The bathwater swirls brown and red. Dirt and blood. Mom drains the water twice, and still she keeps finding more in my hair. At least the healer on the jet took care of my fresh wounds, so I can enjoy the soapy heat without any more pain. Gisa perches on a stool by the edge of the tub, her spine straight in the stiff posture she perfected over the years. Either she’s gotten prettier or six months dulled my memory of her face. Straight nose, full lips, and sparkling, dark eyes. Mom’s eyes, my eyes. The eyes all the Barrows have, except Shade. He was the only one of us with eyes like honey or gold. From my dad’s mother. Those eyes are gone forever.
I turn from thoughts of my brother and stare at Gisa’s hand. The one I broke with my foolish mistakes.
The skin is smooth now, the bones reset. No evidence of her mangled body part, shattered by the butt of a Security officer’s gun.
“Sara,” Gisa explains gently, flexing her fingers.
“She did a good job,” I tell her. “With Dad too.”
“That took a whole week, you know. Regrowing everything from the thigh down. And he’s still getting used to it. But it didn’t hurt as much as this.” She flexes her fingers, grinning. “You know she had to rebreak these two?” Her index and middle finger wiggle. “Used a hammer. Hurt like hell.”
“Gisa Barrow, your language is appalling.” I splash a little water at her feet. She swears again, drawing her toes away.
“Blame the Scarlet Guard. Seems they spend all their time cursing and asking for more flags.” Sounds about right. Not one to be outdone, Gisa reaches into the tub and flicks water at me.
Mom tuts at both of us. She tries to look stern, and fails horribly. “None of that, you two.”
A fuzzy white towel snaps between her hands, held out. As much as I want to spend another hour soaking in soothing hot water, I want to get back downstairs much more.
The water sloshes around me as I stand up and step out of the bath, curling into the towel. Gisa’s smile falters a little. My scars are plain as day, pearly bits of white flesh against darker skin. Even Mom glances away, giving me a second to wrap the towel a bit better, hiding the brand on my collarbone.
I focus on the bathroom instead of their shamed faces. It isn’t as fine as the one I had in Archeon, but the lack of Silent Stone more than makes up for it. Whatever officer lived here had very bright taste. The walls are garish orange trimmed in white to match the porcelain fixings, including a fluted sink, the deep bathtub, and a shower hidden behind a lime-green curtain. My reflection stares back from the mirror over the sink. I look like a drowned rat, albeit a very clean one. Next to my mother, I see our resemblance more closely. She’s small-boned as I am, our skin the same golden shade. Though hers is more careworn and wrinkled, carved with the years.
Gisa leads us out and into the hall, while Mom follows, drying my hair with another soft towel. They show me into a powder-blue bedroom with two fluffy beds. It’s small but more than suitable. I’d take a dirt floor over the most sumptuous chamber in Maven’s palace. Mom is quick to pull me into a pair of cotton pajamas, not to mention socks and a soft shawl.
“Mom, I’m going to boil,” I protest kindly, unwinding the shawl from my neck.
She takes it back with a smile. Then she kisses me again, swooping to brush both my cheeks. “Just making you comfortable.”
“Trust me, I am,” I tell her, giving her arm a squeeze.
In the corner, I notice my jeweled gown from the wedding, now reduced to scraps. Gisa follows my gaze and blushes.
“Thought I could save a bit of it,” my sister admits, looking almost sheepish. “Those are rubies. I’m not going to waste rubies.”
It seems she has more of my thief’s instincts than I realized.
And, apparently, so does my mother.
She speaks before I even take a step toward the bedroom door.
“If you think I’m going to let you stay up to all hours talking war, you are absolutely incorrect.” To cement her point, she folds her arms and settles directly in my path. My mother is shorter, like me, but she’s a laborer of many years. She is far from weak. I’ve seen her manhandle all three of my brothers, and I know firsthand she’ll wrestle me into bed if she needs to.
“Mom, there are things I need to say—”
“Your debriefing is at eight a.m. tomorrow. Say it then.”
“—and I want to know what I missed—”
“The Guard overthrew Corvium. They’re working on Piedmont. That’s all anyone downstairs knows.” She speaks rapid-fire, herding me toward the bed.
I look to Gisa for help, but she backs away, hands raised.
“I haven’t spoken to Kilorn—”
“He understands.”
“Cal—”
“Is absolutely fine with your father and brothers. He can storm the capital; he can handle them.”
With a smirk, I imagine Cal sandwiched between Bree and Tramy.
“Besides, he did everything he could to bring you back to us,” she adds with a wink. “They won’t give him any trouble, not tonight at least. Now get in that bed and shut your eyes, or I’ll shut them for you.”
The lights hiss in their bulbs; the wiring in the room snakes along electric lines of light. None of it compares to the strength of my mother’s voice. I do as she says, clambering under the blankets of the closest bed. To my surprise, she gets in next to me, hugging me close.
For the thousandth time tonight, she kisses my cheek. “You’re not going anywhere.”
In my heart, I know that’s not true.
This war is far from won.
But at least it can be true for tonight.
