I’m the last person who would defend Cress, but the way Lord Ovelgan talks about her rubs me the wrong way, and I have to bite my tongue to keep from saying anything.
“When this is all over, Lord Ovelgan,” Søren says carefully, “there may not be a throne left to hold, not by me or any Kalovaxian.”
Lord Ovelgan snorts. “Not here, perhaps,” he says. “If you ask me—which your father didn’t—we shouldn’t have come to this country in the first place. There was nothing wrong with Goraki, nothing wrong with Yoxi before that, or any of the other countries we’ve conquered. Why put all of the work into conquering a country, only to abandon it a decade later?”
“Why put all the work into conquering a country at all?” I say before I can stop myself. “Erik is the rightful ruler of Goraki and there’s no place for you there. I imagine Yoxi and every other country you’ve attacked will feel similarly.”
“Then what would you have us do?” Lord Ovelgan asks, finally looking at me. “Kalovaxia is a wasteland—barren. It can’t sustain us. Let’s say, by some miracle, you actually manage to triumph and retake your throne, Your Highness. What would come next for all of the Kalovaxians who have made this land our home?”
“It’s Your Majesty in Astrea,” I tell him, keeping my voice firm. “And the answer to that question is entirely up to you, my lord. Personally, I see no reason to show you any more mercy than you’ve shown my people over the last decade. But seeing as how you are in a position to change my mind about that now, I could be persuaded to seek other options. There are refugee camps set up in Sta’Crivero and a couple of other countries that you haven’t yet made enemies of. Perhaps they would be kind enough to take you in.”
Lord Ovelgan’s jaw clenches. “I suggest you tread carefully, Your Majesty,” he says, each word a dagger. “You do still need my help, after all.”
I lift my eyebrows. “And here I thought we were helping one another,” I say.
“Theo,” Søren warns, before turning his attention to Lord Ovelgan. “What would you like from me, then?” he asks them. “You want me on the throne—a throne, wherever our people end up going when this war is over—but that can’t be all.”
I feel like I’m no longer in the room. I’ve been forgotten entirely, and Erik has as well. It’s only Søren and the Ovelgans.
The Ovelgans exchange a look. “As we said—an alliance. The most permanent sort,” Lady Ovelgan says. “We want Karolina to be the Kaiserin.”
That takes Søren by surprise. “She’s a child,” he says.
“Of course,” Lord Ovelgan cuts in, “it would only be a betrothal, until she comes of age. But we want a promise, from you, in writing.”
“You’re assuming that I have any eye toward taking my father’s throne,” Søren says.
“I know you, Søren,” Lord Ovelgan says. “You have always done what is needed of you. And right now, your people need you to lead them.”
“What you mean by that, Lord Ovelgan, is that I have always been good at following orders,” Søren says, choosing his words carefully. “You want someone on the throne you can control, and you think that I will be easily controlled.”
Lord Ovelgan doesn’t deny it. Instead he takes a sip of his wine, unbothered. “Do we have a deal, Søren?” he asks.
Søren shakes his head. “I’m not easily controlled anymore,” he says. “I’m afraid I can’t make that deal.”
I look sideways at him, taken aback. This was not part of the plan. The plan was for me to be prickly and stubborn—every bit their idea of what an Astrean queen would be—while Søren would be their kind savior Prinz, there to support them and give them whatever they asked for in order to let us pass. He was supposed to be agreeable, not antagonize them further.
“But there was never going to be a deal, was there? Not really,” Søren continues, glancing at the door. “Where’s Fritz?”
Lady Ovelgan’s eyes widen, and she looks to her husband before answering. “We told you,” she says, but there’s an edge of panic in her voice now. “He’s ill. Sleeping upstairs.”
“They’re stalling us,” Søren tells Erik and me. “But what I can’t figure out is why.”
I glance between our two hosts, knowing that Søren is right, but there’s something else….Lord and Lady Ovelgan don’t look smug or proud or triumphant. They look afraid.
“If you think you sent a messenger, I have some bad news for you,” Erik says, leaning forward. “Our men were ready, patrolling the northern perimeter of your village. They would have intercepted anyone who left the estate.”
“Oh, but not all missives require messengers,” a voice says from the doorway, soft but rough around the edges like a plume of smoke.
With a sinking stomach, I turn to see Rigga Stratlan standing there in a draping gray silk gown that shows off the charred black skin of her throat. The last time I saw her, she had long hair the color of rose gold, but now it’s dull and ashen, the brittle ends stopping at her sharp collarbone. When her eyes meet mine, her black lips curl into a pleased smile.
“Lady Thora,” she says, though there is no real surprise in her voice, merely amusement. “Oh, Cress will be so interested to learn you’re alive.”
SØREN IS ON HIS FEET in an instant, drawing his sword from its sheath, but Rigga’s smile only broadens.
“Would you really hurt me, Prinz Søren?” she asks, tilting her head to one side. “Not very chivalrous of you, is it? To hurt a woman?”
Søren doesn’t lower his sword. “If I thought you were harmless, I wouldn’t dream of it,” Søren says, matching her casual tone. “But you aren’t harmless, are you, Lady Rigga?”
She laughs. “No, I’m not. And it is a wonderful feeling, to be neither harmless nor helpless.” She turns to her left and reaches for something I can’t see, but a second later, she pulls it into the light—him into the light. A small boy no older than five with pale blond hair and large, frightened green eyes that are red around the edges, like he’s been crying. At the sight of him, Lord and Lady Ovelgan are on their feet as well.
“Fritz,” Lady Ovelgan cries out. The boy tries to run to her, but Rigga has a tight grip on his arm, holding him like a shield—which I suppose is precisely what he is to her.
“What exactly is going on, Theo?” Erik whispers to me, his voice casual enough, but with an underlying edge. “It’s too dimly lit and my good eye is straining—I can’t see much more than vague shapes.”