Stay still. Don’t move. Don’t show any relief, I tell myself, even as my knees threaten to give out.
“To say what, exactly?” I reply, donning a mask of indifference.
He moves gracefully, standing with smooth motions. Though Tiberias is the warrior brother, Maven is not without his own physical skill. “Walk with me, Iris,” he says, smiling sharply.
I have no choice but to obey. However, I ignore his outstretched arm, keeping a safe distance of a few inches between us.
He doesn’t speak, forcing us to walk in silence as we leave my rooms together. I feel dangled on the end of a string, suspended over a pit. My heart hammers in my chest, and I do everything I can to maintain my mask through long minutes of walking. Only when we reach the throne room, empty at this time of day, does he turn to look at me.
I brace myself for the blow, preparing to fight back.
“Tell your mother to prepare her fleet and her armies,” he says, as if remarking on my dress.
Surprise replaces my fear.
He keeps walking, mounting the raised steps to pass behind the throne. I edge around the influence of Silent Stone. Even the brush of it makes me gulp.
“What—now?” I sputter, raising a hand to my throat. My mind races as I study Maven, looking for the lie. It’s barely been a week since Bracken took back Piedmont. Surely the brother’s coalition is still regrouping. “Are we under attack?”
“Not at the moment.” He shrugs, indifferent. And still moving. Still drawing me along after him. “But soon enough.”
I narrow my eyes, feeling unease deep in my gut.
Maven approaches one of the doors behind the throne, heading for what are supposed to be the queen’s public chambers. A library, a study, sitting rooms. I don’t use them, preferring my shrine instead.
He passes through and I have to follow.
“How do you know that?” I ask. Dread pools in my stomach.
He shrugs again. The room is dark, the windows heavily curtained. I can barely make out the stripes of white and navy blue, the colors of the last queen to use this place. These rooms have an air of dust and disuse.
“I know my brother,” Maven says. “What’s more, I know what he needs, and what this country needs from him.”
“And that is?”
He smirks at me, opening another door across the sitting area. His teeth flash in the semidarkness. He does all he can to seem a predator.
Something about the next room makes me pause. Makes me ache, deep in my marrow.
I keep still, seemingly unaffected. But my heart pounds. “Maven?” I murmur.
“Cal has allies, but not enough. Not in Norta.” The young king drums his fingers together, his eyes glazing as he thinks out loud. He remains in the doorway, on the edge. Never stepping through. “He wants to sway more of my subjects to his side, but he isn’t a diplomat. Cal is a warrior, and he’ll fight to win favor among the High Houses. To show how worthy he is of my crown. He has to tip the scales. Make the nobles believe he isn’t a hopeless cause.”
Maven isn’t stupid. Predicting the movements of his opponents is his strong suit, and the only reason he’s been able to survive—and win—for this long.
I never take my eyes off the doorway, straining to see what it holds. The room beyond is pitch-black. “So he’ll attack another city. Maybe even the capital.”
Maven tsks like I’m a stupid child in the classroom. I fight back the urge to stick his head into the nearest fountain.
“My brother and his coalition intend to strike Harbor Bay.”
“How can you be sure?”
The king purses his lips. “It’s his best option. The fort, the ships in port—not to mention its sentimental value,” he adds, spitting out the words with revulsion. “His mother loved that city.” His fingers play with the latch on the open door. It’s a strong-looking lock. More complicated than it should be.
I swallow hard. If Maven thinks Cal will go for Harbor Bay, I believe him. And I don’t want my mother, or our armies, anywhere near the conflict. Excuses spring up in my head, ready to wield.
“Our fleet is still in the Lakes,” I offer, sounding apologetic. “It will take time.”
Maven doesn’t seem surprised, or even concerned, by my words. He passes closer to me, his hands inches from mine. I can feel the sickly heat of his skin. “I expected as much,” he says. “So I’ll give your royal mother some incentive.”
My stomach twists. “Oh?”
His smile flashes. I hate it.
“Have you ever been to Harbor Bay, Iris?”