Birds in Piedmont make a horrible racket. They chirp and trill outside the windows, and I imagine droves of them perched in the trees. It’s the only explanation for such noise. They are good for one thing, though: I never heard birds in Archeon. Even before I open my eyes, I know yesterday was not a dream. I know where I’m waking up, and what I’m waking up to.
Mom is an early riser by habit. Gisa isn’t here either, but I’m not alone. I poke out the bedroom door to find a lanky boy sitting at the top of the stairs, his legs stretched out over the steps.
Kilorn gets to his feet with a grin, his arms spread wide. There’s a decent chance I’ll fall apart from all the hugging.
“Took you long enough,” he says. Even after six months of capture and torment, he won’t treat me with kid gloves. We fall back into our old ways with blinding speed.
I nudge him in the ribs. “No thanks to you.”
“Yeah, military raids and tactical strikes aren’t exactly my specialty.”
“You have a specialty?”
“Well, besides being a nuisance?” he laughs, walking me downstairs. Pots and pans clatter somewhere, and I follow the smell of frying bacon. In the daylight, the row house seems friendly, and out of place for a military base. Butter-yellow walls and florid purple rugs warm the central hallway, but it is suspiciously bare of decorations. Nail holes dot the wallpaper. Maybe a dozen paintings have been removed. The rooms we pass—a salon and a study—are also sparsely furnished. Either the officer who lived here emptied his home, or someone else did it for him.
Stop it, I tell myself. I’ve earned the right not to think about betrayals or backstabbing for one damn day. You’re safe; you’re safe; it’s over. I repeat the words in my head.
Kilorn puts an arm out, stopping me at the door to the kitchen. He leans forward into my space, until I can’t avoid his eyes. Green as I remember. They narrow in concern. “You’re okay?”
Usually, I would nod, smile away the insinuation. I’ve done it so many times before. I pushed away the people closest to me, thinking I could bleed alone. I won’t do that anymore. It made me hateful, horrific. But the words I want to pour out of me won’t come. Not for Kilorn. He wouldn’t understand.
“Starting to think I need a word that means yes and no at the same time,” I whisper, looking at my toes.
He puts a hand to my shoulder. It doesn’t linger. Kilorn knows the lines I’ve drawn between us. He won’t push past them. “I’m here when you need to talk.” Not if, when. “I’ll hound you until you do.”
I offer a shaky grin. “Good.” The sound of cooking fat crackles on the air. “I hope Bree hasn’t eaten it all.”
My brother certainly tries. While Tramy helps her cook, Bree hovers at Mom’s shoulder, picking strips of bacon right out of the hot grease. She swats him away as Tramy gloats, smirking over a pan of eggs. They’re both adults, but they seem like children, like I remember them. Gisa sits at the kitchen table, watching out of the corner of her eye. Doing her best to remain proper. She drums her fingers on the wooden tabletop.
Dad is more restrained, leaning against a wall of cabinets, his new leg angled out in front of him. He spots me before the others and offers a small, private smile. Despite the cheerful scene, sadness eats at his edges.
He feels our missing piece. The one that will never be found.
I swallow around the lump in my throat, pushing the ghost of Shade away.
Cal is also noticeably absent. Not that he will stay away long. He’s probably sleeping, or perhaps planning the next stage of . . . whatever’s going on.
“Other people need to eat,” I scold as I pass Bree. Quickly, I snatch the bacon from his fingers. Six months have not dulled my reflexes or impulses. I grin at him as I take a seat next to Gisa, now twisting her long hair into a neat bun.
Bree makes a face as he sits, a plate in hand piled with buttered toast. He never ate this well in the army, or on Tuck. Like the rest of us, he’s taking full advantage of the food. “Yeah, Tramy, save some for the rest of us.”
“Like you really need it,” Tramy retorts, pinching Bree’s cheek. They end up slapping each other away. Children, I think again. And soldiers too.
Both of them were conscripted, and both of them survived longer than most. Some might call it luck, but they’re strong, both of them. Smart in battle, if not at home. Warriors lie beneath their easy grins and boyish behavior. For now I’m glad I don’t have to see it.
Mom serves me first. No one complains, not even Bree. I dig into eggs and bacon, as well as a cup of rich, hot coffee with cream and sugar. The food is fit for a Silver noble, and I should know. “Mom, how did you get this?” I ask around bites of egg. Gisa makes a face, wrinkling her nose at the food lolling about in my mouth as I speak.
“Daily delivery for the street,” Mom replies, tossing a braid of gray-and-brown hair over her shoulder. “This row is all Guard officers, ranking officials, and significant individuals—and their families.”
“‘Significant individuals’ meaning . . .” I try to read between the lines. “Newbloods?”
Kilorn answers instead. “If they’re officers, yeah. But newblood recruits live in the barracks with the rest of the soldiers. Thought it was better that way. Less division, less fear. We’re never going to have a proper army if most of the troops are afraid of the person next to them.”
In spite of myself, I feel my eyebrows rise in surprise.
“Told you I had a specialty,” he whispers with a wink.
My mother beams, putting the next plate of food in front of him. She ruffles his hair fondly, setting the tawny locks on end. He awkwardly tries to smooth them down. “Kilorn’s been improving relations between the newbloods and the rest of the Scarlet Guard,” she says proudly. He tries to hide the resulting blush with a hand.
