King's Cage

by Victoria Aveyard

  “How much of it was her?”

  He doesn’t flinch. He knows me too well to be surprised. A more foolish girl would dare to hope—would believe him a puppet to an evil woman, now abandoned, now adrift. Continuing on a course he has no idea how to change. Luckily, I’m not that stupid.

  “I was slow to walk, you know.” He isn’t looking at me anymore, but at the blue flag above us. Adorned in white pearls and cloudy gems, a rich thing doomed to collect dust in Elara’s memory. “The doctors, even Father, they told Mother I would be fine in my own time. It would happen one day. But ‘one day’ wasn’t fast enough for her. She couldn’t be the queen with the crippled, slow son. Not after Coriane gave the kingdom a prince like Cal, always smiling and talking and laughing and perfect. She had my nurse discarded, blamed her for my shortcomings, and took it upon herself to make me stand. I don’t remember it, but she told me the story so many times. She thought it showed how much she loved me.”

  Dread pools in my stomach, though I don’t understand why. Something warns me to get up, to walk from this room and into the waiting arms of my guards. Another lie, another lie, I tell myself. Artfully woven, as only he can do. Maven cannot look at me. I taste shame on the air.

  His perfect eyes made of ice gloss over, but I’ve long hardened myself to his tears. The first gets stuck in his dark lashes, a wobbling drop of crystal.

  “I was a baby, and she hammered her way into my head. She made my body stand, and walk, and fall. She did it every day, until I cried when she entered a room. Until I learned to do it myself. Out of fear. But that would not do either. A baby crying whenever his mother held him?” He shakes his head. “Eventually she took the fear away too.” His eyes darken. “Like so many other things.

  “You ask how much of it was me,” he whispers. “Some. Enough.”

  But not all.

  I can’t stand this any longer. With unbalanced motions, tipped by the weight of my manacles and the sick clenching of my heart, I clamber from the chair.

  “You can’t still blame this on her, Maven,” I hiss at him, stepping back. “Don’t lie to me and say you’re doing this because of a dead woman.”

  As fast as his tears came, they disappear. Wiped away, as if they never existed. The crack in his mask seals shut. Good. I have no desire to see the boy beneath.

  “I’m not,” he says slowly, sharply. “She is gone now. My choices are my own. Of that I am infinitely sure.”

  The throne. His seat in the council chamber. Plain things compared to the diamondglass artistry or velvet his father used to sit. Hewn of blocked stone, simple, without gems or precious metal. And now I understand why. “Silent Stone. You make all your decisions sitting there.”

  “Wouldn’t you? With House Merandus leering so close?” He leans back, propping his chin on one hand. “I’ve had enough of the whispers they call guidance. Enough to last a lifetime.”

  “Good,” I spit at him. “Now you have no one else to blame for your evil.”

  One side of his mouth lifts in a weak, patronizing smile. “You’d think that.”

  I fight the urge to seize whatever I can and bash his head in with it, erasing his smile from the face of the earth. “If only I could kill you and be done with this.”

  “How you wound me.” He clucks his tongue, amused. “And then what? Run back to your Scarlet Guard? To my brother? Samson saw him many times in your thoughts. Dreams. Memories.”

  “Still fixated on Cal, even now, when you’ve won?” It’s an easy card to play. His grins annoy me, but my smirk vexes him just as much. We know how to needle each other. “Strange, then, that you’re trying so hard to be like him.”

  It’s Maven’s turn to stand, his hands landing hard on the desk as he rises up to meet my eye. A corner of his mouth twitches, pulling his face into a bitter sneer. “I’m doing what my brother never could. Cal follows orders, but he can’t make choices. You know that as well as I do.” His eyes flicker, finding an empty spot on the wall. Looking for Cal’s face. “No matter how wonderful you might think he is, so gallant, brave, and perfect. He would make a worse king than I ever could.”

  I almost agree. I’ve spent too many months watching Cal walk the line between Scarlet Guard and Silver prince, refusing to kill but refusing to stop us, never leaning to one side or the other. Even though he’s seen horror and injustice, he still won’t take a stand. But he is not Maven. He is not one inch the evil that Maven is.

