King's Cage

by Victoria Aveyard

Not even House Merandus escapes his growing paranoia. Only House Samos remains in their entirety, not one of them falling prey to his tempestuous dismissals.

  Those still here are devout in their loyalty. Or at least they make it look like it.

  That’s probably why he summons me more now. Why I see so much of him. I’m the only one with loyalties he can trust. The only one he really knows.

  He reads reports over our breakfast, eyes skimming back and forth with blistering speed. It’s useless to try to see what they are. He’s careful to keep them to his side of the table, turned over when finished, and well out of my reach. Instead of reading the reports, I have to read him. He doesn’t bother to surround himself with Silent Stone, not here in his private dining room. Even the Sentinels wait outside, posted at every door and on the other side of the tall windows. I see them, but they can’t hear us, as is Maven’s design. His uniform jacket is unbuttoned, his hair unkempt, and he doesn’t put on his crown this early in the morning. I think this is his little sanctuary, a place where he can trick himself into feeling safe.

  He almost looks like the boy I imagined. A second prince, content with his place, unburdened by a crown that was never his.

  Over the rim of my water glass, I watch every tick and flash across his face. Narrowed eyes, a tightening jaw. Bad news. The dark circles have returned, and while he eats enough for two people, tearing through the plates in front of us, he seems thinned by the days. I wonder if he has nightmares of the assassination attempt. Nightmares of his mother, dead by my hand. His father, dead by his action. His brother, in exile but a constant threat. Funny, Maven called himself Cal’s shadow, but Cal is the shadow now, haunting every corner of Maven’s fragile kingdom.

  There are reports of the exiled prince everywhere, so prevalent that even I hear about them. They place him in Harbor Bay, Delphie, Rocasta; there’s even shaky intelligence hinting that he escaped across the border into the Lakelands. I honestly don’t know which, if any, of these rumors are true. He could be in Montfort for all I know. Gone to the safety of a faraway land.

  Even though this is Maven’s palace, Maven’s world, I see Cal in it. The immaculate uniforms, drilling soldiers, flaming candles, gilded walls of portraits and house colors. An empty salon reminds me of dance lessons. If I glance at Maven from the corner of my eye, I can pretend. They’re half brothers after all. They share similar features. The dark hair, the elegant lines of a royal face. But Maven is paler, sharper, a skeleton in comparison, body and soul. He is hollowed out.

  “You stare so much I wonder if you can read reflections in my eyes,” Maven suddenly muses aloud. He flips the page in front of him, hiding what it holds, as he looks up.

  His attempt to startle me fails. Instead, I continue spreading an embarrassing amount of butter onto my toast. “If only I could see something in them,” I reply, meaning all things. “You’re an empty boy.”

  He doesn’t flinch. “And you’re useless.”

  I roll my eyes and idly tap my manacles against the breakfast table. Metal and stone rap against wood like knocking on a door. “Our talks are so fun.”

  “If you prefer your room . . . ,” he warns. Another empty threat he makes every day. We both know this is better than the alternative. At least now I can pretend I’m doing something of use, and he can pretend he isn’t entirely alone in this cage he built for himself. For both of us.

  It’s hard to sleep here, even with the manacles, which means I have a lot of time to think.

  And plan.

  Julian’s books are not only a comfort, but a tool. He’s still teaching me, even though we’re who knows how many miles apart. In his well-preserved texts, there are new lessons to be learned and utilized. The first—and most important—is divide and conquer. Maven’s already done it to me. Now I must return the favor.

  “Are you even trying to hunt for Jon?”

  Maven is actually startled at my question, the first mention of the newblood who used the assassination attempt to escape. As far as I know, he hasn’t been captured. Part of me is bitter. Jon escaped where I couldn’t. But at the same time, I’m glad. Jon is a weapon I want far away from Maven Calore.

  After a split-second recovery, Maven returns to eating. He shoves a piece of bacon in his mouth, throwing etiquette to the wind. “You and I both know that’s not a man who is easily found.”

  “But you are looking.”

