The others were already off their horses, and the occupants of the camp were closing in to greet them. A man struck Griz hard on the back and offered him a small flask. Griz tossed back his head, took a hearty swig, coughed, then wiped his mouth with the back of his arm, and they both laughed. Griz laughed. More than a dozen vagabonds of all ages surrounded them. An old woman with long silver braids that hung past her waist emerged from the large tent and walked toward the new arrivals.

Kaden and I pulled our horses up behind them and stopped. Heads turned to look at us, and smiles momentarily faded when they saw me.

“Get down,” Kaden whispered to me. “Be wary of the old one.”

Be wary of an old woman, when I had cutthroats as companions? He couldn’t be serious.

I slid from my horse and walked over to stand between Griz and Malich. “Hello,” I said. “I’m Lia. Princess Arabella Celestine Idris Jezelia, First Daughter of the House of Morrighan, to be precise. I’ve been stolen away and brought here against my will, but I can put all that aside for later if you have one square of goat cheese and a bar of soap to spare.”

Their mouths hung open, but then the old woman with silver braids pressed through the crowding bodies.

“You heard her,” she said, her accent heavy and her tone impatient. “Get the girl some goat cheese. The soap can come later.”

They erupted in laughter at my introduction, as if it was a wild story, and I felt hands at my elbow, my back, a child tugging and pushing at my leg, all leading me to the large tent in the center of camp. These were nomads, I reminded myself, not Vendans. They had no allegiance to any kingdom. Still, they were more than friendly with these barbarians. They knew them well, and I wasn’t sure if they believed me at all. They may have laughed, but I’d noted the long unwieldy pause before the laughter came. I’d roll over it for now, just as I said I would. Food came first. Real food. My gods they did have goat cheese. I kissed my fingers and raised them to the heavens.

The inside of the tent was put together in the same way as the outside. It was a patchwork of carpets and flowered fabrics covering the floor and walls, with different-sized pillows lining the perimeter. Each was unique in color and pattern. Several glass lanterns, none of them matching, hung from the tent poles and dozens of adornments hung from the fabric walls. They sat me down on a soft pink pillow and my lashes fluttered, my backside having forgotten what comfort even was. I sighed and closed my eyes for a moment, letting the sensation have my full attention.

I felt my hair lifting, and my eyes shot open. Two women were examining it, lifting strands and shaking their heads sympathetically.

“Neu, neu, neu,” one said, as if some grave injustice had been perpetrated against it.

“Cha lou ъtor li pair au entrie noivoix,” the other said to me.

It wasn’t quite Vendan, nor quite Morrighese. It seemed reminiscent of both, peppered with other dialects, but then, they were wanderers, and obviously gatherers by the look of their tent. It appeared they collected languages as well and had spun them all together.

I shook my head. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”

They readily switched over, never missing a beat. “Your hair needs much work.”

I reached up and felt the tangled mat that was once my hair. I hadn’t brushed it in days. It hadn’t seemed to matter. I grimaced, knowing I probably looked like a wild animal. Like a barbarian.

One reached down and hugged my shoulders. “No need to worry. We’ll take care of it later, just as Dihara said—after you’ve eaten.”

“Dihara?”

“The old one.”

I nodded and noticed she hadn’t come into the tent with the others. Kaden and the rest hadn’t come in either, and when I asked where they were, a beautifully round woman with large raven-black eyes said, “Ah, the men, they pay their respects to the God of Grain first. We won’t be seeing them anytime soon.”

The others all laughed. It was hard for me to imagine Griz, Malich, and Finch paying their respects to anyone. Kaden, on the other hand, was practiced at deception. He would woo the god with sweet words in one moment as he plotted to steal his pagan eyes in the next.

The tent flap flew open, and a girl no older than Eben came in with a large tray and set it at my feet. I swallowed. My jaws ached just looking at the food. On plates. Real hammered plates. And the tiniest, prettiest little forks with flower patterns circling along their handles. They traveled surprisingly well. I stared at a plate of goat cheese, a little porcelain thimble of honey, a basket of three butter tarts, a large bowl of carrot soup, and a mound of crisp salted potato slices. I waited for someone else to go first, but they all sat there staring at me, and I finally realized it was all for me.

I said a quick nervous remembrance out of respect and dug in. They chattered as I ate, sometimes in their own language, sometimes in mine. The young girl who had brought the food told me her name was Natiya and asked me dozens of questions that I answered between mouthfuls. I was gluttonous and didn’t try to hide it, licking my fingers and sighing with each delicious morsel. At one point, I thought I might cry with gratitude, but crying would have interrupted my feast.

Natiya’s questions ranged from how old I was to wondering which food I liked the best, but when she asked, “Are you really a princess?” the chatter in the tent stopped and they all looked at me, waiting.

Was I?

I had abdicated that role weeks ago when I left Civica and banished the phrase “Her Royal Highness” from Pauline’s vocabulary. I certainly didn’t look like or act like one now. Yet I had just pulled the title out of exile quite readily when it suited me. I recalled Walther’s words: You’ll always be you, Lia.

I reached out and cupped her chin and nodded. “But no more than you are for bringing me this meal. I am truly grateful.”

She smiled and lowered her long dark lashes, a blush warming her cheeks. The chatter resumed, and I went back to my last butter tart.

When I had eaten my fill, they took me to another tent and, as promised, worked on my hair. It took a fair amount of labor, but they were gentle and patient. While two of the women combed through each strand, others drew a bath, filling a large copper tub with water warmed over a fire. I noticed their sideways glances. I was a curiosity to them. They probably never had female visitors. When the bath was ready, I didn’t care who saw me naked. I stripped and soaked and closed my eyes and let them rub their oils and herbs into my skin and hair and prayed if I was going to die on this journey that it could be right now.

They were curious too, about my kavah, calling it a tattoo, which I realized it was at this point. There was nothing temporary about it anymore. They traced the design with their fingers, saying how stunning it was. I smiled. I was glad someone thought so.

“And the colors,” Natiya said. “So pretty.”

Colors? There was no color. Only the deep rustzred lines that made up the design, but I assumed that was what she meant.

I heard shouting outside the tent and startled forward. The round woman called Reena gently pushed me back. “That’s just the men. They’re back from the hot springs and paying their respects, though their tributes will likely continue in the tent long into the night.”

They were a more reverent sort than I thought. Their boisterous noise faded, and I went back to the luxury of my bath. I hated the idea of putting my filthy rags back on, but then when I dried off, the women began dressing me in their own clothes, holding up various skirts, scarves, blouses and beads as if they were dressing a child. When they were finished, I felt like a princess again—a vagabond princess. Reena placed a silky blue scarf edged with elaborate silver beadwork on my head, centering it so a V of beads dangled down my forehead.