My training continues twofold, leaving me exhausted. It’s for the best. Exhaustion makes it easy to sleep and hard to worry. Every time doubt tugs at my brain, over Cal or Piedmont or whatever comes next, I’m too tired to entertain the thoughts. I run and weight train with Cal in the mornings, taking advantage of the lasting effects of Silent Stone. After their heaviness, nothing physical seems difficult. He also slips in a bit of theory between laps, even though I assure him Ella has it covered. He just shrugs and keeps on. I don’t mention that her training is more brutal, designed to kill. Cal was raised to fight, but with a skin healer in the wings. His version of sparring is very different from hers, which focuses on total annihilation. Cal is more oriented on defense. His unwillingness to kill Silvers unless absolutely necessary is thrown into harsh relief by my hours with the electricons.
Ella is a brawler. Her storms gather with blinding speed, spinning black clouds out of clear skies to fuel a merciless fusillade of lightning. I remember her in Archeon, wielding a gun with one hand and lightning in the other. Only Iris Cygnet’s quick thinking kept her from turning Maven to a pile of smoking ash. I don’t think my lightning will ever be as destructive as hers, not without years of training, but her tutelage is invaluable. From her I learn that storm lightning is more powerful than any other kind, hotter than the surface of the sun, with the strength to split even diamondglass. Just one bolt like hers drains me so fully I can barely stand, but she does it for fun and target practice. Once she made me run through a minefield of her storm lightning to test my footwork.
Web lightning, as Rafe calls it, is more familiar. He uses bolts and sparks thrown from his hands and feet, usually in splaying webs of green, to protect his body. While he can call storms too, he prefers more accurate methods, and he fights with precision. His lightning can take form. He’s best at the shield, a weaving crackle of electric energy that can stop a bullet, and a whip to cut through rock and bone. The latter is striking to behold: a fraying arc of electricity that moves like deadly rope, able to burn through anything in its path. I feel the force of it every time we spar. It doesn’t hurt me as much as it would anyone else, but any lightning I can’t wrench control of strikes deep. Usually I end the day with my hair on end, and when Cal kisses me, he always gets a shock or two.
The quiet Tyton doesn’t spar with any of us, or with anyone, for that matter. He has given no name to his specialty, but Ella calls it pulse lightning. His control of electricity is astounding. The pure white sparks are small but concentrated, containing the strength of a storm bolt. Like a live-wire bullet.
“I’d show you brain lightning,” he mutters to me one day, “but I doubt anyone would volunteer to help the demonstration.”
We pass the sparring circles together, beginning the long walk across the base to Storm Hill. Now that I’ve been with them awhile, Tyton actually speaks more than a few words to me. Still, it’s a surprise to hear his slow, methodic voice.
“What’s brain lightning?” I ask, intrigued.
“What it sounds like.”
“Helpful,” Ella sneers at my side. She continues braiding her vivid hair back from her face. It hasn’t been dyed in a few weeks, as evidenced by the dirty-blond hair showing at the root. “He means that a human body runs on a pulse of electrical signals. Very small, ridiculously fast. Difficult to detect and almost impossible to control. They’re most concentrated in the brain, and easiest to harness there.”
My eyes widen as I look at Tyton. He just keeps walking, white hair over one eye, hands shoved into his pockets. Unassuming. As if what Ella just said isn’t terrifying. “You can control someone’s brain?” Cold fear rips me like a knife to the gut.
“Not the way you’re thinking.”
“How do you know—”
“Because you’re very easy to predict, Mare. I’m not a mind reader, but I know six months at the mercy of a whisper would make anyone suspicious.” With an annoyed sigh, he raises a hand. A spark brighter than the sun and more blinding weaves through his fingers. One touch from it could turn a man inside out with its force. “Ella’s trying to say I can look at a person and drop them like a sack of hammers. Affect the electricity in their body. Give them a seizure if I’m feeling merciful. Kill them outright if not.”
I look back at Ella and Rafe, blinking between them. “Have either of you learned that?”
Both scoff. “Neither of us has anywhere near the control required,” Ella says.
