Glass Sword

by Victoria Aveyard

  Shade shifts, giving me space next to him, and I plop down without much grace. Silence hangs over us like a dark cloud as we pass the canteen back and forth, sharing a very strange family dinner on the floor of a twice-stolen Blackrun.

  “We did the right thing, didn’t we?” I whisper, hoping for some kind of absolution. Though he’s only a year older than me, I’ve always relied on Shade’s advice.

  To my relief, he nods. “It was only a matter of time before they threw me in with you. The Colonel doesn’t know how to handle people like us. We scare him.”

  “He’s not the only one,” I answer glumly, remembering the averted eyes and whispers of everyone I’ve encountered thus far. Even in the Hall of the Sun, where I was surrounded by impossible abilities, I was still different. And in Tuck, I was the lightning girl. Respected, recognized, and feared. “At least the others are normal.”

  “Mom and Dad?”

  I nod, wincing at the mention of them. “Gisa too, and the boys. They’re true Red so he can’t—he won’t do anything to them.” It sounds like a question.

  Shade takes a thoughtful bite of his rations, a flaky, dry bar of compacted oats. It leaves crumbs all over him. “If they’d helped us, it’d be a different story. But they didn’t know anything about our escape, so I wouldn’t worry. Leaving the way we did”—his breath catches, as does mine—“it was better for them. Dad would’ve helped otherwise, Mom too. At least Bree and Tramy are loyal enough to the cause to escape any suspicion. Not to mention, neither of them is bright enough to pull something like this off.” He pauses, thoughtful. “I doubt even the Lakelanders would like throwing an old woman, a cripple, and little Gisa in a cell.”

  “Good,” I reply, relieved ever so slightly. Feeling better, I brush the flakes of his ration bar off his shirt.

  “I don’t like it when you call them normal,” he adds, catching my wrist. His voice is suddenly low. “There’s nothing wrong with us. We’re different, yes, but not wrong. And certainly not better.”

  We are anything but normal, I want to tell him, but Shade’s stern words kill the thought. “You’re right, Shade,” I say with a nod, hoping he won’t see through my feeble lie. “You always are.”

  He laughs and finishes his dinner in a massive bite. “Can I get that in writing?” He chuckles, releasing his grip on me. His smile is so familiar I begin to ache. I feign a smile, for his benefit, but Cal’s heavy steps quickly wipe it away.

  He strides past us, stepping clean over Shade’s extended leg, his eyes fixed on the cockpit. “We should be in range soon,” he says to no one in particular, but it sends us into action.

  Kilorn scrambles away from the cockpit, as if shooed away like a little boy. Cal ignores him completely. His focus is on the airjet, and nothing else. For now, at least, their animosity takes a backseat to the obstacles ahead.

  “I’d buckle in,” Cal adds over his shoulder, catching my eye as he sinks into his own seat. He fastens his safety belts with detached precision, tightening each one with quick, hard tugs. At his side, Farley does the same, silently claiming my chair for the time being. Not that I mind. Watching the jet take off was terrifying—I can only imagine what landing looks like.

  Shade is proud, but not stupid, and lets me help him to his feet. Kilorn takes Shade’s other side, and together we make quick work of getting him standing. Once he’s up, Shade maneuvers himself easily, getting buckled into his seat with a crutch under one arm. I take the seat next to him, with Kilorn on my other side. This time, my friend buckles himself in tightly, and grips his restraints in grim anticipation.

  I focus on my own belts, feeling strangely safe when they tighten against me. You just strapped yourself to a hurtling piece of metal. It’s true, but, at least for the next few minutes, life and death depend solely on the pilot. I’m just along for the ride.

  In the cockpit, Cal busies himself with a dozen switches and levers, preparing the jet for whatever comes next. He squints, averting his eyes from the sunset and its blaze of light. It sets his silhouette on fire, illuminating him with red-and-orange fingers that could be his own flames. I’m reminded of Naercey, the Bowl of Bones, even our Training matches, when Cal ceased to be a prince and became an inferno. Back then I was shocked, surprised every time he revealed his brutal self, but no longer. I can never forget what burns beneath his skin, the rage that fuels him, and how strong they both are.

