“How did you know I was the crown princess?” It was time to test her theory on familial similarity.
“You have her likeness.”
“How would you know what my grandmother looked like?” she asked, venturing her guess at his meaning. “You don’t look much older than I.”
“Princess Fiera is legendary. Any Westerner who grew up with sand between his toes knows her face.” A small smile cut his lips, the white of his teeth a shocking contrast to the deep tan of his skin. “And looks can be deceiving, princess.”
“That they can.” Vi glanced over at the other cages. Three others were occupied. “Where’s the rest of your caravan?”
“Why?” The smile fell from his face. “Are you asking as a Westerner, to help your kin by blood? Or as a Northerner, to help the kin who raised you?”
Vi knew why they were here, so she knew why he inquired.
Jax had been livid the night Sehra’s warriors had rounded up the remnants of the remaining Western caravans from the winter solstice festivities two weeks ago. After the outbreak of the White Death, the Northern capital was thrown into chaos. The people looked for a scapegoat, feet at which to lay their blame, grief, and anger.
The Western caravans fit the bill neatly.
“Neither,” Vi confessed. The man didn’t want to hear how Sehra’s imprisonment of them was as much for their own safety—to prevent the city from tearing them apart—as it was to keep some illusion of peace. At least, so she claimed. “I came to ask a question.”
“And why should I help you with your questions?”
“Because I am the granddaughter of the late Empress Fiera.”
He snorted. “I am not a Knight of Jadar. While I do see her likeness in you, I do not see you as her reborn, come again to liberate the West.”
Vi folded her hands in front of her. The Knights of Jadar were a small group of nationalistic antagonizers. Little else. She stayed focused; he would not distract her.
“Because I can put in a good word for you with Sehra.”
That gave him pause. “Truly?”
“Help me, and I’ll beseech her for leniency.” The night of Jax’s rage, Vi had overheard Sehra telling her uncle she had no intention of finding the imprisoned men and women guilty of bringing the White Death to the North. How could she? No one rightfully knew how the plague spread.
But this man didn’t need to know that now.
“What is it you seek?”
“I’m looking for a woman. I don’t know which caravan she belonged to… she was selling spices during the solstice. I had—”
“Bought some from her,” he finished. “Yes. Grendla. I know her.”
“You do?” Vi inched forward, but there wasn’t much farther to go.
“She wouldn’t silence herself after you bought the spices. Kept going on about the honor of your patronage.”
“Where is she now? Was she captured?”
“I’m sure she’s dead.” The man shrugged as though he hadn’t just dashed Vi’s hopes.
“Dead?” Vi whispered. “Why?” Sehra had intervened before tensions between the residents of Soricium and the solstice guests had erupted into violence.
“Why else? The White Death claimed her. Last I saw she was being taken to that useless clinic of theirs to die far from the Western sun.” The man shifted, looking out at the breaking dawn. “Not sure who was the luckier one between us,” he whispered.
Her insides tightened at the sentiment. Even if Sehra intended to set them free, even if this was a show to keep peace… These were men and women whose mental and physical wellbeing were being used like tokens on a carcivi board.
And Vi couldn’t do a thing about it.
Her hands were tied, especially while she worked toward something far greater. If she helped put an end to the White Death, then she’d help them all. Her father had told her once to always keep her eyes on her greater goal;never risk losing the war to win a battle. That was their burden as rulers—a burden Vi still wasn’t entirely sure she was ready for, or worthy of.
