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Not that she had
tried
to alienate everyone on the ship. But the journey had taken two ninedays, and Corene had been ready to dive headfirst into the ocean before the second firstday had rolled around. She found it maddening to be cooped up on a small vessel on the limitless sea with nothing to do—except talk to people who hated her.

Actually, it was possible Filomara didn’t hate her. In her way, the empress was as hard to read as Corene’s father was, though on the surface she seemed so much more open. Filomara spoke bluntly and without any apparent filters of civility; but later when Corene would analyze the conversation, she’d realize that Filomara hadn’t given away any of
her true thoughts. So maybe she didn’t actually dislike Corene. She just hadn’t pretended to like her, either.

They had spent a portion of every day together since they set sail from Welce. “You may as well learn the history of Malinqua while you’ve nothing better to do,” had been Filomara’s comment that first morning. Corene had obediently joined her in the tiny cubicle that passed for a sitting room and sipped at some beverage that was like nothing she’d ever tasted before—hot and almost flavorless until you loaded it up with honey and milk, and even then something you’d rather clean the floors with than actually
drink
—and listened to her drone on about the history of her country. Corene could tell she was supposed to be impressed by the fact that Malinqua had been trading partners with Cozique for two centuries, the fact that Malinquese explorers had been the first to set foot in Yorramol, but she wasn’t, not at all. Who cared about all that old stuff? What mattered was how secure the country was today, how prosperous, how well-run.

“What was Malinqua like before you were crowned?” she asked on their sixteenth day at sea when Filomara paused to take a sip of that abominable brew. “What do you think you’ve done to make it better?”

The second question made Filomara’s eyes gleam with what Corene assumed was hostility. Well, it had been an impertinent thing to ask. But the empress answered promptly enough. “Developed trade agreements with ten more nations—including your own. Doubled the standing army—and deployed it successfully when I had to.”

“Commerce and war,” Corene said. “The main duties of any government.” It was a lesson she’d learned eons ago when she was being drilled in Welchin history in case she was ever named queen.

“Commerce and war and stability,” Filomara amended. “But yes.”

“‘Stability,’” Corene repeated.

“Fair taxes, good roads, a well-regulated legal system, and a royal house that makes a smooth transition between rulers.”

And that easily, Filomara had brought them back to the central issue that bound them together: the succession of Malinqua.

“Do you always look outside Malinqua when you want your heirs to marry?” Corene asked, genuinely curious.

“Not always, but every generation or two we have brought in outsiders. It’s good diplomatic policy, since it creates strong ties between us and our neighbors, who can be very warlike. And it’s good breeding policy.”

“
Breeding
policy?”

“Freshens up the blood. Too many small families intermarrying too often results in misfits and lunatics. It’s true for cattle, and it’s true for men.”

Corene wanted to reply huffily that she’d never heard of such a thing, and besides, it was a coarse topic for the breakfast table, but then she stopped and thought about it a moment. Well, the Five Families of Welce had been intermarrying for generations, and there had certainly been a few odd products of all those unions. Consider Kayle Dochenza, who was one eyeblink away from being a madman. And consider Odelia, Vernon’s youngest daughter, who seemed to exist in an isolated, empty world inside her own head. Maybe fresh blood was what Welce needed after all.

“Who did
you
marry, then?” Corene asked. “A local man or a foreign prince?”

An expression of distaste flitted across Filomara’s face. “A local man. The prefect’s son.”

“The who?”

“The prefect. By tradition, the monarch’s closest advisor. The person who will automatically assume the regency if the heirs are too young to rule when the sitting ruler dies. It is the second most powerful position in the kingdom.”

“I’d think that would be a reason for the offspring
not
to marry.”

“And generally speaking, you would be right,” Filomara acknowledged. “But there had been some unrest in Palminera when I was a young girl—some who were against the idea of a woman taking the throne—and some factions who believed the prefect’s family should inherit instead. Uniting the two families appeased everyone, so we were married before I was even twenty.”