  “I’ve only heard one person describe him as perfect. You,” I tell him calmly. It only maddens him further. “I think you may have a bit of an obsession where Cal is concerned. Are you going to blame that on your mother too?”

  It was meant to be a joke, but to Maven it is anything but. His gaze wavers, only for an instant. A shocking one. In spite of myself, I feel my eyes widen and my heart drop in my chest. He doesn’t know. He truly doesn’t know what parts of his mind are his own and what parts were made by her.

  “Maven,” I can’t help but whisper, terrified by what I may have stumbled upon.

  He draws one hand through dark hair, pulling at the strands until they stand on end. An odd silence stretches, one that exposes us both. I feel as though I have wandered somewhere I should not be, trespassed into a place I really don’t want to go.

  “Leave,” he finally says, the word quivering.

  I don’t move, drinking in what I can. For use later, I tell myself. Not because I’m too numb to walk away. Not because I feel one more incredible surge of pity for the ghost prince.

  “I said leave.”

  I’m used to Cal’s anger heating up a room. Maven’s anger freezes, and a chill runs down my spine.

  “The longer you make them wait, the worse they’ll be.” Evangeline Samos has the best and worst timing.

  She blazes through in her usual storm of metal and mirrors, her long cape trailing. It picks up the red color of the room, glinting crimson and scarlet, flashing with every step. As I watch her, heart hammering in my chest, the cape splits and re-forms before my eyes, each half wrapping around a muscled leg. She smirks, letting me watch, as her court dress becomes an imposing suit of armor. It, too, is lethally beautiful, worthy of any queen.

  As before, I am not her problem, and she turns her attention from me. She doesn’t miss the strange current of tension on the air, or Maven’s harried manner. Her eyes narrow. Like me, she takes in the sight. Like me, she will use this to her advantage.

  “Maven, did you hear me?” She takes a few bold steps, rounding the desk to stand alongside him. Maven angles his body, ghosting swiftly from one of her hands. “The governors are waiting, and my father himself—”

  With a vicious will, Maven grabs a sheet of paper from his desk. Judging by the florid signatures at the bottom, it must be some kind of petition. He glares at Evangeline, holding the paper away from his body as he flicks his wrist, drawing sparks from his bracelet. They light into twin arcs of flame, dancing through the petition like hot knives through butter. It disintegrates into ash, dusting the gleaming floor.

  “Tell your father and his puppets what I think of his proposition.”

  If she’s surprised by his actions, she does not show it. Instead, she sniffs, inspects her nails. I watch her sidelong, well aware that she’ll attack me if I so much as breathe too loudly. I keep quiet and wide-eyed, wishing I’d noticed the petition before. Wishing I knew what it said.

  “Careful, my dear,” Evangeline says, sounding anything but loving. “A king without supporters is no king at all.”

  He turns on her, moving quickly enough to catch her off guard. They’re close to the same height, and they stand almost eye to eye. Fire and iron. I don’t expect her to flinch, not for Maven, the boy, the prince she used to run laps around in our Training lessons. Maven is not Cal. But her eyelids flicker, black lashes against silver-white skin, betraying a sliver of fear she wants to hide.

  “Don’t assume you know what kind of king I am, Evangeline.”

  I hear
his mother in him, and it frightens us both.

  Then he turns his eyes back on me. The confused boy of a moment ago is gone again, replaced by living stone and a frozen glare. The same goes for you, his expression says.

  Even though I want nothing more than to run from the room, I stand rooted. He has taken everything from me, but I won’t give him my fear or my dignity. I won’t run away now. Especially not in front of Evangeline.

  She looks at me again, eyes flitting over every inch of my appearance. Memorizing what I look like. She must see me beneath the healer’s touch, the bruises earned in my escape attempt, the permanent shadows beneath my eyes. When she focuses on my collarbone, it takes me a moment to understand why. Her lips part, just a little, in what can only be surprise.

