Ash Princess (Ash Princess Trilogy #1)(10)

But now, sitting in front of the vanity mirror while Hoa braids my hair, it’s not shame I feel. Now, fresh hate trickles through my veins like water from thawing ice. I’ve been pushing it down for so long that it feels good to finally let it overtake me. It’s an aimless aura of hate, though. It needs a focus. It needs a channel. It needs a plan.

But I am isolated here—there is no one to turn to for help. All I know of what goes on outside the palace comes from overhearing Kalovaxian courtiers, and it’s usually been filtered through so many people by then that I’m not sure how much truth is in it. There are Astreans in the capital, but all of them are slaves and most of them are younger than I am and kept malnourished and weak. And though I hate myself for thinking it, I’m not sure I can trust them.

The Theyn. Even though the very thought of him makes me want to vomit again, I can’t deny that if there’s anyone who is likely to have accurate information about Astrean rebellions, it’s him. There’s the possibility Cress has overheard him saying something relevant, but the world outside the palace holds little interest for her, so it doesn’t seem likely she’d remember anything important. No, I’ll have to speak with the Theyn himself tonight, though being around him always makes me feel like I’m six years old again, watching him slit my mother’s throat.

I am sure he doesn’t like me any more than I like him, but if I corner him with Cress at my side, if I widen my eyes and let my voice tremble as I act like I’m frightened that Ampelio was working with someone, that whoever it is will try to come and take me away, he’ll have to tell me something. Admittedly, he’ll tell me there’s no one left no matter what the truth is, but for all his skills in battle, the Theyn is a horrible liar.

Cress herself pointed out the tells to me once, how his skin turns a flustered red under the long yellow beard that takes up most of his face. How he makes too much eye contact, how his nostrils flare.

Either way, I’ll have a better idea of what’s going on with the rebellion.

Hoa fastens another braid back with a plain pin. Her eyes meet mine in the mirror, and for an instant I could swear she reads my thoughts as clearly as words on a page. Her eyes narrow, but after a moment she looks away, braiding the last section of my hair and securing it in place.

There’s a knock at the door, and without waiting, a servant enters with a gold box. The final part of my ensemble.

Inside is a crown modeled after the one my mother wore: a circlet of flames that cuts across the forehead and reaches up a few inches, licking at the air.

Hoa places it on my head with a featherlight touch. It’s a routine we’ve been through too many times to count, so often that it’s become banal, but this time is different. This time, I let myself remember how my mother would sometimes let me wear her crown, how it was so big it would fall down around my neck. But while my mother’s crown was wrought from black gold and set with rubies, the one the Kaiser sends me is molded from ashes, and as soon as it is in place, it begins to crumble, streaking my hair, skin, and dress.

My mother was known as the Fire Queen, regal and strong. But I am the Ash Princess, a living joke.



* * *



—

The stares lie heavy on my skin as soon as I step into the banquet hall, followed by whispers and titters that warm my cheeks. Flakes of ash come down with each step I take, each infinitesimal move of my head, fluttering against my cheeks and shoulders and chest. I pretend not to notice, keeping my head high and letting my eyes glide over the courtiers until they catch on one stare in particular. The Prinz’s eyes are so much like his father’s that my chest constricts until I can hardly breathe. I look away, wanting to sink through the floor and disappear entirely as I remember how I vomited on him earlier. His stare has a purpose to it, though, which is not to gawk or gloat, but to draw my eyes back to his. I won’t give in.

I have my own purpose. While he watches me, I watch the shadows, where the slaves wait with their sunken eyes until they’re needed. They are mostly children and adolescents, though there are a few older women as well. No one who could prove a threat, physically. They are all frail bones jutting out beneath sallow skin, with missing teeth and thinning clumps of hair.

Don’t look, the old voice urges, but I ignore it now. I need to look. I need to see. “There you are,” Crescentia says, tearing my attention away from the shadows. She appears at my side and loops her arm through mine, even as ashes flake down to cover her as well. Her cheerfulness cuts through the tension in the room, and everyone else’s attention dissipates. They remember, as I do, what happened the first time the Kaiser sent me the ash crown, how Crescentia—then only seven—brushed her thumbs along my cheekbones and smeared the ashes into thick lines.

There, she’d said so softly that no one else heard her. Now you’re truly ready for battle. The small act of defiance earned me ten lashes, and I’m sure the Theyn punished Cress as well. Now, she ignores the crumbling crown as stubbornly as I do.

“I heard all about the trial,” she says softly, her forehead puckering. “Are you all right?”

Trial seems like an odd word for it. There were no arguments made, no jury, no judge. It was a murder, and I executed it myself.

Logically, I know I didn’t have a choice. But that doesn’t ease my guilt.

“It’s done,” I tell her, waving a hand dismissively. As if it’s so easy to rid myself of the memory of the blade biting into Ampelio’s skin. “I do hope Hoa will be able to get the blood out, though. It was such a pretty dress, didn’t you think?”