It takes many days to return to Archeon. Not because of the distance. Not because the king of the Lakelands brought no less than one thousand people with him, courtiers and soldiers and even Red servants. But because the entire kingdom of Norta suddenly has something to celebrate. The end of a war, and an upcoming wedding. Maven’s now-endless convoy snakes down the Iron Road and then the Royal Road at a crawl. Silvers and Reds alike turn out to cheer, begging for a glimpse of their king. Maven always obliges, stopping to meet crowds with Iris at his side. Despite the deeply bred hatred for the Lakelands we are supposed to have, Nortans bow before her. She is a curiosity and a blessing. A bridge. Even King Orrec receives lukewarm welcomes. Polite clapping, respectful bows. An old enemy turned into an ally for the long road ahead.
That’s what Maven says at every turn. “Norta and the Lakelands stand united now, bound together for the long road ahead. Against all dangers threatening our kingdoms.” He means the Scarlet Guard. He means Corvium. He means Cal, the rebelling houses, anything and everything that might threaten his tenuous grip on power.
There is no one alive to remember the days before war. My country does not know what peace looks like. No wonder they mistake this for peace. I want to scream at every Red face I pass. I want to carve the words on my body so everyone has to see. Trap. Lie. Conspiracy. Not that my words mean anything anymore. I’ve been someone else’s puppet for too long. My voice is not my own. Only my actions are, and those are severely limited by circumstances. I would despair of myself if I could, but my days of wallowing are long behind me. They have to be. Or else I will simply drown, a hollow doll dragged behind a child, empty in every inch.
I will escape. I will escape. I will escape. I don’t dare whisper the words aloud. They run through my mind instead, their rhythm in time with my heartbeat.
No one speaks to me during our journey. Not even Maven. He’s busy feeling out his new betrothed. I get the sense she knows what kind of person he is, and is prepared for him. As with her father, I hope they kill each other.
The tall spires of Archeon are familiar, but not a comfort. The convoy rolls back into the jaws of a cage I know all too well. Through the city, up the steep roads to the palatial compound of Caesar’s Square and Whitefire. The sun is deceptively bright against a clear blue sky. It’s almost spring. Strange. Part of me thought winter would last forever, mirroring my imprisonment. I don’t know if I can stomach watching the seasons turn from inside my royal cell.
I will escape. I will escape. I will escape.
Egg and Trio all but pass me between each other, pulling me down from the transport and marching me up the steps of Whitefire. The air is warm, wet, smelling fresh and clean. A few more minutes in the sunlight and I might start sweating beneath my scarlet-and-silver jacket. But I’m inside the palace again in a few seconds, walking beneath a king’s ransom of chandeliers. They don’t bother me so much, not after my first and only escape attempt. In fact, they almost make me smile.
“Happy to be home?”
I’m equally startled by someone speaking to me and by exactly who is speaking to me.
I resist the deep urge to bow, keeping my spine straight as I stop to face her. The Arvens halt as well, close enough to grab me if they have to. I feel a ripple of their ability draining bits of my energy. Her own guards are just as on edge, their attentions on the hall around us. I suppose they still think of Archeon and Norta as enemy territory.
“Princess,” I reply. The title tastes sour, but I don’t see much use in directly antagonizing yet another one of Maven’s betrotheds.
Her traveling outfit is deceptively plain. Just leggings and a dark blue jacket, cinched at the waist to better show her hourglass figure. No jewelry, no crown. Her hair is simple, pulled back into a single black braid. She could pass for a normal Silver. Wealthy, but not royal. Even her face remains neutral. No smile, no sneer. No judgment of the lightning girl in her chains. Compared to the nobles I’ve known, it makes for a jarring contrast and an inconvenient one. I know nothing about her. For all I know, she could be worse than Evangeline. Or even Elara. I have no idea who this young woman is, or what she thinks of me. It makes me uneasy.
And Iris can tell.
“No, I would think not,” she pushes on. “Walk with me?”
She puts out a hand, crooking it in invitation. There is a decent chance my eyes bug out of my head. But I do as she asks. She sets a quick but not impossible pace, forcing both sets of guards to follow us through the entrance hall.
“Despite the name, Whitefire seems a cold place.” Iris looks up at the ceiling. The chandeliers reflect in her gray eyes, making them starry. “I would not want to be imprisoned here.”
I scoff deep in my throat. The poor fool is about to be Maven’s queen. I can think of no worse prison than that.
“Something funny, Mare Barrow?” she purrs.
“Nothing, Your Highness.”
Her eyes rove over me. They linger on my wrists, at the long sleeves hiding my manacles. Slowly, she touches one and draws in a breath. Despite the Silent Stone and the instinctive fear it inspires, she doesn’t flinch. “My father keeps pets as well. Perhaps it’s something kings do.”
Months ago, I would have snapped at her. I’m not a pet. But she isn’t wrong. Instead, I shrug. “I haven’t met enough kings to know.”
“Three kings for a Red girl born to poor nothings. One must wonder if the gods love or hate you.”
I don’t know whether to laugh or sneer. “There are no gods.”
“Not in Norta. Not for you.” Her expression softens. She glances over her shoulder, at the many courtiers and nobles as they mill about. Most don’t bother to hide their ogling. If it annoys her, she doesn’t show it. “I wonder if they can hear me in a godless place like this. There isn’t even a temple. I must ask Maven to build me one.”
