King's Cage

by Victoria Aveyard

  Even from my seat I can feel Maven tighten. “Ask what you wish.”

  “House Iral? House Laris? House Haven?” Orrec’s eyes sweep down our line, missing nothing. His gaze skirts over me, faltering for half a second. “I see none of them here.”

  “So?”

  “So the reports are true. They have rebelled against their rightful king.”

  “Yes.”

  “In support of an exile.”

  “Yes.”

  “And what of your army of newbloods?”

  “It grows with every passing day,” Maven says. “Another weapon we all must learn to wield.”

  “Like her.” The king of the Lakelands tips his head in my direction. “The lightning girl is a mighty trophy.”

  My fists clench on my knees. Of course, he’s right. I’m little more than a trophy for Maven to drag around, using my face and my forced words to draw more to his side. I don’t flush, though. I’ve had a long time to get used to my shame.

  If Maven looks my way, I don’t know. I won’t look at him.

  “A trophy, yes, and a symbol too,” Maven says. “The Scarlet Guard is flesh and blood, not ghosts. Flesh and blood can be controlled, defeated, and destroyed.”

  The king clucks his tongue, as if in pity. Quickly, he stands, his robes swirling around him like a tossing river. Maven stands too, and meets him in the center of the pavilion. They size each other up, one devouring the other. Neither wants to be the first to break. I feel the very air around me tighten: hot, then cold, then dry, then clammy. The will of two Silver kings rages around us all.

  I don’t know what Orrec sees in Maven, but suddenly he relents and extends one dark hand. Rings of state wink on all his fingers. “Well, they’ll be dealt with soon enough. Your rebel Silvers too. Three houses against the might of two kingdoms is nothing at all.”

  With a dip of his head, Maven returns the gesture. He grips Orrec’s hand in his.

  Dimly, I wonder how the hell Mare Barrow of the Stilts ended up here. A few feet from two kings, watching one more piece of our bloody history lock into place. Julian will lose his mind when I tell him. When. Because I will see him again. See them all again.

  “Now for the terms,” Orrec pushes on. And I realize he has not let go of Maven’s fingers. So do the Sentinels. They take one menacing step forward in tandem, their robes of flame hiding any number of weapons. On the other side of the platform, the Lakelander guards do the same. Each side daring the other to take the step that will end in bloodshed.

  Maven doesn’t try to wrench away, or push closer. He merely stands firm, unmoved, unafraid. “The terms are sound,” he replies, his voice even. I can’t see his face. “The Choke divided evenly, the old borders maintained and opened for travel. You’ll have equal use of the Capital River and the Eris Canal—”

  “While your brother lives, I need guarantees.”

  “My brother is a traitor, an exile. He will be dead soon enough.”

  “That’s my point, boy. As soon as he is gone, as soon as we tear the Scarlet Guard limb from limb—will you return to the old ways? The old enemies? Will you find yourself once again drowning in Red bodies and in need of somewhere to throw them?” Orrec’s face darkens, flushing gray and purple. His cold, detached manner fades into anger. “Population control is one matter, but the war, the endless push and pull, it is little more than madness. I will not spill one more drop of Silver blood because you can’t command your Red rats.”

  Maven leans forward, matching Orrec’s intensity. “Our treaty will be signed here, broadcast across every city, to every man, woman, and child of my kingdom. Everyone will know this war has ended. Everyone in Norta, at least. I know you don’t have the same capabilities in the Lakelands, old man. But I trust you’ll do your best to inform as much of your backwater kingdom as possible.”

  A shudder goes through us all. Fear in the Silvers, but excitement in me. Destroy each other, I whisper in my head. Turn each other inside out. I have no doubt a nymph king would have little issue drowning Maven where he stands.

  Orrec bares his teeth. “You don’t know anything about my country.”

  “I know the Scarlet Guard began in your house, not mine,” Maven spits back. With his free hand he gestures, telling his Sentinels to back down. Foolish, posturing boy. I hope it gets him killed. “Don’t act like you’re doing me a favor. You need this as much as we do.”

  “Then I want your word, Maven Calore.”

  “You have it—”

  “Your word and your hand. The strongest bond you can make.”