  Angry, ashamed, I pull the collar of my dress back up over my brand. But I never look away from her as I do. She will not take my pride either.

  “Guards,” Maven finally says, pitching his voice at the door. As the Arvens answer, gloves outstretched to hurry me away, Maven points his chin at Evangeline. “You too.”

  She doesn’t take well to that, of course.

  “I am not some prisoner to be ordered around—”

  I smile as the Arvens pull me away and out the door. It eases shut, but Evangeline’s voice echoes behind us. Good luck, I think. Maven cares even less about you than he does about me.

  My guards set a quick pace, forcing me to keep up. More easily said than done, in the restricting dress, but I manage. The scrap of Gisa’s silk feels soft against my skin, clenched tightly in a fist. I fight the urge to smell the fabric, to chase any remnant of my sister. I steal a glance back, hoping to glimpse exactly who might be waiting for an audience with our wicked king. Instead, I see only Sentinels, black-masked and flame-robed, standing guard at the study door.

  It wrenches open violently, quivering on jumping hinges before slamming closed with a smack. For a girl raised a noble, Evangeline has a difficult time controlling her temper. I wonder if my old etiquette instructor, Lady Blonos, ever tried to teach her otherwise. The image almost makes me laugh, bringing a rare smile to my lips. It stings, but I don’t care.

  “Save your smirks, lightning girl,” Evangeline snarls, doubling her speed.

  Her reaction only goads me on, despite the danger. I laugh outright as I turn back around. Neither of my guards says a word, but they quicken their pace a little. Even they don’t want to test an irritable magnetron itching for a scuffle.

  She catches us anyway, smoothly sidestepping Egg to plant herself in front of me. The guards stop short, holding me with them.

  “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m a bit busy,” I tell her, gesturing to the guards holding both my arms. “There isn’t really room for bickering in my schedule. Go bother someone who can fight back.”

  Her smile flashes, sharp and bright as the scales of her armor. “Don’t sell yourself short. You’ve got plenty of fight left in you.” Then she leans forward, stepping into my space as she did with Maven. An easy way to show she is unafraid. I stand firm, willing myself not to wince, even when she plucks a razored scale from her armor like a petal from a flower.

  “At least I hope so,” she says under her breath.

  With a careful flick of her hand, she cuts the collar of my dress, stripping back a piece of embroidered scarlet. I fight the urge to cover the M brand on my skin, feeling a hot flush of embarrassment creep up my throat.

  Her eyes linger, tracing the rough lines of Maven’s mark. Again she seems surprised.

  “That doesn’t look like an accident.”

  “Any other wonderful observations you’d like to share?” I mutter through gritted teeth.

  Grinning, she replaces the scale on her bodice. “Not with you.” It is a reprieve when she pulls back, putting a few precious inches between us. “Elane?”

  “Yes, Eve,” a voice says. From nowhere.

  I nearly jump out of my skin when Elane Haven materializes behind her, seemingly from thin air. A shadow, able to manipulate light, powerful enough to make herself invisible. I wonder how long she’s been standing with us. Or if she was in the study, either with Evangeline or before she even walked in. She could’ve been watching the entire time. For all I know, Elane could’ve been my ghost since the moment I got here.

  “Has anyone ever tried to put a bell on you?” I snap, if only to hide my own discomfort.

  Elane offers a pretty, tight-lipped smile that does not reach her eyes. “Once or twice.”

  Like Sonya, Elane is familiar to me. We spent many days in Training together, always at odds. She is another of Evangeline’s friends, girls smart enough to ally themselves to a future queen. As a lady of House Haven, her gown and jewelry are deepest black. Not in mourning, but in deference to her house colors. Her hair is as red as I remember, bright copper in contrast to dark, angled eyes and skin that seems blurred, perfected, and flawless. The light around her is carefully manipulated, giving her a heavenly glow.

  “We’re finished here,” Evangeline says, turning her laser focus on Elane. “For now.” She throws back one daggered glance to make her point clear.

  NINE

  Mare

  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.