“Warren, if you’re not going to eat that—”
Dad reacts faster than any of us, rapping Tramy’s outstretched hand with his cane. “Manners, boy,” he growls. Then he snatches bacon from my own plate. “Good stuff.”
“Best I’ve ever had,” Gisa agrees. She daintily but eagerly picks at eggs sprinkled with cheese. “Montfort knows their food.”
“Piedmont,” Dad corrects. “Food and stores are from Piedmont.”
I file the information away and wince at the instinct to do so. I’m so used to dissecting the words of everyone around me that I do it without thought, even to my family. You’re safe; you’re safe; it’s over. The words repeat in my head. Their rhythm levels me out a bit.
Dad still refuses to sit.
“So how do you like the leg?” I ask.
He scratches his head, fidgeting. “Well, I won’t be returning it anytime soon,” he says with a rare smile. “Takes getting used to. Skin healer’s helping when she can.”
“That’s good. That’s really good.”
I was never truly ashamed of Dad’s injury. It meant he was alive and safe from conscription. So many other fathers, Kilorn’s included, died for a nonsense war while mine lived. The missing leg made him sour, discontent, resentful of his chair. He scowled more than he smiled, a bitter hermit to most. But he was a living man. He told me once it was cruel to give hope where none should be. He had no hope of walking again, of being the man he was before. Now he stands as proof of the opposite and that hope, no matter how small, no matter how impossible, can still be answered.
In Maven’s prison, I despaired. I wasted. I counted the days and wished for an ending, no matter the kind. But I had hope. Foolish, illogical hope. Sometimes a single flicker, sometimes a flame. It also seemed impossible. Just like the path ahead, through war and revolution. We could all die in the coming days. We could be betrayed. Or . . . we could win.
I don’t even know what that looks like, or what exactly to hope for. I just know that I must keep my hope alive. It is the only shield I have against the darkness inside.
I look around at the kitchen table. Once I lamented that my family did not know me, didn’t understand what I had become. I thought myself separate, alone, isolated.
I could not be more wrong. I know better now. I know who I am.
I am Mare Barrow. Not Mareena, not the lightning girl. Mare.
My parents quietly offer to accompany me to the debriefing. Gisa does too. I refuse. This is a military undertaking, all business, all for the cause. It will be easier for me to recall in detail if my mother isn’t holding my hand. I can be strong in front of the Colonel and his officers, but not her. She makes it too tempting to break. Weakness is acceptable, forgivable, around family. But not when lives and wars hang in the balance.
The kitchen clock ticks eight a.m., and right on time an open-topped transport rolls up outside the row house. I go quietly. Only Kilorn follows me out, but not to join me. He knows he has no part in this.
“So what will you do with yourself for the day?” I ask as I wrench open the brass-knobbed door.
He shrugs. “I had a schedule up in Trial. Bit of training, rounds with the newbloods, lessons with Ada. After I came down here with your parents, I figured I’ll keep it up.”
“A schedule,” I snort, stepping out into the sunshine. “You sound like a Silver lady.”
“Well, when you’re as good-looking as I am . . . ,” he sighs.
It’s already hot, the sun blazing above the eastern horizon, and I strip off the thin jacket Mom forced me into. Leafy trees line the street, disguising the military base as an upper-class neighborhood. Most of the brick row houses look empty, their windows dark and shuttered. At the bottom of the steps, my transport waits. The driver behind the wheel pushes down his sunglasses, eyeing me over the brim. I should have known. Cal gave me all the time I needed with my family, but he couldn’t stay away long.
“Kilorn,” he calls, waving a hand in greeting. Kilorn returns the gesture with ease and a smile. Six months has killed their rivalry at the root.
“I’ll find you later,” I tell him. “Compare notes.”
He nods. “Sure thing.”
Even though it’s Cal in the driver’s seat, drawing me in like a beacon, I walk slowly to the transport. In the distance, airjet engines roar. Every step is another inch closer to reliving six months of captivity. If I turned around, no one would blame me. But it would only prolong the inevitable.
Cal watches, his face grim in the daylight. He extends a hand, helping me into the front seat like I’m some kind of invalid. The engine purrs, its electric heart a comfort and a reminder. I may be scared, but I’m not weak.
With one last wave to Kilorn, Cal guns the engine and spins the wheel, driving us down the street. The breeze ruffles his roughly cut hair, highlighting uneven spots.
I run a hand down the back of his head. “Did you do this yourself?”
He flushes silver. “I tried.” Leaving one hand on the wheel, he takes mine in the other. “Are you going to be all right for this?”
“I’ll get through it. I suppose your reports have most of the important parts. I just have to fill in the holes.” The trees thin on either side of us, where the officer street hits a larger avenue. To the left is the landing field. We turn right, the transport arcing smoothly over pavement. “And hopefully someone starts filling me in on all . . . this.”
“With these people, you have to demand answers rather than wait for them.”
“Have you been demanding, Your Highness?”
He chuckles low in his throat. “They certainly think so.”