  Oh.

  My eyes fly from Maven, locked in a grip with the king of the Lakelands, to Evangeline. She sits still, as if frozen, her gaze on the marble floor and nowhere else. I expect her to stand up and scream, to turn this place into a wreck of shrapnel. But she doesn’t move. Even Ptolemus, her lapdog of a brother, stays firmly in his seat. And their father in his Samos blacks broods as always. No change in him that I can see. No indication that Evangeline is about to lose the position she fought so hard to obtain.

  Across the pavilion, the Lakelander princess seems hewn from stone. She doesn’t even blink. She knew this was coming.

  Once, when Maven’s father told him he was to marry me, he choked in surprise. He put on a good show, blustering and arguing. He pretended not to know what that proposal was about, what it meant. Like me, he has worn a thousand masks and played a million different parts. Today he performs as king, and kings are never surprised, never caught off guard. If he is shocked, he doesn’t show it. I hear nothing but steel in his voice.

  “It would be an honor to call you father,” he says.

  Finally, Orrec lets go of Maven’s hand. “And an honor to call you son.”

  Both could not be more false.

  To my right, someone’s chair scrapes against marble. Followed quickly by two more. In a flurry of metal and black, House Samos hurries from the pavilion. Evangeline leads her brother and father, never looking back, her hands open at her sides. Her shoulders drop and her meticulously straight posture seems lessened somehow.

  She is relieved.

  Maven doesn’t watch her go, wholly focused on the task at hand. The task being the Lakelander princess.

  “My lady,” he says, bowing in her direction.

  She merely inclines her head, never breaking her steely gaze.

  “In the eyes of my noble court, I would ask for your hand in marriage.” I’ve heard these words before. From the same boy. Spoken in front of a crowd, each word sounding like a lock twisting shut. “I pledge myself to you, Iris Cygnet, princess of the Lakelands. Will you accept?”

  Iris is beautiful, more graceful than her father. Not a dancer, though, but a hunter. She stands on long limbs, unfolding herself from her seat in a cascade of soft sapphire velvet and full, feminine curves. I glimpse leather leggings between the slashes of her gown. Well-worn, cracked at the knees. She did not come here unprepared. And like so many here, she doesn’t wear gloves, despite the cold. The hand she extends to Maven is amber-skinned, long-fingered, unadorned. Still, her eyes do not waver, even as a mist forms from the air, swirling around her outstretched hand. It glimmers before my eyes, tiny droplets of moisture condensing to life. They become tiny, crystal beads of water, each one a pinprick of refracting light as they twist and move.

  Her first words are in a language I do not know. Lakelander. It is heartbreakingly beautiful, one word flowing into the next like a spoken song, like water. Then, in accented Nortan—

  “I put my hand in yours, and pledge my life to yours,” she replies, after her own traditions and the customs of her kingdom. “I accept, Your Majesty.”

  He puts his bare hand out to take hers, the bracelet at his wrist sparking as he moves. A current of fire hits the air, snakelike and curling around their joined fingers. It does not burn her, though it certainly passes close enough to try. Iris never flinches. Never blinks.

  And so one war is ended.

  SE
VENTEEN

  Mare

  It takes many days to return to Archeon. Not because of the distance. Not because the king of the Lakelands brought no less than one thousand people with him, courtiers and soldiers and even Red servants. But because the entire kingdom of Norta suddenly has something to celebrate. The end of a war, and an upcoming wedding. Maven’s now-endless convoy snakes down the Iron Road and then the Royal Road at a crawl. Silvers and Reds alike turn out to cheer, begging for a glimpse of their king. Maven always obliges, stopping to meet crowds with Iris at his side. Despite the deeply bred hatred for the Lakelands we are supposed to have, Nortans bow before her. She is a curiosity and a blessing. A bridge. Even King Orrec receives lukewarm welcomes. Polite clapping, respectful bows. An old enemy turned into an ally for the long road ahead.

  That’s what Maven says at every turn. “Norta and the Lakelands stand united now, bound together for the long road ahead. Against all dangers threatening our kingdoms.” He means the Scarlet Guard. He means Corvium. He means Cal, the rebelling houses, anything and everything that might threaten his tenuous grip on power.

