Glass Sword

by Victoria Aveyard

  As is tradition, I will also thank a few things that are not people. Well, the first is a collection of people. To the New England Patriots. Last year I thanked you and you won the Super Bowl. Let’s keep that tradition going. Free Brady. To Wikipedia, the National Park Service, Scotland, Target, San Diego Comic-Con, the changing of the seasons, cashmere scarves, my excellent new printer, globes, coffee with too much cream, my Delta points, and brunch. And to my personal inspirations: Tolkien, Rowling, Martin, Spielberg, Lucas, Jackson, Bay. Yes, I said Michael Bay, get out of my face.

  Nearly there. These are repeats, but they’re important, so if you’ve made it this far, you might as well read on. To Morgan. To Suzie. And again to my parents. This starts and ends with you.

  EXCERPT FROM QUEEN SONG

  Turn the page to read excerpts from two novellas

  set in the world of Red Queen . . .

  QUEEN SONG

  Coriane did her best to pick pick pick at her meal.

  She also debated pocketing a few gold-inlaid forks. If only House Merandus did not face them across the table. They were whispers, all of them, mind readers who probably knew Coriane’s intentions as well as she did. Sara told her she should be able to feel it, to notice if one of them poked into her head, and she kept rigid, on edge, trying to be mindful of her own brain. It made her silent and white-faced, staring intensely at her plate of pulled-apart and uneaten food.

  Julian tried to distract, as did Jessamine, though she did so unintentionally. All but falling over herself to compliment Lord and Lady Merandus on everything from their matching outfits (a suit for the lord and gown for the lady, both shimmering like a blue-black sky of stars) to the profits of their ancestral lands (mostly in Haven, including the techie slum of Merry Town, a place Coriane knew was hardly merry). The Merandus brood seemed intent on ignoring House Jacos as best they could, keeping their attentions on themselves and the raised banquet table where the royals ate. Coriane could not help but steal a glance at them as well.

  Tiberias the Fifth, King of Norta, was in the center naturally, sitting tall and lean in his ornate chair. His black dress uniform was slashed with crimson silk and silver braid, all meticulously perfect and in place. He was a beautiful man, more than handsome, with eyes of liquid gold and cheekbones to make poets weep. Even his beard, regally speckled with gray, was neatly razored to an edged perfection. According to Jessamine, his Queenstrial was a bloodbath of warring ladies vying to be his queen. None seemed to mind that the king would never love them. They only wanted to mother his children, keep his confidence, and earn a crown of their own. Queen Anabel, an oblivion of House Lerolan, did just that. She sat on the king’s left, her smile curling, eyes on her only son. Her military uniform was open at the neck, revealing a firestorm of jewels at her throat, red and orange and yellow as the explosive ability she possessed. Her crown was small but difficult to ignore—black gems that winked every time she moved, set into a thick band of rose gold.

  The king’s paramour wore a similar band on his head, though the gemstones were absent from this crown. He didn’t seem to mind, his smile fiercely bright while his fingers intertwined with the king’s. Prince Robert of House Iral. He had not a drop of royal blood, but held the title for decades at the king’s orders. Like the queen, he wore a riot of gems, blue and red in his house colors, made more striking by his black dress uniform, long ebony hair, and flawless bronze skin. His laugh was musical, and it carried over the many voices echoing through the banquet hall. Coriane thought he had a kind look—a strange thing for one so long at court. It comforted her a little, until she noticed his own house seated next to him, all of them sharp and stern, with darting eyes and feral smiles. She tried to remember their names, but knew only one—his sister, Lady Ara, the head of House Iral, seeming it in every inch. As if she sensed her gaze, Ara’s dark eyes flashed to Coriane’s, and she had to look elsewhere.

  To the prince. Tiberias the Sixth one day, but only Tiberias now. A teenager, Julian’s age, with the shadow of his father’s beard splotched unevenly across his jaw. He favored wine, judging by the empty glass hastily being refilled and the silver blush blooming across his cheeks. She remembered him at her uncle’s funeral, a dutiful son standing stoic by a grave. Now he grinned easily, trading jokes with his mother.