“Tyton can kill someone discreetly, without anyone else knowing,” Rafe explains. “We could be having dinner in the mess hall and the premier drops on the other side of the room. Seizure. He dies. Tyton doesn’t blink and keeps on eating. Of course,” he adds, clapping Tyton on the back, “not that we think you would ever do that.”
Tyton barely reacts. “Comforting.”
What a monstrous—and useful—way to use our ability.
In the sparring circles, someone yells in frustration. The sound draws my attention, and I turn to see a pair of newbloods grappling. Kilorn oversees the spar and waves at us.
“Going to give the rings a try today?” he says, gesturing at the circles of dirt marking the sparring grounds. “Haven’t seen the lightning girl spark up in a long while.”
I feel a surprisingly eager tug. Sparring with Ella or Rafe is exciting, but matching lightning to lightning isn’t exactly helpful. There’s no reason to practice fighting something we won’t encounter for a long time.
Ella answers before I can, stepping forward. “We spar on Storm Hill. And we’re already late.”
Kilorn just raises an eyebrow. He wants my answer, not hers.
“Actually, I wouldn’t mind. We should be practicing against what Maven has in his arsenal.” I try to keep my tone diplomatic. I like Ella; I like Rafe. I even like what I know of Tyton, which is very little. But I have a voice too. And I think we can only go so far fighting each other. “I’d like to spar here today.”
Ella opens her mouth to argue, but it’s Tyton who speaks first. “Fine,” he says. “Who?”
The closest thing to Maven we have.
“You know, I’m a lot better at this than he is.”
Cal stretches an arm over his head, the bicep straining against thin cotton. He grins as I watch, enjoying the attention. I just glower and cross my arms over my chest. He hasn’t agreed to my request, but he hasn’t said no either. And the fact that Cal cut short his own training routine to come to the sparring circles says enough.
“Good. That will make fighting him easier.” I’m careful with my words. Fight, not kill. Ever since Cal mentioned his search for someone who can “fix” his brother, I have to tread lightly. As much as I want to kill Maven for what he did to me, I can’t voice those thoughts. “If I train against you, he won’t be difficult at all.”
He scuffs the dirt beneath his feet. Testing the terrain. “We already fought.”
“Under the influence of a whisper. Someone else pulled the strings. That’s not the same.”
At the edge of the circle, a bit of a crowd gathers to watch. When Cal and I step onto the same sparring ground, word travels quickly. I think Kilorn might even be taking bets, weaving through the dozen or so newbloods with a shifty grin. One of them is Reese, the healer I struck when I was first rescued. He lies in wait like the skin healers used to when I trained with Silvers. Ready to fix whatever we break.
My fingers drum against my arms, each one ticking. In my bones, I call to lightning. It rises at my command, and I feel the clouds gather overhead. “Are you going to keep wasting my time so you can strategize, or can we get started?”
He just winks and continues his stretches. “Almost done.”
“Fine.” Stooping, I brush the finely ground dirt over my hands, wiping away any sweat. Cal taught me that. He grins and does the same. Then, to the surprise and delight of more than a few people, he pulls his shirt clean off and tosses it to the side.
Better food and hard training have made us both more muscular, but where I am lean and agile, smoothly curved, he is all hard angles and cut lines of definition. I’ve seen him undressed many times and still it gives me pause, sending a flush from my cheeks all the way down to my toes. I swallow forcibly. At the edge of my vision, both Ella and Rafe look him over with interest.
“Trying to distract me?” I pretend to shrug it off, ignoring the heat all over my face.
He cocks his head to side, a picture of innocence. He even claps his hand to his chest, forcing a false gasp as if to say Who, me? “You’ll just fry the shirt anyway. I’m saving supplies. But,” he adds, beginning to circle, “a good soldier uses every advantage at his disposal.”
Above me, the sky continues to darken. Now I can definitely hear Kilorn taking bets. “Oh, you think you have the advantage? That’s cute.” I match his movements, circling in the opposite direction. My feet move of their own accord. I trust them. The adrenaline feels familiar, born of the Stilts, the training arena, every battle I’ve ever been in. It takes hold in my nerves.
