When I reach my room back at the palace, I’m met by my seamstress Godwin and Dette’s two ladies.

“Dette sent us,” says the one called Neev. “To help you dress.”

“Why? Where’s my maid, Beryl?”

Her gaze flicks to my face and then back to the polished marble floor. “She’s ill, Your Highness.”

“The gown is breathtaking,” says Henbane.

Godwin designed it to symbolize the union of the Triumvir and she stands back, admiring her handiwork as they help me into it. The fabric is a pale blue silk embroidered with red roses and green vines for Zelen and snowflakes for Dendronia, with gemstones sewn into the hem and neckline for Lazul.

It’s impressive as dresses go, but it pinches my ribs and it weighs at least fifteen pounds with the heavy embroidery, jewels, and yards of silk. After the night I’ve had, I don’t feel like being laced into another dress, much less one that requires hefting its weight all over a ballroom, but I try to bite back my grumbles. It’s not like I’ve worn many in my life. As a young child, I put up a fuss over wearing ruffles and lace, so I was brought to court in a brocade tunic and breeches like a little prince.

When I’ve stepped into it, Neev laces the back. Unsatisfied, Godwin takes her place and pulls the laces tighter. Godwin has big hands with thick fingers and strong forearms, and I give a sharp intake of breath as the bodice cinches my waist.

“We’re almost done, Your Highness,” says Neev. Her voice is soft, soothing. She’d make a good midwife, I think. Or a healer. Both professions suit people who possess the gift of making torture seem like a normal, everyday occurrence.

“Sorry to complain,” I say. “Hell of a long day.”  

Neev’s gaze lands on the bright red, diagonal scar across my breast and she starts to reach for it with slow fingers, but I catch her wrist gently in midair. It is so slim that my fingers nearly touch.

She meets my gaze and I release her. “I’m sorry, Your Highness. But that scar looks so recent. What happened to you at the tombs?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

Her eyes grow round. “Your goddess is real, then?”

“You thought she wasn’t?” asks Godwin, sounding insulted.

Neev blinks at her, quiet but uncowed. “Zelen’s favored goddess is Thorne, and that’s where I grew up. I know nothing of Zori.”

“Thorne is patron of peasants, lovers, and well-fed nurslings,” explains Henbane. “She makes trees grow tall, streams run clear, and men and women fall in love. At least for a night, so babes fill wombs. She is alive in everything living, she has no tomb.”

Godwin snorts. Zeleners adore poetic prophesies and rhyming charms, but here in Lazul we are more practical. We take such things with a grain of salt. I find Henbane’s description of Thorne unexpectedly beautiful, though. She sounds earthy, so different from cold, merciless Zori.

“Not everyone’s as obsessed with their goddess of death as we are,” I explain, “but in a country beset by unforgiving winters, plague, and famine, not to mention the snow beasts that wander down from Dendronia... Well, it’s wise to honor her.”

Godwin chuckles with approval at my explanation and makes the sign for Zori’s favor by covering and uncovering her eyes with a flutter of her hand.

I’ve seen the sign made a thousand times by noble and commoner alike, but it looks strange now. Perhaps death has shown me how meaningless it is. Everything has a surreal tinge after the clarity of the far shore. The spicy scent of cinnamon tapers burning on my dresser and the glimmering stars in the window are distant and dreamlike.

When I’m dressed, Henbane does my makeup and Neev my hair. It’s naturally wavy and messier than usual, frizzy with static from the veil I wore to the tombs. She combs it smooth and plaits it into multiple braids, arranging them atop my head in an intricate labyrinth of coils.

I turn my head to inspect the elaborate hairstyle in my vanity’s mirror. She has placed the lapis hair ornaments that belonged to my mother among the loops of hair. I usually keep them in a jar on my desk and the sight of them shining brilliant blue against my dark hair makes my throat ache.

I swallow the painful lump in my throat. “This is impressive. How long have you been one of Dette’s ladies?”

“Almost a year.”