Many strange people have passed through my life. But all of them have pieces I can understand. Emotions I know, dreams, fears. I blink at Princess Iris and realize that the more she speaks, the more confusing she becomes. She seems intelligent, strong, self-assured, but why would a person like that agree to marry such an obvious monster? Certainly she sees him for what he is. And it can’t be blind ambition driving her here. She’s a princess already, daughter of a king. What does she want? Or did she even have a choice? Her talk of gods is even more confusing. We have no such beliefs. How can we?
“Are you memorizing my face?” she asks quietly as I try to read her. I get the sense she is doing the same, observing me like I’m a complicated piece of art. “Or simply trying to steal a few more moments outside a locked room? If the latter, I do not blame you. If the former, I have a feeling you’ll be seeing a great deal of me, and I of you.”
From anyone else, it might sound like a threat. But I don’t think Iris cares enough about me for that. At least she doesn’t seem the jealous type. That would require her to have any sort of feeling for Maven, something I sorely doubt.
“Take me to the throne room.”
My lips twitch, wanting to smile. Usually the people here make requests that are truly iron commands. Iris is the opposite. Her command sounds like a question. “Fine,” I mutter, letting my feet guide us. The Arvens don’t dare try to pull me away. Iris Cygnet is not Evangeline Samos. Crossing her could be considered an act of war. I can’t help smirking over my shoulder at Trio and Egg. Both glower back. Their irritation makes me grin, even through the itch of my scars.
“You are an odd sort of prisoner, Miss Barrow. I did not realize that, while Maven paints you as a lady in his broadcasts, he requires you to be one at all times.”
Lady. The title never truly applied to me, and never will. “I’m just a well-dressed and tightly leashed lapdog.”
“What a peculiar king to keep you as he does. You’re an enemy of the state, a valuable piece of propaganda, and somehow treated as near royalty. But then boys are so strange with their toys. Especially those accustomed to losing things. They hold on more tightly than the rest.”
“And what would you do with me?” I answer back. As queen, Iris could hold my life in her hands. She could end it, or make it even worse. “If you were in his position?”
Iris dodges the question artfully. “I won’t ever make the mistake of trying to put myself in his head. That is not a place any sane person should be.” Then she laughs to herself. “I assume his mother spent a good amount of time there.”
For as much as Elara hated me and my existence, I think she would hate Iris more. The young princess is formidable to say the least. “You’re lucky you never had to meet her.”
“And I thank you for that,” Iris replies. “Though I hope you don’t keep up the tradition of killing queens. Even lapdogs bite.” She blinks at me, gray eyes piercing. “Will you?”
I’m not stupid enough to respond. No would be a naked lie. Yes could land me yet another royal enemy. She smirks at my silence.
It’s not a long walk to the grand chamber where Maven holds court. After so many days before the broadcast cameras, forced to stomach newblood after newblood pledging their loyalty to him, I know it intimately. Usually the dais is crowded with seats, but they’ve been removed in our absence, leaving only the gray, forbidding throne. Iris glares at it as we approach.
“An interesting tactic,” she mutters when we reach it. As with my manacles, she runs a finger down the blocks of Silent Stone. “Necessary too. With so many whispers allowed at court.”
“Allowed?”
“They are not welcome in the court of the Lakelands. They cannot pass through the walls of our capital, Detraon, or enter the palace without proper escorts. And no whisper is permitted within twenty feet of the monarch,” Iris explains. “In fact, I know of no noble families who can claim such an ability in my country.”
“They don’t exist?”
“Not where I come from. Not anymore.”
The implication hangs in the air like smoke.
She pulls away from the throne, tipping her head back and forth. She doesn’t like whatever she sees. Her lips purse into a thin line. “How many times have you felt the touch of a Merandus in your head?”
For a split second, I try to remember. Stupid. “Too many times to count,” I tell her with a shrug. “First Elara, then Samson. I can’t decide who was worse. I know now that the queen could look into my mind without me even knowing. But he . . .” My voice falters. The memory is a painful one, drawing out a drilling pressure at my temples. I try to massage away the ache. “Samson, you feel every second he’s in there.”
Her face grays. “So many eyes in this place,” she says, glancing first at my guards and then at the walls. At the security cameras looking over every inch of the open chamber, watching us. “They are welcome to watch.”
Slowly, she removes her jacket and folds it over her arm. The shirt beneath is white, fastened high at her throat, but backless. She turns, under the guise of examining the throne room. Really, she’s showing off. Her back is muscular, powerful, carved of long lines. Black tattoos cover her from the base of her scalp, down her neck, across her shoulder blades, all to the base of her spine. Roots, I think first. I’m wrong. Not roots, but whorls of water, curling and spilling over her skin in perfect lines. They ripple as she moves, a living thing. Finally she roves back to face me. The smallest smirk plays on her lips.
It disappears in an instant as her gaze shifts past me. I don’t have to turn around to know who approaches, who leads the many footsteps echoing off the marble and into my skull.
“I would be happy to give you a tour, Iris,” Maven says. “Your father is settling into his apartments, but I’m sure he won’t mind if we get to know each other better.”