“No, Maven.” If I were a lesser person, untrained, my voice would tremble. Not with the fear he wants from me. But with rage. It ripples through me, furious as a storm.
Maven doesn’t seem to notice. Or care. “I certainly hope you enjoy the visit,” he says, still grinning.
“So I’m bait,” I hiss.
“I would never call you bait. But incentive.” He heaves a sigh. “Yes, I believe I did call you that.”
“How dare you—”
He speaks over me, his voice louder than before. “With you in the city, ready to lead the defense, I’m certain your mother will do all she can to uphold her end of our alliance. Don’t you agree?” He doesn’t wait for me to answer, and his voice turns ragged. A fist clenches at his side. “I need the armies I was promised. I need reinforcements. I need nymphs in the harbor to drown that city and everyone in it.”
Hastily, I nod. If only for the sake of placating him. “I’ll tell her. But I can’t guarantee—”
Maven closes the distance between us and I tense. His fist closes over my wrist, grip tight, as he pulls me forward. I bite back the instinct to fight. It will only end in pain. “Just as I cannot guarantee your safety there,” he says, stopping just short of the dark doorway. His lips twitch, amused. “Or even here.”
At some hidden signal, the doorway behind us crowds with a troop of Sentinels. They are all broad, masked and robed, glittering in their black jewels and flaming silks. My guards—and my jailers.
I realize what this is. What the next room, the black place where Maven stands so easily, is supposed to be.
His throne isn’t the only thing here made of Silent Stone.
The threat gleams, the edge of a razor pressed against my neck. His grip tightens, fingers cold on my skin. There will be no running from Maven’s commands.
“And what about you, my brave and just king?” I snarl, still staring into the black room. I can just feel it, the numbing edge of Stone.
He doesn’t rise to the insult. He’s too smart for that.
“Don your armor, Iris. Wait for the storm. And hope your mother moves as quickly as my brother can.”
EIGHTEEN
Mare
There are no stars this close to New Town. The sky around the slum is permanently choked with a haze of pollution. It smells foul and poisonous, even on the outskirts, where the noxious fog is thinnest. I draw up the kerchief around my neck, breathing through the fabric instead.
The other soldiers around me do the same, pulling faces at the toxic air. But not Cameron. She’s used to it.
Relief washes over me every time I look at Cameron, her lean, dark form moving nimbly through the pitch-black forest. She’s so tall, easy to pick out among the dozens moving with us. Kilorn keeps close to her side, his silhouette familiar. As I watch the pair of them, my relief quickly melts to shame.
Cameron escaped the Piedmont base, fleeing into the swamps with her brother and a few dozen more survivors. Many died where she did not. Red soldiers of the Dagger Legion, children we swore to keep safe. Newbloods of Montfort. Newbloods of the Notch. Silvers. Reds. So many dead it makes my head spin.
And I’m sending her right back into danger.
“Thanks for doing this, Cam,” I murmur, my voice almost inaudible. As if a simple thank-you means anything.
With a grin, she glances over her shoulder at me. Her teeth gleam in the weak light of
our lanterns. In spite of the dire circumstances, I’ve never seen her smile like she does tonight.
“As if you could get this done without me,” she whispers back, almost teasing. “But don’t thank me, Barrow. I’ve been dreaming about a day like this since I was a little girl. New Town is not going to know what bleeding hit it.”
“No, it will not,” I mutter to myself, thinking of the morning ahead of us.
Fear and nerves carve me up, as they did on the flight from the Rift. We’re about to storm the tech slum she was born in, a place hemmed in by walls and guards and decades of oppression.
And we’re not the only assault on the move. Miles to the east, the rest of our coalition is heading toward Harbor Bay
The Rift soldiers will attack from the sea, with the Laris fleet ready on the wing. Tiberias and Farley are in the tunnels by now, ready to lead the main bulk of the army up into the city. I try to picture the three-pronged assault in my mind. It’s nothing like any battle I’ve survived before. Neither is this, separated from the fire prince, from Farley. From so many dear to me. At least I have faithful Kilorn still resolute at my side. There is some symmetry here, I guess. We return to who we were before. Creeping in alleys, clad in dirty clothes. Our faces obscured and unfamiliar. Shadows. Rats.