It makes sense that I don’t recognize her then. Dette and I ended our engagement eighteen months ago. I can hear a hint of an accent beneath Neev’s practiced court speech, and it makes me curious. “You said you grew up in Zelen?”

“That’s right. My mother was born in Dendronia, but I grew up in the Eastern Zelen countryside.”

“You parents were farmers, then?”

“Sheepherders, for a landowner.”

When she was doing my hair, her palms radiated heat like coals, even through her gloves. I wonder if she has a fever. An outbreak of pestilence among the servants is the last thing my father needs. I meet her gaze in the mirror but see no hints of illness—her eyes are clear, and her cheeks aren’t flushed.

Her touch is steady too, even though it makes my temples bead with sweat.

When Henbane has refreshed my makeup—dark green lipstick, shimmer on my cheeks, and black eyeliner—I hardly recognize myself. Flamboyant fashion is popular among the upper classes in Lazul, but it doesn’t suit me, and I feel ridiculous.

As if she can sense my hesitance, Henbane says, “You look striking.”

“Dette says the nobles here are superficial and obsessed with appearances,” agrees Neev. “If you flout their trends, they won’t respect you.”

Dette’s not wrong. I frown, glancing once more at my reflection in the oval mirror. I have my mother’s dark hair and severe features: high cheekbones, a sharp jaw. The swirling wings of eyeliner and dark lipstick only intensify them.

“It’s beautiful,” I say, not wanting to offend them and their hard work. “My father says an occasional smile would go a ways toward softening my edges, but I believe you two have made me look fiercer than ever.”

Neev gives me a small smile. “Then we did our job well. You look the part—powerful and determined.”

I smile back. Perhaps she’s right.

Neev leads me into the dining hall. It’s lit by alchemical lamps from Zelen and bobbing lights of emerald green and amethyst created by the palace elementals. A long table is laden with roasted fowl and swine, brined apples, savory hand pies, and goat cheese. Servants weave between the revelers with platters of sugared fruit and spitted dune lizards dipped in honey and grilled to a crisp.

My empty stomach rumbles at the smell of so much food, but I can’t seem to make my taste buds comply after the day I’ve had. My legs are still weak, and I know I should eat something even though I have no appetite. I settle on a few bites of bread and drink some wine.

I stand on tiptoe to look for Dette. I glimpse her on the other side of the ballroom, talking with a girl named Topaz. Topaz’s father is a marquess, the heir of the Glittering Caves near the Eastern Sea. They’re some of the primary suppliers of the world’s jewels and stones, making Topaz’s family the richest in Lazul.

Topaz is wearing a fitted, one-shoulder, cropped top in persimmon fabric and a pair of matching billowy trousers. Her eyelids and hair are dusted with gold, and yellow diamonds gleam in her ears and navel.

Dette’s full-skirted ballgown is the same shade of green as the dune lizards that sun themselves on the courtyard stones. “Hi, gorgeous,” I blurt.

I immediately regret using the nickname I gave her when we were a couple. My cheeks flood with heat.

Dette looks unbothered. “Thedra. You look incredible!”

I manage a smile for her. Her white feathers reflect the multicolored lights of the hall. Some sylphs have wings of thin membrane like dragonflies, and those who dwell underground have webs of skin like bats, but Dette’s are soft with downy feathers like a cygnet, light as the sea foam that skitters along the beaches of her port home.

“Thedra,” purrs Topaz. “You look shockingly splendid. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in a gown before.”

Topaz and I have been going to the same parties since we learned to walk. She has definitely seen me in a gown numerous times. At a ball when we were twelve, she offered five queens to anyone who would kiss me to see if my lips shocked theirs. It didn’t take long for this to lead to jokes about other body parts I might shock.

She’s shorter than I am by at least four inches, and I make a point of looking down at her. “Thank you, Topaz. How is Olivine? I haven’t seen them in some time.”

I know from palace gossip that she and her lover broke up only two weeks ago. It’s petty of me to put her on the spot, but she started it.