  There is no one alive to remember the days before war. My country does not know what peace looks like. No wonder they mistake this for peace. I want to scream at every Red face I pass. I want to carve the words on my body so everyone has to see. Trap. Lie. Conspiracy. Not that my words mean anything anymore. I’ve been someone else’s puppet for too long. My voice is not my own. Only my actions are, and those are severely limited by circumstances. I would despair of myself if I could, but my days of wallowing are long behind me. They have to be. Or else I will simply drown, a hollow doll dragged behind a child, empty in every inch.

  I will escape. I will escape. I will escape. I don’t dare whisper the words aloud. They run through my mind instead, their rhythm in time with my heartbeat.

  No one speaks to me during our journey. Not even Maven. He’s busy feeling out his new betrothed. I get the sense she knows what kind of person he is, and is prepared for him. As with her father, I hope they kill each other.

  The tall spires of Archeon are familiar, but not a comfort. The convoy rolls back into the jaws of a cage I know all too well. Through the city, up the steep roads to the palatial compound of Caesar’s Square and Whitefire. The sun is deceptively bright against a clear blue sky. It’s almost spring. Strange. Part of me thought winter would last forever, mirroring my imprisonment. I don’t know if I can stomach watching the seasons turn from inside my royal cell.

  I will escape. I will escape. I will escape.

  Egg and Trio all but pass me between each other, pulling me down from the transport and marching me up the steps of Whitefire. The air is warm, wet, smelling fresh and clean. A few more minutes in the sunlight and I might start sweating beneath my scarlet-and-silver jacket. But I’m inside the palace again in a few seconds, walking beneath a king’s ransom of chandeliers. They don’t bother me so much, not after my first and only escape attempt. In fact, they almost make me smile.

  “Happy to be home?”

  I’m equally startled by someone speaking to me and by exactly who is speaking to me.

  I resist the deep urge to bow, keeping my spine straight as I stop to face her. The Arvens halt as well, close enough to grab me if they have to. I feel a ripple of their ability draining bits of my energy. Her own guards are just as on edge, their attentions on the hall around us. I suppose they still think of Archeon and Norta as enemy territory.

  “Princess,” I reply. The title tastes sour, but I don’t see much use in directly antagonizing yet another one of Maven’s betrotheds.

  Her traveling outfit is deceptively plain. Just leggings and a dark blue jacket, cinched at the waist to better show her hourglass figure. No jewelry, no crown. Her hair is simple, pulled back into a single black braid. She could pass for a normal Silver. Wealthy, but not royal. Even her face remains neutral. No smile, no sneer. No judgment of the lightning girl in her chains. Compared to the nobles I’ve known, it makes for a jarring contrast and an inconvenient one. I know nothing about her. For all I know, she could be worse than Evangeline. Or even Elara. I have no idea who this young woman is, or what she thinks of me. It makes me uneasy.

  And Iris can tell.

  “No, I would think not,” she pushes on. “Walk with me?”

  She puts out a hand, crooking it in invitation. There is a decent chance my eyes bug out of my head. But I do as she asks. She sets a quick but not impossible pace, forcing both sets of guards to follow us through the entrance hall.

  “Despite the name, Whitefire seems a cold place.” Iris looks up at the ceiling. The chandeliers reflect in her gray eyes, making them starry. “I would not want to be imprisoned here.”

  I scoff deep in my throat. The poor fool is about to be Maven’s queen. I can think of no worse prison than that.

  “Something funny, Mare Barrow?” she purrs.

  “Nothing, Your Highness.”

  Her eyes rove over me. They linger on my wrists, at the long sleeves hiding my manacles. Slowly, she touches one and draws in a breath. Despite the Silent Stone and the instinctive fear it inspires, she doesn’t flinch. “My father keeps pets as well. Perhaps it’s something kings do.”

  Months ago, I would have snapped at her. I’m not a pet. But she isn’t wrong. Instead, I shrug. “I haven’t met enough kings to know.”

  “Three kings for a Red girl born to poor nothings. One must wonder if the gods love or hate you.”

  I don’t know whether to laugh or sneer. “There are no gods.”

