill,” Lord Ovelgan interrupts brusquely. “Shall we adjourn to the dining room and settle this matter?”
Søren takes a step back, as if Lord Ovelgan physically struck him. He nods. “I apologize, my lord. You’re right. We have much to discuss.”
“Wilhelmina, you should check on Fritz. There’s no need for you to join us,” Lord Ovelgan says to his wife.
Lady Ovelgan glances at the stairs, a hint of longing in her otherwise stoic expression, before she turns back to us. “No, I’ll stay,” she says quietly. “Come, before the meal gets cold.”
She leads the way down the hall, giving the rest of us no choice but to follow.
“If we need help,” I say to the guards before we leave, “I’ll scream. Otherwise, you know what to do.”
Heron nods, unlatching Erik’s fingers from his arm and helping him lean on Søren instead. His eyes are heavy on mine.
“Be careful,” he says to me.
“And you as well,” I reply.
* * *
—
The dining table has been set with golden plates and utensils and crystal goblets studded with Water Gems. The candlesticks are covered in Fire Gems. Lady Ovelgan’s blond braid is threaded with Air and Water Gems, and even Lord Ovelgan’s jacket has Earth Gems instead of buttons. Just stepping into the room with so many Spiritgems is overwhelming. I feel the weight of them pressing down on my shoulders, on my chest, calling to my blood and making it difficult to breathe.
No one else seems to be as affected, so I try to keep my expression neutral as the Ovelgans’ servants usher us to our seats. I find myself between Søren and Erik, directly across from Lord Ovelgan.
As soon as everyone is settled, a slave girl approaches with a carafe of red wine and pours some into each of our goblets. I watch her pour the wine, her eyes downcast. It’s the same wine going into each goblet, so it can’t be poisoned, but the goblets…
“Will you switch glasses with me?” I ask Lady Ovelgan, holding my goblet toward her.
“I beg your pardon?” she asks, taken aback.
“I don’t mean to offend,” I tell her with a smile. “But I’ve learned the hard way to be wary of drinks offered by those whose motivations I’m not sure of.”
Lady Ovelgan frowns, glancing toward her husband, who nods, keeping his eyes fixed on me.
“Ridiculous,” Lady Ovelgan says with a huff, though she takes my goblet and offers me hers. “As if I would ever poison a guest.”
“One can’t be too careful these days,” I say. “Søren, Erik, Lord Ovelgan—if you don’t mind doing the same.”
There’s some shuffling as the three trade glasses. In the end, no one has their original glass of wine, though Erik has Søren’s because he seems to be the only one of us the Ovelgans would like to keep alive. All of us take a hesitant sip.
The wine is fruity with a good dose of spice, and I can’t discern any poison. I set the glass down again. That doesn’t mean much, though—I couldn’t taste the bolenza poison that Coltania slipped into my tea in Sta’Crivero, either.
Perhaps I will always be wary of strangers offering me drinks now, but I would rather be too wary than even slightly careless.
“So,” I say, looking to Lord Ovelgan. “You know what we want from you, and I can’t imagine you would have agreed to host us tonight if you didn’t want something from us in turn. What is it?”
Lord Ovelgan barely glances at me before shifting his attention to Søren. “An alliance,” he tells him, as if Søren asked the question and not me. “When this is all over, someone will need to sit on the Kalovaxian throne. The obvious answer is you, Prinz Søren, and I am not the only Kalovaxian to believe that. There are many—perhaps even most—who would rather see you on the throne than the bitch who sits there now.”