King's Cage

by Victoria Aveyard

  Evangeline pushes open the door, not waiting for an invitation.

  I don’t move, rooted to the spot by a sudden rush of fear. I draw my legs up under myself. Ready to spring if I need to.

  She looks down her nose at me, her usual superior self in a long, glinting coat and tightly sewn leather leggings. For a moment she stands still, and we trade glances in the silence.

  “Are you so dangerous they can’t even let you open a window?” She sniffs at the air. “It stinks in here.”

  My tightened muscles relax a little. “So you’re bored,” I mutter. “Go rattle someone else’s cage.”

  “Perhaps later. But for now, you’re going to be of use.”

  “I really don’t feel like being your dartboard.”

  She smacks her lips. “Oh, not mine.”

  With one hand, she seizes me under the armpit and hoists me to my feet. As soon as her arm enters the sphere of my Silent Stone, her sleeve falls away, collapsing to the floor in bits of gleaming metal dust. It quickly reattaches and falls again, moving in an even, strange rhythm as she marches me from my room.

  I don’t struggle. There’s no point in it. Eventually she loosens her bruising grip and lets me walk without the pinch of her hand.

  “If you wanted to take the pet for a walk, all you had to do was ask,” I growl at her, massaging my newest bruise. “Don’t you have a new rival to hate? Or is it easier to pick on a prisoner rather than a princess?”

  “Iris is far too calm for my liking,” she shoots back. “You still have some bite, at least.”

  “Good to know I amuse you.” The passage twists in front of us. Left, right, right. The blueprint of Whitefire sharpens in my mind’s eye. We pass the phoenix tapestries in red and black, edges studded with real gemstones. Then a gallery of statues and paintings dedicated to Caesar Calore, the first king of Norta. Beyond it, down a half flight of marble steps, is what I call the Battle Hall. A stretching passage illuminated by skylights, the walls on either side dominated by two monstrous paintings, inspired by the Lakelander War, stretching from floor to ceiling. But she doesn’t lead me past painted scenes of death and glory. We’re not going down to the court levels of the palace. The halls become more ornate, but with fewer public displays of opulence as she leads me to the royal residences. An increasing number of gilded paintings of kings, politicians, and warriors watch me go, most of them with the characteristic Calore black hair.

  “Has King Maven let you keep your rooms, at least? Even though he took your crown?”

  Her lips twist. Into a smirk, not a scowl. “See? You never disappoint. All bite, Mare Barrow.”

  I’ve never been to these doors before. But I can guess where they lead. Too grand to be for anyone but a king. White lacquered wood, silver and gold trim, inlaid with mother of pearl and ruby. Evangeline doesn’t knock this time and throws the doors open, only to find an opulent antechamber lined by six Sentinels. They bristle at our presence, hands straying to weapons, eyes sharp behind their glittering masks.

  She doesn’t balk. “Tell the king Mare Barrow is here to see him.”

  “The king is indisposed,” one answers. His voice trembles with power. A banshee. He could scream us both deaf if given the chance. “Be gone, Lady Samos.”

  Evangeline shows no fear and runs a hand through her long silver braid. “Tell him,” she says again. She doesn’t have to drop her voice or snarl to be threatening. “He’ll want to know.”

  My heart pounds in my chest. What is she doing? Why? The last time she decided to parade me around Whitefire, I ended up at the mercy of Samson Merandus, my mind split open for him to sift through. She has an agenda. She has motives. If only I knew what they were, so I could do the opposite.

  One of the Sentinels breaks before she does. He is a broad man, his muscles evident even beneath the folds of his fiery robes. He inclines his face, the black jewels of his mask catching the light. “A moment, my lady.” I can’t stand Maven’s chambers. Just being here feels like stepping into quicksand. Plunging into the ocean, falling off a cliff. Send us away. Send us away.

  The Sentinel returns quickly. When he waves off his comrades, my stomach drops. “This way, Barrow.” He beckons to me.

  Evangeline gives me the slightest nudge, putting pressure on the base of my spine. Perfectly executed. I lurch forward.

  “Just Barrow,” the Sentinel adds. He eyes the Arvens in succession.

