“This way,” I tell them, focusing on the task at hand. They fall into line, even Niro, and I’m glad to have Jidansa on my heels. The Sentinel too. I’m the queen of Norta, and he is sworn to protect me as well as Maven.
We round a massive telescope, pointed at the domed roof, made of tubes of brass and glass fixtures. A waste, I think. The stars are well beyond the reach of anyone, even Silvers. They are the realm of gods and gods alone. They are not for us to fathom. To try is to squander time, resources, and energy.
Several chambers lead off the round central room, but we ignore them. Instead I cross the floor, searching the marble beneath my feet for visible cracks. I don’t expect any, and loose the canteen again. With a nod at Laeron, I have him do the same.
Our water spreads around our feet and across the marble, expanding to the thinnest of covers. It prods and puddles over the stone, working into grooves and seams between the slabs.
“Here,” Laeron says, taking a few steps toward the wall. His own water bunches up like a giant droplet. As I approach, squinting, I can see tiny air bubbles trailing up through the water.
There is open space below.
Jidansa makes quick work of the slab, drawing it up and out of place with a wave of her fingers. Beneath, darkness looms, but not blackness. There are lights in the chamber below the observatory, somewhere farther down the passage. Enough to see by, but not to bleed through the tiny seams of the trapdoor slab.
Stairs lead downward, as if beckoning.
Rydal goes first, according to our plan, with Niro behind, one hand on his holstered gun should Rydal meet opposition. Sentinel Haven follows. I notice that his hands seem to darken, pooling with shadow like curling smoke. I keep close on his heels, with Jidansa at my side and Laeron bringing up the rear.
This is the easy part, I tell myself. And I’m right.
The passage curves, tracking below the observatory and beyond its bounds. There are no guards, no cameras. Nothing but the dim lights and the echo of our own feet.
I wonder if this place was made specifically for Prince Bracken’s children. Somehow I doubt it. The stone is old, though the walls are freshly painted the warm color of butter. It has an odd, calming effect I wouldn’t expect for enemy prisoners.
The Montfortans are strange indeed.
About a hundred yards on, the passage widens into some kind of receiving chamber walled by a bank of windows. I balk at them, looking out onto the glimmer of the city. The windows must be thick, because I can’t hear any alarms, though I still see the lights of them flashing up and down Ascendant.
I exchange a confused glance with Jidansa, who looks just as puzzled as I feel. She shrugs and jerks her chin to our right, where the chamber dead-ends at a single door.
It is unremarkable, not even reinforced that I can see.
When I lay my palm against the lock, intending to key it open again, I realize why.
“Silent Stone,” I hiss, drawing back as if burned. Just the distant ache of the ability-smothering weapon makes my skin crawl. “Torturous bastards.”
Jidansa makes a disgusted sound deep in her throat. “Those poor children. It’s been months.”
The others echo her sentiment.
All but one.
“Bad for them, good for us,” Niro says without any kind of sympathy. I round on him, sneering.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I growl.
“Silent Stone will have made them lethargic, sleepy. No one will notice when these two don’t move in the morning,” he says, poking at the covered bulk on Rydal’s back. His fingers tap against human flesh with little regard.
Right as he may be, I still scowl. “Let’s get them out,” I say, snapping my fingers. “Sentinel Haven, your assistance, please. And Niro, be ready to heal them. They’ll need it.”
I know what a prison of Silent Stone does to a person. I saw it firsthand in Barrow. Her sunken cheeks and dull eyes. The way her bones jutted, her cold skin veined with sickness. And she was a stubborn hellion, feeding on fury to keep herself sane, with a cause to hold on to, albeit a foolish, doomed one. Prince Bracken’s children are young, only ten and eight years old. Silvers born, reliant on their ability, with no memory of life without. I don’t want to know what the Silent Stone has done to them, but I have no choice.
I must look into the face of war’s horrors and never blink. My father did not. My mother and sister do not. I have to keep my eyes open if I can ever hope to win.
Win and go home.
Laeron opens this door, using his own canteen to form a watery key. It takes him a bit longer, battling the edges of Silent Stone.