  His eyes caught hers for a moment, glancing over Queen Anabel’s shoulder to lock on to the Jacos girl in an old dress. He nodded quickly, acknowledging her stare, before returning to his antics and his wine.

  “I can’t believe she allows it,” said a voice across the table.

  Coriane turned to find Elara Merandus also staring at the royals, her keen and angled eyes narrowed in distaste. Like her parents’, Elara’s outfit sparkled, dark blue silk and studded white gems, though she wore a wrapped blouse with slashed, cape sleeves instead of a gown. Her hair was long, violently straight, falling in an ash curtain of blond over one shoulder, revealing an ear studded with crystal brilliance. The rest of her was just as meticulously perfect. Long dark lashes, skin more pale and flawless than porcelain, with the grace of something polished and pruned into court perfection. Already self-conscious, Coriane tugged at the golden sash around her waist. She wished nothing more than to walk out of the hall and all the way back to the town house.

  “I’m speaking to you, Jacos.”

  “Forgive me if I’m surprised,” Coriane replied, doing her best to keep her voice even. Elara was not known for her kindness, or much else for that matter. Despite being the daughter of a ruling lord, Coriane realized she knew little of the whisper girl. “What are you talking about?”

  Elara rolled bright blue eyes with the grace of a swan. “The queen, of course. I don’t know how she stands to share a table with her husband’s whore, much less his family. It’s an insult, plain as day.”

  Again, Coriane glanced at Prince Robert. His presence seemed to soothe the king, and if the queen truly minded, she didn’t show it. As she watched, all three crowned royals were whispering together in gentle conversation. But the crown prince and his wineglass were gone.

  “I wouldn’t allow it,” Elara continued, pushing her plate away. It was empty, eaten clean. At least she has spine enough to eat her food. “And it would be my house sitting up there, not his. It’s the queen’s right and no one else’s.”

  So she’ll be competing in Queenstrial, then.

  “Of course I will.”

  Fear snapped through Coriane, chilling her. Did she—?

  “Yes.” A wicked smile spread across Elara’s face.

  It burned something in Coriane and she nearly fell back in shock. She felt nothing, not even a brush inside her head, no indication that Elara was listening to her thoughts. “I—” she sputtered. “Excuse me.” Her legs felt foreign as she stood, wobbly from sitting through thirteen courses. But still under her own power, thankfully. Blank blank blank blank, she thought, picturing white walls and white paper and white nothing in her head. Elara only watched, giggling into her hand.

  “Cori—?” she heard Julian say, but he didn’t stop her. Neither did Jessamine, who would not want to cause a scene. And her father didn’t notice at all, more engrossed in something Lord Provos was saying.

  Blank blank blank blank.

  Her footsteps were even, not too fast or too slow. How far away must I be?

  Farther, said Elara’s sneering purr in her head. She nearly tripped over at the sensation. The voice echoed in everything around and in her, windows to bone, from the chandeliers overhead to the blood pounding in her ears. Farther, Jacos.

  EXCERPT FROM STEEL SCARS

  THE FOLLOWING MESSAGE HAS BEEN DECODED

  CONFIDENTIAL, COMMAND CLEARANCE REQUIRED

  Day 61 of Operation LAKER, Stage 3.

  Operative: Colonel REDACTED.

  Designation: RAM.

  Origin: Solmary, LL.

  Destination: COMMAND at REDACTED.

  -Operation LAKER completed ahead of schedule, deemed successful. Canals an
d lock points of LAKES PERIUS, MISKIN, and NERON under control of the Scarlet Guard.

  -Operatives WHIPPER and OPTIC will control LAKER moving forward, maintain close contact, open channels to MOBILE BASE and COMMAND. Stand-and-report protocol, awaiting action orders.

