October 31
I expected you at my coronation. It seemed like the kind of thing your Scarlet Guard would love to try to ruin, even though it was quite small. We’re still supposed to be mourning Father, and a grand affair would seem disrespectful. Especially with Cal still out there, running around with you and your rabble. A precious few still owe allegiance to him, according to Mother, but don’t worry. They are being dealt with. No Silver succession crisis will come and take my brother from your leash. If you could, wish him a happy birthday for me. And assure him it will be his last.
But yours is coming, isn’t it? I don’t doubt we’ll spend it together.
Until we meet again,
Maven
His voice speaks every word, using the ink like knives. For a moment, my stomach churns, threatening to spill my dinner all over the dirt floor. The nausea passes long enough for me to slip out of the sleeper, out of Cal’s embrace, to my box of supplies in the corner. Like at home, I keep my trinkets hidden, and two more of Maven’s notes are crumpled at the bottom.
Each one bears the same ending. Until we meet again.
I feel something like hands around my throat, threatening to squeeze the life from me. Each word tightens the grip, as if ink alone can strangle me. For a second, I fear I might not breathe again. Not because Maven still insists on tormenting me. No, the reason is much worse.
Because I miss him. I miss the boy I thought he was.
The brand he gave me burns with the memory. I wonder if he can feel it too.
Cal stirs in the sleeper behind me, not from a nightmare, but because it’s time to wake. Hastily, I shove the notes away, and leave the room before he can open his eyes. I don’t want to see his pity, not yet. That will be too much to bear.
“Happy birthday, Cal,” I whisper to the empty tunnel hall.
I’ve forgotten a coat, and the cold of November pricks my skin as I step out of the safe house. The clearing is dark before the dawn, so that I can barely see the eaves of the forest. Ada sits over the low coals of a campfire, perched on a log in a shivering bundle of wool blankets and scarves. She always takes last watch, preferring to wake earlier than the rest of us. Her accelerated brain lets her read the books I bring her and keep an eye on the woods at the same time. Most mornings, she’s gained a new skill by the time the rest of us are up and about. Last week alone, she learned Tirax, the language of a strange nation to the southeast, as well as basic surgery. But today, she holds no stolen book, and she is not alone.
Ketha stands over the fire, arms crossed. Her lips move quickly, but I can’t hear what she’s saying. And Kilorn huddles close to Ada, his feet almost entirely in the coals. As I creep closer, I can see his brow bent in intense focus. Stick in hand, he traces lines in the dirt. Letters. Crude, hastily drawn, forming rudimentary words like boat, gun, and home. The last word is longer than the rest. Kilorn. The sight almost brings new tears to my eyes. But they are happy tears, an unfamiliar thing to me. The empty hole inside me seems to shrink, if only a little.
“Tricky, but you’re getting it,” Ketha says, the corner of her mouth lifting in a half smile. A teacher indeed.
Kilorn notices me before I can get much closer, snapping his writing twig with a resounding crack. Without so much as a nod, he gets up from the log and swings his hunting pack over his shoulder. His knife glints at his hip, cold and sharp as the icicles fanging the trees in the woods.
“Kilorn?” Ketha asks, then her eyes fall on me, and my presence answers her question. “Oh.”
“It’s time to hunt anyways,” Ada replies, reaching a hand toward Kilorn’s fading form. Despite the warm color of her skin, the tips of her fingers have flushed blue with the cold. But he evades her grasp and she touches nothing but frosty air.
I don’t do anything to stop him. Instead, I lean back on my heels, giving him the space he so desperately desires. He draws up the hood of his new coat, obscuring his face as he stalks toward the tree line. Good brown leather and fleece lining, perfect for keeping him warm and hidden. I stole it a week ago in Haven. I didn’t think Kilorn would accept such a gift from me, but even he knows the value of warmth.
My company this afternoon doesn’t bother just him. Ketha glances at me sidelong, almost blushing. “He asked to learn,” she says, almost apologetic. Then she pushes past me, heading back to the warmth and relative comfort of the Notch.