The Arvens and Lakelander guards drop back, giving the king and his Sentinels space. Blue uniforms, white, red-orange. Their silhouettes and colors are so ingrained in me I know them out of the corner of my eye. None so much as the pale young king. I feel him as much as I see him, his cloying warmth threatening to engulf me. He stops a few inches from my side, close enough to take me by the hand if he wants to. I shudder at the thought.
“I would like that very much,” Iris replies. She dips her head in an oddly stilted manner. Bowing does not come easily to her. “I was just remarking to Miss Barrow about your”—she searches for the right word, glancing back at the stark throne—“decorations.”
Maven offers a tight smile. “A precaution. My father was assassinated, and attempts have been made on me as well.”
“Could a chair of Silent Stone have saved your father?” she asks innocently.
A current of heat pulses through the air. Like Iris, I feel the need to shed my jacket too, lest Maven’s temper sweat me out of it.
“No, my brother decided that cutting his head off was his best option,” he says bluntly. “Not much defense against that.”
It happened in this very palace. A few passages and rooms away, up some stairs to a place with no windows and soundproofed walls. When the guards dragged me there, I was in a daze, terrified that Maven and I were about to be executed for treason. Instead, the king ended up in two pieces. His head, his body, a rush of silver splattered in between. Instead, Maven took the crown. My fists clench at the memory.
“How horrible,” Iris murmurs. I feel her eyes on me.
“Yes, wasn’t it, Mare?”
His sudden hand on my arm burns like his brand. My control threatens to snap, and I glare at him sidelong. “Yes,” I force out through clenched teeth. “Horrible.”
Maven nods in agreement, clenching his jaw to make the bones of his face tighten. I can’t believe he has the gall to look morose. To seem sad. He is neither. He can’t be. His mother took away the pieces of him that loved his brother and father. I wish she’d taken the part that loves me. Instead, it festers, poisoning us both with its corruption. Black rot eats at his brain and at any bit of him that might be human. He knows it too. Knows there’s something wrong, something he cannot fix with ability or power. He is broken, and there is no healer on this earth who can make him whole.
“Well, before I take you through my home, there’s someone else who would like to meet my future bride. Sentinel Nornus, if you would?” Maven gestures over his soldier. At his command, the Sentinel in question blurs into a blaze of red and orange, racing to the entrance and back again in a blistering second. A swift. In his robes, he seems a fireball.
Figures follow in his wake, their house colors familiar.
“Princess Iris, this is the ruling lord of House Samos, and his family,” Maven says, waving a hand between his new betrothed and the old one.
Evangeline stands out in sharp contrast to the simply clothed Iris. I wonder how long it took her to create the molten, metal liquid hugging every curve of her body like glistening tar. No more crowns and tiaras for her, but her jewelry more than makes up for it. She wears silver chains at her neck, wrists, and ears, fine as thread and studded with diamonds. Her brother’s appearance is different too, absent his usual armor or fur. His rippling silhouette is still threatening enough, but Ptolemus looks more like his father now, in flawless black velvet with a sparkling silver chain. Volo leads his children, with someone I don’t recognize at his side. But I can certainly guess who she is.
In that instant, I understand a bit more of Evangeline. Her mother is a frightful sight. Not because she’s ugly. On the contrary, the older woman is severely beautiful. She gave Evangeline her angular black eyes and flawless porcelain skin, but not her slick, straight raven hair and dainty figure. This woman looks like I could snap her in two, manacles and all. Probably part of her facade. She wears her own house colors, black and emerald green, alongside Samos silver to denote her allegiances. Viper. Lady Blonos’s voice sneers in my head. Black and green are the colors of House Viper. Evangeline’s mother is an animos. As she gets closer, her shimmering dress comes into better focus. And I realize why Evangeline is so insistent on wearing her ability. It’s a family tradition.
Her mother isn’t wearing jewelry. She’s wearing snakes.
On her wrists, around her neck. Thin, black, and moving slowly, their scales gleaming like spilled oil. Equal parts fear and disgust jolt through me. Suddenly I want to sprint to my room, lock the door, and put as much distance as I can between myself and the wriggling creatures. Instead, they get closer with her every footstep. And I thought Evangeline was bad.
“Lord Volo; his wife, Larentia of House Viper; their son, Ptolemus; and their daughter, Evangeline. Well-regarded and valuable members of my court,” Maven explains, gesturing to each in turn. He smiles openly, showing teeth.
“I’m sorry we were not able to properly meet you sooner.” Volo steps forward to take Iris’s outstretched hand. With his silver beard freshly trimmed, it’s easy to see the resemblance between him and his children. Strong bones, elegant lines, long noses, and lips permanently curled into a sneer. His skin looks paler against Iris’s as he brushes a kiss to her bare knuckles. “We were called away to attend matters in our own lands.”
Iris dips her brow. A picture of grace now. “No apology is required, my lord.”
Over their clasped hands, Maven catches my eye. He quirks an eyebrow in amusement. If I could, I would ask him what he promised—or what he threatened House Samos with. Two Calore kings have slipped through their fingers. So much scheming and plotting, for nothing. I know Evangeline didn’t love Maven, or even like him, but she was raised to be a queen. Her purpose was stolen twice. She failed herself and, worse, failed her house. At least now she has someone other than me to blame.