“Olivine and I aren’t together anymore,” says Topaz, as if this is old news. “Didn’t you know?”

“I’m sorry to hear it.”

“Yes, I suppose you know all about the pain of a fractured betrothal.”

Before Dette or I can respond, the crowd of revelers parts as Empress Akina approaches us.

Tonight she’s resplendent in a necklace of onyx and opals, and a velvet gown of rich burgundy and dark green, the royal colors of Zelen. The ensemble complements her deep brown skin and coarse black hair. She’s a short, broad woman, with a gravitas that would brook no nonsense even if she didn’t have the power to bring the stones of the castle down on our heads.

“I don’t pretend to understand Lazul’s ancient rituals,” she says, “but I offer you congratulations on your success.”

“Thank you.”

“Would you like to dance, Dette?” Topaz asks. Dette smiles and gives Topaz her hand and Topaz pulls her easily toward the dance floor, grinning like a malicious little cat that has caught a colorful bird. I watch them and tip the last few drops of my wine into my mouth.

Dette walks in a circle around Topaz as she begins one of Lazul’s sinuous traditional dances. This is one aspect of royal life that has never made sense to me. I don’t see the purpose of prancing around in snug slippers and silk gowns while my makeup melts from the heat of a roaring fire and the press of too many bodies. I hate small talk, and the sour flavor of wine, and trying to dance in heavy skirts. It’s not that I have anything against balls or ball gowns, or girls who like them. I’ve just always felt more myself in plain, serviceable items like tunics and boots.

But Topaz and Dette are both in their element at events like this. They are both wealthy, both noble, both beautiful. It occurs to me they would make a stunning match. I’ve known since we broke off our engagement that I’ll someday have to watch Dette marry someone else, but even the smallest possibility of it being Topaz makes me sick with envy and regret.

I turn away, giving my empty wine goblet to a passing servant. I don’t care that they’re dancing together. It’s not like I was going to ask Dette to dance. But the thought of watching Topaz home in on her like a nectar-thirsty bee after a flower is far from appealing.

I make my way to the terrace that leads out into the gardens, dodging a duke who looks like he wants to congratulate me, and the Master of Ceremonies, who will probably try to find me a dance partner if I linger. I’ve nearly escaped when I feel a hand on my arm.

I look up into the smiling face of Rothbart, my mother’s former lover. During my childhood, he was Peakstone’s chief sorcerer, but he has avoided the palace since Mother died, and I haven’t seen him in some time. I recall the servants saying he was handsome back then, with his dark beard and slender build. He has grown too thin, his cheekbones jutting sharply above his beard, which is streaked with gray.

The silver robe he wears reflects the greens and purples of the orbs floating around the ballroom, and he makes me a courtly bow despite his haggard appearance. “Congratulations, Princess.”

“Thank you.”

“I have something for you.”

He takes a small wooden box from inside his robe and presses it into my hand.

“You didn’t need to bring me a gift,” I begin, but he cuts me off with a wave of his hand, still smiling.

“She’d have wanted you to have it.” Bowing to me again, he turns with a sweep of his iridescent cloak and disappears among the crowd.

I descend the terrace steps and follow the path of paving stones around scrubby trees and cold-hardy shrubs until I hear the trickle of a fountain. In winter it will be frozen, but now in late summer it’s alive, gurgling and foamy with bubbles. Our gardens are nothing compared to those in the palace of Zelen, but my mother loved them. She often walked the paths regardless of the weather, and she kept her solarium full of succulents, bromeliads, and potted citrus trees from Zelen, donating the fruit she coaxed from the trees to Lazul’s poor.

The fountain is tucked into a round alcove ringed with topiaries and lit torches. Sitting on the edge of the fountain, I slide open the wooden box’s lid, revealing a filigree locket on a golden chain. I pull it free and spring the catch. The small hinge pops open with a snap, revealing an aquamarine embedded inside. The jewel glows with an eerie green light in the darkness.