It’s a five-minute drive to our destination, and Cal does his best to get me up to speed. There was a headquarters along the Lakelander border near Trial. All the Colonel’s soldiers evacuated north in anticipation of a raid on the island. They spent months belowground, in freezing bunkers, while Farley and the Colonel traded communications with Command and prepared for their next target. Corvium. Cal’s voice breaks a little when he describes the siege. He led the strike himself, taking the walls in a surprise raid and then the fortress city, block by block. It’s possible he knew the soldiers he was fighting. It’s possible he killed friends. I don’t prod at either wound. In the end, they completed the siege, removing the last Silver officers by offering them surrender or execution.
“Most are held hostage now, some ransomed back to their families. And some chose death,” he murmurs, his voice trailing off. He glances over at me, just for a moment, his eyes hidden behind lenses of darkened glass.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur, and I mean it. Not just because Cal is in pain, but because I have long since learned how gray this world is. “Will Julian be at the debriefing?”
Cal sighs, grateful for the change in subject. “I don’t know. This morning he said the Montfort brass have been very accommodating where he is concerned—giving him access to the base archives, a laboratory, all the time he wants to continue his newblood studies.”
I can think of no better reward for Julian Jacos. Time and books.
“But they might not be too keen on letting a singer near their leader,” Cal adds, thoughtful.
“Understandable,” I reply. While our abilities are more destructive, Julian’s ability to manipulate is just as deadly. “So, how long has Montfort been at this?”
“I don’t know either,” he says, his annoyance obvious. “But they took real notice after Corvium. And now, with Maven’s alliance with the Lakelands? He’s uniting too, on the rebellion,” he explains. “Montfort and the Guard did the same. Instead of guns and food, Montfort started sending soldiers. Reds, newbloods. They already had a plan to spring you out of Archeon. Pincer move. Us from Trial, Montfort from Piedmont. They can organize, I’ll give them that. They just needed the right moment.”
I scoff. “They picked a hell of a moment.” Gunfire and bloodshed cloud my thoughts. “All that for me. Seems stupid.”
Cal’s grip on my hand tightens. He was raised to be the perfect Silver soldier. I remember his manuals, his books on military tactics. Victory at any cost, they said. And he used to believe it. Just as I used to think nothing on earth could make me go back to Maven.
“Either they had another target in Archeon, or Montfort really, really wants you,” Cal mutters as the transport slows.
We stop in front of another brick building, its front decorated by white columns and a long, wrapping porch. Again I think of Fort Patriot, its gates decorated in foreboding bronze. Silvers like beautiful things, and this is no exception. Flowering vines crawl up the columns, blooming with purple bursts of wisteria and fragrant honeysuckle. Soldiers in uniform walk beneath the plants, keeping to the shade. I spot Scarlet Guard in their mismatched clothes and red scarves, Lakelanders in blue, and a crawling mess of official Montfort green. My stomach flips.
The Colonel marches out to meet us, blissfully alone.
He starts in before I manage to get down from the transport. “You’ll be meeting with me, two Montfort generals, and one Command officer.”
Both Cal and I jolt, eyes wide. “Command?” I balk.
“Yes.” The Colonel’s good eye flashes. He spins on his heel, forcing us to keep up. “Let’s just say wheels are in motion.”
I roll my eyes, already exasperated. “How about you just say what you mean?”
“Probably because he doesn’t know,” replies a familiar voice.
Farley leans in the shadow of one of the columns, arms crossed high over her chest. I gape, jaw dropping open. Because she is hugely, hilariously pregnant. Her belly strains against an altered uniform of a tied shift dress and baggy pants. I wouldn’t be surprised if she gave birth in the next thirty seconds.
“Ah” is all I can think to say.
She looks almost amused. “Do the math, Barrow.”
Nine months. Shade. Her reaction on the cargo jet when I told her what Jon said. The answer to your question is yes.
I didn’t know what it meant, but she did. She had her suspicions. And she learned she was pregnant with my brother’s child less than an hour after he was murdered. Each revelation is a kick in the gut. Equal parts joy and sorrow. Shade has a child—one he’ll never get to see.
“Can’t believe no one thought to tell you,” Farley continues, throwing pointed glares at Cal, who shuffles awkwardly. “Certainly had the time.”
In my shock, all I can do is agree. Not just Cal, but my mother, the rest of the family. “Everyone knew about this?”
“Well, no use arguing about it now,” Farley pushes on, heaving herself off the column. Even in the Stilts, most women take to bed at this stage of pregnancy, but not her. She keeps a gun at her hip, holstered in open warning. A pregnant Farley is still a dangerous Farley. Probably more so. “I have a feeling you want to get this over as quickly as possible.”
When she turns her back, leading us in, I hit Cal in the ribs. Twice for good measure.
He grits his teeth, breathing through the blow. “Sorry,” he grumbles.
The interior of what must be the base command building seems more like a mansion. Staircases spiral on either side of the entrance hall, connecting to a gallery above lined by windows. Crown molding lines the ceiling, which is painted to look like the wisteria outside. The floor is parquet wood, alternating planks of mahogany, cherry, and oak in intricate designs. But like in the row houses, anything that can’t be bolted down is gone. Blank spaces line the walls, while alcoves meant for sculptures or busts hold guards instead. Montfort guards.
Up close, their uniforms are better made than anything the Scarlet Guard or the Colonel’s Lakelanders wear. More like the uniforms of Silver officers. They’re mass-produced—sturdy—with badges, insignia, and the white triangle emblazoned on their arms.
