Being a doll is an odd thing. I spend more time on the shelf than at play. But when I’m forced to, I dance at Maven’s command—he upholds his bargain while I do. After all, he’s a man of his word.
The first newblood seeks refuge at Ocean Hill, the Harbor Bay palace, and as Maven promised, he is given full protection from the so-called terror of the Scarlet Guard. A few days later the poor man, Morritan, is escorted to Archeon and introduced to Maven himself. It is well broadcast. Both his identity and his ability are now commonly known in court. To the surprise of many, Morritan is a burner like the scions of House Calore. But unlike Cal and Maven, he has no need for a flamemaker bracelet, or even a spark. His fire comes from ability and ability alone, same as my lightning.
I have to sit and watch, perched on a gilded chair with the rest of Maven’s royal entourage. Jon, the seer, sits with me, red-eyed and quiet. As the first two newbloods to join with the Silver king, we are afforded places of great honor at Maven’s side, second to Evangeline and Samson Merandus. But only Morritan pays us any attention. As he approaches, before the eyes of court and a dozen cameras, his gaze is always on me. He trembles, afraid, but something about my presence keeps him from running away, keeps him walking forward. Obviously he believes what Maven made me say. He believes the Scarlet Guard hunted us all. He even kneels and swears to join Maven’s army, to train with Silver officers. To fight for his king and his country.
Keeping silent and still is the most difficult part. Despite Morritan’s lanky limbs, golden skin, and hands callused by years of servant work, he looks like nothing more than a little rabbit scurrying directly into a trap. One wrong word from me and the trap will spring.
More follow.
Day after day, week after week. Sometimes one, sometimes a dozen. From every corner of the nation they come, fleeing to the supposed safety of their king. Most because they are afraid, but some because they are foolish enough to want a place here. To leave their lives of oppression behind and become the impossible. I can’t blame them. After all, we’ve been told our entire lives that the Silvers are our masters, our betters, our gods. And now they are merciful enough to let us live in their heaven. Who wouldn’t try to join them?
Maven plays his part well. He embraces them all as brothers and sisters, smiling broadly, showing no shame or fear in an act that most Silvers find repulsive. The court follows his lead, but I see their sneers and scowls hidden behind jeweled hands. Even though this is part of the charade, a well-aimed blow against the Scarlet Guard, they dislike it. What’s more, they fear it. Many of the newbloods have untrained abilities more powerful than their own, or beyond Silver comprehension. They watch with wolf eyes and ready claws.
For once, I am not the center of attention. It is my only respite, not to mention an advantage. No one cares about the lightning girl without her lightning. I do what I can, which is little, but not inconsequential. I listen.
Evangeline is restless despite an iron-faced facade. Her fingers drum the arms of her seat, still only when Elane is near, whispering or touching her. But then she does not dare to relax. She remains on an edge as sharp as her knives. It’s not hard to guess why. Even for a prisoner, I’ve heard very little talk of a royal wedding. And though she is certainly betrothed to the king, she is still not a queen. It scares her. I see it in her face, in her manner, in her constant parade of glittering outfits, each one more complicated and regal than the last. She wears a crown in all but name, yet the name is what she wants more than anything. Her father wants it too. Volo haunts her side, resplendent in black velvet and silver brocade. Unlike his daughter, he doesn’t wear any metal that I can see. Not a chain or even a ring. He doesn’t need to wear weaponry to seem dangerous. With his quiet manner and dark robes, he looks more like an executioner than a noble. I don’t know how Maven can stand his presence, or the steady, focused hunger in his eyes. He reminds me of Elara. Always watching the throne, always waiting for a chance to take it.
Maven notices, and does not care. He gives Volo the respect he requires, but little more. And he leaves Evangeline to Elane’s dazzling company, obviously glad that his future wife has no interest in him. His focus is decidedly elsewhere. Not on me, strangely, but on his cousin Samson. I also have a hard time ignoring the whisper who tortured the deepest parts of me. I am constantly aware of his presence, trying to feel out his whispers if I can, though I hardly have the strength to resist them. Maven doesn’t have to worry about that, not with his chair of Silent Stone. It keeps him safe. It keeps him empty.
When I was first trained to be a princess, a laughable thing in itself, I was engaged to the second prince, and I attended very few meetings of court. Balls, yes, feasts many, but nothing like this until my confinement. Now I’ve almost lost count of how many times I’ve been forced to sit like Maven’s well-trained pet, listening to petitioners, politicians, and newbloods pledging allegiance.
Today looks to be more of the same. The governor of the Rift region, a lord of House Laris, finishes a well-rehearsed plea for Treasury funds to repair Samos-owned mines. Another one of Volo’s puppets, his strings clearly visible. Maven defers him easily, with a wave and a promise to review his proposal. Though Maven is a man of his word with me, he is not at court. The governor’s shoulders slump in dejection, knowing it will never be read.
My back already hurts from the stiff chair, not to mention the rigid posture I have to maintain in my latest court ensemble. Crystal and lace. Red, of course, as always. Maven loves me in red. He says it makes me look alive, even as life is leached from me with every passing day.