Evangeline glances in my direction, her lashes dark and long. They flutter for a moment as her eyes waver, ticking back and forth like the pendulum of an old clock. I take a small step away from Iris to put some distance between us. Now that the Samos daughter has a new rival to hate, I don’t want to give her the wrong impression.
“And you were betrothed to the king?” Iris pulls her hand back from Volo and knits her fingers together. Evangeline’s eyes move away from me to face the princess. For once, I see her on an even field with an equal opponent. Maybe I’ll get lucky and Evangeline will misstep, threaten Iris the way she used to threaten me. I have a feeling Iris won’t tolerate a word of it.
“For a time, yes,” Evangeline says. “And his brother before him.”
The princess is not surprised. I assume the Lakelands are well informed of the Nortan royals. “Well, I’m glad you’ve returned to court. We will require a good amount of help in organizing our wedding.”
I bite my lip so hard I almost draw blood. Better that than laughing out loud as Iris pours salt into so many Samos wounds. Across from me, Maven turns his head to hide a sneer.
One of the snakes hisses, a low, droning sound impossible to mistake. But Larentia quickly curtsies, sweeping out the fabric of her shimmering gown.
“We are at your disposal, Your Highness,” she says. Her voice is deep, rich as syrup. As we watch, the thickest snake, around her neck, nuzzles up past her ear and into her hair. Revolting. “It would be an honor to aid you however we can.” I half expect her to elbow Evangeline into agreeing. Instead, the Viper woman turns her attention on me, so quickly I don’t have time to look away. “Is there a reason the prisoner is staring at me?”
“None,” I respond, teeth clicking together.
Larentia takes my eye contact as a challenge. Like an animal. She steps forward, closing the distance between us. We’re the same height. The snake in her hair continues hissing, coiling and twisting down onto her collarbone. Its jewel-bright eyes meet mine, and its forked black tongue licks the air, darting out between long fangs. Even though I stand my ground, I can’t help but swallow hard, my mouth suddenly dry. The snake keeps watching me.
“They say you are different,” Larentia mutters. “But your fear smells the same as that of every vile Red rat I’ve ever had the misfortune to know.”
Red rat. Red rat.
I’ve heard that so many times. Thought it about myself. From her lips, it cracks something in me. The control I’ve worked so hard to maintain, that I must keep if I want to stay alive, threatens to unravel. I take a dragging breath, willing myself to keep still. Her snakes continue hissing, curling over one another in black tangles of scale and spine. Some are long enough to reach me if she wills it so.
Maven sighs low in his throat. “Guards, I think it’s time Miss Barrow was returned to her room.”
I spin on my heel before the Arvens can jump to my side, retreating into the so-called safety of their presence. Something about the snakes, I tell myself. I couldn’t stand them. No wonder Evangeline is horrific, with a mother like that to raise her.
As I flee back to my rooms, I’m seized by an unwelcome sensation. Relief. Gratitude. To Maven.
I crush that vile burst of emotion with all the rage I have. Maven is a monster. I feel nothing but hatred toward him. I cannot allow anything else, even pity, to creep in.
I MUST ESCAPE.
Two long months pass.
Maven’s wedding will be ten times the production that the Parting Ball, or even Queenstrial, was. Silver nobles flood back into the capital, bringing entourages with them from all corners of Norta. Even the ones the king exiled. Maven feels safe enough in his new alliance to allow even smiling enemies through his door. Though most have city houses of their own, many take up residence in Whitefire, until the palace itself seems ready to burst at the seams. I’m kept to my room mostly. I don’t mind. It’s better this way. But even from my cell, I can feel the impending storm of a wedding. The tangible union of Norta and the Lakelands.
The courtyard below my window, empty all winter long, flourishes in a suddenly warm and green spring. Nobles walk through the magnolia trees at a lazy pace, some arm in arm. Always whispering, always scheming or gossiping. I wish I could read lips. I might learn something other than which houses seem to congregate together, their colors brighter in the sunlight. Maven would have to be a fool to think they aren’t plotting against him or his bride. And he is many things, but not that.
The old routine I used to pass my first month of isolation—wake, eat, sit, scream, repeat—doesn’t serve anymore. I have more useful ways to pass the time. There are no pens and paper, and I don’t bother to ask. No use leaving scraps. Instead, I stare at Julian’s books, idly turning pages. Sometimes I latch on to jotted notes, annotations scrawled in Julian’s handwriting. Interesting; curious; corroborate with volume IV. Idle words with little meaning. I brush my fingers along the letters anyway, feeling dry ink and the press of a long-gone pen. Enough of Julian to keep me thinking, reading between lines on the page and words spoken aloud.
He ruminates on one volume in particular, thinner than the histories but densely packed with text. Its spine is badly broken, the pages cluttered with Julian’s writing. I can almost feel the warmth of his hands as they smoothed the tattered pages.
On Origins, the cover says in embossed black lettering, followed by the names of a dozen Silver scholars who wrote the many essays and arguments within the small book. Most of it is too complex for my understanding, but I sift through it anyway. If only for Julian.
He marked one passage in particular, dog-earing the page and underlining a few sentences. Something about mutations, changes. The result of ancient weaponry we no longer possess and can no longer create. One of the scholars believes it made Silvers. Others disagree. A few mention gods instead, perhaps the ones that Iris follows.