This was actually starting to be interesting. “So your husband married you thinking that you would stay in the background while he assumed most of the power.” Corene surveyed the empress, whose square, strong face showed just the hint of a smile. “I guess he got a surprise.”

The smile deepened. “I guess he did.”

“Did you like being married to him?”

“No.”

“Did you
stay
married to him?”

“We lived together for five years and I bore two daughters,” she said. “After that we lived apart until his death some fifteen years ago.”

“Did you think about marrying again?”

That faint, sardonic smile was back on the empress’s face. “Not for a minute. What few advantages I could wring from a marriage I had already enjoyed. On the whole, I have found my temperament more suited to the solitary state.”

“But all you can think about is marrying off everyone around you,” Corene pointed out.

“My nephews, certainly. I don’t care about the marital plans of anyone else in Malinqua.”

“Do
they
want to be married? Your nephews?”

“They all would like to be considered my direct heir, and I have made it clear I will not choose a successor who has not proved he can breed successors of his own—”

“You don’t have to be married to do
that
,” Corene couldn’t help pointing out.

Filomara’s expression was not amused. “I have made it equally clear that bastards will never be contenders for the throne.”

“
Are
there any? That you know about?”

“No. And I would know.”

Corene believed her. You didn’t have to spend much time with Filomara to believe she was capable of anything, and that included keeping herself informed about everything that was transpiring within her nation. Corene’s father inspired the same faith.

“So you’ve told them they have to marry or they can’t take the throne. Do they have to marry someone you pick out?”

“Not if they choose suitable brides.”

“So they could marry for love if they wanted to.”

Now Filomara looked pained. “Do silly schoolgirls really believe any king or queen in the history of the world has ever married for love?”

Corene made her voice coldly civil. “I don’t know. I don’t know any silly schoolgirls.”

Filomara loosed a crack of laughter at that. “Your own mother—she married an old king who already had two wives. That could hardly have been the romance she was dreaming about when she imagined herself a young bride.”

Oh, if they were to talk about Corene’s mother and her notions of the ideal marriage, they wouldn’t finish the conversation for at least a nineday. Queen Alys was a schemer of the highest order and completely unburdened by either scruples or sensibilities. She would have married a drunkard, a criminal, a man with a
hundred
other wives, if she’d thought it would place her an inch closer to the throne. It was exactly why Alys had chosen her second husband, why she was even now pregnant with his child: She’d thought he was part of the royal line and her son or daughter might be the next one to wear the crown.

Corene squirmed a little on her chair. How was she any better than Alys? She’d agreed to accompany the empress to Malinqua just on the chance she could make a brilliant marriage for herself. She’d thought she was rebelling against her father, but maybe she was only living up to her mother’s legacy. She’d probably made Alys proud with her rash and ill-considered act.

It was enough to make her want to order the ship to turn around and take her home.

She straightened her spine and lifted her chin defiantly. It didn’t matter what her mother thought. Or what her father thought. She had decided to travel to Malinqua because she was tired of Welce—of the people who pitied her because she was never going to inherit the throne, of the people who courted her because she was still connected to the most powerful families in the country. Of the people who disliked her because of her blunt manners. She didn’t know her place in Welce anymore, so she’d gone looking for a better one somewhere else. Would she find it in Malinqua? She’d been less and less sure of that as the voyage progressed—but she wasn’t going to call the journey a mistake before they’d even arrived at their destination.

The empress was watching her somewhat quizzically, and Corene realized she’d been quiet too long. “My mother,” she said with an easy laugh, “never expected that she would marry for love, or that I would, either. I’m not sure it’s a concept that anyone has ever explained to her.”

“Good,” Filomara said. “Then you might be just the sort of bride my nephews are looking for.”