Rats with sharper teeth and longer claws.
“These trees are rotting,” Cameron says aloud, drawing a hand down the black bark of a barrier tree. One of thousands in this cursed forest. Created by greenwardens, the trees were meant to trap and filter out pollution from the slum. They ring all the tech towns, marching up to their walls. “Whoever grew these doesn’t care to maintain them. Whatever they’re supposed to do, they aren’t really doing it anymore.
“They think they’re just poisoning us,” she continues, her voice seething. “They’re poisoning themselves too.”
We move under the cover of Haven shadows and the muffling ability of Farrah, one of my old newblood recruits from the Notch. Instead of disguising our fifty troops individually, they mask us as a group, throwing their abilities over us like a blanket. We’re invisible and inaudible to anyone outside their circle of influence, able to pass in plain sight. We can see and hear one another, but no one a few yards away can see or hear us.
Premier Davidson steps softly behind me, flanked by his own guards. The vast majority of the Montfort army will assault Harbor Bay, but a few key newbloods are here with him. They don’t have their usual uniforms. Even Ella, Tyton, and Rafe have their hair covered, wrapped in scarves or a hat. They all blend in with the rest of us, dressed in discards—rags, hastily patched jackets and threadbare pants. All tech-issue clothing, courtesy of the Whistles network smugglers in Harbor Bay. I wonder if a thief passed them on. A girl with no other choice than to steal. No other way to survive.
The air thickens as we approach, and more than a few of us cough, gagging on the taste of smoke and fumes. The sickly sweet scent of gasoline settles over us, as if the dirt beneath our feet is saturated with it. Overhead, the greasy red leaves of the barrier trees tremble in a slight wind. Even in darkness, they look like blood.
“Mare.” Kilorn nudges my arm. “Wall’s coming up,” he says in warning.
I can only nod in thanks, squinting through the trees. Indeed the squat, thick walls of New Town loom ahead. Not as impressive as the diamondglass of a royal palace, or as intimidating as the high stone walls of a Silver city. But still an obstacle to overcome.
Leadership suits Cameron, though she’ll never admit it. She squares her shoulders as we approach, drawing herself up to her towering height. I wonder if she’s even turned sixteen yet. No teenager should be as calm, collected, and fearless as she is.
“Watch your feet,” she hisses over my head, letting the message pass through our ranks. With a click she switches on her dim, red flashlight. The rest of us follow suit, except for the Haven shadows. They only deepen their focus, masking the hellish glow. “The tunnels come up behind the tree line. Drag your toes. Look for thick undergrowth.”
We do as she says, though Kilorn covers far more ground than I do. He kicks his long legs through the dead and rotting leaves, feeling for the telltale hardness of a trapdoor. “Don’t suppose you remember exactly where it is, do you?” he grumbles at Cameron.
She looks up from a crouch on the ground, her hands in the leaves. “I’ve never been in the tunnels before,” she huffs. “Not old enough to make the smuggle runs. Besides, that’s not my family’s way,” she adds, her eyes narrowing. “Keep your bleeding head down, that’s what we held to. And see where it got us?”
“Digging through the dirt for a hole,” Kilorn answers. I hear the smirk in his voice.
“Leading an army,” I offer instead. “That’s where you got yourself, Cameron.”
Her expression changes, tightening. But her lips pull into something close to a smile. A sad one. I understand it. She said before, in Corvium, that she was done with the killing. Done with the lethal burden of her ability to silence and suffocate. Her goal now is to protect. Defend. Though she has more cause than most to feel rage, to seek vengeance, she has the infinite strength to turn away.
I don’t.
The tunnels glow with our red light, bathing us all in crimson. Even the Silvers sworn to Cal or the Rift. The Haven shadows, the Iral silks. A dozen of them, scattered into our number. All of them, for a moment, red as the dawn.
I keep an eye on them as we walk, passing beneath the walls of New Town. They have orders from their lords and kings. I don’t trust them, not by a long shot, but I trust their allegiances. Silvers are loyal to blood. They do as blood commands.