Cal observes as closely as I do. He nudges me, nodding up the stairs. In the gallery, no fewer than six Montfort officers watch us go. They are gray-haired, battle-worn, with enough medals to sink a ship. Generals.
“Cameras too,” I whisper to him. In my head I pick them out, noting each electric signature while we pass through the entrance hall.
Despite the empty walls and sparse decorations, the fine passages make my skin crawl. I keep telling myself the person next to me isn’t one of the Arvens. This isn’t Whitefire. My ability is proof of that. No one is keeping me prisoner. I wish I could drop my guard. It’s second nature at this point.
The meeting room reminds me of Maven’s council chamber. It has a long, polished table and finely upholstered chairs, and it’s illuminated by a bank of windows looking out over another garden. Again the walls are empty, except for a seal painted directly on the wall. Yellow and white stripes, with a purple star in the center. Piedmont.
We’re the first to arrive. I expect the Colonel to take a seat at the head of the table, but he doesn’t, electing for the chair on its right instead. The rest of us file in next to him, facing the empty side we leave open for the Montfort officers and Command.
The Colonel looks on, perplexed. He watches as Farley sits, his good eye cold and steely. “Captain, you don’t have clearance for this.”
Cal and I exchange glances, eyebrows raised. Farley and the Colonel clash often. At least that hasn’t changed.
“Oh, were you not informed?” she replies, pulling a folded strip of paper from her pocket. “So sad how that happens.” With a flick of her hand, she slides the paper over to the Colonel.
He unfolds it greedily, eyes scanning a page of harsh-typed letters. It isn’t long, but he stares at it for a while, not believing the words. Finally he smooths the message against the table. “This can’t be right.”
“Command wants a representative at the table.” Farley grins. She splays her hands wide. “Here I am.”
“Then Command made a mistake.”
“I’m Command now, Colonel. There is no mistake.”
Command rules the Scarlet Guard, the hub of a very secretive wheel. I have only heard whispers of their existence, but enough to know they control the entirety of a vast, complicated operation. If they made Farley one of them, does this mean that the Guard is truly coming out of the shadows—or is it just Farley they want?
“Diana, you can’t—”
She bristles, flushing red. “Because I’m pregnant? I assure you, I can handle two tasks at once.” If not for their uncanny resemblance, both in appearance and attitude, it would be easy to forget that Farley is the Colonel’s daughter. “Do you want to press the matter further, Willis?”
He clenches a fist on the message, knuckles turning bone white. But he shakes his head.
“Good. And it’s General now. Act accordingly.”
A retort dies in the Colonel’s throat, giving him a strangled look. With a satisfied smirk, Farley retrieves the message and tucks it away. She notes Cal watching, just as confused as I am.
“You’re not the only ranking officer in the room now, Calore.”
“I suppose not. Congratulations,” he adds, offering a tight smile.
It takes her off guard. After her father’s open hostility, she didn’t expect support from anyone, least of all the begrudging Silver prince.
The Montfort generals enter from another door, resplendent in their dark green uniforms. One I saw in the gallery. She has an even bob of white hair, watery brown eyes, and long, fluttering lashes. She blinks rapidly. The other, a dark-haired woman, brown-skinned, looks to be about forty and built like an ox. She tips her head at me, as if greeting a friend.
“I know you,” I say, trying to place her face. “How do I know you?”
She doesn’t answer, turning her head over her shoulder to wait for one more person, a gray-haired man in plain clothing. But I barely notice him at all, distracted by his companion. Even without his house colors, dressed in simple grays instead of his usual faded gold, Julian is hard to miss. I feel a burst of warmth at the sight of my old teacher. Julian inclines his head, offering a small smile in greeting. He looks better than I’ve ever seen him, even when I first met him at the summer palace. Then he was worn, wearied by a court of enemies, haunted by a dead sister, a broken Sara Skonos, and his own doubt. Though his hair is now more gray than brown, his wrinkles deeper, he seems vibrant, alive, unburdened. Whole. The Scarlet Guard has given him purpose. And Sara too, I bet.
His presence soothes Cal even more than me. He relaxes a bit at my side, giving his uncle the slightest nod. Both of us see what this is, what kind of message Montfort is trying to send. They do not hate Silvers—and they do not fear them.
The other man shuts the door behind him as Julian takes a seat, firmly planting himself on our side of the table. Even though he’s six feet tall, he seems small without a uniform of his own. Instead, he wears civilian clothing. A simple buttoned shirt, pants, shoes. No weapons that I can see. He has red blood, that’s certain, judging by the pink undertones in his sandy skin. Newblood or Red, I don’t know. Everything about him is decidedly neutral, pleasantly average, and unassuming. He seems a blank page, either by nature or design. There’s nothing else to indicate who or what he might be.
But Farley knows. She moves to get to her feet, and he waves her down.
“No need for that, General,” he says. In a way, he reminds me of Julian. They have the same wild eyes, the only thing remarkable about him. His are angled, darting back and forth, taking in everything for observation and understanding. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you all,” he adds, nodding to each of us in turn. “Colonel, Miss Barrow, Your Highness.”