•   •   •

S
o the empress might not hate her, but Filomara’s attendants most certainly did. Filomara’s cousin Bartolo and his wife, Sattisi, had been reticent and quiet during the visit to Welce, but once they were onboard the ship, headed back to their own country, they had proved to be autocratic and opinionated. Filomara had tasked them with teaching Corene the Malinquese language, and the lessons were not going smoothly. Corene had never enjoyed sitting in a classroom, and her efforts to master other languages had rarely gone well. She could scarcely remember a word of the Soechin she had studied five years ago, when they expected her to marry the viceroy of Soeche-Tas. She had done better at learning Coziquela, which was the common tongue of the southern nations, mostly because it was a lovely language and she thought she looked pretty speaking it. She didn’t read it well, though, and she knew her accent was atrocious.

Malinquese was much worse. Or else her tutors were.

“No! We went over this five times yesterday!” Sattisi fumed that same afternoon when Corene’s understanding seemed particularly dull. “You cannot call a man a
buffoon
when you mean to call him a
genius
.”

“Can I call
you
a buffoon?” Corene asked in the polite voice she used when she was trying to be particularly irritating. “Because I certainly don’t mean to call you a genius.”

“Perhaps no one in your own provincial nation cares about manners, but they’re very important in Malinqua,” Sattisi shot back.

“Really?” Corene said, still in that polite way. “I wouldn’t have thought so judging by the way you treat me.”

As she’d hoped, Sattisi was so angry that she dismissed Corene for the day; that was how their sessions usually ended. She did manage to say, “Come back this afternoon to continue your studies with Bartolo—perhaps he will have better luck knocking some knowledge into your brain.” They both knew this wasn’t true. If anything, Bartolo had even less patience with Corene than Sattisi did. But Corene nodded and made her escape. She headed straight to the main deck so she could lean against the railing and watch the water glitter in the sunlight and feel its immensity
restore some of the balance to her soul. She liked the ocean; no matter how placid it seemed on the surface, you could never forget its capacity for uncontrolled turbulence. She was a sweela girl, aligned with fire far more than water, but she appreciated anything with the potential for chaos.

She wondered if Steff would join them for the afternoon tutoring session. The lessons usually went better when Steff was on hand, though he had been studying Malinquese even before they set sail, so he was more advanced than Corene. And in the past day or two, when Corene had started tallying up the people who hated her, she’d wondered if the list should include Steff.

Well. Steffanolo Kordan Bors Adova. The empress’s grandson.

Filomara had discovered his existence in the most tortuous way possible. Some thirty years ago, she’d married off her daughter Subriella to a prince of Berringey. When Subriella began to fear for her life and that of her newborn son, Rafe, she’d faked her own death and escaped to Welce. There she met a lonely farmer, married him, and produced Steff. She’d died a few years after that, though Corene was hazy on the exact date. The brothers might have lived in obscurity for the rest of their lives except that, a couple of quintiles ago, someone from Berringey had recognized Rafe’s distinctive birthmark. People started trying to kill him to keep him from taking the Berringese throne, and naturally that had caught Darien’s attention, and Darien—of course—had figured out who was related to whom.

Filomara had wanted to bring both of her grandsons back to Malinqua, but Rafe had had plenty of reasons to stay behind in Welce. But Steff had been eager to leave the farm life behind him, eager to explore the heritage he never could have guessed was his. Corene strongly suspected that he had no idea how grueling, tedious, dangerous, and demanding life as a royal heir could be. When people weren’t trying to get close to you so they could use you to their advantage, they were trying to kill you—or undermine you—or marry you off. And when none of
those
exciting events were under way, you were attending hideously boring state dinners or trying to learn the history of the world or having yet another discussion about the royal succession.

Really, could a farmer’s son learn how to balance the desperate days with the dull ones?

She had posed that question to Steff, almost that bluntly, and he’d laughed. “I guess you’ve never lived on a farm,” he said.

She’d eyed him with disfavor. “Do I
look
like I have?”

“Days and days and
days
of nothing but plowing fields, watering crops, and tending livestock. Seeing only the people who live right there on your land, because you don’t have time to visit a neighbor or a friend. Then the brook floods or the barn catches fire or there’s an early freeze, and you have to work like crazy to save the animals or cover the crops or build a dam between your house and the water. That’s exactly what it is—dull as dirt until it’s desperate as death. If that’s what it’s like to be heir to a throne, I already understand it.”