I hear Cal’s voice in my head, even as he tenses, settling into an all-too-familiar stance. Burner. Ten yards. My hands fall to my sides, fingers swirling as purple-white sparks jump in and out of my skin. Across the circle, he flicks his wrists—and searing heat blazes across my palms.
I yelp, jumping back to see my sparks are red flame. He took them from me. With a burst of energy, I thrust them back into lightning. They ripple, wanting to become fire, but I hold my concentration, keeping the sparks from bursting out of control.
“First blow to Calore!” Kilorn yells at the edge of the circle. A mix of groans and cheers runs through the still-growing crowd. He claps and thumps his feet. It reminds me of the arena, the Stilts, when he yelled for Silver champions. “Let’s go, Mare, pick it up!”
A good lesson, I realize. Cal didn’t have to open our spar by revealing something I wasn’t prepared for. He could have held it back. Waited to use that unseen advantage. Instead, he played that piece first. He’s going easy on me.
First mistake.
Ten yards away, Cal beckons, indicating for me to continue. A taunt as much as anything. He’s best on the defense. He wants me to come to him. Fine.
At the edge of the circle, Ella mutters a warning to the crowd. “I’d step back if I were you.”
My fist clenches, and lightning strikes. It rips down with blinding force, hitting the circle dead center, like an arrow to a bull’s-eye. But it doesn’t dig into the ground, cracking the earth as it should. Instead, I use a combination of storm and web. The purple-white bolt flares across the sparring circle, racing over the dirt at knee height. Cal throws up an arm to protect his eyes from the bright flash, using the other hand to ripple the sparks around him, morphing them to blazing blue flame. I sprint and burst from the lightning he can’t bear to look at. With a roar, I slide into his legs, knocking him down. He hits the sparks and flops, seizing from the shock as I pop back to my feet.
Red-hot heat brushes my face, but I push it back with a shield of electricity. Then I’m on the ground too, legs swept out from under me. My face hits the ground hard and I taste dirt. A hand grabs my shoulder, a hand that burns, and I swing out with an elbow, catching his jaw. That burns too. His entire body is aflame. Red and orange, yellow and blue. Waves of heat distortion pulse from him, making the entire world sway and undulate.
Scrambling, I scoop my arm against the dirt and haul, chucking as much as I can into his face. He flinches, and it smothers some of his fire, giving me enough time to get to my feet. With another swing of my arms, I pull a whip of lightning into form, sparking and hissing in the air. He dodges each blow, rolling and ducking, light as a dancer on his feet. Fireballs spit from my electricity, the pieces I can’t entirely control. Cal pulls them into churning whips of his own, surrounding the circle in an inferno. Purple and red clash, spark and burn, until the packed dirt beneath us churns like a stormy sea, and the sky goes black, raining thunderbolts.
He dances close enough for a blow. I feel the force of his fist ripple as I drop beneath it, and I smell burned hair. I get in a strike of my own, landing a brutal elbow to a kidney. He grunts in pain but responds in kind, ripping flaming fingers down my back. My flesh ripples with fresh blisters, and I bite my lip to keep from screaming. Cal would stop the fight if he knew how much this hurt. And it hurts. Pain shrieks up my spine and my knees buckle. Scrambling, I throw out my arms to stop a fall, and the lightning pushes me to my feet. I push through the searing pain because I have to know what it feels like. Maven will probably do worse when the time comes.
I use web again, a defensive maneuver to keep his hands off me. A strong bolt races up his leg, into his muscles, nerves, and bones. The skeleton of a prince flashes in my head. I pull back the blow enough to avoid permanent damage. He twitches, falling onto his side. I’m on him without thinking, working the bracelets I’ve seen him latch and unlatch a dozen times. Beneath me, his eyes roll and he tries to fight me off. The bracelets go flying, glinting purple against my sparks.
An arm wraps around my middle, flipping me over. The ground against my back is like a tongue of white-hot fire. I scream this time, losing control. Sparks burst from my hands, and Cal flies back of his own accord, scrambling from the fury of lightning.
Fighting tears, I push up, fingers digging into the dirt. A few yards away, Cal does the same. His hair is wild with static energy. We’re both wounded, both too proud to stop. We stagger to our feet like old men, swaying on uneasy limbs. Without his bracelets, he calls to the grass burning on the edge of the circle, forming flame from embers. It rockets at me as my lightning bursts again.