Once an ordinary aquamarine, Mother had the jewel enchanted as a gift for Rothbart. She called it the Speaking Jewel. It was meant to tell him her location whenever he wished to find her. When Mother died, Rothbart was the first person I suspected of being responsible. They were always cooking up spells together. Some were simple—an elixir to make bland food taste better, or charms to help her plants flourish in the cold. But she died by a spell so complex none of our mages could trace its origin. All that remained of her was a smoldering pile of bones and ash and a few feathers. It was assumed she died trying to transform into her bird form, but I didn’t believe it. Transfiguration is challenging, and many have died trying it, but my mother was a natural shapeshifter.

I insisted to my father that something was amiss, and that I suspected Rothbart had played a part in my mother’s death. He was questioned, but he had an alibi. He was at a meeting that night for court mages. My continued suspicion was considered further evidence of me being overcome with grief in the days after her death.

Now, I trace the mouth carved into the gemstone with my fingertip and it pulses with strong magic. I sense the agitated churning of the lightning in my vial, like it knows the magic isn’t mine. The necklace’s power feels impartial and synthetic, not organic like Dette’s restorative greenhealing, or my static lightning. It does as it’s asked, and no more.

“Where is she?” I say, my voice a high quaver. When the jewel doesn’t answer, I say, “Where is Mora?”

When it speaks, the jewel has a voice like falling rock or the crack of diamonds. “She is no longer.”

I snap the locket closed with a gasp, my throat suddenly choked with tears. What a horrid gift. I want to throw it into the fountain, but there’s a part of me that can’t bear to part with it.

I shake my head, angry with myself. Mother was a hard woman. She wouldn’t want me to wallow. She wanted me to be strong and brave, worthy of my station and power.

I’m drawing my hand back to toss the locket into the fountain after all, when I hear Dette’s voice. “Thedra? What are you doing out here?”

She’s standing at the entrance to the alcove with one hip cocked, her hand resting on the dip of her waist. Quickly, I put the necklace’s chain over my head and tuck the locket into my gown’s bodice.

“I was just looking at the fountain. My mother loved it here.”

She joins me on the fountain’s ledge and trails her fingers in the water, which is tinted green and purple by the flickering torches. We watch the frothing, jewel-colored water.

“Are you going to tell me to cheer up?” I ask.

“No, of course not. Tonight must’ve been difficult for you.” Dette flicks a few drops of water at me, and I giggle despite myself. 

“How long will you stay?” I ask. “I’ve missed you.”

She winds a curl around her finger, not looking at me. “A few days. Then I’ll follow the trade road to Thornewood Forest. I want to visit my father before they close the gates for autumn.”

“Give him our regards.”

“I will. I plan to winter on Lebed. We’ve had no word from our steward for six months, nor the messenger we sent to him. Momma wants to make sure all is well there.”

Lebed is the isle where Dette and I were fostered together in Alder Tower, her family’s summer home. The castle once lit the isle for the ships crossing the Lake of Tears at night.

Lazul is a land of contrasts—frozen tundra and barren desert, black frost and blinding sun on white dunes. Icy Dendronia lies to the north, and lush, green Zelen to the south. Because we are mostly landlocked, we have few ships. When I was eleven years old, I crossed the Lake of Tears to Lebed for the first time in a simple dory. I remember asking the boatman why they called it the Lake of Tears and he told me to taste its waters.

I dipped my fingers over the side of the dory and licked at the water that dripped from them. It was saltwater. When we reached the isle, Dette was the first person I saw. She was lying onshore after swimming, drying her dark hair and silky white wings in the sun.

“Six months is a long time for no word,” I say. “Wouldn’t you be safer to send someone else ahead of you?”

“Don’t worry. I’ll be traveling with a large company.”

“Promise me you’ll be careful, anyway. You know my friend Vere of Albiton went missing three weeks ago.”

“I know.”

Several daughters of vassals and nobles in the Triumvir have disappeared since my mother’s death, and they’re almost always women and girls with powers. Some turn up dead, but most simply vanish. Father once demanded that I have an armed guard with me at all times, but so far, I’ve avoided that particular encumbrance.