  Anyone can betray anyone, and Cal is no exception.

  A touch at my ear makes me jump in my seat, jolting against my restraints. I turn to see Kilorn’s hand hanging in midair and his face quirked in an amused smile.

  “You still have them,” he says, gesturing to my head.

  Yes, Kilorn, I still have ears, I want to bite back. But then I realize what he’s talking about. Four stones, pink, red, deep purple, and green—my earrings. The first three are from my brothers, part of a single set split between Gisa and me. They were bittersweet gifts, given when they conscripted into the army and left our family, perhaps for good. The last one is from Kilorn, given on the edge of doom, before the Scarlet Guard attacked Archeon, before the betrayal that still haunts us all. The earrings were with me through everything, from Bree’s conscription to Maven’s treachery, and each stone feels heavy with memory.

  Kilorn’s gaze lingers on the green earring, the one that matches his eyes. The sight of it softens him, wearing down the hard edge he’s gained over the last few months.

  “Of course,” I reply. “These will be with me to my grave.”

  “Let’s keep the grave talk to a minimum, especially at the moment,” Kilorn mutters, eyeing his restraints again.

  From this angle, I get a closer look at his bruised face. One black eye from the Colonel, one purpling cheek from me. “Sorry about that,” I say, apologizing for both my words and the injury.

  “You’ve given me worse.” Kilorn laughs, smiling. He’s not wrong.

  The harsh, grating hiss of radio static shatters the peaceful moment. I turn to see Cal leaning forward, one hand on the steering instrument, the other clutching the radio mouthpiece.

  “Fort Patriot Control, this is BR one eight dash seven two. Origin Delphie, destination Fort Lencasser.”

  His calm, flat tone echoes down the jet. Nothing about his voice sounds amiss or even slightly interesting. Hopefully Fort Patriot agrees. He repeats the call sign twice more, even sounding bored by the time he finishes. But his body is all nerves and he chews his lip worriedly, waiting for a response.

  The seconds seem to stretch into hours as we listen, hearing nothing but the hiss of static on the other end of the radio. Next to me, Kilorn tightens his belts, preparing for the worst. I quietly do the same.

  When the radio crackles, heralding a response, my hands clutch the edge of my seat. I might have faith in Cal’s flying abilities, but that doesn’t mean I want to see them put to the test outrunning an attack squadron.

  “Received, BR one eight dash seven two,” a stern, authoritative voice finally replies. “Next call in will be Cancorda Control. Received?”

  Cal exhales slowly, unable to stop a grin from spreading. “Received, Patriot Control.”

  But before I can relax, the radio continues hissing, making Cal’s jaw clench. His hands stray to the steering instrument, fingers tightening around each prong with steady focus. That action alone is enough to frighten us all, even Farley. In the chair next to him, she watches with wide eyes and parted lips, as if she can taste the words to come. Shade does the same, staring at the radio on the panel, his crutch tucked close.

  “Storms over Lencasser, proceed with caution,” the voice says after a long, heart-pounding moment. It’s bored, dutiful, and completely uninterested in us. “Received?”

  This time, Cal’s head drops, his eyes half-shut in relief. I can barely stop myself from doing the same. “Received,” he repeats into the radio. The hiss of static dies with a satisfying click, signaling the end of the transmission. That’s it. We’re beyond susp
icion.

  No one speaks until Cal does, turning over his shoulder to flash a crooked grin. “No sweat,” he says, before carefully wiping away the thin sheen on his forehead.

  I can’t help but laugh aloud at the sight—a fire prince, sweating. Cal doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, his grin widens before he turns back to the controls. Even Farley allows herself the ghost of a smile and Kilorn shakes his head, disentangling his hand from mine.

  “Well done, Your Highness,” Shade says, and while Kilorn uses the title like a curse, it sounds entirely respectful in my brother’s mouth.

  I suppose that’s why the prince smiles, shaking his head. “My name is Cal, and that’s all.”

  Kilorn scoffs deep in his throat, low enough for only me to hear, and I dig an elbow into his ribs. “Would it kill you to be a little polite?”