Under the table, Cal’s fingers twitch against his leg. No one calls him that anymore. Not people who mean it.
“And who are you, exactly?” the Colonel asks.
“Of course,” the man replies. “I’m sorry I could not come sooner. My name is Dane Davidson, sir. I serve as premier to the Free Republic of Montfort.”
Cal’s fingers twitch again.
“Thank you all for coming. I’ve wanted this meeting for some time now,” Davidson continues, “and I think that together, we can achieve magnificent things.”
This man is the leader of the entire country. He’s the one who asked for me, who wanted me to join him. Has he done all this to get his way? Like his general’s face, his name rings a distant bell.
“This is General Torkins.” Davidson gestures between them. “And General Salida.”
Salida. I don’t know her name. But now I’m certain I’ve seen her before.
The sturdily built general notes my confusion. “I did some reconnaissance, Miss Barrow. I presented myself to King Maven when he was interviewing Ardent—I mean newbloods. You may remember.” To demonstrate she sweeps her hand at the table. No, not at. Through. Like it’s made of nothing—or she is.
The memory snaps into focus. She displayed her abilities and was accepted into Maven’s “protection,” along with many other newbloods. One of them, in her fear, exposed Nanny to the entire court.
I stare at her. “You were there the day Nanny—the newblood who could change her face—died.”
Salida looks truly sorry. She dips her head. “If I had known, if I could have done something, truly I would have. But Montfort and the Scarlet Guard did not communicate openly, not then. We didn’t know all your operations, and they did not know ours.”
“No longer.” Davidson remains standing, his fists braced against the table. “The Scarlet Guard has need for secrecy, yes, but I’m afraid it will only do more harm than good from here onward. Too many moving parts not to get in each other’s way.”
Farley shifts in her seat. Either she wants to disagree or the chair is uncomfortable. But she holds her tongue, letting Davidson carry on.
“So, in the interest of transparency, I felt it best for Miss Barrow to detail her captivity, as much as she can, to all parties. And afterward, I will answer any and all questions you may have about myself, my country, and our road ahead.”
In Julian’s histories, there were records of rulers who were elected, rather than born. They earned their crowns with an array of attributes—some strength, some intelligence, some empty promises and intimidation. Davidson rules the so-called Free Republic, and his people chose him to lead. Based on what, I can’t say yet. He has a firm way of speaking, a natural conviction. And he’s obviously very smart. Not to mention he is the kind of man who gets more attractive with the years. I could easily see how people wanted him to rule.
“Miss Barrow, whenever you’re ready.”
To my surprise, the first hand to hold mine is not Cal’s, but Farley’s. She gives me a reassuring squeeze.
I start at the beginning. The only place I can think to start.
My voice breaks when I detail how I was forced to remember Shade. Farley lowers her eyes, her pain just as deep as mine. I soldier through, to Maven’s growing obsession, the boy king who twisted lies into weapons, using my face and his words to turn as many newbloods as possible against the Scarlet Guard. All the while his fraying edges becoming more apparent.
“He says she left holes,” I tell them. “The queen. She toyed in his head, taking pieces away, putting pieces in, jumbling him up. He knows that he is wrong, but he believes himself on a path, and he won’t turn from it.”
A current of heat ripples. At my side, Cal keeps his face still, eyes boring holes in the table. I tread carefully.
His mother took away his love for you, Cal. He loved you. He knows he did. It just isn’t there anymore, and it never will be. But those words are not for Davidson or the Colonel or even Farley to hear.
The Montfort people seem most interested in the Piedmont visit. They perk up at the mention of Daraeus and Alexandret, and I walk them through their visit step by step. Their questioning, their manner, down to what kind of clothes they wore. When I mention Michael and Charlotta, the missing prince and princess, Davidson purses his lips.
As I speak, spilling more and more of my ordeal, a numbness washes over me. I detach from the words. My voice drones. The house rebellion. Jon’s escape. Maven’s near death. The sight of silver blood gushing from his neck. Another interrogation, mine and the Haven woman’s. That was the first time I saw Maven truly rattled, when Elane’s sister pledged her allegiance to a different king. To Cal. It resulted in the exile of many members of court, possible allies.
“I tried to separate him from House Samos. I knew they were his strongest remaining ally, so I played on his weakness for me. If he married Evangeline, I told him, she would kill me.” Pieces move into place as I speak them. I flush at the implication that I am the reason for such a deadly alliance. “I think it may have convinced him to look to the Lakelands for a different bride—”
Julian cuts me off. “Volo Samos was already searching for an excuse to detach from Maven. Ending the betrothal was just the final straw. And I assume the Lakelander negotiations were in play much longer than you think.” He quirks a thin smile. Even if he’s lying, it makes me feel a bit better.
I race through my memories of the coronation tour, a glorified parade to hide his dealings with the Lakelanders. Maven’s revocation of the Measures, the end of the Lakelander War, his betrothal to Iris. Careful moves to buy goodwill from his kingdom, to get credit for stopping a war without stopping its destruction.
“Silver nobles came back to court before the wedding, and Maven kept me alone for most of the time. Then there was the wedding itself. The Lakelander alliance was sealed. The storm—your storm—followed. Maven and Iris fled to his escape train, but we were separated.”