Julian makes his own position clear in notes at the bottom of the page.
Strange that so many thought themselves gods, or a god’s chosen, he wrote. Blessed by something greater. Elevated to what we are. When all evidence points to the opposite. Our abilities came from corruption, from a scourge that killed most. We were not a god’s chosen, but a god’s cursed.
I blink at the words and wonder. If Silvers are cursed, then what are newbloods? Worse?
Or is Julian wrong? Are we chosen too? And for what?
Men and women much smarter than me have no answers, and neither do I. Not to mention, I have more pressing things to think about.
I plan while I eat breakfast, chewing slowly as I run through what I know. A royal wedding will be organized chaos. Extra security, more guards than I can count, but still a good enough chance. Servants everywhere, drunk nobles, a foreign princess to distract the people usually focused on me. I’d be stupid not to try something. Cal would be stupid not to try something.
I glare at the pages in hand, at white paper and black ink. Nanny tried to save me and Nanny ended up dead. A waste of life. And I selfishly want them to try again. Because if I stay here much longer, if I have to live the rest of my life a few steps behind Maven, with his haunting eyes and his missing pieces and his hatred for everyone in this world—
Hatred for everyone but—
“Stop,” I hiss to myself, fighting the urge to let in the silk monster knocking at the walls of my mind. “Stop it.”
Memorization of the layout of Whitefire is a good distraction, the one I usually rely on. Two lefts from my door, through a gallery of statues, left again down a spiraling stair . . . I trace the way to the throne room, the entrance hall, the banquet hall, different studies and council chambers, Evangeline’s quarters, Maven’s old bedroom. Every step I’ve taken here I memorize. The better I know the palace, the better chance I have of escaping when the opportunity arises. Certainly Maven will marry Iris in the Royal Court, if not in Caesar’s Square itself. Nowhere else can hold so many guests and guards. I can’t see the court from my window, and I’ve never been inside, but I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.
Maven hasn’t dragged me to his side since we returned. Good, I tell myself. An empty room and days of silence are better than his cloying words. Still, I feel a tug of disappointment every night when I shut my eyes. I’m lonely; I’m afraid; I’m selfish. I feel emptied out by the Silent Stone and the months I’ve spent here, walking the edge of another razor. It would be so easy to let the broken pieces of me fall apart. It would be so easy to let him put me back together however he wishes. Maybe, in a few years, it won’t even feel like a prison.
No.
For the first time in a while, I smash my breakfast plate against the wall, screaming as I do it. The water glass next. It explodes in crystal shards. Broken things make me feel a bit better.
My door bursts open in half a second as the Arvens enter. Egg is the first to my side, holding me back in my chair. His grip is firm, preventing me from getting up. Now they know better than to let me anywhere near the wreckage as they clean.
“Maybe you should start giving me plastic,” I scoff to no one. “Seems like a better idea.”
Egg wants to hit me. His fingers dig into my shoulders, probably leaving bruises. The Silent Stone makes the hurt bite bone-deep. My stomach twists as I realize I can barely remember what it’s like not to be in constant, smothering pain and anguish.
The other guards sweep away the debris, unflinching as glass drags over their gloved hands. Only when they disappear, their throbbing presence melting away, do I once again have the strength to stand. Annoyed, I slam shut the book I wasn’t reading. Genealogy of Nortan Nobility, Volume IX, the cover says. Useless.
With nothing better to do, I put it back on the shelf. The leather-bound book slides in neatly between its brothers, volumes VIII and X. Maybe I’ll pull the other books down and rearrange them. Waste a few seconds of the endless hours.
I end up on the floor instead, trying to stretch a bit farther than I did yesterday. My old agility is a faint memory, restricted by circumstance. I try anyway, inching my fingers toward my toes. The muscles in my legs burn, a better feeling than the ache. I chase the pain. It’s one of the only things to remind me I’m still alive in this shell.
The minutes bleed into one another and time stretches with me. Outside, the light shifts as spring clouds chase each other across the sun.
The knock on my door is soft, uncertain. No one has ever bothered to knock before, and my heart leaps. But the rush of adrenaline dies off. A rescuer would not knock.
Evangeline pushes open the door, not waiting for an invitation.
I don’t move, rooted to the spot by a sudden rush of fear. I draw my legs up under myself. Ready to spring if I need to.
She looks down her nose at me, her usual superior self in a long, glinting coat and tightly sewn leather leggings. For a moment she stands still, and we trade glances in the silence.
“Are you so dangerous they can’t even let you open a window?” She sniffs at the air. “It stinks in here.”
My tightened muscles relax a little. “So you’re bored,” I mutter. “Go rattle someone else’s cage.”
“Perhaps later. But for now, you’re going to be of use.”
“I really don’t feel like being your dartboard.”
She smacks her lips. “Oh, not mine.”
With one hand, she seizes me under the armpit and hoists me to my feet. As soon as her arm enters the sphere of my Silent Stone, her sleeve falls away, collapsing to the floor in bits of gleaming metal dust. It quickly reattaches and falls again, moving in an even, strange rhythm as she marches me from my room.
