“For some reason, the one place that intrigued her the most was a small, rough kingdom at the edge of the world, with rowdy people and turbulent history. She learned everything she could about it—the language, the customs, the legends—feeling sorry for herself because she knew she would never see it.
“And then an unprecedented thing happened, an unheard-of offer of a position in that forgotten corner of the world. The girl’s sisters—the more beautiful, more accomplished, more sophisticated princesses—all refused it with horror and disgust, claiming they’d sooner take their own lives than sail to that backwater. When the girl’s turn finally came to give an answer to their father, she surprised them all by wholeheartedly accepting. After all, it was her only chance to see the world.”
The carevna took a sip of tea, while Melia stared at her, transfixed.
“So you see, I chose to come here with my eyes wide open,” Aratea continued. “Our envoys miss very little, and what they don’t see, our merchants report back to us. The news, the gossip, the ugly truth. Prince Amril—I know every angle of his character, every important moment of his life. When he looks in the mirror, he sees less than I see when I look at him. And your husband—I bet I know more about him than you do.”
Melia almost laughed at such overconfidence—Amron showed so very little of himself to the world—but she only gave Aratea a noncommittal smile.
“I’m not bragging, you understand, I just want to point out I know what I need to know.”
“Then you know all about my father, I suppose,” Melia said.
“Your father,” the carevna said, “is a liability. I understand his resentment and his grief, and the reasons why he doesn’t want to accept this treaty.”
Aratea, the clever, pampered princess, in her glorious costumes and gilded rooms. Melia doubted she knew anything about grief, anything about despair, anything about the black rage fueling Roderi of Elmar. Oh, one could write it all down on paper—so many years spent fighting, so many deaths. But no writing could convey the smell of blood when the sun burned the red stones of Syr, the shadows gathering in thecorners, whispering about wasted lives, her brother’s screams as he begged for death. What could this girl with her milky complexion and flaming hair know about feeling like an empty husk, skin fragile as old parchment, bones made of petrified dust?
Melia didn’t understand politics because politics comprised maps and letters, deals and tricks, and endless words stripped of meaning. It was a dance, a game the rulers played while people bled into the red dust.
“We warned the king about your father, and the king claimed he had him under control. Perhaps he thought it because you were at court by that time, but he was wrong.”
“Did you know about my father’s intention to blame it all on you?” Melia asked.
“Not initially, but the moment our ambassadress realized the Seragians who attacked your husband weren’t Seragians, it became clear.”
Melia nodded. “What are you going to do about it?”
Aratea picked a sugared orange peel from a glass plate and nibbled on it. “Do about it? There’s nothing I can do but wait.”
Melia looked at her in disbelief. “But—surely, you don’t want the citizens of Abia to believe the Seragians were behind the attacks?”
Aratea chuckled. “I couldn’t care less what the citizens of Abia believe, they’re not my problem, but the king’s. He’s either going to regain control in his own city and harness one of his rebellious great lords, or he isn’t.”
There was a strange sense of detachment radiating from the carevna, as if a cool glass panel stood between them. It was all impersonal to her, Amril poisoned and raging, the people rioting at her gates, as if she were a mere spectator, not the main player.
“And what if my father won’t be harnessed? What if the rebellion spreads and the city burns?” she asked.
“Then it will burn,” Aratea said. “I’d hate to see a city as beautiful as Abia burning, but that won’t be my fault.”
Melia, who had no special love for Abia, felt a pang of irritation. “Aren’t you afraid?”
Aratea looked at her with eyes so cold Melia wondered whether it was her nature, or some consequence of the imperial upbringing. “I am terrified, but what would be the point of showing it? I’m not mad, I don’t want to die, I don’t want the mob to break into this house and tear it down. If they attack, we’ll defend ourselves. But I came here understanding the risk, understanding this is a savage, bloodthirsty place that will probably see me as an enemy. I walked into it just like my brothers walk into battle—out of duty, seeking glory, ready for sacrifice.”
It sounded very noble to Melia, and very hollow. There was no glory in death, no honor. There wasn’t even any dignity in it. Just pain and gore and nothingness.
“However, if the king doesn’t stop the riots, and if I’m forced to run from Abia, or even if I die, my father will respond in the manner he sees fit.”
“With fire and steel?”
“With fire and steel.”
Melia lowered her gaze to her hands, fingers entwined so hard they turned white. She was more damaged than any person she knew, and even she was unable to see the events through such a cold, calculating lens.
The glazed windows and heavy wooden shutters couldn’t keep the noise of the mob from seeping into the room, and it drew Melia in like a hypnotic chant. The people outside were fools, but Melia was no less foolish for sitting inside this sweet-smelling room strewn with soft cushions, trying to negotiate with an enemy who saw her as an insignificant speck of dirt on the parchment of history.
“Which outcome would you prefer?” she asked the carevna. Where there was no mercy, all she could appeal to was self-interest.
“I’ll accept any outcome that my father chooses,” Aratea said.
