Before I can possibly begin to list the many, many people I’ve sparred with, fought, and maimed, the answer quite literally flies by. Two air transports buzz us as we begin the climb up the hills, drowning out all conversation for a moment. I press my forehead to the window, feeling the heavy drone in my teeth as well as with my ability. The aircraft aren’t carrying any heavy weaponry that I can sense.
“Scarlet Guard,” I breathe, noting the torn crimson sun stamped on the side of the lead craft. The other might as well be dripping fresh paint. Its tail is marked with a new emblem. Three circles linked together—one red, one silver, one white. For each kind of blood. Woven as equals. “And the Nortan States.”
I know exactly who will be waiting for us at Ridge House, standing in the shell of my old life.
Normally the drive from the airfield to the estate is too long, but today I wish it wouldn’t end. We summit the rolling hills in what feels like a few seconds, with the familiar gates of the old palace looming through the trees. I lower my eyes as we pass through, unable to glance at the imposing façade of glass and steel.
I could shut my eyes if I wanted, and navigate the halls without any difficulty. It would be easy to walk to the throne room without even looking up. A coward would do it.
Instead I barely blink, and let everyone see me as I step down into the wide, leafy courtyard. A stream runs through, winding beneath fluid iron bridges as it tumbles from the spring near the center of Ridge House. The flowers and trees are the same as I remember, unchanged but for the brush of autumn’s fire. I glimpse familiar walls through the plant life, and instinctively remember the rooms looking down on the receiving courtyard. Guest chambers, the servant halls, galleries, guardrooms, a statuary. Nothing looks amiss. War has not reached the Ridge. It seems we have stepped back in time.
But that isn’t true. Before my father died, there were only Silvers flanking the doors. Warriors loyal to House Samos. Now there is only Scarlet Guard. Their crimson and cardinal scarves hang proudly, impossible to ignore. They watch, hard-eyed, as we approach.
The Montfort delegates are first to enter Ridge House, leading us all in their white or forest-green clothing. Their own guards are meant for us as well, and they are attentive as we walk. Some are Reds; some are newbloods; some are Silvers. All are armed in their own way, ready to fight should the need arise. I pity anyone who decides to attack Ptolemus and me here, in a place we know so well. There is no sense in fighting a magnetron in a palace made of steel. Even my Samos cousins would not try. They might be stupid enough to attempt a coup in my name, but they aren’t suicidal.
The air inside Ridge House tastes stale and old, shocking me from my ruminations. While the Ridge itself is intact, I immediately see the decay all around us. Even in a few months’ time so much has changed. Dust coats the usually pristine walls. Most of the rooms branching off the entrance hall are dark. My home, or this part of it, is abandoned.
Elane grips my hand tightly, her touch cool against mine. I’m suddenly aware of the flush crawling beneath my skin, making me sweat. I squeeze back, grateful for her presence.
Cords of wire almost blend into the stonework beneath our feet, winding through the shadows at the base of the wall to my left. It leads to the throne room, already prepared for what we must do and what we must say. The Sunset Stretch was our receiving hall once, before my father decided to call himself a king. It still holds our thrones now, along with a great deal else. I can feel the machinery from here. Cameras, broadcasting equipment, lightning. Aluminum, iron, edged with absences that can only be plastic or glass.
I don’t hesitate, as much as I want to. There are too many eyes, Montfort and Scarlet Guard. Too much risk in appearing weak. And the pressure of an audience has always made me a better performer.
Unlike the rest of the Ridge, my father’s throne room is pristine. The windows have been cleaned, offering a clear view over the valley and the Allegiant River. Everything gleams beneath the too-bright lights the broadcast crew has assembled, now pointed at the raised platform where my family once sat. Whoever cleaned was very thorough, scouring everything from floor to ceiling. I assume it was the Scarlet Guard. Reds have more practice with such things.
The Nortan States didn’t send much of a delegation. I only count two of them. They don’t have uniforms, not like Montfort or the Guard. But it’s easy to tell who represents the new country to the east, still rebuilding itself from the ashes of the old. And these two are even easier to recognize. While the Guard busies themselves arranging cameras and perfecting their lightning, the two Nortans hang back. Not to avoid the work, but to avoid getting in the way.