I don’t struggle. There’s no point in it. Eventually she loosens her bruising grip and lets me walk without the pinch of her hand.
“If you wanted to take the pet for a walk, all you had to do was ask,” I growl at her, massaging my newest bruise. “Don’t you have a new rival to hate? Or is it easier to pick on a prisoner rather than a princess?”
“Iris is far too calm for my liking,” she shoots back. “You still have some bite, at least.”
“Good to know I amuse you.” The passage twists in front of us. Left, right, right. The blueprint of Whitefire sharpens in my mind’s eye. We pass the phoenix tapestries in red and black, edges studded with real gemstones. Then a gallery of statues and paintings dedicated to Caesar Calore, the first king of Norta. Beyond it, down a half flight of marble steps, is what I call the Battle Hall. A stretching passage illuminated by skylights, the walls on either side dominated by two monstrous paintings, inspired by the Lakelander War, stretching from floor to ceiling. But she doesn’t lead me past painted scenes of death and glory. We’re not going down to the court levels of the palace. The halls become more ornate, but with fewer public displays of opulence as she leads me to the royal residences. An increasing number of gilded paintings of kings, politicians, and warriors watch me go, most of them with the characteristic Calore black hair.
“Has King Maven let you keep your rooms, at least? Even though he took your crown?”
Her lips twist. Into a smirk, not a scowl. “See? You never disappoint. All bite, Mare Barrow.”
I’ve never been to these doors before. But I can guess where they lead. Too grand to be for anyone but a king. White lacquered wood, silver and gold trim, inlaid with mother of pearl and ruby. Evangeline doesn’t knock this time and throws the doors open, only to find an opulent antechamber lined by six Sentinels. They bristle at our presence, hands straying to weapons, eyes sharp behind their glittering masks.
She doesn’t balk. “Tell the king Mare Barrow is here to see him.”
“The king is indisposed,” one answers. His voice trembles with power. A banshee. He could scream us both deaf if given the chance. “Be gone, Lady Samos.”
Evangeline shows no fear and runs a hand through her long silver braid. “Tell him,” she says again. She doesn’t have to drop her voice or snarl to be threatening. “He’ll want to know.”
My heart pounds in my chest. What is she doing? Why? The last time she decided to parade me around Whitefire, I ended up at the mercy of Samson Merandus, my mind split open for him to sift through. She has an agenda. She has motives. If only I knew what they were, so I could do the opposite.
One of the Sentinels breaks before she does. He is a broad man, his muscles evident even beneath the folds of his fiery robes. He inclines his face, the black jewels of his mask catching the light. “A moment, my lady.” I can’t stand Maven’s chambers. Just being here feels like stepping into quicksand. Plunging into the ocean, falling off a cliff. Send us away. Send us away.
The Sentinel returns quickly. When he waves off his comrades, my stomach drops. “This way, Barrow.” He beckons to me.
Evangeline gives me the slightest nudge, putting pressure on the base of my spine. Perfectly executed. I lurch forward.
“Just Barrow,” the Sentinel adds. He eyes the Arvens in succession.
They stay in place, letting me go. So does Evangeline. Her eyes darken, blacker than ever. I’m seized by the strange urge to grab her and bring her with me. Facing Maven alone, here, is suddenly terrifying.
The Sentinel, probably a Rhambos strongarm, doesn’t have to touch me to herd me in the proper direction. We cross through a sitting room flooded with sunlight, oddly empty and barely decorated. No house colors, no paintings or sculptures, or even books. Cal’s old room was cluttered, bursting with different types of armor, his precious manuals, even a game board. Pieces of him strewn everywhere. Maven is not his brother. He has no cause to perform, not here, and the room reflects the hollow boy he truly is inside.
His bed is strangely small. Built for a child, even though the room was clearly arranged to hold something much, much bigger. The walls of his bedroom are white, unadorned. The windows are the only decoration, overlooking a corner of Caesar’s Square, the Capital River, and the bridge I once helped destroy. It spans the water, connecting Whitefire to the eastern half of the city. Greenery bursts to life in every direction, peppered with blossoms.
Slowly, the Sentinel clears his throat. I glance at him and shiver when I realize he’s going to abandon me too. “That way,” he says, pointing at another set of doors.
It would be easier if someone dragged me. If the Sentinel put a gun to my head and made me walk through. Blaming my moving feet on another person would hurt less. Instead, it’s only me. Boredom. Morbid curiosity. The constant ache of pain and loneliness. I live in a shrinking world where the only thing I can trust is Maven’s obsession. Like the manacles, it is a shield and a slow, smothering death.
The doors swing inward, gliding over white marble tile. Steam spirals on the air. Not from the fire king himself, but hot water. It boils lazily around him, milky with soap and scented oils. Unlike his bed, the bath is large, standing on clawed silver feet. He rests an elbow on either side of the flawless porcelain, fingers trailing lazily through the swirling water.
Maven tracks me as I enter, his eyes electric and lethal. I’ve never seen him so off guard and so angry. A smarter girl would turn and run. Instead, I shut the door behind me.
There are no seats, so I remain standing. I’m not sure where to look, so I focus on his face. His hair is mussed, soaking wet. Dark curls cling to his skin.
“I’m busy,” he whispers.
“You didn’t have to let me in.” I wish I could call back the words as soon as I speak them.
