Chapter 4

When the door to her locked cell pushed open, Baroness Portia Dhemlan couldn't bring herself to rise to her feet from the narrow bed she lay in. The barracks housing herself and other high-profile prisoners were located in the center of the POW camp. Weapons from the soldiers and automatons that guarded the camp against revenants had gone off all night, keeping her awake.

"Get up. You're wanted in the city."

She tried not to flinch at that order. Being summoned like this had never gone well in the past—the last time had seen her put on a steam train at the rail station in Amari. It had taken her and Emmitt west, out of reach of anyone who might think to try to save them from an occupied city.

Portia carefully sat up, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. The thin mattress and patched blanket weren't enough to ward off the morning chill, but it was spring, she thought, and the floor wasn't as icy as it had been even a few weeks ago.

Portia slipped her feet into the thin-soled shoes allotted to each prisoner in the camp once they were processed through the gates. The drab gray pants and loose long-sleeved shirt matched the clothes worn by other prisoners. Being nobility didn't mean anything there in that hellish place. Her rank as a baroness only afforded herself and her husband separate tiny rooms in the barracks with other high-profile prisoners when everyone else in their same predicament lived in rows of tents, at the mercy of the elements.

The soldier snapped a pair of shackles around her wrists once she stood. The metal dug against her wristbones, but she knew better than to protest. Portia followed her jailer out of the cell, the heavy metal door clanging shut behind her. She looked past the soldier, heart skipping a beat at the sight of her husband as Emmitt came out of a cell at the other end of the hallway.

They locked eyes, and Portia bit her lip, swallowing the urge to call out to him. It had been weeks since she last saw him, and she ached to hold him and be held in return. Portia blinked back tears and drew in a shaky breath, refusing to cry before their jailers.

Emmitt and his guard joined them at the landing. His shackled hands twitched toward her before he fisted them and pressed them close to his stomach. The hollows in his cheeks seemed worse, though the cough he'd had the last time they saw each other seemed to have gone away. Portia had begged for a healer for him, and she hadn't known if one had been granted to see him. Looking at Emmitt now, one must have, for all the good it had done.

"Portia," Emmitt murmured right before he was prodded down the stairs.

She squared her shoulders, following him down, aware of the soldiers at their back, waiting for a shove that never came. She and Emmitt were spared the violence most other prisoners had to live through in the rest of the camp, though Portia wasn't grateful for that reprieve at all. It singled them out, and the reason for that had escaped Amari and was rallying the Ashion army if the rumors from other prisoners were true.

But oh, how she missed her daughter. Knowing that Caris was hopefully still alive did nothing to ease Portia's worry. Caris was her daughter and always would be, no matter the name she now used. She might have been born a Rourke, but she would always be a Dhemlan in Portia's heart.

Their transportation from the POW camp to Istal was in a motor carriage whose engine needed an oil change if the grinding sound of the pistons was anything to go by. Portia ignored the sound on the fast drive toward the city, leaning hard against Emmitt on the back seat, taking what comfort she could from his presence. He didn't smell like the cologne he used to wear, but the press of his lips to her temple was achingly familiar.

The driver bypassed the main entry line through the city gates for the one used by the military. Whatever papers he brandished got them waved through to a bustling street. Portia stared at the passing buildings and the people who went about their business as if a war wasn't being fought and they didn't have the dead clawing at their walls every day.

Revenants were a scourge Daijal was no longer safe from. Portia had read the broadsheets when they'd been imprisoned in Amari. She knew the atrocity Queen Eimarille Rourke had perpetuated against the wardens, damning her country to the walking dead and poison fields that would never be cleansed. Eimarille had done it in the name of progress, a fitting reason for the Age they were in. But all progress came with a price, and Portia wondered if Eimarille would damn all of Maricol for a future not everyone believed in.

Portia would never ask that question out loud, but it lingered in her thoughts when the motor carriage finally drove into the military garrison within Istal's walls and saw who waited for them in the forecourt. She remembered the Urovan from the debutante ball back in Amari last year and, later, when Terilyn had overseen their transfer from Ashion to Daijal. Wearing a long brown skirt and a white short-sleeved blouse, with her black hair pulled back in a queue, her outfit was quite plain, not indicative of a noble at all.

Terilyn's quiet demeanor hid sharp eyes and an even sharper mind. Ever Eimarille's companion and trusted lady-in-waiting, she was not above murdering for her queen, as Portia well knew. She couldn't quite hide the flinch when Terilyn's steady, brown-eyed gaze landed on her as she exited the motor carriage.

"This won't do," Terilyn said, taking their measure. "Remove their shackles."

