“Then I’ll vomit all over you,” I reply.

Hoa laughs, a sound I’ve never heard before. It’s a melodic laugh that reminds me of birdsong at the start of the day. It’s beautiful.

MY THREAT OF VOMIT SEEMS to have worked—the horse practically glides over the flat expanse of the desert with Artemisia at the reins. She leads the pack the whole way there, but I find I don’t mind the speed as much as I thought I would.

When we arrive, Heron, Blaise, and Erik unload the packs of food attached to each of our horses while Hoa, Artemisia, and I start for the gate. I can’t help but glance over my shoulder at Blaise as we go, looking for signs of his outburst only hours earlier, but he’s just as he always is and there is something both comforting and disconcerting about that.

The guards outside are the same as last time, with the stone faces and the curved blades sheathed at their hips. When we approach, they barely spare us a look.

“We’re here to…” I start, but trail off. How was it phrased last time? “Look for labor. And we’ve brought payment for past labors,” I add, gesturing behind me at the boys carrying the food.

The guards exchange skeptical looks, but apparently they don’t care enough to call me out on the lie. With an annoyed sigh, one of them opens the single door, ushering us through.

Again it is like hitting a wall of hot, stale air that smells of disease and rot. I’m expecting it this time, so I don’t react, but Hoa is not prepared. Next to me, she coughs and gags, covering her nose and mouth with an arm to block out the stench. Her dark eyes dart around the decrepit camp—the small houses that are falling apart, the dirty streets, the people in their torn clothes, some of whom are so skinny that their bones jut out beneath their skin like they aren’t fully of this world.

For a moment, there’s horror and disgust and sadness in her expression, but just as quickly as it appeared, it seals itself away behind her mask of placid stoicism.

Suddenly, I see it—that other life she lived before I knew her, the emperor’s daughter she once was, raised to greet every situation with a level head and diplomacy. Never emotional, never vulnerable. I can’t believe I ever saw her as anything else.

“There are refugees from every country the Kalovaxians have conquered here,” I explain. “Some families have been here for generations. They speak a kind of mishmash language, words and phrases taken from one country or another. And there is a council of Elders who represent each community. That’s who we’ll be meeting with.”

A group of children—the same ones from our last visit—run up with their hands out, wide smiles stretched over crooked teeth. I can’t help but smile back, as much as the sight of them with their protruding ribs and grimy faces breaks my heart. I dig into my pockets and take a handful of jewels I picked off of the dresses left in my closet. One by one, I pass them out to the children who cling to my skirt and tug at my arms.

“Ojo,” one of them shouts, and the others quickly join in, chanting the word until their voices blend into one.

Next to me, Hoa stiffens. I don’t know what the word means, but she does.

She clears her throat. “?‘Prinzessin,’?” she says to me. “Ojo was our word for it in Goraki, what we called the daughter of the emperor. It was what they called me then. It’s what they’re calling you now, though you’re more than a prinzessin. They don’t know that yet, but you will show them.”

She sounds so sure of me, more sure than I’ve ever felt. For so many years we suffered side by side. She was a stranger, sealed away behind her silence and the distance she kept to protect us both. But I was not a stranger to her; I was a girl she bathed and dressed and put to bed every night. She saw more of me than she did of her own son.

I reach out and take hold of her hand, squeezing it tightly in mine. Her eyes fill with tears but she blinks them away before they can fall. “Ojo Hoa,” she says, so quietly that I nearly don’t hear her. But she isn’t speaking to me anyway; the words are only meant for her own ears, a name that was taken from her the same way mine was.

“We’re looking for the Elders,” I tell the children in Astrean.

They blink in confusion, exchanging a look. They must only understand a word or two.

“Can you ask them in Gorakian where the Elders are?” I ask Hoa in Kalovaxian.

She nods and translates. Understanding dawns on a few of their faces as they put it together, using some Astrean and some Gorakian words.

One of the older girls, maybe nine years old, takes hold of my hand and leads me through the streets. A younger boy of about four takes my other hand, and when I look back at Hoa and Artemisia, I see the children scrambling to hold their hands as well—even Artemisia softens a fraction when a boy grabs her hand and beams up at her with a smile that is missing one front tooth.

They lead us through the grimy streets and I hesitate only long enough to make sure that Blaise, Heron, and Erik got in without issue. They’re inside the gate, unloading their packs of food while a group of adult refugees look on with hungry eyes. I’m not sure how we can possibly fairly divide the food we brought—even if we could, it still wouldn’t be enough. A bandage on a gaping wound, nothing more.

I look down at the two children grasping my hands like they’re terrified I’ll slip away. There must be more I can do, but I can’t think of what it is. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so helpless in my life, not even when the Theyn was standing over me with the whip in his hand.

* * *

—

The children lead us to the same shack as before. Just as we’re stepping up to the front door, it opens to reveal Tallah standing with one hand on her hip, her expression inscrutable.

“You again,” she says to me in heavily accented Astrean. Her eyes dart to Artemisia, then to Hoa. “And a new friend this time. This is not a park for you to come play in, you know.”

I feel my cheeks grow hot. “We brought food, as much as we could manage. It still won’t be enough, but it’s…it’s all we could carry.”

Her nostrils flare as she stares at me so intently I feel like I’m going to turn to stone on the spot.

“This is Hoa,” I say when Tallah remains quiet, gesturing to where she stands at my right.

Realizing she’s being introduced, Hoa stands a little straighter, lifting her chin an inch. “Ojo Hoa,” she says. “Ta Goraki.”

Something flashes in Tallah’s eyes. “There was a time when I never imagined I’d ever meet a princess. Now you seem to be multiplying.”

“I’m a queen, actually,” I say, even though I can hear Dragonsbane’s voice echoing in my mind. Queen of what, exactly? I push the voice away, but the ghost of it lingers.

Tallah laughs and pushes her door open farther. “Very well, Queen. Come in, the three of you,” she says before looking down at the children and saying something I don’t understand, waving her hands. They giggle and scurry away and we step inside.

The Elders are all here. They must all share the house, small as it is. Sandrin is sitting on a threadbare mattress with a book in his hands that appears to have lost more than half of its pages. When he hears us come in, he looks up, the space between his eyebrows wrinkling.

“Your Majesty,” he says, getting to his feet. “I thought we’d seen the last of you.”

Guilt swarms through me even though I’m not sure how I could have managed to return any sooner. Maybe I should have never left. No matter how fine the Sta’Criveran palace is, I think I’m more comfortable here, where doing good for my people means giving out food and jewels and thatching a roof instead of selling myself to a strange ruler of a foreign country. But smuggling food and thatching roofs are temporary solutions. The only way I can really help these people is to give them a country to call home.

“I’m sorry,” I tell him. “It’s difficult to get away, but we brought food with us. Blaise and Heron are unpacking it with…another friend. Erik.”

He looks confused. “No Prinz this time? Did we scare him away?” He doesn’t sound very sorry about it. In fact, I think I see a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“He’s otherwise occupied today,” I say. “But this is Ojo Hoa of Goraki. Her son, the Emperor, is helping unpack the food near the gate.”

Sandrin turns his attention to Hoa, but before he can say anything, another voice breaks through.