Finally, he swings open the door and steps back, allowing me to enter first. I shudder as I step inside, steeling myself against the unnatural sensation. It’s more uniform than fighting with a Silence. Their abilities pulse with their hearts and concentration. This is constant. Unyielding. I swallow hard against the ugly, unnatural sensation.
In spite of my team at my back, waiting in the blissful safety of the passage, I feel more vulnerable than ever, a newborn baby exposed on a cliff.
The children sleep soundly, each one tucked into a nicely made bed. I glance around, expecting some kind of guard in the shadows. There’s nothing but the dim silhouettes of a well-furnished room and curtained windows. As in the passage, they look out through the pines and down into the city valley. Another torture. To see the world beyond your reach.
“Help me carry them out,” I mutter, eager to be rid of this place.
I reach for the dark-haired child in the bed closest to me, putting a hand to her face. Ready to clamp my fingers over her mouth, should she scream. Bracken’s daughter shifts at my touch but doesn’t wake. In the dim light, her skin is the color of polished jet.
“Wake up, Charlotta,” I murmur. My heartbeat doubles. We need to go.
Sentinel Haven is not so steady with Prince Michael. He slides one arm behind his shoulders and another under his knees before scooping him up. Like his sister, the boy is slow to wake. Groggy, sluggish. The Silent Stone has wreaked its havoc upon them both.
“Who . . . ?” the boy mumbles, his eyes fluttering open and shut.
Beneath me, his sister stirs, roused as I shake her shoulders gently. She blinks up at me, brows knitting in confusion. “Is it time for our walk?” she asks, her voice high and breathy. “We won’t fuss, promise.”
“Yes,” I tell her quickly, seizing the opportunity. “We’re going to go for a walk away from the Stone. But you both have to be very quiet, and do exactly as we say.”
It isn’t a lie, and it energizes both of them as much as possible. Charlotta even wraps her arms around my neck, allowing me to lift her. She’s lighter than I expected, more like a bird than a girl. She smells fresh, clean. I would think the children well treated if not for the Silent Stone.
Michael curls in Sentinel Haven’s arms. “You’re new,” he says up to the Sentinel.
I can’t get out of the room fast enough, and I suck in a healing breath as we step back into the passage. The children both exhale, and Charlotta relaxes in my arms.
“Remember, do as we say,” I mumble, averting my eyes from what Rydal and Niro have prepared.
The boy nods, wordless, but the girl looks up at me with a keen glance I wouldn’t expect from a child. “Are you rescuing us?” she whispers.
I see no reason to lie. The words stick anyway. Because I might fail. I might get them killed. I might die in this attempt. “Yes,” I force out.
“Let me see them.”
Niro wastes no time, flashing a light in both their faces that startles even me. “Quiet,” I murmur when Michael yelps. I glare at Niro over the girl’s head but he ignores me, turning his focus on them. His eyes dart back and forth like some kind of ticking machine as he memorizes their features.
When he turns back to the bundle on the ground, I can’t look away fast enough. Still, I catch the sight of them. The two little Red bodies.
They are still bre
athing. Heavily drugged, already too far gone to wake up without aid. But still breathing.
Niro needs living flesh to do his work.
Sentinel Haven catches my eye, and he turns as I do, putting his back to the skin healer and the Reds. We can’t let the children see what is being done for them. And we don’t want to watch it happen.
Weakness, something whispers in me when I flinch at the sound of a blade singing out of its sheath. Keep your eyes open, Iris Cygnet.
“Such artistry,” I hear Niro tell himself, his voice wolfish and full of glee.
His work is mostly silent.
Mostly.