The guards who had come with them obeyed the order without argument. It wasn't as if Portia or Emmitt had any weapons or magic at their disposal. With her hands free, Portia reached for Emmitt and found him reaching back. Their fingers tangled together tightly, his palm rough against hers, but it felt so good to hold on.

Terilyn circled them once before gesturing sharply. "You will follow me."

The soldiers didn't join them, and no one tried to separate them. Portia took advantage of that tiny bit of freedom to press close to her husband. Emmitt wrapped his arm tight around her waist, his fingers digging into her hip with bruising desperation.

Terilyn led them to a washroom with attendants who looked more suited to being at court than a garrison. She and Emmitt were stripped of their prison clothes and scrubbed down while they stood in the center of the tiled space. Portia's cheeks burned with shame at being on display in such a manner, but she didn't complain. At least the water was warm enough, but Portia was still chilled by the time she was handed a towel and told to dry off. She didn't dally, thankful that she'd been able to wash off the accumulated grime. Her daily ablutions in the POW camp were little more than sluicing a tiny amount of water over her hands and face.

Once they were dry, the attendants dressed them in clothes Portia knew they wouldn't get to keep. The fabric was too fine, the style too new, to be anything but a fa?ade for political purposes.

That's all they were now—no longer cogs but political pawns.

Terilyn nodded her approval at their cleaned-up state before stepping out of the room. "This way."

Portia and Emmitt followed after her, escape a distant dream. Terilyn led them deeper into the garrison to a room that had been rearranged to allow a military photographer to set up his camera stand. The painting that once hung from a white-painted wall now leaned against the back of a pushed-aside sofa. In its place hung the Daijal flag. Portia and Emmitt were made to sit and stand, always facing the camera with grim expressions on their faces as the bulbs popped and flashed throughout the process. Whatever propaganda the photographs would be used for, Portia hoped Caris knew they were unwilling participants in the designs.

"I'll have them ready for the queen by tomorrow morning," the man said with a stiff nod in Terilyn's direction.

"See that you do. We depart Istal at noon tomorrow," Terilyn said.

With the appointment finished, Terilyn led them once more through the garrison on a route Portia didn't bother to keep track of. Eventually, Terilyn escorted them into a library where Queen Eimarille Rourke waited. Portia tried to still her pounding heart as Eimarille looked at them over the tea tray situated on the low table.

Eimarille was dressed in a rich maroon gown with sheer gold voile layered over the skirt. Her bodice had delicate gold thread embroidered in a repeating Viper constellation pattern along the collar, drawing attention to the layered strands of gold and pearl necklaces. She wore no crown, only a tiara with intricate floral filigree done in gold, pearl, and diamonds.

As beautiful as she looked, Portia found no warmth in Eimarille's gaze. But even as she stared, she could see bits of Caris in Eimarille's face, the resemblance there only in the physical, for her daughter would never be so cruel.

"Have you forgotten your manners?" Terilyn asked with an amused lilt to her voice.

Belatedly, Portia sketched a curtsy while Emmitt bowed. Neither one of them spoke, choosing silence over the political pitfalls that came with words these days. Eimarille's lips quirked into a smile as she gestured at the sofa across from hers. "Baron and Baroness Dhemlan, do take a seat. I thought it time the three of us finally had a conversation."

When they'd been imprisoned under house arrest in Amari after the riot last summer, Eimarille had not summoned them before her. They'd been held under false pretenses, Portia had argued, but it made no difference at the time. Portia and Emmitt might have been Ashionen citizens, not subject to Daijalan law, but the courts saw differently. Their detainment had been orchestrated by the very woman who now offered them a spread of tea and food too rich for their stomachs after months of poor rations.

Emmitt squeezed Portia's hand before letting go and ushering her to a seat. They sat, so close their thighs touched, and Portia clasped her hands together over her lap. Terilyn gracefully sat next to Eimarille and set about pouring tea for everyone. Two pots were available, one with the pale gold flowering tea favored by Daijal and another of the bitter black favored by some provinces in Ashion. There was cream and sweetener in the form of sugar, honey, and jam, along with elegantly made cakes and tea sandwiches.

Terilyn passed out teacups to everyone, and Portia had to force herself to reach for hers, opting not to add anything to it. She wondered, idly, if it was poisoned in some way. Eimarille had stolen war machine designs from Solaria; she wouldn't put it past the other woman to borrow the Houses of Solaria's habits of murdering each other by way of poison in order to claim power.

"Not to your liking?" Eimarille asked, the kindness in her tone a lie.

"It's been quite some time since I've had tea," Portia demurred. She braced herself for a careful sip, the hot beverage tasting how she remembered.

"I am aware."