  He angles away from me, avoiding yet another bruise. “I’m not willing to risk it,” he whispers back. And then, louder, to Cal, “I take it we don’t call in at Cancorda, Your Highness?”

  This time I bring my heel down on his foot, earning a satisfying yelp.

  Twenty minutes later, the sun has set and we’re beyond Harbor Bay and the slums of New Town, flying lower by the second. Farley can barely stay in her seat, craning her neck to see as much as she can. It’s only trees below us now, thickening into the massive forest that occupies most of Norta. It almost looks like home out there, as if the Stilts wait just over the next hill. But home is to the west, more than a hundred miles away. The rivers here are unfamiliar, the roads strange, and I don’t know any of the villages huddled against the waterways. The newblood Nix Marsten lives in one of them, not knowing what he is or what kind of danger he’s in. If he’s still living.

  I should wonder about a trap but I don’t. I can’t. The only thing pushing me forward is the thought of finding other newbloods. Not just for the cause but for me, to prove I’m not alone in my mutation, with only my brother by my side.

  My trust in Maven was misplaced, but not my trust in Julian Jacos. I know him better than most, and so does Cal. Like me, he knows the list of names is real and if the others disagree, they certainly don’t show it. Because I think they want to believe, too. The list gives them hope of a weapon, an opportunity, a way to fight a war. The list is an anchor for us all, giving each of us something to hold on to.

  When the jet angles toward the forest, I focus on the map in hand to distract myself, but still I feel my stomach drop.

  “I’ll be damned,” Cal mutters, staring out the window at what I assume are the ruins turned runway. He flips another switch and the panels beneath my feet vibrate, coinciding with a distinct whirr that echoes through the body of the airjet. “Brace for landing.”

  “And that means what exactly?” I ask through clenched teeth, turning to see not sky out the window but treetops.

  The entire jet shudders before Cal can respond, smacking against something solid. We bounce in our seats, fingers clenched around our belts, as the momentum of the jet sways us back and forth. Shade’s crutch goes flying, hitting the back of Farley’s chair. She doesn’t seem to notice, her knuckles bone white on the arms of her seat. But her eyes are wide, open, and unblinking.

  “We’re down,” she breathes, almost inaudible over the deafening roar of engines.

  Night falls quietly over the so-called ruin, broken by distant birdsong and the low whine of the airjet. Its engines spin slower and slower, shutting down after our journey north. The shocking blue tinge of electricity beneath each wing fades, until the only light comes from inside the jet and the stars above.

  We wait, silent, in the hope that our landing has gone unnoticed.

  It smells like autumn, the air perfumed by dying leaves and the damp of distant rainstorms. I breathe it deeply at the bottom of the ramp. The silence is punctuated only by Kilorn’s distant snores as he catches a few much-needed moments of sleep. Farley has already disappeared, a gun in hand, to scout out the rest of the hidden runway. She took Shade with her, just in case. For the first time in weeks, months even, I’m not under guard or closely watched. I belong to myself again.

  Of course, that doesn’t last long.

  Cal hastens down the ramp, a rifle over his shoulder, a pistol on his hip, and a pack dangling from his hand. With his black hair and dark jumpsuit, he could be made of shadow, something I’m sure he plans to use to his advantage.

  “And what are you doing?” I ask, deftly catching his arm. He could break my grip in a second, but doesn’t.

  “Don’t worry, I didn’t take much,” he says, gesturing to the pack. “I can steal most of what I need anyway.”

  “You? Steal?” I scoff at the thought of a prince, and a brute of all things, doing anything of the sort. “At best you’ll lose your fingers. At worst, your head.”

  He shrugs, trying not to look concerned. “And that matters to you?”

  “It does,” I tell him quietly. I do my best to keep the pain from my voice. “We need you here, you know that.”

  The corner of his mouth twitches, but not to smile. “And that matters to me?”

  I want to beat some sense into him, but Cal is not Kilorn. He’d take my fist with a smile and keep on walking. The prince must be reasoned with, convinced. Manipulated.

  “You said yourself, every newblood we save is another strike against Maven. That’s still true, isn’t it?”

  He doesn’t agree, but he doesn’t argue either. He’s listening, at least.