  -Returning to TRIAL with LAMB at present.

  -LAKER overview: Killed in action: D. FERRON, T. MILLS, M. PERCHER (3).

  Wounded: SWIFTY, WISHBONE (2).

  Silver casualty count (3): Greenwarden (1), Strongarm (1), Skin healer? (1).

  Civilian casualty count: Unknown.

  RISE, RED AS THE DAWN.

  “Storms ahead.”

  The Colonel speaks to fill the silence. His one good eye presses to a crack in the compartment wall, fixing on the horizon. The other eye stares, though it can hardly see through a film of scarlet blood. Nothing new. His left eye has been like that for years.

  I follow his gaze, peering through slats in the rattling wood. Dark clouds gather a few miles off, trying to hide behind the forested hills. In the distance, thunder rolls. I pay it no mind. I only hope the storms don’t slow the train down, forcing us to spend one second longer hidden here, beneath the false floor of a cargo car.

  We don’t have time for thunderstorms or pointless conversation. I haven’t slept in two days and I have the face to prove it. I want nothing more than quiet and a few hours of rest before we make it back to the base in Trial. Luckily there’s not much to do here but lie down. I’m too tall to stand in such a space, as is the Colonel. We both have to sprawl, leaning as best we can in the dim partition. It’ll be night soon, with only darkness to keep us company.

  I can’t complain about the mode of transportation. On the trip out to Solmary, we spent half the journey on a barge shipping fruit. It stalled out on Lake Neron, and most of the cargo rotted. Spent the first week of operations washing the stink from my clothes. And I’ll never forget the mess before we started Laker, in Detraon. Three days in a cattle car, only to find the Lakelander capital utterly beyond reach. Too close to the Choke and the warfront to have shoddy defenses, a truth I willingly overlooked. But I wasn’t an officer then, and it wasn’t my decision to try to infiltrate a Silver capital without adequate intelligence or support. That was the Colonel. Back then he was only a captain with the code name Ram and too much to prove, too much to fight for. I only tagged along, barely more than an oathed soldier. I had things to prove too.

  He continues to squint at the landscape. Not to look outside, but to avoid looking at me. Fine. I don’t like looking at him either.

  Bad blood or not, we make a good team. Command knows it, we know it, and that’s why we keep getting sent out together. Detraon was our only misstep in an endless march for the cause. And for them, for the Scarlet Guard, we put aside our differences each and every time.

  “Any idea where we go next?” Like the Colonel, I won’t abide the heavy silence.

  He pulls back from the wall, frowning, still not looking my way. “You know that’s not how it works.”

  I’ve spent two years as an officer, two more as an oathed soldier of the Guard, and a lifetime living in its shadow. Of course I know how it works, I want to spit.

  No one knows more than they must. No one is told anything beyond their operation, their squadron, their immediate superiors. Information is more dangerous than any weapon we possess. We learned that early, after decades of failed uprisings, all laid low by one captured Red in the hands of a Silver whisper. Even the best-trained soldier cannot resist an assault of the mind. They are always unraveled, their secrets always discovered. So my operatives and my soldiers answer to me, their captain. I answer to the Colonel, and he answers to Command, whoever they might be. We know only what we must to move forward. It’s the only reason the Guard has lasted this long, surviving where no other underground organization has before.

  But no system is perfect.

  “Just because you haven’t received new orders doesn’t mean you don’t have an idea as to what they might be,” I say.

  A muscle in his cheek twitches. To pull a frown or a smile, I don’t know. But I doubt it’s the latter. The Colonel doesn’t smile, not truly. Not for many years.

  “I have my suspicions,” he replies after a long moment.

  “And they are . . . ?”

  “My own.”

  I hiss through my teeth. Typical. And probably for the best, if I’m being honest with myself. I’ve had enough close shaves of my own with Silver hunting dogs to know exactly how vital the Guard’s secrecy is. My mind alone contains names, dates, operations, enough information to cripple the last two years of work in the Lakelands.

