“Best I hear it from the coreling’s mouth,” I say. Arther gives a pained smile, and nods briefly as Selen lets out a low growl.

  * * *

  —

  “Olive!” The baroness holds her arms out to me like Elona had in the courtyard, lips already puckering.

  I sidestep smoothly without making contact. “Cut the demonshit, Emelia, and address me as Highness or Princes.”

  The baroness blinks. “Have I offended you in some way, Highness?”

  I cross my arms. “A lifetime spent making Selen miserable offends me, yes.”

  Emelia tilts her head at that, and a little smile quirks at the edge of her mouth. “Direct. Just like your mother. I like that. Arther, will you give us the room for a short while?”

  “By all means.” Arther looks visibly relieved as he turns to me. “With your permission, of course, Highness.”

  I flick a hand, and he all but scurries out of the office as the baroness walks over to the refreshment service and fills a glass with wine, as if it’s not the tenth hour of morning.

  Emelia takes a seat on one of the small plush divans Mother preferred for more intimate audiences, whisking her hand toward the other. “Leesha was even blunter when she had Amanvah cast the bones in my blood before allowing me to marry Gared.”

  My own blood goes cold at the words. It’s easy to think I’m the only one whose life has been twisted by the alagai hora, but the dama’ting—and Mother, it seems—were doing this to people long before I was born.

  I take the opposing seat. “What did they say?” It’s the height of rudeness to ask such a thing, but I don’t think the baroness would have brought it up, otherwise.

  “That I would be loyal,” Emelia tosses back half the glass, “to Gared and to Hollow, and that Gared would marry no other.”

  “That doesn’t sound so bad,” I venture.

  Emelia drains the rest of her cup and fills it again. “They said I would bear him strong sons, but it would be his daughter who succeeds him.”

  And just like that, I understand.

  Gared’s affair with Grandmum came before he met Emelia. “Elona was already pregnant with Selen when the dice were cast.”

  Emelia extends a finger to point at me as she raises the glass again. “But of course, I could not have known that at the time. No one asks the man to give blood to the dice before promising.”

  It’s true enough, in my experience. I effortlessly claim rights and freedoms as a man that were denied me as a woman.

  “Even when I found out, I held hope,” Emelia tops off her glass again, “that the prophecy was wrong, that his bastard might be a boy, or I have a girl.”

  Something about that grates on me most of all. It seems Selen and I both were born with fates tied to gender. Why should our lives be tethered to something so…fluid? Why should so much ride upon what’s between our legs at birth?

  “From the moment she was born,” Emelia says, “Selen only had eyes for her da, and he for her. She was his world, and my sons and I might as well be guests in our own home.”

  “That isn’t true,” I say. “Gared taught all his kids to fight, to cut trees and build things from the lumber. To plant new trees and respect the wood. He took them hunting, camping, fishing…”

  “He took her hunting and camping and fishing,” Emelia says. “The boys he grudgingly allowed to come one year, after we spent a night screaming about it.”

  There’s fire in the baroness’ eyes, and I don’t think it’s because she’s lying. I think it’s because she’s kept the truth bottled up too long.

  “Everyone knew it,” she says, “gossiped about it all over court. Elona made sure of that. I felt like I was being humiliated anew every time Selen was around, or spoken of.”

  I can’t deny that sounds like Grandmum. Elona isn’t exactly fond of Selen, either, but she loathes Emelia, and would delight in rubbing the baroness’ nose in the fact that her sons are also-rans.

  “None of that is Selen’s fault,” I say. I never had a father and couldn’t help but envy what Selen and Gared had.

  “Perhaps not,” Emelia agrees, “but it was hard to love her for it. Your mother was the only one who understood that, and the trials the general caused us both, even as he took credit for our work.”

  “What?” I ask.