I don’t blame them. Julian Jacos and Tiberias Calore are useless here, reduced to spectators. They look even more out of place than the armed Reds scuffing up my mother’s floors.
I haven’t seen Cal since his last visit to Montfort. And that was brief, only a few days. Barely enough time to shake hands with the premier and exchange pleasantries at one of Carmadon’s dinners. He’s been busy shoring up alliances and relationships, acting as a go-between for the Silver nobles of his former kingdom and the new government taking shape. Not an easy job, by any means. He’s exhausted—anyone can see that—his burning eyes ringed by dark shadows. Sometimes I wonder if he’d rather be at the head of an army instead of the negotiating table.
He catches my eye and the corner of his mouth twitches, the best smile he can muster.
I do the same, ducking my head.
How far the two of us have come from Queenstrial.
Cal isn’t my future anymore, and for that I am eternally grateful.
It’s the uncle who worries me, making my stomach swoop.
Jacos stands as he always does, looking small at Cal’s shoulder. The singer stares at the floor, unwilling to meet my gaze or my brother’s. I can’t tell if it’s guilt or pity guiding him. After all, he killed our father. Sometimes Jacos is in my nightmares, his teeth fanged, his tongue like a snake. So different from the bookish, unassuming reality.
When we approach, Julian is good enough to excuse himself, head still bowed. Only Wren gives him a smile as we pass, small as it is. One of her cousins is his companion, and even with the Nortan court in ruins, the bonds of the old nobility still hold tight.
Ptolemus reaches Cal first, clasping his hand firmly as he offers the warmest smile he can muster. No mean feat for my brother. Cal responds in kind, lowering his chin.
“Thank you for doing this, Ptolemus,” he says, one abdicated king to another. Cal looks odd in his plain jacket, without a uniform dripping with medals. Especially in comparison to my brother, all dressed up in his colors and armor.
Tolly releases his grip. “And thank you for coming. It wasn’t necessary.”
“Of course it is,” Cal replies, his tone light. “It’s an exclusive club you’re joining. I have to be on hand to welcome you into the Abdicators.”
My lip curls. All the same, I take Cal’s arm, pulling him into a stiff but quick embrace. “Please don’t start calling us that,” I growl.
“I think it has a nice ring to it,” Elane interjects. She tips her head, finding the light. Everyone else looks skeletal or garish beneath the harsh fluorescent of the lighting gear, but of course she doesn’t. “Good to see you, Cal.”
“And you, Elane. All of you,” he adds, his eyes sweeping over me to Wren. They keep moving, searching the room. Hunting for someone else.
But Mare Barrow isn’t here.
“Are you all the States sent to witness?” I ask, and he looks glad for the question. Happy to change the subject, happy for a distraction.
“No, the other representatives are with General Farley,” he replies. “Two Red organizers, the newblood Ada Wallace, and one of the former governor Rhambos’s children.” With a twist of his fingers, he points to the far side of the throne room. I don’t bother to turn. I’ll see them in a moment. And truthfully, I don’t want to look and find Diana Farley staring daggers at Pt
olemus. My stomach twists the way it usually does whenever I’m near the Red general. Stop it, I tell myself. I’m already afraid of the cameras. I don’t have the energy to be afraid of her too.
“Wren said you wouldn’t be speaking . . . ?” I say, my voice trailing off.
“Correct.” Cal crosses his arms over his chest and settles into a stance I know well. He’s battle ready. “We won’t be on the broadcast either. Sends the wrong message.”
His logic isn’t difficult to follow. “Ah. You want the country to see us do this of our own volition. No sword hanging over our heads.” I wince as soon as the words are out of my mouth, and so does Cal. I imagine he’s thinking of the moment a sword cut through his father’s neck. “Sorry, bad turn of phrase.”
He waves me off, though his face pales. “We’re just here for support, mostly,” Cal mutters.
I blink at him, brow furrowed. “For us?” I scoff.