ELEVEN
Mare
I barely slept, despite my exhaustion. It took us almost until dawn to get back to Ascendant, the healers working on us along the way. When we arrived, we only had a few hours until Davidson’s planned address to his assembled government. I tried to sleep, but by the time the adrenaline from the raider battle wore off, I was racked with nerves for the coming meeting. I spent what was left of the night staring at the edges of my curtains, watching the blue light of predawn grow. Now I can barely sit still as I wait on the lower terrace, fussing with the edges of my dress. It is a harsh gown, a deep, spangled purple belted in gold at my waist, with ballooning sleeves gathered at the wrists. The collar plunges, showing the edge of Maven’s brand, and I’ve braided my hair back away from my face. I proudly display the scars branching down my neck. My idea, not Gisa’s. I want to show the Montfort politicians how much I’ve already sacrificed. And I want to look like as much of the lightning girl as I can, even if that person isn’t real. I can draw strength from her, as I draw strength from Mareena too. They may be false versions of myself, but they are also pieces of someone real, however small.
The sunrise is strange in the mountains. It spreads behind me, sending jagged rays of light up and over the peaks. Slowly but steadily, darkness bleeds from the valley, fleeing with the morning mist along the slopes of the city. Ascendant seems to wake up with the light, and the low hum of activity buzzes up to the palace.
Queen Anabel is not one to be late, especially for something as important as this. She descends from the palace entrance, her grandson and their guards close at hand. Julian hangs back a bit, arms folded into his long, golden robes. He meets my eye and nods in greeting. I return the gesture. I might not agree with his choosing to back his nephew, but I understand the choice. I understand supporting family over everything else.
In her Lerolan colors, red and flaming orange, Anabel seems more like a Sentinel guarding her king than his grandmother. She is just as deadly. She doesn’t wear a gown, but a brocaded coat with a matching tunic and black leggings beneath, their hems set with glinting bronze like pieces of armor. Anabel Lerolan is ready for the kind of battle not fought on the field. Her smile at me, across the terrace, does not meet her eyes.
“Your Majesty,” I say, greeting her with a dip of my head. “Tiberias,” I add, my eyes flicking to him.
He smirks to himself, darkly amused by my refusal to call him anything else. Not his nickname. Not even his title.
“Good morning,” he replies. He looks handsome as ever. Perhaps more so. The raider battle hangs on him, and I can almost smell the ash he spent the night scrubbing away. Maybe don’t think about him bathing, I snap to myself.
The dawn suits the fire prince, in his scarlet cloak and raven silk underclothes. He has his crown on his neat, black hair. Magnetron-made, I bet. Another of Evangeline’s creations. It suits him too. No jewels, no intricacies. Just a simple band of raw iron sculpted like a braid of flame. I trace it with my eyes, focusing on such a small thing that he loves so much.
While there is still a hissing tension between us, I don’t feel the same anger or rage I did yesterday. Our words on the mountain, few as they were, had some calming effect. I wish we had more time to come to some sort of understanding.
But what understanding can there be?
Try as I might, I can’t stamp out the hope still burning in my heart. I still want him to choose me. And I would still forgive him if he admitted his mistake. That hope refuses to die, stupid as it might be.
Farley’s appearance shocks me most of all. Not because her leg is healed, good as new. That I expected. She follows the immaculate Premier Davidson out, and at first I don’t recognize her. Gone is the battered uniform, her dark red coveralls stained by use and worn by battle. This is a dress uniform instead, more akin to something I’ve seen Tiberias or Maven wear. Never Farley.
I blink at her, watching her adjust the sleeves of the snug crimson coat, intimately tailored to her form. Her general’s badges are fastened at the collar, three iron squares set in the fabric. There are others on her breast, medals and honors, both metal and ribbon. I doubt they’re real, but they make her look impressive. Clearly Davidson and Carmadon helped her dress for the meeting, working to legitimize the Scarlet Guard through her. Add to that the scar at the corner of her mouth and the hard steel of her blue eyes, and I wonder how any politicians might deny what she asks for.
“General Farley,” I say, offering her a crooked smirk. “Nice outfit.”
“Careful, Barrow, before I force you into one of these too,” she grumbles, fighting her sleeves again. “I can barely move in this thing.” The jacket runs tight across her shoulders, perfectly fitted. But not enough to allow the kind of movement she’s used to. The kind of movement required in a fight.
I glance at her hips, snug in equally tailored pants tucked into boots. “No gun?”
Farley scowls. “Don’t remind me.”