“Yes I did,” he says, meaning all things. Then he blinks, breaking his stare. He leans back, tipping his head against the porcelain so he can stare up at the ceiling. “What do you need?”
A way out, forgiveness, a good night’s sleep, my family. The list stretches, endless.
“Evangeline dragged me here. I don’t want anything from you.”
He makes a noise low in his throat. Almost a laugh. “Evangeline. My Sentinels are cowards.”
If Maven were my friend, I would warn him not to underestimate a daughter of House Samos. Instead, I hold my tongue. The steam sticks to my skin, feverish as hot flesh.
“She brought you here to convince me,” he says.
“Convince you to do what?”
“Marry Iris, don’t marry Iris. She certainly didn’t send you in here for a tea party.”
“No.” Evangeline will keep scheming for a queen’s crown up until the second Maven puts it on another girl’s head. It’s what she was made for. Just like Maven was made for other, more horrible things.
“She thinks what I feel for you can cloud my judgment. Foolish.”
I flinch. The brand on my collarbone sears beneath my shirt.
“Heard you started smashing things again,” he continues.
“You have bad taste in china.”
He grins at the ceiling. A crooked smile. Like his brother’s. For a second, Maven’s face becomes Cal’s, their features shifting. With a jolt, I realize I’ve been here longer than I even knew Cal. I know Maven’s face better than his.
He shifts, making the water ripple as he dangles an arm out of the bath. I wrench my eyes away, look down at the tile. I have three brothers, and a father who can’t walk. I spent months sharing a glorified hole with a dozen stinking men and boys. I’m not a stranger to the male form. Doesn’t mean I want to see more of Maven than I must. Again I feel myself on the edge of quicksand.
“The wedding is tomorrow,” he finally says. His voice echoes off the marble.
“Oh.”
“You didn’t know?”
“How could I? I’m not exactly kept informed.”
Maven shrugs, raising his shoulders. Another shift of the water, showing more of his white skin. “Yes, well, I didn’t really think you were going to start breaking things over me, but . . .” He pauses and looks my way. My body prickles. “It felt good to wonder.”
If there were no consequences, I would scowl and scream and claw his eyes out. Tell Maven that even though my time with his brother was fleeting, I still remember every heartbeat we shared. The feel of him pressed up against me as we slept, alone together, trading nightmares. His hand at my neck, flesh on flesh, making me look at him as we dropped from the sky. What he smells like. What he tastes like. I love your brother, Maven. You were right. You are only a shadow, and who looks at shadows when they have flame? Who would ever choose a monster over a god? I can’t hurt Maven with lightning, but I can destroy him with words. Poke at his weak spots, open his wounds. Let him bleed and scab over into something worse than he ever was before.
The words I manage to speak are quite different.
“Do you like Iris?” I ask instead.
He scratches a hand along his scalp and huffs, childlike. “As if that has anything to do with it.”
“Well, she is the first new relationship you’ll have since your mother died. It’ll be interesting to see how that plays without her poison in you.” I drum my fingers at my side. The words sink in slowly, and he barely nods. Agreeing. I feel a surge of pity for him. I fight it tooth and nail. “And you were betrothed two months ago. It seems fast, faster than your engagement to Evangeline at least.”
“That tends to happen when an entire army hangs in the balance,” he says sharply. “Lakelanders are not known for their patience.”
I scoff. “And House Samos is so accommodating?”
A corner of his mouth lifts in ghost of that crooked smile. He fiddles with one of his flamemaker bracelets, slowly spinning the silver circle around a fine-boned wrist. “They have their uses.”
“I thought Evangeline would have turned you into a pincushion by now.”
His smile spreads. “If she kills me, she loses whatever chance she thinks she has, however fleeting. Not that her father would ever allow it. House Samos maintains a position of great power, even if she isn’t queen. But what a queen she would have made.”
“I can only imagine.” The thought shudders through me. Crowns of needles and daggers and razors, her mother in jeweled snakes and her father holding Maven’s puppet strings.
“I can’t,” he admits. “Not really. Even now, I only ever see her as Cal’s queen.”
“You didn’t have to choose her after you framed him—”
“Well, I couldn’t exactly choose the person I wanted, could I?” he snaps. Instead of heat, I feel the air around us turn cold. Enough to make goose bumps prickle across my skin as he glares at me, his eyes a livid, burning blue. The steam on the air clears on the current of cooler air, removing the faint barrier between us.
Shivering, I force myself to the closest window, putting my back to him. Outside, the magnolia trees shudder on a light breeze, their blossoms white and cream and rosy in the sunshine. Such simple beauty has no place here without the corruption of blood or ambition or betrayal.
“You threw me into an arena to die,” I tell him slowly. As if either of us could forget. “You keep me chained up in your palace, guarded night and day, You let me waste away, sick—”
“You think I enjoy seeing you like this?” he murmurs. “You think I want to keep you a prisoner?” Something hitches in his breath. “It’s the only way you’ll stay with me.” Water sloshes over his hands as he draws them back and forth.
I focus on the sound instead of his voice. Even though I know what he’s doing, even though I can feel his grip on me tightening, I can’t stop it from pulling me under. It would be too easy to let myself drown. Part of me wants to.
