Because it isn’t me she fears, not really.
Her eyes flicker, looking down at the floor of my cell. At the Stone set neatly in cement.
I laugh, deep in my throat. It echoes off the walls.
“I really did break something in you, didn’t I?”
Mare recoils like I’ve struck her. I can almost see the bruise forming on her heart. She grits her teeth, straightening her spine. “Nothing that I can’t fix,” she grinds out.
I can feel the smile on my face turn bitter, tainted, corrupted. Like the rest of me. “If only I could say the same.”
My words echo, soften, and die.
She crosses her arms and looks at her feet. I watch her keenly, trying to commit every piece of her to memory. “The tunnels, Maven.”
“You heard my terms,” I reply. “I go with you, I lead your armies . . .”
Her head snaps up. If not for the Stone beneath my feet, I might feel the hum of static. “That isn’t good enough,” she says.
Time to call her bluff. “Then electrocute me. Call your torturer and risk your war on the words bought with my blood. Trust that they’re the truth. Are you willing to do that?”
She throws up her hands, exasperated. Like I’m a child instead of a king. It rankles, sandpaper on my skin. “We need a compromise, at least. Where the tunnels start.”
I raise an eyebrow coolly. “And where they end?”
“That’s your piece of the puzzle to keep. Until we need it.”
“Hmm,” I hum out, tapping a finger to my chin. I even start to pace, putting on a grand show for my rapturous audience. Her eyes track my movements, and I’m reminded of the panther Evangeline’s mother keeps so close. “I assume you’ll be coming along?”
She barely scoffs. Her mouth curves into a delicious scowl. “It isn’t like you to ask empty, stupid questions.”
I just shrug. “Whatever keeps you standing here.”
To that she has no retort. Whatever words she wants to say die on her lips. If only I could touch them. Feel the skin beneath my fingers, smooth and full and pulsing with hot, red blood. Part of me wonders why she is still so transfixing, even though I know she’s my sworn enemy. That I would kill her, and she would kill me. Another mystery of my mind that will never be unraveled.
She stands firm, letting me look. Never wavering beneath my gaze. Letting me see past the mask I helped her make. There is exhaustion, and hope, and sadness, of course. A sorrow for so many things.
My brother among them.
“He broke your heart, didn’t he?”
Mare only exhales, her chest falling.
“What a fool,” I whisper, speaking the familiar thought aloud.
It doesn’t bother her. She tosses her head, letting brown and gray hair flip over her shoulder. Revealing the bare skin beneath, and the brand still clear as day. M for Maven. M for mine. M for monster. M for Mare.
“So did you.”
A sour taste floods my mouth. I expected her to quail, but I’m the one who has to look away. “At least I had a good reason,” I mutter.
Her laugh is sharp and harsh, a single bark that snaps like a whipcrack.
“He did it for the crown,” I hiss.
Mare leers at me, but never moves her feet. Never gets close enough to touch. “And you didn’t, Maven?”
“I did it for her, of course.” I try to sound detached, matter-of-fact. The cold, broken, doomed Maven. “And what she made me into.”
“You keep blaming your mother. I suppose that’s easy.” My heart leaps in my chest when her feet slide. Moving sideways. Not closer, not farther. Now it’s her turn to prowl. “You think Cal’s father didn’t make him into something too? You think we all aren’t made or unmade by someone else?” Even though she’s only walking, it feels like a dance. I mirror her movements, stepping with her. She’s more graceful than I am, a lithe thief born of many years and many twists of fate. “But we all still have the ability to choose, in the end. And you chose to keep the blood on your hands.”
My fist clenches, and I wish for a spark. For flame. For something to burn. She knows what I want, and grins to herself. On the other side of the bars, her fingers tap against the air, alight with purple and white. The electric energy is a tease at best. Beyond my reach, beyond the sphere of Silent Stone. I ache for my ability the way I ache for Mare, for Thomas, for who I was supposed to be.