A full court is not required for the daily hearings, and today the throne room is half empty. The dais is still crowded, though. Those chosen to accompany the king, flanking his left and right, take great pride in their position, not to mention the opportunity to be featured in yet another national broadcast. When the cameras roll, I realize that more newbloods must be coming. I sigh, resigning myself to another day of guilt and shame.
My gut twists when the tall doors open. I lower my eyes, not wanting to remember their faces. Most will follow Morritan’s damning example and join Maven’s war in an attempt to understand their abilities.
Next to me, Jon twitches in his usual way. I focus on his fingers, long and thin, drawing lines against his pant leg. Sweeping back and forth, like a person riffling through pages of a book. He probably is, reading the tentative threads of the future as they form and change. I wonder what he sees. Not that I would ever ask. I will never forgive him for his betrayal. At least he doesn’t try to talk to me, not since I passed him in the council chambers.
“Welcome all,” Maven tells the newbloods. His voice is practiced and steady, carrying through the throne room. “Not to worry. You’re safe now. I promise you all, the Scarlet Guard will never threaten you here.”
Too bad.
I keep my head bowed, hiding my face from the cameras. The rush of blood roars in my ears, hammering in time with my heart. I feel nauseous; I feel sick. Run! I scream in my head, even though no newblood could escape the throne room now. I look anywhere but at Maven and the newbloods, anywhere but at the invisible cage drawing in around them. My eyes land on Evangeline, only to find her staring back at me. She isn’t smirking for once. Her face is blank, empty. She has much more practice at this than I do.
My nails are ragged, cuticles picked raw during long nights of worry and longer days of this painless torture. The Skonos healer who makes me look healthy always forgets to check my hands. I hope anyone watching the broadcasts does not.
Next to me, the king keeps at this horrid display. “Well?”
Four newbloods present themselves, each one more nervous than the last. Their abilities are often met with astonished gasps or harried whispers. It feels like a grim mirror to Queenstrial. Instead of performing their abilities for a bridal crown, the newbloods are performing for their lives, to earn what they think is sanctuary at Maven’s side. I try not to watch, but find my eyes straying out of pity and fear.
The first, a heavyset woman with biceps to rival Cal’s, tentatively walks through a wall. Just straight through, as if the gilded wood and ornate molding were air. At Maven’s fascinated encouragement, she then does the same to a Sentinel guard. He flinches, the only indication of humanity behind his black mask, but is otherwise unharmed. I have no idea how her ability works at all, and I think of Julian. He’s with the Scarlet Guard too, and hopefully watching every one of these broadcasts. If the Colonel allows it, that is. He’s not exactly a fan of my Silver friends.
Two old men follow the woman, white-haired veterans with faraway eyes and broad shoulders. Their abilities are familiar to me. The shorter one with missing teeth is like Ketha, one of the newbloods I recruited months ago. Though she could explode an object or person with thought alone, she did not survive our raid on Corros Prison. She hated her ability. It is bloody and violent. Even though the newblood man only destroys a chair, blinking it to splinters, he doesn’t look happy about it either. His friend is soft-spoken, introducing himself as Terrance before telling us he can manipulate sound. Like Farrah. Another recruit of mine. She did not come to Corros. I hope she is still alive.
The last is another woman, probably my mother’s age, her braided black hair streaked with gray. She is graceful in movement, approaching the king with the quiet, elegant strides of a well-trained servant. Like Ada, like Walsh, like me once. Like so many of us were and still are. When she bows, she bows low.
“Your Majesty,” she murmurs, her voice soft and unassuming as a summer breeze. “I am Halley, a servant of House Eagrie.”
Maven gestures for her to rise, donning his false smile. She does as commanded. “You were a servant of House Eagrie,” he says gently. Then he nods over her shoulder, finding the commanding head of Eagrie in the small crowd. “My thanks, Lady Mellina, for bringing her to safety.”
The tall, bird-faced woman is already curtsying, knowing the words before he speaks them. As an eye, she can see the immediate future, and I assume she saw her servant’s ability before her servant even realized what she was.
“Well, Halley?”
Her eyes flick to mine for a single moment. I hope I hold up under her scrutiny. But she isn’t looking for my fear, or what I hide beneath my mask. Her eyes turn faraway, seeing through and seeing nothing at the same time.
“She can control and create electricity, great and small,” Halley says. “You have no name for this ability.”
Then she looks at Jon. The same look slides over her. “He sees fate. As far as its path goes, for as long as a person walks it. You have no name for this ability.”
Maven narrows his eyes, wondering, and I loathe myself for feeling the same way he does.
But she keeps going, staring and speaking as she turns.
“She can control metal materials through the manipulation of magnetic fields. Magnetron.”
“Whisper.”
“Shadow.”
“Magnetron.”
“Magnetron.”