  “You know what I can do, what Shade can do. And Nix might be even stronger, better, than both of us. Right?”

  More silence.

  “I know you want him dead.”

  Despite the darkness, a strange light glimmers in Cal’s eyes.

  “I want that too,” I tell him. “I want to feel my hands around his throat. I want to see him bleed for what he’s done, for every person he’s killed.” It feels so good to say it out loud, to admit what scares me most of all, to the only person who understands. I want to hurt him in the worst way. I want to make his bones sing with lightning, until he can’t even scream. I want to destroy the monster that Maven is now.

  But when I think about killing him, part of my mind wanders back to the boy I believed him to be. I keep telling myself he wasn’t real. The Maven I knew and cared for was a fantasy, tailored specifically for me. Elara twisted her son into a person I would love, and she did her job so well. Somehow, the person who never existed haunts me, worse than the rest of my ghosts.

  “He’s beyond our reach,” I say, both for Cal and for my own benefit. “If we go after him now, he’ll bury us both. You know this.”

  Once a general and still a great warrior, Cal understands battle. And despite his rage, despite every fiber of him begging for revenge, he knows this isn’t a battle he can win. Yet.

  “I’m not part of your revolution,” he whispers, his voice almost lost in the night. “I’m not Scarlet Guard. I’m not part of this.”

  I almost expect him to stamp his foot in exasperation.

  “Then what are you, Cal?”

  He opens his mouth, expecting an answer to tumble out. Nothing does.

  I understand his confusion, even if I don’t like it. Cal was raised to be everything I’m fighting against. He doesn’t know how to be anything else, even now, alongside Reds, hunted by his own, betrayed by his blood.

  After a long, terrible moment, he turns around, retreating into the jet. He casts off his pack and his guns and his resolve. I exhale quietly, relieved by his decision. He’ll stay.

  But for how much longer, I don’t know.

  ELEVEN

  According to the map, Coraunt is four miles northeast, sitting at the intersection of Regent’s River and the extensive Port Road. It doesn’t look like more than a trading outpost, and one of the last villages before the Port Road turns inland, weaving around the flooded, impassable marshlands on its journey to the northern border. Of the four great byways of Norta, the Port Road is the most traveled,
connecting Delphie, Archeon, and Harbor Bay. That makes it the most dangerous, even this far north. Any number of Silvers, military or otherwise, could be passing through—and even if they aren’t actively hunting us, there isn’t a Silver in the kingdom who wouldn’t recognize Cal. Most would try to arrest him; some would certainly try to kill him on sight.

  And they could, I tell myself. It should frighten me to know this, but instead I feel invigorated. Maven, Elara, Evangeline and Ptolemus Samos—despite all their power and abilities, all of them are vulnerable. They can be defeated. We only need the proper weapons.

  The thought makes it easy to ignore the pain of the last few days. My shoulder doesn’t ache so badly, and in the quiet of the forest, I realize the ringing in my head has lessened. A few more days and I won’t remember the banshee’s scream at all. Even my knuckles, bruised from striking Kilorn’s cheekbone today, barely hurt anymore.

  Shade jumps among the trees, his form flickering in and out of being like starlight through clouds. He keeps close, never appearing out of eyesight, and is careful to pace his teleporting. Once or twice he whispers, pointing out a twist in the deer trail or a hidden ravine, mostly for Cal’s benefit. While Kilorn, Shade, and I were raised in the woods, he grew up in palaces and military barracks. Neither prepared him for traversing a forest at night, as evidenced by the loud snapping of branches and his occasional stumbling. He’s used to burning a path, forcing his way through obstacles and enemies with strength and strength alone.

  Kilorn’s teeth gleam every time the prince trips, forming a pointed smile.

  “Careful there,” he says, yanking Cal away from a boulder hidden in shadow. Cal easily wrenches out of the fish boy’s grip, but that’s all he does, thankfully. Until we reach the stream.

  Branches arc overhead from the trees on either bank, their leaves brushing against one another across the gap of water. Starlight winks through, illuminating the stream as it winds through the forest to join the Regent. It’s narrow, but there’s no telling how deep it might be. At least the current looks gentle.