He shakes his head. “For them.” His eyes dart across the throne room, toward the far end, still empty of equipment. A small crowd waits by the windows, packed tightly together like a flock of brightly colored birds. Suddenly I feel like I might vomit, and I search for a familiar silhouette, a panther on her heels. But my mother isn’t with the Silver nobles.
Elane is not so lucky. She draws in a shaking breath when she spots her father.
Jerald Haven speaks quietly with the nobles of the Rift, and a few of old Norta too. None of House Samos that I can see, but I recognize Lord General Laris, an ally of my father’s and the former commander of the Nortan Air Fleet. None of them will look at us. They refuse. They don’t approve of what we’re doing, but they certainly can’t stop us either.
Elane looks away first, her face clear. No blush, no paling cheeks. As far as I know, she hasn’t seen her father in months. They’ve spoken only in a few letters, and those were short, terse, and on Jerald’s end downright insulting. He wanted her to come home, and she always refused. Eventually he stopped asking, and stopped writing.
The sight of him incenses me, knowing how much pain he caused her. As usual, Cal is woefully bad at reading women, and he mistakes my anger. The former king nudges my arm.
“It’s all right. Don’t let them scare you. The same was done to me, when I abdicated,” he says, his voice low and thick. “My grandmother couldn’t speak to me for days.”
I resist the very familiar urge to roll my eyes at Tiberias Calore.
Wren raises an eyebrow. “But she came around?” The hope in her voice is small, and ill advised. I know enough of Anabel Lerolan to understand that.
Cal almost laughs. “Not really, no. She accepts it, though. She doesn’t have a choice. The Burning Crown dies with me, and there will be no other to rebuild the throne I broke.”
Not while you live, I want to say. For such a brilliant military strategist, Cal can be terribly shortsighted. Pretenders will come. They’ll do it here, and they’ll do it in Norta. This won’t be over until long after we are dead.
Someone else might despair of such a notion. But somehow I find comfort in it. I’m choosing to step away because I can. And if someone else comes to claim the crown I throw away, so be it. That isn’t on my shoulders. I’ve done all I can to make sure of that.
“Our people need to see we’re united in this,” Cal murmurs. He still watches the Silvers, eyes alight as if he can burn them away. “That we’re ready to let go of the old world. Together.”
As simple as his platitudes are, I certainly can’t argue with them. Or deny the surge of emotion deep in my chest.
My smile is true and wide. “Yes, we are.”
SIX
Evangeline
I don’t move as my brother gives his speech, which is a little rushed but otherwise perfect, in short, decisive words. He looks straight ahead, unblinking, sitting at a plain desk drawn up before our old steel thrones. I remain at his side, the two of us alone before the broadcast. The rest of the throne room is deathly quiet, watching history unfold before them.
“My name is Ptolemus Escarian Samos, King of the Rift and Lord of House Samos. Son of the late King Volo Samos of the Rift, and Queen Larentia of House Viper. I hereby abdicate the throne of the Kingdom of Rift and renounce any claim I, or my descendants, might have on this country or land. It is my solemn wish that the Kingdom of the Rift be dissolved, as it was created by illegal secession from the former Kingdom of Norta, and be absorbed back into the boundaries of the Nortan States. I hope I live to see this land thrive beneath a free government and an equality of all blood.”
Though he is throwing away his crown, Ptolemus has never looked or sounded more like a king. He stares down the whirring camera for a long moment. Letting the broadcast spread across our country, into video screens in all our cities, so that everyone—Red and Silver and newblood—might know. It won’t stay within the borders of our country for long. The Lakelands will know within minutes, and Piedmont too. The Nortan States are already rumbling with abdication after Cal stepped down. Another broken throne could spark celebrations or riots.
Elane stays as close to me as she can, just out of the camera’s line of sight. I don’t look at her directly, but her red hair, glowing in the morning light, is difficult to mistake at the edge of my vision. Her father and his Silver supporters are more obvious. They position themselves directly in my eye line, clustered behind the camera in the middle of the long throne room. I stare through them, the way my mother taught me.
The Scarlet Guard brass keep to the sidelines, some leaning against the wall. General Farley looks rigid and tense, her eyes on her feet. She either can’t or won’t watch my brother speak, and for that I am grateful. The less attention she gives him, the safer he’ll be.