Ada watches her go, her golden eyes bright but sad. She pats the log next to her, gesturing for me to sit. When I do, she tosses one of her blankets across my lap and tucks it around me. “There you are, miss.” She was a maid in Harbor Bay, and despite her newfound freedom, old habits haven’t worn off yet. She still calls me “miss,” though I’ve asked her to stop many times. “I think they need some kind of distraction.”
“It’s a good one. No other teacher’s ever made it this far with Kilorn. I’ll make sure to thank her later.” If she doesn’t run away again. “We all need a little distraction, Ada.”
She sighs in agreement. Her lips, full and dark, purse into a bitter, knowing smile. I don’t miss her eyes flicker back to the Notch, where half my heart sleeps. And then to the forest, where the rest wanders. “He has Crance with him, and Farrah will join them both soon enough. No bears, either,” she adds, squinting at the dark horizon. In daylight, if the mist holds off, we should be able to see the distant mountains. “They’ve gone quiet for the season by now. Sleeping through the winter.”
Bears. At home in the Stilts, we barely had deer, let alone the fabled monsters of the backcountry. The lumberyards, logging teams, and river traffic were enough to drive away any animal bigger than a raccoon, but the Greatwoods region teems with wildlife. Great antlered stags, curious foxes, and the occasional howl of a wolf all haunt the hills and valleys. I’ve yet to see one of the lumbering bears, but Kilorn and the other hunters spotted one weeks ago. Only Farrah’s muffling abilities and Kilorn’s good sense to keep downwind kept them safe from its jaws.
“Where did you learn so much about bears?” I ask, if only to fill the air with idle conversation. Ada knows exactly what I’m doing, but humors me anyways.
“Governor Rhambos likes to hunt,” she replies with a shrug. “He had an estate outside the city, and his sons filled it with strange beasts for him to kill. Bears, especially. Beautiful creatures, with black fur and keen eyes. They were peaceful enough, if left alone, or attended to by our game warden. Little Rohr, the governor’s daughter, wanted a cub for her own, but the bears were killed before any could breed.”
I remember Rohr Rhambos. A strongarm who looked like a mouse but could pulverize stone with her own two hands. She competed in Queenstrial so long ago, when I was a maid just like Ada.
“I don’t suppose what the governor did could actually be called hunting,” Ada continues. Sadness poisons her voice. “He put them in a pit, where he could fight the animals and break their necks. His sons did it too, for their training.”
Bears sound like ferocious, fearsome beasts, but Ada’s manner tells me otherwise. Her glazed eyes can only mean she’s seen the pit herself, and remembers every second of it. “That’s awful.”
“You killed one of his sons, you know. Ryker was his name. He was one of your chosen executioners.”
I never wanted to know his name. I never asked about the ones I killed in the Bowl of Bones, and no one ever told me. Ryker Rhambos, electrocuted on the sand of the arena, reduced to nothing more than his blackened flesh.
“Beg pardon, miss. I did not mean to upset you.” Her calm mask has returned, and with it, the perfect manners of a woman raised as a servant. With her ability, I can only imagine how terrible it must have been, seeing but not speaking, never able to prove her worth or reveal her true self. But it’s even worse to think that, unlike me, she can’t hide behind the shield of an imperfect mind. She knows and feels so much that it threatens to pull her down. Like me, she must keep running.
“I’m only upset when you call me that. Miss, I mean.
”
“A habit, I’m afraid.” She shifts, reaching for something inside her blankets. I hear the distinct sound of crinkling paper, and expect to see another news bulletin detailing Maven’s coronation tour. Instead, Ada reveals a very official-looking document, albeit a crumpled one with singed edges. It bears the red sword of the Nortan army. “Shade took this off that officer in Corvium.”
“The one I fried.” I trace the burned paper, feeling the rough, black material threatening to disintegrate. Strange, this survived where its holder could not. “Preparations,” I mutter, deciphering the order. “For relief legions.”
She nods. “Ten legions, to replace the nine holding the Choke trenches.”