  “He had knowledge of an attack on his king and did nothing,” Maven states, matter-of-fact. “That’s tantamount to murder itself. For all we know, he conspired with Houses Iral, Haven, and Laris too.”

  “I doubt it. If he’d helped them, they would have succeeded. Pity.”

  He dutifully ignores the jab, continuing to read and eat.

  I tip my head, letting my dark hair spill across one shoulder. The gray ends are spreading, leaching upward despite my healer’s best efforts. Even House Skonos cannot heal what is already dead.

  “Jon saved my life.”

  Blue eyes meet mine, holding firm.

  “Seconds before the attack, he got my attention. He made me turn my head. Or else . . .” I run a finger along my cheekbone. Where the bullet only grazed my cheek, instead of leaving my skull a ruin. The wound healed, but not forgotten. “I must have a part to play in whatever future he sees.”

  Maven focuses on my face. Not my eyes, but the place where a bullet would have obliterated my skull. “For some reason, you’re a difficult person to let die.”

  For him, for the pageantry, I force a small, bitter laugh.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “How many times have you tried to kill me?”

  “Just the once.”

  “And the sounder was what?” My fingers tremble at the memory. The pain of the device is still fresh in my mind. “Just part of a game?”

  Another report flutters in the sunlight, landing facedown. He licks his fingers before raising the next. All business. All for show. “The sounder wasn’t designed to kill you, Mare. Just incapacitate you, if need be.” A strange look crosses his face. Almost smug, but not exactly. “I didn’t even make that thing.”

  “Clearly. You’re not one for ideas. Elara, then?”

  “Actually it was Cal.”

  Oh. Before I can stop myself, I look down, away from him, needing a moment of my own. The sting of betrayal pricks at my insides, if only for a second. It’s no use being angry now.

  “I can’t believe he didn’t tell you.” Maven presses on. “He’s usually very proud of himself. A brilliant thing too. But I don’t care for it. I had the device destroyed.” His eyes are on my face. Hungry for a reaction. I keep my expression from changing, despite the sudden skip in my heartbeat. The sounder is gone. Another small gift, another message from the ghost.

  “It can easily be rebuilt, though, if you decide to stop cooperating. Cal was kind enough to leave the device plans behind when he ran off with your band of Red rats.”

  “Escaped,” I mumble. Move on. Don’t let him throw you off. Feigning disinterest, I push the rest of my food around my plate. I do my best to look hurt, as Maven wants me to be, but not let myself feel it. I have to stick to the plan. Twist the conversation as I want to twist it. “You forced him away. All so you could take his place, and be exactly like him.”

  Like me, Maven forces a laugh to hide how annoyed he is. “You have no idea what he would’ve been like, with the crown on his head.”

  I cross my arms, settling back in my chair. This is playing out exactly as I want it to. “I know he would have married Evangeline Samos, continued fighting a useless war, and kept ignoring a country full of angry, oppressed people. Does that sound at all familiar?”

  He may be a snake in human form, but even Maven doesn’t have a retort for that. He slaps down the report in front of him. Too quickly. It faces up, just for a second, before he turns it over. I glimpse only a few words. Corvium. Casualties. Maven sees me see them, and he hisses out a sigh of annoyance.

 
; “As if that will help you,” he says quietly. “You’re not going anywhere, so why bother?”

  “I suppose that’s true. My life probably won’t last much longer.”

  He tips his head. Concern furrows his brow, as I hope it will. As I need it to. “What makes you say that?”

  I glare up at the ceiling, studying the elaborate molding and the chandelier above us. It flickers with tiny electric bulbs. If only I could feel them.

  “You know Evangeline won’t let me live. Once she’s queen . . . I’m done for.” My voice trembles, and I push all my fear into the words. I hope it works. He has to believe me. “It’s what she’s wanted since the day I fell into her life.”

  He blinks at me. “You don’t think I’ll protect you from her?”

  “I don’t think you can.” My fingers pick at my gown. Not as beautiful as the ones made for court, but just as overwrought. “You and I both know how easy it is for a queen to be killed.”

