“I don’t want vengeance. I want to live.”
“Is Emperor Radovan really so invested in holding Seravesh?” Iskander asked as we rode south and back into the relative safety of Idun. “Surely if you cause enough trouble, he’ll cut his losses and withdraw support.”
“That’s what we hoped too,” I said, pulling my mind away from the memory of the ghost-girl’s tears. “In the beginning, we raised hell: cutting supply lines, ambushing their holdings, harrying them in every way possible. Yet for every soldier we killed, Roven sent two more. It didn’t stop us. It was war. Battle after battle, we won and lost in turn, but we didn’t give up. Until the emperor sent his vengeance.”
The words clung to my lips, but I had to go on. Iskander had to understand. “There was a city in the foothills of the mountains, on the western edge of Lake Litramov. It was called Nadym, the Little Sister. On clear nights, you could see its light from the capital, Solenskaya.
“On the night of the harvest moon, an army came down from the mountains, surrounded the city, locked its gates, and burned it. Branko, Radovan’s fire witch, obliterated every timber. They say you could hear the screams all the way from the capital.
“That you could smell it even farther.”
A choked sound clawed out of Vitaly’s throat, a jagged broken thing. He gulped and pushed ahead alone.
Silence lay over us like a shroud. I didn’t break it. Let Prince Iskander think about what he’d heard. Let him remember that girl’s broken body and imagine the blood-soaked chorus of screams that haunted my dreams—the people left to die for Roven’s greed. Let him tally that against all the reasons not to help me.
“How many?” he finally asked.
“Eight thousand.”
“Lady Night . . . and then you came south?”
I nodded, affirming all the things that had not been said: the desperation of my plea, the help that was in his hands to offer.
“And then I came south.”
3
“Thank you for the dance, my lady,” Governor Erol said, bowing over my hand.
“The pleasure was all mine,” I replied before sliding into the crowd.
The Great Hall of Eshkaroth couldn’t quite live up to its name. It was so overpacked with Idunese and Vishiri nobles, the room was fit to burst. The maester, bowing to the crush of people, opened the six doors on either side of the hall so guests could mill about on the veranda outside. It was a cold night, but the press of bodies and the six roaring hearths compensated for the chill.
Nervous energy crackled through the room as news of the sacked village passed quicker than plague. I smiled and nodded to those I passed but didn’t stop to speak with anyone. Folding my hands together, I hoped no one noticed the way my nails dug into my skin, hoped my smile disguised the way my teeth bit at the edge of my tongue.
I glanced toward Prince Iskander, trying to plan my next approach. His retainers had him penned in by one of the fires and there was a steady stream of nobles lined up around him, no doubt pestering him with prospective trading contracts and unmarried daughters—or both. He handled it with equanimity, which was impressive but intensely irritating since every time I approached, Lord Ishaq or one of his potpourri-scented companions headed me off and shunted me to the side.
Why? Was it Iskander’s doing? Hadn’t my words moved him at all? How could Iskander stand there having the greatest time in the world after seeing that poor girl and her butchered village?
Perhaps I’d have Vitaly create another diversion, I thought, finding him watching me in the crowd. My grim-faced shadow was glaring daggers at anyone who neared me. No doubt he was filled with the same helpless rage as I was. Attending a party? After what we saw in the mountains? After what had happened to our country? But that’s exactly why I was here. I had a job to do. One that was hard enough without an overzealous and despair-filled guard stalking me across the hall, I thought, looking away. Perhaps Arkady should have assigned someone else to guard me tonight.
I peered through the peacock-colored crowd but couldn’t spot Arkady’s solemn face amid all the laughing guests. The nobles of Idun seemed determined to enjoy themselves despite the bloodbath that had sent Idunese and Seraveshi soldiers into the mountains to scout out danger and lay the people of that poor village to rest. Still, there was a brittle edge to the merriment. It was like this was the first time these pampered people had to stop and consider the Roven threat.
Which probably wasn’t far from the truth.
Idun was clamped between two great empires: Roven to the north, Vishir to the south. It controlled the only major throughway from the eastern sea to the western sea. Servants passed trays of caviar from the farthest reaches of Roven, chocolate and fruits from southern Vishir, and all manner of sweets from the eastern Vishiri province of Kizuoka.
Nothing from Seravesh, though. Nothing from the six kingdoms already claimed by the greed of Roven. Would these flippant people even remember me in a year? Would they remember Seravesh had once been free? Or would they, too, be crushed?
The thought pulled at the edges of my carefully composed expression. Abandoning my search for Arkady, I angled left toward one of the doors. Perhaps fresh air would renew my spirits.
The veranda was empty and I walked up to the railing thanking the Two-Faced God for that blessing. This side of the hall faced north, and in the moonlight, I could see the jagged peaks of the Peshkalor Mountains reaching into the sky. I could almost imagine I was back in my own castle. Almost. Except the mountains were too close. There was no Lake Litramov spreading out before me like a second sky. I couldn’t see Nadym in the distance.
I never would again.
“Would you care for some company, my lady?”
I turned. Prince Iskander stood in the doorway, framed by firelight. Lord Marr was beside him. The sour-faced Lord Ishaq was nowhere to be seen.
An invisible fist clenched my heart. “Please.”
Please.
Iskander approached, but Lord Marr remained in the door. “If you will excuse me, my lord. I have forgotten to tell Lord Ishaq . . . the governor was seeking him.” He gave me a conspiratorial smile. “My lady.”
Lady Night bless him, I thought, as Lord Marr bowed back inside. But when I turned to Iskander, my smile faded. His expression was grim, and there was an unmistakable sadness in his eyes.
“Lord Marr was quite moved by your story . . . by the plight of your people.”
“Oh?”
Iskander nodded. “He is originally from Tamett Province.”
Vishir’s Tamett Province rebelled against the empire some fifty years ago. Lord Marr would have been a boy, but a person could never forget something like that. “I see.” I swallowed. “And you?”
Prince Iskander took a deep breath and looked at his feet. “It would take a hard man to see what we saw today and not be moved. What’s happening to Seravesh is awful.”
“Awful is just a word, Iskander,” I bit back. “The reality is indescribable.”
“I understand, but—”
“You understand?” I asked, unable to keep the derision from my voice. How could this cosseted boy ever understand? “You saw one burned village. I’ve seen a hundred. What is your understanding, if you won’t help?”