To the surprise of no one, Evangeline Samos arrives last. She glides through the grand oak doors, her Samos cousins flanking her in matching gray coats and black trim. Evangeline’s gown is blinding white fading to deep, inky black at the sleeves and long train. As she grows closer, I realize that the silk of her dress isn’t dyed, but patterned with chips of resplendent, shimmering metal in a perfect shift from pearly white to gray steel to black iron. She approaches with purpose, letting the gown spread behind her, hissing over the green and white stones.
“If only we could replicate such an entrance in the People’s Gallery,” Davidson mutters to Farley and me. He watches Evangeline approach. She squares her shoulders, letting the ramrod of determination mark her steps.
The premier himself keeps to his plain but splendid persona, clad in a dark green suit with white enamel buttons. His gray hair gleams, slicked back against his head.
“Shall we?” he says, gesturing to the arches leading away from the palace.
In our varying colors and varying degrees of readiness, we follow him down the winding steps into the city.
I wish the walk were longer, but the People’s Gallery, the building where the entire Montfort government gathers for matters such as this, isn’t far. Just a few hundred yards down the slope, set onto more terraces cut below the premier’s palace. Again, there are no walls to defend such an important place. Only white stone archways and sweeping verandas surround the domed building overlooking Ascendant and the valley. The sun continues to rise, gleaming off the green-glass dome hundreds of feet across. The glass is too flawed to be Silver-made, but it is more beautiful for the whorls and curves of imperfection, which catch the light in more interesting ways than flat, meticulous panes of pure glass. Silver-barked aspen trees with golden leaves spring up at even intervals, lining the structure like living columns. Those are the work of Silvers. Greenwardens, no doubt.
Soldiers flank each tree, still in their dark greens. Proud, unyielding. We cross the long, marble walkway to the wide-open doors of the Gallery.
I take a breath, steeling myself. This shouldn’t be difficult. Montfort is not our enemy. And our objective is clear. Acquire an army, as much as we can. Overthrow a mad king and his allies, all of them hell-bent on maintaining their power at the cost of Red and newblood life. Agreeing to help should be easy for the Free Republic of Montfort. Isn’t equality what they stand for
?
Or so I’ve been told.
Gritting my teeth, I reach out and grab Farley’s hand. I squeeze her callused fingers, just for a second. Without hesitation, she squeezes back.
The first hall is columned, hung with green and white silks gathered with silver and red ties. The colors of Montfort and the colors of both kinds of blood. Sunlight beams down from skylights, filling the space with an ethereal glow. Many chambers branch off, visible through arches between the columns or locked behind polished oak doors. And of course there are people in the hall, clustered together, their eyes on all of us as we pass. Men and women, Red and Silver, their skin a vast array of hues ranging from porcelain to midnight. I try to feel armored in my skin, protected from their gaze.
Ahead of me, Tiberias holds his head high, his grandmother on his right arm while Evangeline takes his left. She is careful to keep in step with his long stride. No daughter of House Samos walks behind. Her gown’s train forces Farley and me to keep our distance. Not that I mind.
Julian walks behind us both. I can hear him muttering to himself as he looks back and forth. I’m surprised he doesn’t take notes.
The People’s Gallery is aptly named. As we approach the entrance to the chamber, I hear the low hum of hundreds of voices. It rises quickly until it drowns out everything but the thunder of my own pulse in my ears.
Massive doors of white and green enamel glide open on oiled hinges, as if bowing before the will of Premier Davidson. He enters to the cascading noise of applause. It spreads as we follow into the amphitheater that is the Gallery.
Hundreds crowd the many seats ringing the room, most of them in suits like Davidson’s, in varying shades of green and white. Some are military, clearly marked by dress uniforms and insignia. All rise when we enter, their hands clapping together to celebrate . . . us? Or the premier?
I don’t know.
Some don’t clap, but they still stand. Out of either respect or tradition.
The steps down the bowl of the amphitheater are shallow. I could run them with my eyes closed. Even so, I keep my focus on my feet and the folds of my shimmering dress.
War Storm Page 17