“Of course I’ll be careful,” Dette replies, her tone brisk. “But it’s not your place to protect me, Thedra. I don’t mean to scold,” she says more gently. “I only mean...make yourself your priority. You’ve had plenty to trouble you the past few years without adding me to the list.”

Silence that’s thick with past disappointment falls between us, and I stare at my hands, suddenly feeling vulnerable.

“I know you hate pointless ceremonies,” says Dette, changing the subject. “But the ball is for you. You should be in there”—she nods toward the palace—“dancing like mad and drinking your weight in wine.”

I shake my head. “The ball is really for Father. At my own ball, I wouldn’t have to wear a dress or watch you flirt and dance with a girl who has never been kind to me.”

Dette laughs softly, but she looks away.

“I’m serious. Topaz is a snake. If you must pair off, at least choose someone halfway civil.”

“We were just dancing. I don’t remember you being this possessive when we were engaged.”

“I’m not being possessive,” I choke out. “You can dance with whoever you want, but that doesn’t mean I want to see it.”

I trail off because she’s looking at me solemnly, and even though she says nothing, I can read her expression. Her eyes glitter in the torchlight, the usual pleasantness banished from her face by my envy.

I want to tell her it hurts to think of her with someone else. Especially someone I know will act like a bitch every time I run into them. But I don’t want to expose the soft underbelly of my insecurity. Dette was one of the only people I could be vulnerable with, but now I’ve lost that, too. I should tell her that, but I don’t.

She stands up, her pale green ball gown shimmering like silver fish scales in the moonlight. “It isn’t fair of you to be angry with me for this. You know I still care for you, Thedra, but...”

Dark goddess, she really just said, I care for you, but. My voice comes out in a hoarse whisper. “But what?”

She folds her hands. “It’s time we let go of one another. We both have duties to uphold, countries to someday rule.”

My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. “I’d never have given you up if Akina hadn’t parted us.”

“Don’t blame Momma. She always puts the crown first. It’s her sworn duty.”

“Forget about duty for five seconds, Dette,” I plead. “What is the crown? A piece of jewelry. An empty circle.”

There is hurt in her eyes. “The crown of the High Empress is a symbol of three nations,” she says, her tone cool. “And of their people. To wear it is to be reminded of one’s responsibility. You’d do well to look to your own.”

Perhaps this is wise of her, but it angers me she always takes her mother’s side. Just once, I want her to see things as I do. To want me more than she wants to rule the Triumvir or please Akina.

“You’ve never loved me as much as I love you,” I say. “You only agreed to marry me because your mother told you to.”

“And you love some fantastical idea of me,” retorts Dette. “An ideal I’d never have managed to live up to.”

“I’d have relinquished my own crown to rule by your side. Even let my father’s capricious nephew take Lazul’s throne if it meant staying with you.”

My dead aunt’s son, Amonite, who she schemed and maneuvered to place on the throne, has no real interest in ruling, but the luxury of court life would appeal to him.

“That would’ve been selfish. Handing your country to a fool just for youthful love.”

She sounds a million years older than me when she says things like this, and I scoff, pushed past my breaking point by her condescension. The wine I drank gurgles in my stomach, and I silently beg Zori for it to not come back up. “Maybe I am glad we didn’t get married,” I say, “if it saved me from being lectured like this for the rest of my life.”

Dette shakes her head at me and walks away with a swish of feathers and the tap of jeweled slippers on the stone path.

I rub my face, no doubt smearing my ridiculous makeup, and slip my hot, sore feet out of my shoes and into the fountain, hiking up my gown’s heavy skirt. The water cools my skin and my anger, and I regret what I said, but Dette’s words gnaw at me. Why wouldn’t I idolize her? She has always been everything I’m not: sage, gorgeous, blooming with joy. But I don’t mind. I’ve never minded, so long as I can bask in her glow.