  “Captain Farley.”

  We don’t use our titles or names in official correspondence. I’m Lamb, according to anything that could be intercepted. Another defense. If any of our messages fall into the wrong hands, if the Silvers crack our cyphers, they’ll have a hard time tracking us down and unraveling our vast, dedicated network.

  “Colonel,” I respond, and he finally looks at me.

  Regret flashes in his one good eye, still a familiar shade of blue. The rest of him has changed over the years. He’s noticeably harder, a wiry mass of old muscle, coiled like a snake beneath threadbare clothes. His blond hair, lighter than mine, has begun to thin. There’s white at the temples. I can’t believe I never noticed it before. He’s getting old. But not slow. Not stupid. The Colonel is just as sharp and dangerous as ever.

  I keep still under his quiet, quick observation. Everything is a test with him. When he opens his mouth, I know I’ve passed.

  “What do you know about Norta?”

  I grin harshly. “So they’ve finally decided to expand out.”

  “I asked you a question, Little Lamb.”

  The nickname is laughable. I’m almost six feet tall.

  “Another monarchy like the Lakelands,” I spit out. “Reds must work or conscript. They center on the coast, their capital is Archeon. At war with the Lakelands for nearly a century. They have an alliance with Piedmont. Their king is Tiberias—Tiberias the—”

  “The Sixth,” he offers. Chiding as a schoolteacher, not that I spent much time in school. His fault. “Of the House Calore.”

  Stupid. They don’t even have brains enough to give their children different names.

  “Burners,” I add. “They lay claim to the so-called Burning Crown. Fitting opposite to the nymph kings of the Lakelands.” A monarchy I know all too well, from a lifetime living beneath their rule. They are as unending and unyielding as the waters of their kingdom.

  “Indeed. Opposite but also horribly alike.”

  “Then they should be just as easy to infiltrate.”

  He raises an eyebrow, gesturing to the cramped space around us. He almost looks amused. “You call this easy?”

  “I haven’t been shot at today, so, yes, I’d say so,” I reply. “Besides, Norta is what, half the size of the Lakelands?”

  “With comparable populations. Dense cities, a more advanced basis of infrastructure—”

  “All the better for us. Crowds are easy to hide in.”

  He grits his teeth, annoyed. “Do you have an answer to everything?”

  “I’m good at what I do.”

  Outside, the thunder rumbles again, closer than before.

  “So we go to Norta next. Do what we’ve done here,” I press on. Already, my body buzzes with anticipation. This is what I’ve been waiting for. The Lakelands are only one spoke of the wheel, one nation in a continent of many. A rebellion contained to its borders would eventually fail, stamped out by the other nations of the continent. But something bigger, a wave across two kingdoms, another foundation to explode beneath the Silvers’ cursed feet—that has a chance. And a chance is all I require to do what I must.

  The illegal gun at my hip has never felt so comforting.

  “You must not forget, Captain.” Now he’s staring. I wish he wouldn’t. He looks so much like her. “Where our skills truly lie. What we
started as, what we came from.”

  Without warning, I slam my heel against the boards below us. He doesn’t flinch. My anger is not a surprise.

  “How could I forget?” I sneer. I resist the urge to tug at the long blond braid over my shoulder. “My mirror reminds me every day.”

  I never win arguments with the Colonel. But this feels like a draw at least.

  He looks away, back to the wall. The last bit of sunlight glints through, illuminating the blood of his wounded eye. It glows red in the dying light.

  His sigh is heavy with memory. “So does mine.”

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  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

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  VICTORIA AVEYARD was born and raised in East Longmeadow, Massachusetts, a small town known only for the worst traffic rotary in the continental United States. She moved to Los Angeles to earn a BFA in screenwriting at the University of Southern California. She currently splits her time between the East and West coasts. As an author and screenwriter, she uses her career as an excuse to read too many books and watch too many movies. You can visit her online at www.victoriaaveyard.com.