  The air ripples with heat as he continues to stare, daring me to meet his gaze. My natural instinct is to glare back, but I lean away, refusing to look at him. It will only incense him further. Maven loves an audience. The moment stretches, and I feel bare before him, prey in the path of a predator. That’s all I am here. Caged, restrained, leashed. All I have left is my voice, and the pieces of Maven I hope I know.

  “She won’t touch you.”

  “And what about the Lakelanders?” I snap my head back up. Tears of anger spring to my eyes, born of frustration, not fear. “When they rip apart your already-splintering kingdom? What happens when they win this endless war and burn your world to embers?” I scoff to myself, heaving a shuddering breath. The tears fall freely now. They must. I have to sell this with every inch of myself. “I guess then we’ll end up in the Bowl of Bones together, executed side by side.”

  By the way he pales, the little color he has draining from his face, I know he’s thought the same thing. It plagues him endlessly, a bleeding wound. So I twist the knife.

  “You’re on the edge of civil war. Even I know that. What’s the point in pretending there’s a scenario where I make it out of this alive? Either Evangeline kills me or the war does.”

  “I told you already, I won’t let that happen.”

  The snarl I throw his way doesn’t need to be faked. “In what life can I trust anything out of your mouth ever again?”

  When he stands, the cold fear pooling in my stomach isn’t fake either. As he rounds the table, crossing to me in lean, elegant strides, I lock every muscle, tensing up so I don’t shake. But I quiver anyway. I brace myself for a blow as he takes my face in disturbingly soft hands, both thumbs tight under my jaw, inches away from digging into my jugular.

  His kiss burns worse than his brand.

  The sensation of his lips on mine is the worst kind of violation. But for him, for what I need, I keep my hands fisted in my lap. My nails dig into my flesh instead of his. He needs to believe as his brother believed. He needs to choose me, the way I tried to make Cal choose me before. Still, I can’t find it in me to open my mouth, and my jaw remains locked shut.

  He breaks the kiss first, and I hope he can’t feel my skin crawl beneath his fingers. Instead, his eyes search mine, looking for the lie I keep well hidden.

  “I lost every other person I ever loved.”

  “And whose fault is that?”

  Somehow, he trembles worse than I do. He steps back, letting me go, and his fingers scratch at one another. I’m shocked because I recognize the action. I do it too. When the pain in my head is so horrible I need another kind to draw me away. He stops when he notices me staring, clasping both hands to his sides as tightly as he can.

  “She broke a lot of my habits,” he admits. “Never broke that one. Some things always come back.”

  “She.” Elara. I see her handiwork right in front of me. The boy she shaped into a king through a torture she called love.

  He sits back down, slowly. I keep staring, knowing it unsettles him. I put him off balance, and still I don’t understand exactly why.

  Every other person I ever loved.

  I don’t know why I’m included in that statement. But I know it’s the reason I’m still breathing. Careful, I edge the conversation back to Cal.

  “Your brother is alive.”

  “Unfortunately so.”

  “And you don’t love him?”

  He doesn’t bother to look up, but his eyes waver on the next report, fixed on a single spot. Not because he’s surprised, or even sad. He looks more confused than anything, a little boy trying to solve a puzzle with too many missing pieces. “No,” he says finally, lying.

  “I don’t believe you,” I tell him. I even shake my head.

  Because I remember them as they were. Brothers, friends, raised together against the rest of the world. Even Maven can’t shut himself off from something like that. Even Elara can’t break that kind of bond. No matter how many times Maven tried to kill Cal, he can’t deny what they were once.

  “Believe what you want, Mare,” he replies. As before, he puts on an air of disinterest, violently trying to convince me this means nothing to him. “I know for a fact that I don’t love my brother.”

  “Don’t lie. I have siblings too. It’s a complicated thing, especially between me and my sister. She’s always been more talented, better at everything, kinder, smarter. Everyone prefers her to me.” I mumble my old fears, spinning them into a web for Maven. “Take it from a person who knows. Losing one of them—losing a brother . . .” My breath hitches, and my mind flies. Keep going. Use the pain. “It hurts like nothing else.”