Both collide—with a tingling blue wall. It hisses, absorbing the force of both strikes. Then it disappears like a window wiped clean.
“Perhaps next time you two should spar in the range field,” Davidson calls. Today the premier looks like everyone else in his plain green uniform, standing on the edge of the circle. At least, it was a circle. Now the dirt and grass are a charred mess, completely torn up, a battleground ripped apart by our abilities.
Hissing, I sit back down, quietly grateful for the end. Even breathing hurts my back. I have to lean forward on my knees, clenching my fists against the pain.
Cal takes a step toward me, then collapses as well, falling back on his elbows. He pants heavily, chest rising and falling with exertion. Not even enough strength to offer a smile. Sweat coats him from head to toe.
“Without an audience, if possible,” Davidson adds. Behind him, as the smoke clears, another blue wall of something divides the spectators from our spar. With a wave of Davidson’s hand, it blinks out of existence. He gives a tight, bland smile and indicates the symbol on his arm, his designation. A white hexagon. “Shield. Quite useful.”
“I’ll say,” Kilorn barks, charging toward me. He crouches at my side. “Reese,” he adds over his shoulder.
But the red-haired skin healer stops a few yards away. He holds his ground. “You know that’s not how it works.”
“Reese, stop it!” Kilorn hisses. He clenches his teeth in exasperation. “She’s burned all down the back and he can barely walk.”
Cal blinks at me, still panting. His face pulls in concern and regret, but also pain. I’m in agony and so is he. The prince does his best to look strong and tries to sit up. He just hisses, immediately falling back down.
Reese holds firm. “Sparring has consequences. We’re not Silver. We need to know what our abilities do to each other.” The words sound rehearsed. If I weren’t in so much pain, I would agree. I remember the arenas where Silvers battled for sport, without fear. I remember my Training at the Hall of the Sun. A skin healer was always waiting, ready to patch up every scrape. Silvers don’t care about hurting another person because the effects don’t last. Reese looks us both over and all but wags a scolding finger. “It’s not life-threatening. They spend twenty-four hours this way. That’s protocol, Warren.”
“Normally, I would agree,” Davidson says. With sure footing, he crosses to the healer’s side and fixes him with an empty stare. “But unfortunately I need these two sharp, and I need it now. Get it done.”
“Sir—”
“Get it done.”
The dirt squeezes through my fingers, the smallest relief as I claw my hands in the ground. If it means ending this torture, I’ll listen to whatever the premier wants, and I’ll do it with a smile.
My coverall uniform is itchy and it smells like disinfecting chemicals. I would complain, but I don’t have the brain capacity. Not after Davidson’s operatives’ latest briefing. Even the premier looks shaky, pacing back and forth in front of the long table of military advisers, including Cal and me. Davidson balls his fist beneath his chin and stares at the floor with his unreadable eyes.
Farley watches him for a long moment before glancing down to read Ada’s meticulous handwriting. The newblood woman with perfect intelligence is an officer now, working closely with Farley and the Scarlet Guard. I wouldn’t be surprised if baby Clara were made an officer too. She dozes against her mother’s chest, wrapped tightly in a cloth sling. A crown of dark brown fuzz spots over her head. She really does looks like Shade.
“Five thousand Red soldiers of the Scarlet Guard and five hundred newbloods of Montfort currently hold the Corvium garrison,” Farley recites from Ada’s notes. “Reports put Maven’s forces in the thousands, all Silver. Massing at Fort Patriot in Harbor Bay, and outside Detraon in the Lakelands. We don’t have exact numbers, or an ability count.”
My hands tremble on the flat of the table, and I quickly shove them under my legs. In my head, I tick off who could possibly be aiding Maven’s attempt to retake the fortress city. Samos is gone; Laris, Iral, Haven too. Lerolan, if Cal’s grandmother can be believed. As much as I want to disappear, I force myself to speak. “He has strong support in Rhambos and Welle. Strongarms, greenwardens. Arvens too. They’ll be able to neutralize any newblood attack.” I don’t explain further. I know what Arvens can do firsthand. “I don’t know the Lakelanders, beyond the nymph royals.”