  They stay in place, letting me go. So does Evangeline. Her eyes darken, blacker than ever. I’m seized by the strange urge to grab her and bring her with me. Facing Maven alone, here, is suddenly terrifying.

  The Sentinel, probably a Rhambos strongarm, doesn’t have to touch me to herd me in the proper direction. We cross through a sitting room flooded with sunlight, oddly empty and barely decorated. No house colors, no paintings or sculptures, or even books. Cal’s old room was cluttered, bursting with different types of armor, his precious manuals, even a game board. Pieces of him strewn everywhere. Maven is not his brother. He has no cause to perform, not here, and the room reflects the hollow boy he truly is inside.

  His bed is strangely small. Built for a child, even though the room was clearly arranged to hold something much, much bigger. The walls of his bedroom are white, unadorned. The windows are the only decoration, overlooking a corner of Caesar’s Square, the Capital River, and the bridge I once helped destroy. It spans the water, connecting Whitefire to the eastern half of the city. Greenery bursts to life in every direction, peppered with blossoms.

  Slowly, the Sentinel clears his throat. I glance at him and shiver when I realize he’s going to abandon me too. “That way,” he says, pointing at another set of doors.

  It would be easier if someone dragged me. If the Sentinel put a gun to my head and made me walk through. Blaming my moving feet on another person would hurt less. Instead, it’s only me. Boredom. Morbid curiosity. The constant ache of pain and loneliness. I live in a shrinking world where the only thing I can trust is Maven’s obsession. Like the manacles, it is a shield and a slow, smothering death.

  The doors swing inward, gliding over white marble tile. Steam spirals on the air. Not from the fire king himself, but hot water. It boils lazily around him, milky with soap and scented oils. Unlike his bed, the bath is large, standing on clawed silver feet. He rests an elbow on either side of the flawless porcelain, fingers trailing lazily through the swirling water.

  Maven tracks me as I enter, his eyes electric and lethal. I’ve never seen him so off guard and so angry. A smarter girl would turn and run. Instead, I shut the door behind me.

  There are no seats, so I remain standing. I’m not sure where to look, so I focus on his face. His hair is mussed, soaking wet. Dark curls cling to his skin.

  “I’m busy,” he whispers.

  “You didn’t have to let me in.” I wish I could call back the words as soon as I speak them.

  “Yes I did,” he says, meaning all things. Then he blinks, breaking his stare. He leans back, tipping his head against the porcelain so he can stare up at the ceiling. “What do you need?”

  A way out, forgiveness, a good night’s sleep, my family. The list stretches, endless.

  “Evangeline dragged me here. I don’t want anything from you.”

  He makes a noise low in his throat. Almost a laugh. “Evangeline. My Sentinels are cowards.”

  If Maven were my friend, I would warn him not to underestimate a daughter of House Samos. Instead, I hold my tongue. The steam sticks to my skin, feverish as hot flesh.

  “She brought you here to convince me,” he says.

  “Convince you to do what?”

  “Marry Iris, don’t marry Iris. She certainly didn’t send you in here for a tea party.”

  “No.” Evangeline will keep scheming for a queen’s crown up until the second Maven puts it on another girl’s head. It’s what she was made for. Just like Maven was made for other, more horrible things.

  “She thinks what I feel for you can cloud
my judgment. Foolish.”

  I flinch. The brand on my collarbone sears beneath my shirt.

  “Heard you started smashing things again,” he continues.

  “You have bad taste in china.”

  He grins at the ceiling. A crooked smile. Like his brother’s. For a second, Maven’s face becomes Cal’s, their features shifting. With a jolt, I realize I’ve been here longer than I even knew Cal. I know Maven’s face better than his.

  He shifts, making the water ripple as he dangles an arm out of the bath. I wrench my eyes away, look down at the tile. I have three brothers, and a father who can’t walk. I spent months sharing a glorified hole with a dozen stinking men and boys. I’m not a stranger to the male form. Doesn’t mean I want to see more of Maven than I must. Again I feel myself on the edge of quicksand.

  “The wedding is tomorrow,” he finally says. His voice echoes off the marble.

  “Oh.”