“At least I can admit when I’m wrong,” she continues. “When I make a mistake. When the horrible things I’ve done and will do are my own fault.” The sparks reflect in her eyes. They shudder from brown to purple, giving her an unearthly look, like her gaze might run me through. Part of me wishes she would. “I suppose you taught me that.”
Instead I grin again. “Then you should thank me properly.”
She responds in kind, spitting at my feet. At least some things in this world are still predictable.
“You never disappoint,” I hiss, scraping my shoe against the cement floor.
She doesn’t waver. “The tunnels.”
Heaving a breath, I pretend to be so desperately put-upon. I make her wait, letting the silence stretch for several long, blistering moments. I take the time to look at her. To see Mare Barrow for who she is right now. Not who I remember. And not who I wish she could be.
Mine.
But she doesn’t belong to anyone, not even my brother. I take comfort in such a small consolation. We’re alone together, she and I. Our paths may be horrible, but they’re the paths we made for ourselves.
The golden glow of her skin is warm, even down here, illuminated by the harsh light of fluorescence. She is so stubbornly alive, still burning like a candle fighting against rain.
“Fine.”
I give her what she wants.
I think it’s what I want too.
Their plan was always to kill me. After I ceased to be useful. I’m not surprised. It’s what I’d do. Still, when the cloth is pulled off my head, revealing the mountains bowled around us, I can’t help but feel afraid. If I’m allowed to see this place, see Montfort and its capital, then I am well and truly dead. It’s only a matter of time.
The air is cold, biting at my exposed face. My shivers of fear are more than warranted. I blink up at the purple sky, hazed before dawn, streaked with the light of a distant sunrise creeping over the mountain peaks. Snow clings to the heights, even in summer. Quickly, I try to get my bearings.
The city of Ascendant reaches into the valley below, sweeping over the slopes to an alpine lake. It doesn’t remind me of any city I’ve seen, not in Norta or even the Lakelands. This place is too new, but somehow old at the same time. Grown among the trees and the rocks, a part of this strange land as much as a human-built place. But the city doesn’t matter. I’ll never come back here. Not if I escape, nor if they execute me. There is simply no reality where I return to Montfort.
We’re standing near a runway, cut evenly between two mountains. The smell of jet fuel is sharp on the otherwise fresh air. Several airjets line up on the paved straightaway, ready to take flight. I squint over the heads of the guards around me, glimpsing a white palace in the distance, looking down at the capital. That must be where I was taken before, when I was dragged before that strange council of Reds, Silvers, and newbloods.
The faces hemming me in are unfamiliar, their uniforms equally split between Montfort green and the hellish red of the Scarlet Guard. They keep me locked in place, unable to do much more than stand on my toes for a craning look at the crowd.
For this is certainly a crowd. Dozens of soldiers and their commanders, organized into neat lines, wait patiently for the jets. But far fewer than I expected. Do they really think this is enough to assault Archeon? Even if they have newbloods of strange and terrible abilities, this is foolish. Suicide. How did I lose to such rampant idiots?
Someone chuckles nearby, and I’m seized by the familiar sense that they’re laughing at me. I turn sharply, only to see the premier of Montfort himself s
taring between the shoulders of my guards.
With a gesture of his hand, the two soldiers move, allowing him to approach. To my surprise, he’s dressed like a soldier, unremarkable in a dark green uniform. No medals or honors on his breast, nothing to mark him as the leader of an entire country. No wonder he and Cal got along so well. They’re both stupid enough to fight on the front lines.
“Something funny?” I sneer, looking up at him.
The premier merely shakes his head. As in the council, the man keeps his face still and almost empty, showing only enough emotion to allow an audience to project their own assumptions.
I would congratulate him on the talent if I felt so inclined.
Like me, Davidson is a skilled actor. But his performance is wasted. I see through him.
“What happens when this is over, and the time comes to divide the spoils?” I smile, the air freezing against my teeth. “Who picks up my brother’s crown, Davidson?”
The man doesn’t flinch, seemingly unaffected. But I catch the minuscule twitch as his eyes narrow. “Look around, Calore. No one wears crowns in my country.”