  “Not in Norta. Not for you.” Her expression softens. She glances over her shoulder, at the many courtiers and nobles as they mill about. Most don’t bother to hide their ogling. If it annoys her, she doesn’t show it. “I wonder if they can hear me in a godless place like this. There isn’t even a temple. I must ask Maven to build me one.”

  Many strange people have passed through my life. But all of them have pieces I can understand. Emotions I know, dreams, fears. I blink at Princess Iris and realize that the more she speaks, the more confusing she becomes. She seems intelligent, strong, self-assured, but why would a person like that agree to marry such an obvious monster? Certainly she sees him for what he is. And it can’t be blind ambition driving her here. She’s a princess already, daughter of a king. What does she want? Or did she even have a choice? Her talk of gods is even more confusing. We have no such beliefs. How can we?

  “Are you memorizing my face?” she asks quietly as I try to read her. I get the sense she is doing the same, observing me like I’m a complicated piece of art. “Or simply trying to steal a few more moments outside a locked room? If the latter, I do not blame you. If the former, I have a feeling you’ll be seeing a great deal of me, and I of you.”

  From anyone else, it might sound like a threat. But I don’t think Iris cares enough about me for that. At least she doesn’t seem the jealous type. That would require her to have any sort of feeling for Maven, something I sorely doubt.

  “Take me to the throne room.”

  My lips twitch, wanting to smile. Usually the people here make requests that are truly iron commands. Iris is the opposite. Her command sounds like a question. “Fine,” I mutter, letting my feet guide us. The Arvens don’t dare try to pull me away. Iris Cygnet is not Evangeline Samos. Crossing her could be considered an act of war. I can’t help smirking over my shoulder at Trio and Egg. Both glower back. Their irritation makes me grin, even through the itch of my scars.

  “You are an odd sort of prisoner, Miss Barrow. I did not realize that, while Maven paints you as a lady in his broadcasts, he requires you to be one at all times.”

  Lady. The title never truly applied to me, and never will. “I’m just a well-dressed and tightly leashed lapdog.”

  “What a peculiar king to keep you as he does. You’re an enemy of the state, a valuable piece of propaganda, and somehow treated as near royalty. But then boys are so strange with their toys. Especially those accustomed
to losing things. They hold on more tightly than the rest.”

  “And what would you do with me?” I answer back. As queen, Iris could hold my life in her hands. She could end it, or make it even worse. “If you were in his position?”

  Iris dodges the question artfully. “I won’t ever make the mistake of trying to put myself in his head. That is not a place any sane person should be.” Then she laughs to herself. “I assume his mother spent a good amount of time there.”

  For as much as Elara hated me and my existence, I think she would hate Iris more. The young princess is formidable to say the least. “You’re lucky you never had to meet her.”

  “And I thank you for that,” Iris replies. “Though I hope you don’t keep up the tradition of killing queens. Even lapdogs bite.” She blinks at me, gray eyes piercing. “Will you?”

  I’m not stupid enough to respond. No would be a naked lie. Yes could land me yet another royal enemy. She smirks at my silence.

  It’s not a long walk to the grand chamber where Maven holds court. After so many days before the broadcast cameras, forced to stomach newblood after newblood pledging their loyalty to him, I know it intimately. Usually the dais is crowded with seats, but they’ve been removed in our absence, leaving only the gray, forbidding throne. Iris glares at it as we approach.

  “An interesting tactic,” she mutters when we reach it. As with my manacles, she runs a finger down the blocks of Silent Stone. “Necessary too. With so many whispers allowed at court.”

  “Allowed?”

  “They are not welcome in the court of the Lakelands. They cannot pass through the walls of our capital, Detraon, or enter the palace without proper escorts. And no whisper is permitted within twenty feet of the monarch,” Iris explains. “In fact, I know of no noble families who can claim such an ability in my country.”

  “They don’t exist?”

  “Not where I come from. Not anymore.”

  The implication hangs in the air like smoke.

  She pulls away from the throne, tipping her head back and forth. She doesn’t like whatever she sees. Her lips purse into a thin line. “How many times have you felt the touch of a Merandus in your head?”