  “You didn’t know?”

  “How could I? I’m not exactly kept informed.”

  Maven shrugs, raising his shoulders. Another shift of the water, showing more of his white skin. “Yes, well, I didn’t really think you were going to start breaking things over me, but . . .” He pauses and looks my way. My body prickles. “It felt good to wonder.”

  If there were no consequences, I would scowl and scream and claw his eyes out. Tell Maven that even though my time with his brother was fleeting, I still remember every heartbeat we shared. The feel of him pressed up against me as we slept, alone together, trading nightmares. His hand at my neck, flesh on flesh, making me look at him as we dropped from the sky. What he smells like. What he tastes like. I love your brother, Maven. You were right. You are only a shadow, and who looks at shadows when they have flame? Who would ever choose a monster over a god? I can’t hurt Maven with lightning, but I can destroy him with words. Poke at his weak spots, open his wounds. Let him bleed and scab over into something worse than he ever was before.

  The words I manage to speak are quite different.

  “Do you like Iris?” I ask instead.

  He scratches a hand along his scalp and huffs, childlike. “As if that has anything to do with it.”

  “Well, she is the first new relationship you’ll have since your mother died. It’ll be interesting to see how that plays without her poison in you.” I drum my fingers at my side. The words sink in slowly, and he barely nods. Agreeing. I feel a surge of pity for him. I fight it tooth and nail. “And you were betrothed two months ago. It seems fast, faster than your engagement to Evangeline at least.”

  “That tends to happen when an entire army hangs in the balance,” he says sharply. “Lakelanders are not known for their patience.”

  I scoff. “And House Samos is so accommodating?”

  A corner of his mouth lifts in ghost of that crooked smile. He fiddles with one of his flamemaker bracelets, slowly spinning the silver circle around a fine-boned wrist. “They have their uses.”

  “I thought Evangeline would have turned you into a pincushion by now.”

  His smile spreads. “If she kills me, she loses whatever chance she thinks she has, however fleeting. Not that her father would ever allow it. House Samos maintains a position of great power, even if she isn’t queen. But what a queen she would have made.”

  “I can only imagine.” The thought shudders through me. Crowns of needles and daggers and razors, her mother in jeweled snakes and her father holding Maven’s puppet strings.

  “I can’t,” he admits. “Not really. Even now, I only ever see her as Cal’s queen.”

  “You didn’t have to choose her after you framed him—”

  “Well, I couldn’t exactly choose the person I wanted, could I?” he snaps. Instead of heat, I feel the air around us turn cold. Enough to make goose bumps prickle across my skin as he glares at me, his eyes a livid, burning blue. The steam on the air clears on the current of cooler air, removing the faint barrier between us.

  Shivering, I force myself to the closest window, putting my back to him. Outside, the magnolia trees shudder on a light breeze, their blossoms white and cream and rosy in the sunshine. Such simple beauty has no place here without the corruption of blood or ambition or betrayal.

  “You threw me into an arena to die,” I tell him slowly. As if either of us could forget. “You keep me chained up in your palace, guarded night and day, You let me waste away, sick—”

  “You think I enjoy seeing you like this?” he murmurs. “You think I want to keep you a prisoner?” Something hitches in his breath. “It’s the only way you’ll stay with me.” Water sloshes over his hands as he draws them back and forth.

  I focus on the sound instead of his voice. Even though I know what he’s doing, even though I can feel his grip on me tightening, I can’t stop it from pulling me under. It would be too easy to let myself drown. Part of me wants to.

  I keep my eyes on the window. For once, I’m glad for the all-too-familiar ache of Silent Stone. It is an undeniable reminder of what he is, and what his love means for me.

  “You tried to murder everyone I care about. You killed children.” A baby, bloodstained, a note in its little fist. I remember it so vividly it could be a nightmare. I don’t try to force the image away. I need to remember it. I need to remember what he is. “Because of you, my brother is dead.”

  I spin to him, barking out a harsh, vengeful laugh. Anger clears my head.

  He sits up sharply, his naked torso almost as white as the bathwater.