“So clever,” I muse. “Not all crowns are worn where people can see.”
He smirks, refusing to rise to the bait. Either his temper is extraordinary, or somehow this man is truly without a lust for power. It’s the former, of course. No person on earth can ignore the lure of a throne.
“Uphold your end of the bargain, and it will be quick,” the older man says, backing away. “Board him,” he adds, his voice harder in command.
The guards move as one, well trained, and if I shut my eyes, I could pretend they were Sentinels. My own Silver protectors, oathed to keep me safe, instead of these rats and blood traitors bent on keeping me chained.
At least they don’t bother with manacles. My wrists remain unbound, albeit bare.
No bracelets, no flame.
No sparks that I can make.
Lucky, then, that we’re traveling with a lightning girl.
I manage to catch a glimpse of her as I’m marched forward, over the runway to the airjet idling ahead. She clusters with her friend, the Farley woman who was so easily misled a year ago, as well as her fellow electricon, the white-haired man. Odd hair must be a style in Montfort, because there’s a woman with blue locks and a man with closely cut green hair as well.
Mare smiles at them, a true grin. When she moves, I realize her hair is different too. The gray ends are gone, replaced by a beautiful, familiar purple. I love it.
I feel a tug deep in my chest. She’s on my jet. Probably to keep an eye on me. To let her torturer friend stand over me for the entire flight. That’s fine. I’ll suffer it.
A few hours of fear are worth the dwindling time we have left.
Our jet has dark green wings, a symbol of the Montfort fleet. I’m led up and into a military craft lined with seats, plus a lower compartment running the length of the fuselage. For more passengers or arms. Maybe both. My mouth turns sour as I realize this jet is Montfort-made, and certainly not the only one. The strange mountain country is better equipped than we realized, even after Corvium, after Harbor Bay. And they are mobilizing.
As I’m strapped into my seat, the buckles fastened just a hair too tight, I realize why Davidson was laughing.
The jets on the runway, the soldiers assembled outside—they’re just the beginning.
“How many thousands are you leading into Archeon?” I ask aloud, letting my voice carry over the bustle of the filling compartment.
I’m ignored, and that’s answer enough.
Across the jet, Mare takes her own seat, with Farley at her side. The pair of them glance at me, eyes hard as flint, and just as easy to spark. I fight the urge to wag my fingers at them.
Then a body crosses my vision, blocking the two women out.
I heave a sigh, and look up slowly.
So predictable.
“Try something,” the white-haired electricon says.
Instead I shut my eyes and lean back. “Shan’t,” I reply, doing my best to hide how difficult it is to breathe against these infernal belts.
He doesn’t move, even when the jet roars into the air.
So I keep my eyes shut, and I run through my precarious plan.
Again, and again, and again.
THIRTY-TWO
Evangeline
It’s been at least two weeks since Barrow left, a week since my betrothed was crowned king, and a few days since I saw Elane last. I can still feel her, though, her pale skin smooth and cool beneath my fingers. But she is far, far beyond my reach. Dispatched back to the Ridge, away from the danger.
Cal would have let me keep her here, if my father had allowed it. In spite of everything, an understanding is falling into place between us. Funny, I used to dream of such a thing. A king who left me to my own devices and my own crown. Now it’s the best I can hope for, and a prison all the same. It traps us both, locking us away from the ones we care about most. He can’t bring back Mare, and I won’t bring Elane back. Not with the Lakelander queens on the horizon and an invasion imminent. I won’t risk her life for a few days of my own comfort.
My new rooms in Whitefire Palace are meant for the queen, and they still echo with the presence of Iris Cygnet. Everything is blue, blue, blue, from the curtains to the plush carpets, even down to the flowers wilting in an obscene amount of crystal vases. With fewer servants, the process of clearing the rooms is slow going. I end up ripping down most of the curtains myself. They’re still in the salon outside my bedroom, collecting dust in a pile of cobalt-blue silk.