  “Did you think Gared Cutter runs the barony of Cutter’s Hollow?” Emelia laughs. “I’ve done every tally, made every decision, written every law and decree, but Gared gets to sign them. Baron Cutter, the great war hero! No matter that he nearly bankrupted the entire duchy before I took over his ledgers. Leesha and I built Hollow’s economy together, but ask anyone on the street and they’ll thank Gared’s axe for any prosperity they enjoy.”

  I pour myself a glass of water, if only to give myself time to think. I remember Mother and Emelia were nearly inseparable, working in this very office until all hours of the night. She was always kind to me, and why shouldn’t she resent having neither credit nor heredity to show for all her work?

  And yet for all that, I cannot easily forgive the core she made Selen’s life—trapped between a mother and stepmother, each taking out her hate for the other through Selen.

  Yet I still love Grandmum. Can I make room for the baroness as well? Should I?

  “Selen says the whole manse heard you make peace with Gared last night,” I note.

  “Peace was the last thing we made!” Emelia laughs, not seeming ashamed at least. “But I let him touch me for the first time in years, ay. I’m not made of stone.”

  “Mother said peace is not kind to the baron,” I say. “But Hollow is no longer at peace, and I need his axe as well as your ledgers.”

  Emelia nods. “Gared is at his best when he has something to fight.”

  “Perhaps you can make an attempt with Selen for the first time in years as well,” I say. “Now, before it’s too late.” The words are phrased as suggestion, but my tone makes them an order, and Emelia does not miss it.

  “Ay, Highness.” Emelia looks like she’s eaten a lemon, but she nods, lifting a pinch of skirt to imitate a curtsy from her divan.

  It’s not friendship, but it’s a peace of sorts, and I call Arther back in as Emelia sets down her empty glass and begins producing charts and reciting numbers with cool sobriety. It’s easy to understand what Mother saw in her.

  And to understand what they fear. The Hollow economy, robust under Mother, is already faltering.

  “How is that possible?” I ask.

  “The duchess had the treasury print and spend vast sums, pumping klats by the million into the reconstruction and building of Hollow after the war.” Arther might as well be reciting a history text. “The duchess was a Gatherer at heart, and would let none in her duchy go without food or shelter or medical attention. She was constantly juggling debt with the needs of the people.”

  “Much of that spending was loans to individual baronies that repaid themselves over the ensuing years of prosperity,” Emelia notes, “and Leesha’s dice guided investments that assured sufficient returns.”

  “But Mother is gone,” I say.

  “Disappeared,” Emelia agrees, “along with both her heirs. The resulting uncertainty has roiled the financial markets and caused a run on some of the smaller banks and treasuries. The seams of her carefully stitched economy are threatening to tear.”

  “The central bank has stabilized the klat for now,” Arther says, “propping it up with cash from the royal treasury, but that won’t last forever. The markets need stability only you can give them.”

  “Me?” I say. “What can I do?” I’ve studied economics in Gatherers’ University, but I can’t just wave my hand and create money from nothing.

  “Just news of your return has brought a turn in trade,” Emelia says. “The bank of New Krasia is strong, and right on the border, with ready loans for Hollowers feeling the strain. If we’re not careful they’ll soon own swaths of Hollow the way they do Lakton.”

  “If they don’t attack outright,” Arther says.

  I roll my eyes. “The Krasians are not going to attack us, Minister.”

  Lord Arther looks at me patiently, like one might a child. It makes me angry, but not so much that I don’t realize what a foolish thing that was to say.

  The Krasians hold to the Pact of the Free Cities because my father commanded it, and he did that as much because of his love for me, Mother, and Mrs. Bales as the goodness of his heart.

  Again, I hear Asome’s words in my head. My mother thinks herself impartial, but she is not. Do not doubt for an instant that she will sacrifice you, your mother, or even Hollow itself, if it will benefit Krasia or return her husband to her.

  With no one left to challenge her, who is to say Inevera isn’t sending me to my doom on purpose, to prime Hollow for invasion? That Belina wasn’t working for her all along?