Ptolemus doesn’t flinch when he bends his head, raising the pen to sign the official declaration of abdication. His signature is sparse and sharp, impossible to miss. He leaves space below his name, enough for me to write my own.
I am queen now, for a few strange, stretching seconds. I feel different, and also the same. In between, hovering at the threshold of two very different doors. In an instant, I see inside both and what they hold for me. What heartaches and triumphs there could be, in the lives of a commoner or a queen. I tremble as I look at Elane, letting myself find refuge in her. The choice is crystal clear.
When Ptolemus stands up from his chair, the Silver supporters’ attention shifts as one, and every eye lands on me. I feel each of them, a needle in my skin. I don’t need to be a whisper to know what they’re begging me to do.
Refuse to kneel.
I find Cal, half obscured by the sunlight pouring in from the windows. He leans up against the glass, arms crossed over his jacket. I feel a pull of kinship to him, a weight we both know and share. Slowly, he dips his chin an inch. As if I need his encouragement.
I sit slowly, gracefully, my face schooled into a cold mask of content. My mercurial cape drapes over one shoulder, pooling at my feet.
“My name is Evangeline Artemia Samos, Queen of the Rift.” In spite of all my courtly training, I can’t keep the tremor from my voice when I say those words. Queen. Without a king, without a father, without a master. Without any rules but the ones I would make for myself.
A fantasy. A lie. There are always rules and always consequences. I want no part of this. No crown is worth the price I would pay. I steady myself with thoughts of Elane, and the flash of red in the corner of my eye.
“Lady of House Samos. Daughter of the late King Volo Samos of the Rift, and Queen Larentia of House Viper. I hereby abdicate the throne of the Kingdom of Rift and renounce any claim I, or my descendants, might have on this country or land.”
In the end, our speeches had to be nearly identical. Very little can be left to chance or interpretation here. Neither of us can allow any room for misunderstanding, willful or otherwise.
“It is my solemn wish that the Kingdom of the Rift be dissolved, as it was created by illegal secession from the former Kingdom of Norta, and absorbe
d back into the boundaries of the Nortan States. I hope I live to see this land thrive beneath a free government and an equality of all blood.”
Slowly, I take up the pen, still warm from my brother’s grip. The page on the desk is crisp, a sheet of white printed with the same words we just spoke. The colors of House Samos, black and silver, are stamped at the bottom. I stare at it, feeling unfinished. Then I look up again, finding the eye of the camera, one of thousands of eyes now watching me.
Something flutters in the window, catching my attention for a split second.
The moth is small, its wings gleaming between green and black like a pool of oil. It shouldn’t be out in daylight. Moths are nocturnal creatures, better accustomed to islands of light amid darkness. They also have remarkable hearing. All this passes through my mind in an instant, and the pieces click together neatly.
My mother is watching.
The wolf is at my throat again, its teeth sharp and digging. It threatens to rip me in two. Only the camera, the audience, the eyes of so many keep me rooted to the spot. The familiar fear and shame claw up my spine, poisoning my insides, but I cannot let them see. I cannot let her stop me now. There is still more to say and more of her dreams for me to ruin.
Under the desk, my hand curls into a fist. For once it isn’t rage driving me, but resolve.
I have only ever thought the words I speak next. Never even whispered them. Let alone spoken them to an audience, of ten or ten thousand. Let alone said them to my mother. That woman is always listening, and perhaps now she will finally hear me.
“Hereafter, I shall be known as Evangeline Samos of Montfort, and I swear my allegiance to the Free Republic, where I can live and love freely. I renounce my citizenship in the Rift, in Norta, and in any country where people are caged for the circumstances of birth.”
The pen scratches across the page, nearly ripping it in two with the force of my flourishing signature. Heat bleeds over my cheeks, but my makeup is thick enough to hide any flush that might betray my thundering heart. A buzzing sound rises around me, drowning out the whir of machines. I keep steady and do as I was told. Hold eye contact. Stare. Wait for the signal. The lens of the camera seems to swallow the world; the edges of my vision go soft.
Broken Throne Page 27