And we are not helpless either.
Ella and Rafe bring up the rear of our number. Both seem energized by our mission, itching for another fight after our defeat in Piedmont. Tyton walks closer to the middle of our party, letting me take the lead, so that the electricons are evenly dispersed. His eyes seem to glow in the low light.
Cameron taps her hand at her hip. Counting steps. Her keen eyes watch the walls with blistering focus. She slides a finger over the place where the packed dirt fades to concrete. It shifts something in her, shadowing her features.
“I know what it feels like,” I whisper to her. “To come back as something else.”
Her eyes snap to mine, one brow raised. “What are you talking about?”
“I only went home once after I found out what I was,” I explain. It was only a few hours. But more than enough time to change my life again. Remembering that visit to my old village is difficult, if not painful. Shade wasn’t dead yet, but I thought he was. And I joined the Scarlet Guard to avenge him. All while Tiberias waited outside, leaning against his rebuilt cycle. Still a prince. Always a prince. I try to shake off the memory like a bad dream. “It won’t be easy, to look at familiar things and see something you don’t recognize.”
Cameron only tightens her jaw. “This isn’t my home, Barrow. No prison is ever a home,” she murmurs. “And that’s all these slums are.”
“So why not leave?” I want to smack Kilorn for his lack of grace, as well as for the rudeness of the question. He catches my glare and sputters. “I mean, you have these tunnels . . .”
I’m surprised by her answering grin. “You wouldn’t understand, Kilorn,” she says, shaking her head with a roll of her eyes. “You think you grew up hard, but this is harder. You thought you were tethered to that river village, trapped by what? A little money? A job? Some guards looking at you sideways?” He flushes deeper as she rattles off each word in time. “Well, we had this.”
Her hand strays to her collar, pulling it aside to show her tattooed neck in full. Her occupation, her place, her prison stamped in permanent ink. NT-ARSM-188907.
“Every one of us is a number up there,” Cameron continues, jabbing a finger at the ceiling. “You disappear, the next number in line disappears too. And not well. Whole families have to run. And where do they go? Where can they go?”
Her voice trail
s off, the echo dying in the red shadows.
“I hope that’s in the past now,” she mumbles, if only to herself.
“I promise it is,” Davidson replies from a polite distance. His angled eyes crinkle when he tries to offer a bitter smile. If nothing else, the premier is a firm reminder of what can be. How high someone like us can climb.
Cameron and I exchange glances. We want to believe him.
We have to believe him.
I tie my kerchief tighter into place, blinking harsh tears out of my eyes. The air itself seems to burn, and my skin smarts. It’s both dry and damp at the same time, unnatural and just plain wrong.
It isn’t dawn yet, but the smoky sky is lighter than it was before as the sun begins its approach from the east. A high-pitched, electric whistle blows at the end of the alley, then echoes out over the slum, from one factory to another, signaling the massive migration that is the shift change.
“The dawn walk,” Cameron mutters.
The sight makes my breath catch. Hundreds of Red workers flood the streets of New Town. Men and women and children, dark-skinned and pale-faced, old and young, all trudging together through the poisoned air. Like some grim parade. Most look at their feet, exhausted by their work, broken by this place.
It feeds the rage always burning in my heart.
Cameron slips into their midst, with Kilorn and me on her heels. Behind us, the rest of our band melts into the countless dirty faces, blending in with ease. I look back, finding Davidson, who follows at a safe distance. In the growing light, his face tightens, betraying the slight lines of age and care worn into his skin. He fists one hand into his jacket, close to his heart, and gives me a curt nod.
Our steady parade of workers empties onto another street, wider than the rest, lined with stoic block apartments organized like regimented soldiers. Another factory shift hurries toward us from the opposite direction, intent on taking our place.
Gently, Cameron nudges me to the side, moving me in line with the rest of the Red tech workers. They step quickly, in time with one another, creating space for the new shift to pass. As they do, Cameron shoves her fist into her own jacket as Davidson did.
War Storm Page 27
