On the journey here, my eyes grew accustomed to the bright sunlight, but the splendor of the capital makes them ache all over again. No matter where I look, everything is either polished gold or richly colored, a blinding beauty that is almost gaudy in its overwhelmingness.

Dozens of spindly towers rise over the streets like golden blades of saw grass, so delicate that I worry a light wind will send them toppling. No two are the same exact color, and atop each one a flag hangs limply in the still air. Closer to the ground are rows of houses and shops with flat roofs and large windows, each wall painted with its own work of art. One shows two human figures dancing in bright clothing, while another shows the night sky, littered with stars that seem to actually sparkle. Some are painted more simply, with colors swirling over the surface.

Even the roads look like they should be on display somewhere—each brick is glistening white and without so much as a scuff mark that I can see, despite the mass of carriages and crowds of people trampling over them.

“They have magic,” I say, because there is no other explanation. “I thought Astrea was the only country that did.”

Dragonsbane’s laugh is mocking. “No magic,” she says, shaking her head.

“But the streets are so clean,” I argue, “and the air is cooler, and those towers can’t possibly be staying up there on their own.”

“You were right, no other countries besides Astrea have magic the way you do, apart from the gems they buy from the Kaiser,” Anders says. “But because they lack magic, they strive to replicate its effects with advancements in science and…” He pauses, searching for an Astrean word. After a moment he gives up. “Technology,” he finishes. I’m not sure what language that is, but it’s certainly not Astrean. He continues, “The streets stay clean because they are coated with a compound that repels marks and stains. The air is cooler because the capital was built on an underground spring. The towers are held aloft because they were built to exact specifications that a team of mathematicians devised.”

“Science and technology,” I repeat slowly, sounding out the strange word. Science is at least a familiar concept, the study of organic materials and chemistry and medicines and plants and animals, though I have a feeling this kind of science is something entirely different from what I’m familiar with. I can’t begin to guess what he means by technology, though, and I’m too embarrassed to ask. This seems like something I should know. It’s one thing to act like a fool, but I’m painfully aware of how little I know about the world outside of Astrea. Artemisia and S?ren might have prepared me for the suitors, but they didn’t prepare me for this.

* * *

—

I can’t imagine how the palace can be any more exquisite than the rest of the city, but it is. Instead of the single towers spread throughout the city, here there is a cluster of at least two dozen spindly towers of various heights and colors, each with a conical roof topped with its own flag. The tallest tower is at the very center, painted a rich red, and it has a flag that is crisp white with an orange sun.

I don’t have to ask anyone to understand that the flags are the sigils of different families who live in those towers and that the largest therefore must belong to the royal family.

“It really is something,” I murmur to Blaise. Our earlier fight lingers distantly in my mind, though neither of us has acknowledged it since. I don’t think either of us wants to acknowledge it. Try as I might, though, I can’t forget the thrum of the wood around us when Blaise lost his temper, as if the whole ship was about to shatter into nothing but splinters.

“It’s very…pointy,” he says, shrugging his shoulders. “I prefer home.”

Home. What was it I told Blaise when we left? “It’s only walls and roofs and floors.” And maybe that’s the truth, but now that he’s said it, I can’t help but feel the ache in my gut for my palace—not as it was the last time I was there, with its burnt garden and cracked, dirty stained-glass windows and the Kaiser sitting on my mother’s throne, but how it was before the siege. The Sta’Criveran palace would have dwarfed it, but Blaise is right; I prefer it, with its round rooms and domed ceilings and the gold and mosaics and stained glass everywhere you looked. Sta’Crivero is beautiful, but it will never compare to the memory of home that I cling to.

After the seven of us pile out of the carriage, we’re escorted through the arching palace entrance by a quartet of guards dressed in pressed cerulean uniforms with gold epaulets. The entryway is dominated by a large spiral staircase with tiled stairs in a rainbow of colors and a gold railing. When I look up, the stairs spiral high enough that I can’t see where they end.

“You must be our Astrean guests,” a female voice calls out, echoing in the large space. I glance around, but it’s impossible to tell where the voice is coming from. Finally, my eyes fall on a woman stepping around the edge of the stairway, dressed in a draping gown of peach cotton cinched at the waist with a thick yellow ribbon. She’s maybe five years older than I am, with bronze skin and dark brown hair that falls to her shoulders in loose curls. She has a kind face, but I’ve learned not to trust appearances.

She smiles, showing two rows of gleaming white teeth. “My name is Nesrina. King Etristo has asked that I show you to your rooms so that you can settle in before dinner. We realize that the palace can be quite confusing to newcomers.”

Nesrina gives a light chuckle that sounds rehearsed, and I wonder how many times she’s given this tour.

Dragonsbane clears her throat. “I’m Princess Kallistrade,” she says, though she can’t manage to say princess without wincing. “This is Anders and Eriel,” she says, motioning to them; each man gives a nod of acknowledgment. “Artemisia. Blaise, Heron, Prinz S?ren…and, of course, my niece, Queen Theodosia.”

Nesrina nods to each of us as Dragonsbane points us out, but when it’s my turn, she dips into a graceful curtsy with a few extra flourishes worked in.

“Your Majesty,” she says. “If you will all come with me, we’re going to head upstairs.”

Again I look up at the seemingly endless spiral staircase. My legs already ache at the thought of climbing them. The prospect of sleeping on the rocking ship is suddenly not as disagreeable as it was this morning.

“How far up is it?” I ask, hoping I don’t sound rude. The last thing I want to do is insult my host.

Nesrina laughs and shakes her head. “Not to worry, Your Majesty. We have a riser—we aren’t savages.” She turns and motions for us to follow.

I seem to be the only one who doesn’t know what a riser is, and I don’t want to show my na?veté by asking. Warily, I trail behind her until she stops before a large brass cage at the base of the stairway, nestled in the center of its spiral. Inside is plush red carpet and a shirtless man, skin the same color as the bars behind him, standing at attention. His shoulders are broad and his arms are the biggest I’ve ever seen—I think each one might be bigger around than my waist.

Nesrina steps into the cage and gestures for us to follow, but I hang back, my mind circling over every way this can go wrong. It’s a trap. King Etristo thinks I’m foolish enough to step into a cage so that he can deliver me to the Kaiser and collect his five million gold pieces. I know I’m supposed to play the fool, but not that much a fool, surely.

S?ren lingers by my side. “The risers are the easiest way to get to the tops of the towers,” he murmurs. “The man uses that crank to lift the box up, bit by bit.”

I glance sideways at him, unable to keep the disbelief off my face. “We’ll fall to our deaths,” I say.

He shrugs. “The Sta’Criverans have been using them for decades, and they’ve sold the design to other countries around the world. We even adapted the design to use in the mines in Astrea. No deaths have been reported. They say you’re more likely to fall by taking the stairs.”

Though my stomach is still churning, I follow the others into the cage. When the door closes behind me with a clang, my whole body goes tense. I force myself to take deep breaths, but I know it’ll be difficult until I’m out of this contraption. With the rest of our eight packed in, giving the riser attendant plenty of space, there’s barely room for me to move my arms.

“To the twenty-fifth floor, please, Argos,” Nesrina says. She’s perfectly relaxed, as if she does this all the time. She likely does.

The riser attendant—Argos—nods and takes hold of the large crank, beginning to turn it. His muscles bulge with the effort.