  “Shade. Right?”

  “Keep his name out of your mouth,” I snap, forgetting for a moment what I’m trying to do. The wound is too fresh, too raw. He takes it in stride.

  “My mother said you used to dream about him,” he says. I flinch at the memory, and the thought of her inside my brain. I can still feel her, clawing at the walls of my skull. “But I suppose those weren’t dreams at all. It was really him.”

  “Did she do that with everyone?” I reply. “Was nothing safe from her? Even your dreams?”

  He doesn’t respond. I push harder.

  “Did you ever dream of me?”

  Again I cut him without realizing it. He drops his gaze, looking down to the empty plate in front of him. He raises a hand to grab at his water glass, but thinks better of it. His fingers tremble for a second before he shoves them away, out of sight.

  “I wouldn’t know,” he finally says. “I don’t dream.”

  I scoff. “That’s impossible. Even for a person like you.”

  Something dark, something sad, twitches across his face. His jaw tightens and his throat bobs, trying to swallow words he shouldn’t speak. They burst from him anyway. His hands reappear, tapping weakly on the table.

  “I used to have nightmares. She took that part away when I was a boy. Like Samson said, my mother was a surgeon with minds. She cut out whatever didn’t suit.”

  In recent weeks, a ferocious, fiery anger has replaced the cold hollowness I used to feel. But as Maven speaks, the ice returns. It bleeds through me, a poison, an infection. I don’t want to hear what he has to say. His excuses and explanations are nothing to me. He is a monster still, a monster always. And yet I can’t stop myself from listening. Because I could be a monster too. If given the wrong chance. If someone broke me, like he is broken.

  “My brother. My father. I know I loved them once. I remember it.” His hands clench around a butter knife, and he glares at the dull edge. I wonder if he wants to use it on himself or his dead mother. “But I don’t feel it. That love isn’t there anymore. For any of them. For most things.”

  “Then why keep me here? If you don’t feel anything. Why not just kill me and be done with this?”

  “She has a hard time erasing . . . certain kinds of feeling,” he admits, meeting my eye. “She tried to do it with Father, to make him forget his love for Coriane. It only made th
ings worse. Besides,” he mumbles, “she always said it was better to be heartbroken. The pain makes you stronger. Love makes you weak. And she’s right. I learned that before I even knew you.”

  Another name lingers in the air, unspoken.

  “Thomas.”

  A boy at the war front. Another Red lost to a useless war. My first real friend, Maven told me once. I realize now the spaces between those words. The things unsaid. He loved that boy as he claims to love me.

  “Thomas,” Maven echoes. His grip on the knife tightens. “I felt . . .” Then his brow furrows, deep creases forming between his eyes. He puts his other hand to his temple, massaging an ache I can’t understand. “She wasn’t there. She never met him. She didn’t know. He wasn’t even a soldier. It was an accident.”

  “You said you tried to save him. That your guards stopped you.”

  “An explosion at headquarters. The reports said it was Lakelander infiltration.” Somewhere, a clock ticks as the minutes slide by. His silence stretches as he decides what to say, how far to let the mask slip. But it’s already gone. He’s bare as he can only be with me. “We were alone. I lost control.”

  I see it in my mind’s eye, filling in what he can’t will himself to tell me. An ammunitions depot maybe. Or even a gas line. Both need only flame to kill.

  “I didn’t burn. He did.”

  “Maven—”

  “Even my mother could not cut that memory away. Even she couldn’t make me forget, no matter how I begged her to. I wanted her to take that pain from me, and she tried so many times. Instead, it always got worse.”

  I know how he’s going to answer my question, but I ask all the same.

  “Please let me go?”

  “I won’t.”

  “Then you’re going to let me die too. Like him.”

  The room crackles with heat, sending sweat down my spine. He stands so quickly, he knocks back his chair, letting it crash to the floor. One fist collides with the tabletop before raking sideways, throwing plates, glasses, and reports to the floor. The papers float for a moment, suspended in air before drifting down to the shattered pile of crystal and porcelain.