I keep my eyes on the window. For once, I’m glad for the all-too-familiar ache of Silent Stone. It is an undeniable reminder of what he is, and what his love means for me.
“You tried to murder everyone I care about. You killed children.” A baby, bloodstained, a note in its little fist. I remember it so vividly it could be a nightmare. I don’t try to force the image away. I need to remember it. I need to remember what he is. “Because of you, my brother is dead.”
I spin to him, barking out a harsh, vengeful laugh. Anger clears my head.
He sits up sharply, his naked torso almost as white as the bathwater.
“And you killed my mother. You took my brother. You took my father. The second you fell into the world, the wheels were in motion. My mother looked into your head and saw opportunity. She saw a chance she had been looking for forever. If you hadn’t—if you had never—” He stumbles, the words coming faster than he can stop them. Then he grits his teeth, clamping down on anything more damning. Another breath of silence. “I don’t want to know what would have been.”
“I know,” I snarl. “I would’ve ended up in a trench, obliterated or torn apart or barely surviving as the walking dead. I know what I would have become, because a million others live it. My father, my brothers, too many people.”
“Knowing what you know now . . . would you go back? Would you choose that life? Conscription, your muddy town, your family, that river boy?”
So many are dead because of me, because of what I am. If I were just a Red, just Mare Barrow, they would be alive. Shade would be alive. My thoughts hinge on him. I would trade so many things to have him back. I’d trade myself a thousand times. But then there are the newbloods found and saved. Rebellions aided. A war ended. Silvers tearing at one another. Reds uniting. I had a hand in all of it, however small. Mistakes were made. My mistakes. Too many to count. I am worlds away from perfect, or even good. The true question eats at my brain. What Maven is really asking. Would you give up your ability, would you trade your power, to go back? I don’t need time to figure out an answer.
“No,” I whisper. I don’t remember moving so close to him, my hand closing on one side of the porcelain bath. “No, I wouldn’t.”
The confession burns worse than flame, eating at my insides. I hate him for what he makes me feel, what he makes me realize. I wonder if I can move fast enough to incapacitate him. Clench a fist, bust his jaw with the hard manacle. Can skin healers regrow teeth? No real point in trying. I wouldn’t live to find out.
He stares up at me. “Those who know what it’s like in the dark will do anything to stay in the light.”
“Don’t act like we’re the same.”
“The same? No.” He shakes his head. “But perhaps . . . we’re even.”
“Even?” Again I want to tear him apart. Use my nails, my teeth to rip his throat. The insinuation cuts. Almost as much as the fact that he might be right.
“I used to ask Jon if he could see futures that no longer exist. He said the paths were always changing. An easy lie. It let him manipulate me in a way even Samson couldn’t. And when he led me to you, well, I didn’t argue. How was I supposed to know what a poison you would be?”
“If I’m a poison, then get rid of me. Stop torturing us both!”
“You know I can’t do that, no matter how much I may want to.” His lashes flicker and his eyes go far away. Somewhere even I can’t reach him. “You’re like Thomas was. You are the only person I care about, the only person who reminds me I am alive. Not empty. And not alone.”
Alive. Not empty. Not alone.
Each confession is an arrow, piercing every nerve ending until my body turns to cold fire. I hate that Maven can say such things. I hate that he feels what I feel, fears what I fear. I hate it; I hate it. And if I could change who am, how I think, I would. But I can’t. If Iris’s gods are real, they certainly know I’ve tried.
“Jon would not tell me about the dead futures—the ones no longer possible. I think about them, though,” he mumbles. “A Silver king, a Red queen. How would things have changed? How many would still be alive?”
“Not your father. Not Cal. And certainly not me.”
“I know it’s just a dream, Mare,” he snaps. Like a child corrected in the classroom. “Any window we had, however small, is gone.”
“Because of you.”
“Yes.” Softer, an admission of his own. “Yes.”
Never breaking eye contact, Maven slips the flamemaker bracelet from his wrist. It’s slow, deliberate, methodic. I hear it hit the floor and roll, silver metal ringing against the marble. The other quickly follows. Still watching, he leans back in the bath and tips his head. Exposing his neck. At my side, my hands twitch. It would be so easy. Wrap my brown fingers around his pale neck. Put all my weight into it. Pin him down. Cal is afraid of water. Is Maven? I could drown him. Kill him. Let the bathwater boil us both. He dares me to do it. Part of him might want me to do it. Or it could be one of the thousand traps I’ve fallen for. Another trick of Maven Calore.
He blinks and exhales, letting go of something deep inside himself. It breaks the spell and the moment shatters.
“You’ll be one of Iris’s ladies tomorrow. Enjoy yourself.”
One more arrow to the gut.
I wish for another glass to smash against the wall. A lady-in-waiting for the wedding of the century. No chance of slipping away. I’ll have to stand before the entire court. Guards everywhere. Eyes everywhere. I want to scream.
Use the anger. Use the rage, I try to tell myself. Instead, it just consumes me and turns to despair.
Maven just gestures lazily with an open hand. “There’s the door.”
I try not to look back as I go, but I can’t help myself. Maven stares at the ceiling, his eyes empty. And I hear Julian in my head, whispering the words he wrote.
Not a god’s chosen, but a god’s cursed.