It was only yesterday. Still, this feels like recalling a dream. Adrenaline fogs the battle, reducing my memories to color and pain and fear. “My guards dragged me back into the palace.”
I pause, hesitating. Even now, I can’t believe what Evangeline did.
“Mare?” Cal prods, his voice and the brush of his hand gentle. He’s just as curious as the rest.
It’s easier to face him than the others. He alone understands how strange my escape was. “Evangeline Samos cut us off. She killed the Arven guards and she . . . she freed me. She set me loose. I still don’t know why.”
A silence descends over the table. My greatest rival, a girl who threatened to kill me, a person with cold steel instead of a heart, is the reason I’m here. Julian doesn’t try to hide his surprise, his thin eyebrows almost disappearing into his hairline. But Cal doesn’t look surprised at all. Instead, he draws a deep breath, his chest rising with the motion. Could that be—pride?
I don’t have the energy to guess. Or to detail the way Samson Merandus died, playing Cal and me off each other until we both burned him alive.
“You know the rest,” I finish, exhausted. I feel like I’ve been talking for decades.
Premier Davidson stands, stretching. I expect more questions, but instead he opens a cabinet and pours me a glass of water. I don’t touch it. I’m in an unfamiliar place run by unfamiliar people. I have very little trust left in me, and I won’t waste it on someone I just met.
“Our turn?” Cal asks. He leans forward, eager to begin his own interrogation.
Davidson inclines his head, lips tugged into flat, neutral line. “Of course. I assume you’re wondering what we’re doing here in Piedmont, and on a royal fleet base to boot?”
When no one stops him, Davidson launches ahead.
“As you know, the Scarlet Guard began in the Lakelands, and filtered down into Norta this past year. Colonel Farley and General Farley were integral to both endeavors, and I thank them for their hard work.” He nods at them in turn. “At the orders of your Command, other operatives undertook a similar campaign in Piedmont. Infiltrate, control, overthrow. Here, in fact, is where agents of Montfort first encountered agents of the Scarlet Guard, which, up until last year, seemed a fiction to us. But the Scarlet Guard was very real, and we certainly shared a goal. Like your compatriots, we seek to overthrow oppressive Silver rulers and expand our democratic republic.”
“It seems you’ve done so already.” Farley indicates the room.
Cal narrows his eyes. “How?”
“We concentrated our efforts on Piedmont due to its precarious structure. Princes and princesses rule their territories in shaky peace beneath a high prince elected from their ranks. Some control large tracts of land, others a city or simply a few miles of farms. Power is fluid, always changing. Currently, Prince Bracken of the Lowcountry is the high prince, the strongest Silver in Piedmont, with the largest territory and the greatest resources.” With a sweep of his hand, Davidson brushes his fingers against the seal on the wall. He traces the purple star. “This is the grandest of the three military fortresses in his possession. It is now ceded to our personal use.”
Cal sucks in a breath. “You’re working with Bracken?”
“He’s working for us,” Davidson replies proudly.
My mind spins out. A Silver royal, operating on behalf of a country looking to take everything away from him? For a moment, it sounds ludicrous. Then I remember exactly who’s sitting next to me.
“The princes visited Maven on Bracken’s behalf. They questioned me for him.” I narrow my eyes at the premier. “You told them to do that?”
General Torkins shifts in her seat and clears her throat. “Daraeus and Alexandret are sworn allies to Bracken. We had no knowledge of their contact with King Maven until one of them turned up dead in the middle of an assassination attempt.”
“Thanks to you, we know why,” Salida adds.
“What about the survivor? Daraeus. He’s working against you—”
Davidson blinks slowly, his eyes blank and unreadable. “He was working against us.”
“Oh,” I murmur, thinking of all the ways the Piedmont prince could have been killed.
“And the others?” The Colonel presses on. “Michael and Charlotta. The missing prince and princess.”
“Bracken’s children,” Julian says, his voice tight.
A sick feeling washes over me. “You took his children? To make him cooperate?”
“A boy and girl for control of coastal Piedmont? For all these resources?” Torkins scoffs, her white hair rippling as she shakes her head. “An easy trade. Think of the lives we would lose fighting for every mile. Instead, Montfort and the Scarlet Guard have real progress.”
My heart clenches at the thought of two children, Silver or not, being held captive to make their father kneel. Davidson reads the sentiment on my face.
“They’re well taken care of. Provided for.”
Overhead, the lights flicker like the beating of moth’s wings. “A cell is still a cell, no matter how you dress it up,” I sneer.
He doesn’t flinch. “And a war is a war, Mare Barrow. No matter how good your intentions may be.”
I shake my head. “Well, it’s too bad. Save all those soldiers here, but waste them on rescuing one person. Was that an easy trade too? Their lives for mine?”
“General Salida, what was the last count?” the premier asks.
She nods, reciting from memory. “Of the one hundred and two Ardents recruited to the Nortan army in the last few months, sixty were present as special guards to the wedding. All sixty were rescued, and debriefed last night.”
“Due in large part to the efforts of General Salida, who was embedded with them.” Davidson claps a hand on her meaty shoulder. “Including you, we saved sixty-one Ardents from your king. Each will be given food, shelter, and a choice of resettlement or service. In addition, we were able to raid a large amount of the Nortan Treasury. Wars are not cheap. Ransoming worthless or weak prisoners only gets us so far.” He pauses. “Does that answer your question?”