The Colonel leans forward, bracing his palms on the table. “I do. They fight hard, and they endure. And their loyalty to their king is unyielding. If he throws his support to the wretch—” He stops himself and glances sidelong at Cal, who doesn’t react. “To Maven, they won’t hesitate to follow. Their nymphs are deadliest of course, followed by storms, shivers, and windweavers. Stoneskin berserkers are a nasty bunch too.”
I flinch as he names each one.
Davidson spins on his heel to face Tahir in his seat. The newblood looks incomplete without his twin, and leans oddly, as if to compensate for his absence. “Any update on the time frame?” the premier barks. “Within the week isn’t narrow enough.”
Squinting his eyes, Tahir focuses elsewhere, far beyond the room. To wherever his twin might be. Like many of the operations here, Rash’s location is classified, but I can guess. Salida was once embedded in Maven’s newblood army. Rash is a perfect replacement for her, probably working as a Red servant somewhere in the court. It’s quite brilliant. Using his link to Tahir, he can ferry information as quickly as any radio or communication link, without any of the evidence or possibility of interception.
“Still confirming,” he says slowly. “Whispers of . . .” The newblood stills, and his mouth drops into an O of surprise. “Within the day. An attack from both sides of the border.”
I bite my lip, drawing blood. How could this happen so quickly? Without warning?
Cal shares my sentiment. “I thought you were keeping watch on troop movements. Armies don’t mass overnight.” A low current of heat ripples from him, baking along my right side.
“We know the bulk of the force is in the Lakelands. Maven’s new bride and her alliance put us in a bit of a bind,” Farley explains. “We don’t have nearly enough resources there, now that most of the Guard is here. We can’t monitor three separate countries—”
“But you’re sure it’s Corvium? You’re absolutely sure?” Cal snaps.
Ada nods without hesitation. “All intelligence points to yes.”
“Maven likes traps.” I hate saying his name. “It could be a ploy to draw us out in force, catch us in transit.” I remember the scream of our jet torn apart midflight, sheering into jagged edges against the stars. “Or a feint. We go to Corvium. He hits the Lowcountry. Takes our foundation out from under us.”
“Which is why we wait.” Davidson clenches a fist in resolve. “Let them move first so we can make our counter. If they hold, we’ll know it was a trick.”
The Colonel flushes, skin red as his eye. “And if it’s an offensive, plain and simple?”
“We’ll move quickly once intentions are known—”
“And how many of my soldiers die while you move quickly?”
“As many as mine,” Davidson sneers. “Don’t act like your people are the only ones who will bleed for this.”
“My people . . . ?”
“Enough!” Farley shouts them both down, loud enough to wake Clara. The infant is better tempered than anyone I know, and just blinks sleepily at the interruption of her nap. “If we can’t get more intelligence, then waiting is our only option. We’ve made enough mistakes charging in headfirst.”
Too many times to count.
“It’s a sacrifice, I admit.” The premier looks as sober as his generals, all stoic and stone-faced at the news. If there were another way, he would take it. But none of us see one. Not even Cal, who remains silent. “But a sacrifice of inches. Inches for miles.”
The Colonel sputters in anger, slamming a fist on the council table. A glass pitcher full of water wobbles, and Davidson calmly rights it with quick, even reflexes.
“Calore, I’ll need you to coordinate.”
With his grandmother. With Silvers. People who stared at me and my chains and did nothing until it was convenient. People who still think my family should be their slaves. I bite my tongue. People we need to win.
Cal dips his head. “The Kingdom of the Rift has pledged support. We’ll have Samos soldiers, Iral, Laris, and Lerolan.”
“The Kingdom of the Rift,” I say under my breath, almost spitting. Evangeline got her crown after all.
“What about you, Barrow?”
I look up to see Davidson staring, still with that blank expression. He is impossible to read.
“Do we have you as well?”
My family flickers before my eyes, but only for a moment. I should feel ashamed that my own anger, the rage I keep burning in the pit of my stomach and the corners of my brain, outweighs them all. Mom and Dad will kill me for leaving again. But I’m willing to join a war to find some semblance of peace.
“Yes.”