  “And you killed my mother. You took my brother. You took my father. The second you fell into the world, the wheels were in motion. My mother looked into your head and saw opportunity. She saw a chance she had been looking for forever. If you hadn’t—if you had never—” He stumbles, the words coming faster than he can stop them. Then he grits his teeth, clamping down on anything more damning. Another breath of silence. “I don’t want to know what would have been.”

  “I know,” I snarl. “I would’ve ended up in a trench, obliterated or torn apart or barely surviving as the walking dead. I know what I would have become, because a million others live it. My father, my brothers, too many people.”

  “Knowing what you know now . . . would you go back? Would you choose that life? Conscription, your muddy town, your family, that river boy?”

  So many are dead because of me, because of what I am. If I were just a Red, just Mare Barrow, they would be alive. Shade would be alive. My thoughts hinge on him. I would trade so many things to have him back. I’d trade myself a thousand times. But then there are the newbloods found and saved. Rebellions aided. A war ended. Silvers tearing at one another. Reds uniting. I had a hand in all of it, however small. Mistakes were made. My mistakes. Too many to count. I am worlds away from perfect, or even good. The true question eats at my brain. What Maven is really asking. Would you give up your ability, would you trade your power, to go back? I don’t need time to figure out an answer.

  “No,” I whisper. I don’t remember moving so close to him, my hand closing on one side of the porcelain bath. “No, I wouldn’t.”

  The confession burns worse than flame, eating at my insides. I hate him for what he makes me feel, what he makes me realize. I wonder if I can move fast enough to incapacitate him. Clench a fist, bust his jaw with the hard manacle. Can skin healers regrow teeth? No real point in trying. I wouldn’t live to find out.

  He stares up at me. “Those who know what it’s like in the dark will do anything to stay in the light.”

  “Don’t act like we’re the same.”

  “The same? No.” He shakes his head. “But perhaps . . . we’re even.”

  “Even?” Again I want to tear him apart. Use my nails, my teeth to rip his throat. The insinuation cuts. Almost as much as the fact that he might be right.

  “I used to ask Jon if he could see futures that no longer exist. He said the paths were always changing. An easy lie. It let him manipulate me in a way even Samson couldn’t. And when he led me to
you, well, I didn’t argue. How was I supposed to know what a poison you would be?”

  “If I’m a poison, then get rid of me. Stop torturing us both!”

  “You know I can’t do that, no matter how much I may want to.” His lashes flicker and his eyes go far away. Somewhere even I can’t reach him. “You’re like Thomas was. You are the only person I care about, the only person who reminds me I am alive. Not empty. And not alone.”

  Alive. Not empty. Not alone.

  Each confession is an arrow, piercing every nerve ending until my body turns to cold fire. I hate that Maven can say such things. I hate that he feels what I feel, fears what I fear. I hate it; I hate it. And if I could change who am, how I think, I would. But I can’t. If Iris’s gods are real, they certainly know I’ve tried.

  “Jon would not tell me about the dead futures—the ones no longer possible. I think about them, though,” he mumbles. “A Silver king, a Red queen. How would things have changed? How many would still be alive?”

  “Not your father. Not Cal. And certainly not me.”

  “I know it’s just a dream, Mare,” he snaps. Like a child corrected in the classroom. “Any window we had, however small, is gone.”

  “Because of you.”

  “Yes.” Softer, an admission of his own. “Yes.”

  Never breaking eye contact, Maven slips the flamemaker bracelet from his wrist. It’s slow, deliberate, methodic. I hear it hit the floor and roll, silver metal ringing against the marble. The other quickly follows. Still watching, he leans back in the bath and tips his head. Exposing his neck. At my side, my hands twitch. It would be so easy. Wrap my brown fingers around his pale neck. Put all my weight into it. Pin him down. Cal is afraid of water. Is Maven? I could drown him. Kill him. Let the bathwater boil us both. He dares me to do it. Part of him might want me to do it. Or it could be one of the thousand traps I’ve fallen for. Another trick of Maven Calore.

  He blinks and exhales, letting go of something deep inside himself. It breaks the spell and the moment shatters.

  “You’ll be one of Iris’s ladies tomorrow. Enjoy yourself.”