Relief mixes with the undercurrent of dread I can never seem to shake. The attack on Archeon was not just for me. I have not been freed from one dictator only to be taken by another. None of us knows what Davidson might do, but he isn’t Maven. His blood is red.
“One more question for you, I’m afraid,” Davidson pushes on. “Miss Barrow, would you say the king of Norta is in love with you?”
In Whitefire, I smashed too many glasses of water to count. I feel the urge to do it again. “I don’t know.” A lie. An easy lie.
Davidson is not so easily swayed. His wild eyes flicker, amused. Catching the light, they seem gold then brown then gold again. Shifting as the sun on a field of swaying wheat. “You can take a well-educated guess.”
Hot anger licks up inside me like a flame.
“What Maven considers love is not love at all.” I yank aside the collar of my shirt, revealing my brand. The M is plain as day. So many eyes brush my skin, taking in the raised edges of pearly scar tissue and burned flesh. Davidson’s gaze traces the lines of fire, and I feel Maven’s touch in his stare.
“Enough,” I breathe, pushing the shirt back in place.
The premier nods. “Fine. I will ask you to—”
“No, I mean I’ve had enough of this. I need . . . time.” Heaving a shaky breath, I push back from the table. My chair scrapes against the floor, echoing in the sudden silence. No one stops me. They just watch, eyes full of pity. For once, I’m glad of it. Their pity lets me go.
Another chair follows mine. I don’t need to look back to know it’s Cal.
As on the airjet, I feel the world start to close and suffocate, expand and overwhelm. The halls, so like Whitefire, stretch into an endless line. Lights pulse overhead. I lean into the sensation, hoping it will ground me. You’re safe; you’re safe; it’s over. My thoughts spiral out of control, and my feet move of their own volition. Down the stairs, through another door, out into a garden choked by fragrant flowers. The clear sky above is a torment. I want it to rain. I want to be washed clean.
Cal’s hands find the back of my neck. The scars ache beneath his touch. His warmth bleeds into my muscles, trying to soothe away the pain. I press the heels of my hands to my eyes. It helps a little. I can’t see anything in the darkness, including Maven, his palace, or the bounds of that horrible room.
You’re safe; you’re safe; it’s over.
It would be easy to stay in the dark, to drown. Slowly, I lower my hands and force myself to look at the sunlight. It takes more effort than I thought possible. I refuse to let Maven keep me prisoner one second longer than he already has. I refuse to live this way.
“Can I take you back to your house?” Cal asks, his voice low. His thumbs work steady circles at the space between neck and shoulders. “We can walk, give you some time.”
“I’m not giving him any more of my time.” Angry, I turn around and raise my chin, forcing myself to look Cal in the eye. He doesn’t move, patient and unassuming. All reaction, adjusting to my emotions, letting me set the pace. After so long at the mercy of others, it feels good to know someone will allow me my own choices. “I don’t want to go back yet.”
“Fine.”
“I don’t want to stay here.”
“Me neither.”
“I don’t want to talk about Maven or politics or war.”
My voice echoes in the leaves. I sound like a child, but Cal just nods along. For once, he seems a child too, with a ragged haircut and simple clothing. No uniform, no military gear. Only a thin shirt, pants, boots, and his bracelets. In another life, he might look normal. I stare at him, waiting for his features to shift into Maven’s. They never do. I realize he isn’t quite Cal either. He has more worry than I thought possible. The last six months have ruined him too.
“Are you okay?” I ask him.
His shoulders droop, the slightest release of steel tension. He blinks. Cal is not one to be taken off guard. I wonder if anyone has bothered to ask him that question since the day I was taken.
After a long pause, he heaves a breath. “I will be. I hope.”
“So do I.”
This garden was tended by greenwardens once, its many flower beds spiraling in the overgrown remnants of intricate designs. Nature takes over now, different blossoms and colors spilling into one another. Blending, decaying, dying, blooming as they wish.
“Remind me to trouble both of you for some blood at a more opportune moment.”
I laugh out loud at Julian’s graceless request. He idles at the edge of the garden, kindly intruding. Not that I mind. I grin and cross the garden quickly, embracing him . He returns the action happily.
“That would sound strange coming from anyone else,” I tell him as I pull back. Cal chuckles in agreement at my side. “But sure, Julian. Feel free. Besides, I owe you.”
Julian tips his head in confusion. “Oh?”
“I found some books of yours in Whitefire.” I don’t lie, but I’m careful with my words. No use hurting Cal more than he’s already been. He doesn’t need to know that Maven gave me the books. I won’t give him any more false hope for his brother. “Helped pass the . . . time.”
While the mention of my imprisonment sobers Cal, Julian doesn’t let us linger in the pain. “Then you understand what I’m trying to do,” he says quickly. His smile doesn’t reach his darkening eyes. “Don’t you, Mare?”
“‘Not a god’s chosen, but a god’s cursed,’” I murmur, recalling the words he scrawled in a forgotten book. “You’re going to figure out where we came from, and why.”
Julian folds his arms. “I’m certainly going to try.”