  “Hollow remains strong,” Arther says, when I have the decency not to argue further, “but it has been difficult to keep the barons and merchants and people united. Your mother was…beloved. Worshipped, even. Leesha commanded barons, Gatherers, Hollow Soldiers, Warders, and commoners alike, and they followed her with equal devotion.”

  I realize now—too late, always too late—why Mother pushed me so hard. Why she forced me on a path of books and diplomacy, doubling the pressure every time I was less than perfect. She could break every council deadlock because she understood everyone’s job better than they did themselves.

  I always thought Mother was trying to force me into an identity that didn’t fit, but perhaps it had less than I thought to do with my gender, and more with what Hollow needed. Duchess Paper put her people ahead of her own needs, and made that choice for me, as well.

  She had no right to, but she was right to. I thought Mother was sheltering me from danger, but looking back I see she was making me into the leader Hollow required, and I would not wish it another way. Would not wish to be just a vapid princess, or a wood-brained warrior.

  She wanted me to be an Herb Gatherer, like her. I will never be that, but I have stitched the bloody bodies of my friends and spear brothers back together, and closed their eyes when they could not be saved. I know the value of a Gatherer’s art.

  She had Captain Wonda train me to fight, so I would understand conflict, as well. I didn’t feel called when studying sharusahk when I was young. It wasn’t until the fighting moved from the university’s safe and sterile practice yard to the life-and-death struggle of the naked night that I discovered where my talents truly lay.

  I despised the endless, oppressive hours in Favah’s Chamber of Shadows, studying magic. Yet those lessons and my own imprisonment by Belina’s armlet gave me understanding and respect for the power of hora, and its dangers.

  What am I now? A healer? A warrior? A witch? Can I be what Hollow needs? All the things Hollow needs? And what of Inevera’s warnings, if I stay here in Hollow to stabilize markets while our enemies mount?

  “What do you need?” I ask. “What will set Hollow right?”

  “The Winter Solstice Festival is only a week away,” Arther says. “We’d like to make it into a coronation.”

  * * *

  —

  Arther is all too eager to fill my calendar with appointments. Already a crowd of courtiers, pages, and supplicants is gathering at court, all hoping for just a chance at an audience.

  I knew to expect this. All the time I spent as Mother’s shadow at court has paid off, as I recognize familiar players, and her whispered words of advice. Who I could trust, and with what. Who would seek to take advantage of me, and who would be afraid to ask for what they truly need.

  This is not the way I would spend my first day back at home, but Arther and Emelia were right. It doesn’t matter what I say. My very presence is a signal that the system they have come to depend on will continue to operate.

  I smile and comfort and console, equally pleasant to those truly devastated by Mother’s disappearance and those feigning while they seek advantage on the new political battlefield. I deflect any questions about my time in Krasia, and they all know it would be unwise to press.

  I meet so many advisors and leaders it’s perfectly natural when I meet with the one person I truly wish to speak to, Lord Commander Gamon.

  Another hero of the demon war, Gamon was captain of the Hollow Lancers, Mother’s prized cavalry—another way she honored her lost love. The lancers had the highest kill rate of all Hollow’s armies, but so too had they taken the greatest losses. Mother loosened her normally tight purse strings to see them restored to glory.

  It shows in Lord Commander Gamon, whom I have always adored for his bold fashion sense. His uniform is always crisp and flamboyant, just a hair short of garish in its rainbow of medals.

  Gamon is in his fifties, but he took a lion’s share of demon feedback magic during the war, and even now, when his lance has likely not touched ichor in ten years, he looks to be the sunny side of forty. The touch of silver in his hair just adds to his flair.

  Where peacetime softened General Gared, who had no patience for military ceremony, Gamon thrived, and rose through the ranks to lord commander even as Gared eased into semi-retirement. He remains fit and muscular, training his men from the saddle daily.

