Lady Smoke (Ash Princess Trilogy #2)(94)

I shake my head. “She isn’t my lady’s maid anymore and she has plenty of other worries to tend to now, I’m sure, as the mother of the Emperor.”

Erik shrugs. “You would think, but she says appearance is important for a female ruler—more important than it is for a male one, since it’s what she’s judged on first. Apparently, you need her help more. Which is truly saying something, since she was my Gorakian translator.”

I raise my eyebrows. “How will you manage without her, then?”

He frowns, screwing his face up in concentration. “En kava dimendanat,” he says. “That was either ‘I’ll be all right’ or ‘I have a fat donkey.’ But I meant the former. All of my donkeys are terribly scrawny.”

I laugh. “Maybe ask her to write down some phrases before you go?” I suggest.

He nods, then says, “Oh, I nearly forgot why I came here in the first place.” He digs into his pocket, pulls out two identical nuggets of gold, each the size of my thumb, and passes one to me. “A gift from Master Jurou. It’s called a molo varu,” he explains.

“Is this some of that fake gold you mentioned him making?” I ask, lifting it to my eye and looking carefully.

“No, that is the genuine material. Only it’s been…shall we say, tampered with?”

I shift my gaze from the piece of gold and look at him instead. “Tampered with how?”

Erik waves a dismissive hand. “He explained the whole tedious process to me, through my mother of course, but even translated it was quite unintelligible. The gist of it is that gold is a malleable metal. With enough pressure…” He trails off and sticks his piece of gold into his mouth, biting down hard on it.

Beneath my fingers, I feel my own piece of gold shift. I nearly drop it altogether. When I hold it up, I see a set of teeth marks shallowly indented in the gold’s surface.

“How…,” I start, but I trail off, looking at it from all angles, expecting it to disappear, but it doesn’t.

“In Gorakian, molo varu means ‘mimic stone.’ They’re connected. What happens to one, happens to the other.”

“That’s…” I stare at the stone. “…either incredible or frightening,” I finish finally.

“Both, I think,” Erik says, taking the stone from me and tossing it to Heron, who catches it deftly. “Can you keep an eye on it? You don’t have to bite it, of course. A hot enough tool could carve words into it. Keep it in your pocket, and if you feel it get warm, you’ll know I have a message for you. And vice versa.”

“It’s perfect,” I tell him.

Erik smiles. “Grumpy as he might be, Master Jurou is something of a genius,” he admits grudgingly.

“Pass along my thanks,” I tell him. “And safe travels, Erik.”

Erik nods, glancing at Artemisia and Heron before looking back at me. “Take care of my mother. I’ll see you both at the Fire Mine.”





THE GARDEN IS NEARLY EMPTY when I meet Coltania. Only a few clusters of Sta’Criverans mill about in their jewel-toned, heavily embellished silks that seem designed to compete with the exotic flowers surrounding us. In the midst of so much color, Coltania looks like a particularly lethal bloom, dressed in a high-necked black gown that hugs her figure. Her dark hair is arranged on top of her head and secured with a single jet pin. As usual, her lips are painted deep red, the only hint of color on her.

When she sees me, those lips spread into a smile that reveals two rows of straight white teeth.

“There you are,” she says, coming toward me. “I was beginning to worry.”

“I’m sorry I got delayed,” I tell her. “I had a friend stop by unexpectedly.”

She waves a dismissive hand. “You’re here now, and that’s what matters,” she says, linking her arm through mine and starting to walk down one of the garden’s many paths.

Suddenly, I miss Crescentia so much it feels like a knife twisting in my gut. How many times did we walk together arm in arm like this through the gray garden? We would talk about everything and nothing, all light laughter and jokes no one else understood. It was easy and it was simple and it was a lie, but there is a part of me that would give anything to go back to it.

Coltania is not Crescentia, I remind myself, though I’m sure Coltania is hoping to give the impression that she is a silly socialite with no worries beyond having a new dress ready for the next party. She isn’t very good at it. She doesn’t know that there is always something beneath the surface with girls like Cress, whether it’s a sharply strategic mind or a love of poetry or a kind heart. No, Coltania grew up watching girls like that from a distance, resentful and hungry for a life like theirs, and so she has only managed a cheap imitation of what she believed them to be.

But I can play along with that illusion easily enough.

“You were very kind to invite me for a walk, Salla Coltania,” I tell her, squeezing her arm. “I’m sure you are exhausted after all the effort you are putting in to clear S?ren’s name. And to think—this was supposed to be a break from your work. I hope we haven’t inconvenienced you too terribly.”

That seems to catch her off guard. “No, not at all, Your Majesty,” she says after a beat. “I’m happy to help in whatever way I can, truly.”