Down she goes through the line of Maven’s advisers, pointing and naming their abilities with little difficulty. Maven leans forward, quizzical, head tipped to one side in animal curiosity. He watches closely, barely blinking. Many think him stupid without his mother, not a military genius like his brother, so what is he good for? They forget that strategy is not only for the battlefield.
“Eye. Eye. Eye.” She gestures to her former masters, naming them as well before dropping her hand to her side. Her fist clenches and unclenches, waiting for the inevitable disbelief.
“So your ability is to sense other abilities?” Maven finally says, one eyebrow raised.
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“An easy thing to play at.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” she admits, even softer now.
It could be done without much difficulty, especially by someone in her position. She serves a High House, present at court more often than not these days. It would be easy for her to memorize what others can do—but even Jon? As far as I know, he is lauded as the first newblood to join Maven, but I don’t think many know his ability. Maven wouldn’t want people to think he relies on someone with red blood to advise his decisions.
“Keep going.” He raises dark eyebrows, goading her on. Perform.
She does as he commands, naming Osanos nymphs, Welle greenwardens, a lone Rhambos strongarm. One after another, but they’re wearing colors, and she is a servant. She’s supposed to know these things. Her ability is a parlor trick at best, a lie and a death sentence at the worst. I know she feels the sword hanging over her head, growing closer with every tick of Maven’s jaw.
At the back, an Iral silk in red and blue gets to his feet, adjusting his coat as he walks. I only notice because his steps are strange, not as fluid as a silk’s should be. Odd.
And Halley notices too. She trembles, only for a second.
It could be her life or his.
“She can change her face,” she whispers, her finger quivering in the air. “You have no name for this ability.”
The usual whispers of court end without an echo, snuffed out like a candle. Silence falls, broken only by the rising beat of my heart. She can change her face.
My body buzzes with adrenaline. Run! I want to yell. Run!
And when the Sentinels take the Iral lord by the arms, marching him forward, I beg to myself, Please be wrong. Please be wrong. Please be wrong.
“I am a son of House Iral,” the man growls, trying to break the grip of the Sentinel soldiers. An Iral would be able to do it, twisting away with a smile. But whoever he or she is does not. My stomach drops to my feet. “You take the word of a lying Red slave above mine?”
Samson reacts before Maven can even ask, quick as a swift. He descends the steps of the dais, his electric-blue eyes crackling with hunger. I guess he hasn’t had many brains to feed on since mine. With a yelp, the Iral son stumbles to his knees, head bowed. Samson slams into his mind.
And then his hair bleeds gray, shortens, recedes to a different head with a different face.
“Nanny,” I hear myself gasp. The old woman dares look up, eyes wide and scared and familiar. I remember recruiting her, bringing her to the Notch, watching her wrangle the newblood kids and tell stories of her own grandchildren. Wrinkled as a walnut, older than any of us, and always up for a mission. I would run to embrace her if that were remotely possible.
Instead, I fall to my knees, my hands latching onto Maven’s wrist. I beg like I have only once before, my lungs full of ash and cold air, my head still spinning from the controlled crash of a jet.
The dress rips along a seam. It is not meant for kneeling. Not like me.
“Please, Maven. Don’t kill her,” I ask him, gulping at air, grasping at whatever I can to save her life. “She can be used; she is valuable. Look what she can do—”
He pushes me away, his palm against my brand. “She is a spy in my court. Aren’t you?”
Still I beg, speaking before Nanny’s smart mouth can get her well and truly killed. And for once, I hope the cameras are still watching.
“She has been betrayed, lied to, misled by the Scarlet Guard. It’s not her fault!”
The king does not condescend to stand, not even for a murder at his feet. Because he’s afraid to leave his Silent Stone, to make a decision beyond its circle of empty comfort and safety. “The rules of war are clear. Spies are to be dealt with swiftly.”
“When you are sick, who do you blame?” I demand. “Your body or the disease?”
He glares down at me and I feel hollow. “You blame the cure that didn’t work.”
“Maven, I am begging you . . .” I don’t remember starting to cry, but of course I am. They are shameful tears, because I weep for myself as well as her. This was the beginning of a rescue. This was for me. Nanny was my chance.
My vision blurs, fogging the edge of my sight. Samson raises a hand, eager to dive into what she knows. I wonder how devastating this will be to the Scarlet Guard—and how stupid they were to do this. What a risk, what a waste.
“Rise. Red as the dawn,” she mutters, spitting.
Then her face changes one last time. To a face we all recognize.
Samson falls back a half step, surprised, while Maven gives a strangled sort of cry.
Elara stares back at us from the floor, a living ghost. Her face is mangled, destroyed by lightning. One eye is gone, the other bloodshot with vile silver. Her mouth curls into an inhuman sneer. It triggers terror in the pit of my stomach, though I know she’s dead. I know I killed her.
It’s a clever ploy, buying her enough time to raise a hand to her lips, to swallow.
I’ve seen suicide pills before. Even though I shut my eyes, I know what happens next.
It’s better than what Samson would have done. And her secrets stay secrets. Forever.