The long balcony overlooking the river is the only respite from her, the distant princess who will return to kill us all. And even here, standing with my face to the sun, I can’t escape the thought of the Cygnet nymph. The Capital River courses below, splitting the city of Archeon in two as it winds toward the sea. I try to ignore the rush of water, calm as it is. I focus on braiding my hair instead, pulling the silver strands back from my face. The simple act is a good distraction. The tighter the braids, the more severe, the more determined I feel.
I plan to train a little this morning, go through the motions. Run the barracks track, maybe spar with Ptolemus if he wants. I find myself wishing Barrow were here. She’s a good workout and a good challenge. And easier to deal with than my mother.
I’m surprised she hasn’t breezed in yet, as she often does these days. Trying to prod me toward more queenly activities, as she puts it. But I don’t have the stomach to charm or intimidate nobles today, especially for her benefit. My parents want me to sway more Silvers, earn the loyalty they pledged to Cal. To pull allies away from him, like saving rats from a sinking ship.
Mother and Father want me to be his queen the way Iris was Maven’s. A snake in his bed, a wolf at his side. Gathering strength and waiting for an opportunity to strike. Even though I do not care for Cal, and never could, somehow it feels wrong.
But if Anabel and Julian play out their scheme . . .
I have no idea where that leaves me.
Suspended on a bridge, trapped in the middle, with both ends on fire.
The Bridge.
My hands drop, leaving half my hair undone, and I squint at the massive structure spanning the river. The other side of Archeon gleams beneath the rising sun, its many buildings crowned with steel and bronze birds of prey. Nothing seems amiss. It’s still busy with transports and a roving populace. So is the Bridge, all three levels of it bustling with traffic. Less than usual, but that’s to be expected.
It’s the supports below that worry me, and the water breaking around them. Still steady, moving at the same speed. But the current, the wash of white breakwater at each base . . .
The river is flowing the wrong way.
And it’s rising.
I fly through my bedchamber and the adjoining rooms, seeing nothing until I reach Ptolemus’s quarters. The locked door unlatches without a thought, blowing back on twisted hinges as I sprint through. I b
arely hear myself shout his name. The buzzing in my head is far too loud, overwhelming everything but the cold, acid rush of adrenaline.
He stumbles out into the sitting room toward me, half dressed. I catch a glimpse of rumpled bedsheets through the door behind him, as well as a blue-black arm. It moves, pulling out of sight, as Wren Skonos busies herself with her clothes.
“What is it?” my brother asks, his eyes wide with panic.
I want to run; I want to scream; I want to fight.
“The invasion.”
“How could they do this? Move their army without us knowing?”
Ptolemus dogs at my heels, barely keeping pace as we stalk through the palace halls. Galleries, salons, receiving chambers, and even ballrooms blur at the edge of my vision. In a few hours it could all be destroyed. Burned or drowned or simply erased. For a moment, I see my brother’s corpse, broken and sprawled across the intricate marble floor, his blood like a mirror. I blink, fighting off the thought. Bile rises in my mouth anyway.
I glance back at him—alive and breathing, towering in his armor—if only to convince myself he’s still here. Wren follows, her healer’s uniform clearly marked. I hope they stay together over the next few hours. I would tie her to him if I could.
“We had eyes on their citadels,” I mutter, speaking to keep myself focused. “We knew the Lakelands were gathering for something, but not when.”
Wren’s voice is slow and steady, but not soothing. “They must have gone north. Moved overland.”
“Without the Scarlet Guard, we don’t have many eyes left in the Lakelands,” Ptolemus curses as we round another corner, angling for the throne room.
Our parents haven’t found us yet, and that can only mean they’re with the king and his advisers. They must already know.
Lerolan guards open the doors for us, putting their lethal hands to the tall, lacquered panels. We march past together, the three of us keeping a tight formation on the off chance the Lakelanders have already infiltrated the city. My ability buzzes, flung wide to catch any errant bullets. I count the rounds in the guards’ guns, letting them hang at the edge of my perception as we cross the floor.
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