  Hollow’s forces will look to Gared, now that he is again the man they remember from the war. But as Emelia has reminded me, Gared has no head for logistics. He can assure me of the loyalty of the troops, but he can’t give me the information I need.

  Gamon and Arther can.

  “Highness.” Gamon snaps his boots together with a sharp click, his jaw pointed up at the perfect angle as he punches an immaculate white-gloved fist to his chest. “I am here to personally vouch for the strength of your armed forces. Hollow is secure, and we stand at the ready, should you seek retribution against the desert rats.”

  There is venom in his tone, and I am not surprised. Not all wounds from the war have healed. Gamon was like a brother to Count Thamos before my half brother Jayan slew him at the Battle of Docktown.

  “There will be no retribution with Krasia, Lord Commander.” I put bass in my voice, an order he will not miss. “We have greater foes to worry about.”

  “The corelings.” The venom in Gamon’s voice is deeper, and I am pleased to hear it. “General Gared told me they still roam the sands. I’d hoped we’d seen the last of their scum.”

  “More than sand demons survived,” I tell him, “and they have a mind. This will not be solved with a single charge. How many active forces does Hollow have, and how are they equipped and provisioned? How many could you field tomorrow? A month from now? By Spring Equinox?”

  Arther fetches his ledgers as he and Gamon begin reciting numbers, companies, divisions. Active forces and reserves for each barony, down to the number of pack mules in the stables, which barons meet their military requirements, and which have fallen slack.

  “And how many do you think we could recruit, train, and equip over the winter if I put out a call to all able bodies on Solstice?” I ask.

  Both men stare at me a moment, but then Gamon snaps back to attention. “Is that your intention, Highness?”

  “I haven’t decided,” I say, and it’s honest word.

  “I feel compelled to mention, Highness,” Arther flexes a sudden tension from his fingers, “the cost would strain an already—”

  “I understand your concern, Minister,” I cut in. “But our choices may be to strike at the corelings now or wait for them to come to us in numbers not seen since I was in nappies. I’m giving you warning to prepare the tallies so I can make an informed decision, but this is not to be discussed outside this room for any reason.”

  Arther’s bow is deeper now, and Gamon clicks his heels again. “Of course, Highness.”

  * * *

  —

  After that it’s back to shaking hands, patting backs, settling disputes, and avoiding questions about where I’ve been. They all remember the pampered princess I was, and see me now, riding into Hollow in Krasian armor, with a unit of hard Sharum warriors at my command.

  No doubt the salons and taprooms of Hollow are filled with rumors even grander than the truth, and why should I spoil them. I’ll need every bit of glory the Jongleurs spin into their tales for what I may need to ask of my people.

  The sun has already set when I finally exit Mother’s office, wondering how I will find the strength to do it all again tomorrow. Wondering how Mother managed it day after day, season after season, year after year.

  Mother gave up everything on the path to the throne of Hollow. She loved three men and lost them all. She buried her mentor, her best friends, and the dreams of her own future. Refusing to be cowed, she worked magic on the front lines of the demon war even as I rode in her belly.

  Sharaj made me think the Duchess Paper who raised me was soft, and that in raising me as a girl, she had made me soft, as well.

  Now I think perhaps Mother was the hardest of us all.

  Faseek is waiting outside the office, enduring the glares from Hollowers as he stands in Majah armor, with spear and shield on his back, so close to their seat of power.

  Selen assigned Becca, one of my mother’s house guards, to me as well. I’ve known Becca all my life and told her Faseek was my trusted spear brother. Still, she eyes him suspiciously, treating him as more threat than ally.

  Mother’s chambers are chill when we return. A draft turns my eyes to the billowing curtains of the balcony overlooking the keep’s inner courtyard gardens.

  “Apologies, Highness,” Tarisa says from over in the corner where I’d spent the night. The bed she’s placed there remains larger than one person needs, but it’s much more modest and functional than Mother’s monstrous four-poster, or even the one in my old chambers. A pair of maids are making up the linens under the head maid’s watchful eye.