Portia said nothing to that, knowing better than to lay the blame for their current predicament at the feet of the woman who quite literally controlled their lives. Her sip taken, Portia set the teacup on the table, steeling herself to meet Eimarille's gaze. The younger woman's attention was a heavy thing, leaving Portia's chest tight as she wondered how to dance like a puppet to ensure their road continued.

"You must understand I did not wish for things to turn out this way, but your daughter gave me no recourse," Eimarille said after a moment. Portia bit her lip, swallowing her words. Emmitt stayed silent as well. Their reticence to speak seemed to amuse Eimarille. "No defense for your daughter?"

"Would it do us any good, Your Majesty?" Emmitt asked carefully.

Eimarille's mouth quirked up at the corners, but there was no humor to be found in her eyes. "No, it wouldn't. It is good that you understand that."

The taste of the tea soured on Portia's tongue. "We understand that we are at your mercy."

"My mercy can be kind." Eimarille set her teacup down on the table, sharing an unreadable glance with Terilyn. "Your memories show no recollection of how Caris came to you."

Portia couldn't hide the flinch those words caused, mind spinning back to one horrible afternoon last year shortly after they'd been put under house arrest. A man dressed like a warden had arrived at their Amari home, wand in hand, commanding insidious magic that carved its way through her thoughts. He'd dredged up every moment of Caris' life from the recess of Portia's mind, from infancy to the last sight of her at the start of the riot.

Portia hadn't been able to feel clean for weeks after that visit. Whatever he'd been searching for, he hadn't found it, his magic incapable of breaking through the hidden, fuzzy memory of the night Caris had come to them. Even now, it was like a distant dream, and the words to describe that moment were impossible to speak, held back by the power of a star god, so she didn't even try.

"She has always been with us."

"You did not give birth to her. Someone brought her to you. I want to know who."

"We have only ever known our daughter. Her name was written in the nobility genealogies."

"I am aware of that record. What is strange is that you have no memory of how she came to you. Few magicians are that skilled, and I know all of those weren't in your province during the Inferno. Outside of magicians, only star gods have that skill."

Portia didn't flinch this time. Perhaps some leftover bit of manipulation in her mind from so long ago allowed her body to remain truthful. "We are not favored by the star gods."

"I think you are, as is your daughter." Eimarille sipped her tea and was quiet for a moment before she resumed speaking. "Caris claims the Rourke bloodline, but her name was never written down in the royal genealogies. The ability to cast starfire doesn't give her the right to claim the starfire throne. Ashion is not like Solaria. We are not the Houses. My understanding from all the cogs we've uncovered is that she has been a figurehead for years, whether she knew it or not."

Portia dropped her gaze to the table and the food she had yet to touch. The magician who'd scoured their minds for memories of Caris had also pulled forth their status as cogs in the Clockwork Brigade. That alone should have been a death sentence in Daijal, but their association to Caris had spared them.

Their chain hadn't been high up, and they'd lived too far east to be of any political use—or so she'd thought. Portia hadn't known the leaders of the Clockwork Brigade until one afternoon years ago when the Duchess Auclair had voiced that critical secret. Now, those memories and their ties to Caris had turned them into pawns.

"What will you do with us?" Emmitt asked.

"Use you, of course," Eimarille said with a lightness that wasn't promising. "Caris won't be able to save you, but I want her to think that is still an option as the war claims Ashion's eastern provinces. You will be the reason she dies."

Portia opened her mouth to protest, but the words died on her lips in favor of begging. "Please don't kill her."

Eimarille leaned forward slightly, the layers of necklaces hanging from her throat swaying a little. "I despise martyrs, and the only way to eradicate one is to burn the foundation that upholds them."

Portia's lips trembled when she pressed them together, blinking back tears. She knew nothing would change Eimarille's mind, that the Daijal queen who wanted Ashion and the rest of Maricol beyond those borders had engineered this war with the deft touch of a master manipulator. Begging wouldn't change her intentions.

Eimarille's mercy was cruelty. It wasn't an accident or a secret; it was the point.

"You will be your daughter's downfall," Eimarille promised before nodding at Terilyn. "See that their transport back to Amari happens this week. We'll have the stories printed as we discussed."

"Of course," Terilyn murmured.

Terilyn stood with a smooth grace, gesturing at Portia and Emmitt to stand as well. She led them out of the room and back into the hands of their jailers. They changed out of the clothes that had been given to them to shape the propaganda Eimarille needed in favor of the ones they'd worn to Istal.

On the drive back to the POW camp, Portia couldn't stop crying, salty teardrops stinging her dry lips. The chain connecting the shackles around her wrists clanked against Emmitt's when he took her hands in his and held on, neither of them giving voice to the prayers in their thoughts.

Portia only hoped the North Star heard them.