Storm Legion, Hammer Legion, Sword Legion, Shield Legion—their names and numbers are listed plainly. Five thousand Red soldiers in each, with another five hundred Silver officers. They’re converging on Corvium before traveling together into the Choke, to relieve the soldiers on the lines. A terrible thing, but not something that interests me.
“Good that we’ve already checked Corvium” is all I can think to say. “At least we avoided a few thousand Silver officers passing through.”
But Ada puts a gentle hand on my arm, her long, able fingers cold even through my sleeve. “Ten to replace nine. Why?”
“A push?” Again, I don’t understand why this is my problem. “Maven might want to make a show of it, demonstrate what a warrior he is, to make everyone forget Cal—”
“Not likely. Trench assaults warrant at least fifteen legions, five to guard, ten to march.” Her eyes flicker back and forth, as if she can see a battle in her mind’s eye. I can’t help but raise my eyebrows. As far as I know, we don’t have any tactics guides lying around. “The prince is well versed in warfare,” she explains. “He’s a good teacher.”
“Have you shown Cal this?”
Her hesitation is the only answer I need.
“I believe it’s a kill order,” she murmurs, lowering her eyes. “Nine legions to take up their posts, and the tenth to die.”
But this is crazy, even for Maven. “That doesn’t make any sense. Why would anyone waste five thousand good soldiers?”
“Their official name is the Dagger Legion.” She points to the corresponding word on the paper. Like the others, it contains five thousand Reds, and is heading straight for the trenches. “But Governor Rhambos called them something else. The Little Legion.”
“The Little—?” My brain catches up. Suddenly I’m back on the island of Tuck, in the medical ward, with the Colonel breathing down my neck. He was planning to trade Cal, to use him to save the five thousand children now marching into an early grave. “The new conscripts. The kids.”
“Fifteen to seventeen years old. The Dagger is the first of the child legions the king has deemed ‘combat ready.’” She doesn’t bother to hide her scoff. “Barely two months of training, if that.”
I remember what I was like at fifteen. Even though I was still a thief, I was small and silly, more concerned with bothering my sister than with my future. I thought I still had a chance of escaping conscription. Rifles and ash-blown trenches had not yet begun to haunt my dreams.
“They’ll be slaughtered.”
Ada settles back into her blankets, her face grim. “I believe that’s the idea.”
I know what she wants, what many would want if they knew about Maven’s orders for the child army. The kids about to be sent into the Choke are a consequence of the Measures, a way to punish the kingdom for the Scarlet Guard’s insurrection. It feels as if I’ve sentenced them to death myself, and I don’t doubt many would agree. Soon there will be an ocean of blood on my hands, and I have no way of stopping it. Innocent blood, like the baby’s in Templyn.
“We can’t do anything for them.” I drop my gaze, not wanting to see the disappointment in Ada’s eyes. “We can’t fight whole legions.”
“Mare—”
“Can you think of a way to help them?” I cut her off, my voice harsh with anger. It cows her into defeated silence. “Then how could I?”
“Of course. You’re right. Miss.”
The proper title stings, as she meant it to. “I leave you to your watch,” I mumble, standing up from the log, march order still in hand. Slowly, I fold it up and tuck it away, deep into a pocket.
Every body is a message to you
Surrender to me, and it will stop.
“We fly for Pitarus in a few hours.” Ada already knows our recruitment plans for the day, but telling her again gives me something to do. “Cal’s piloting, so give Shade a list of whatever supplies we might need.”
“Be mindful,” she replies. “The king is in Delphie again, only an hour’s flight away.”
The thought prickles my scars. One hour separating me from Maven’s torturous manipulations. From his terror machine that turned my own power against me.
“Delphie? Again?”
Cal walks to us from the mouth of the Notch house, his hair mussed by sleep. But his eyes have never looked so awake. “Why again?”
“I saw a bulletin in Corvium that stated he was visiting with Governor Lerolan,” Ada says, confused by Cal’s sudden focus. “To share his condolences in person.”
“For Belicos and his sons.” I met Belicos only once, minutes before his death, but he was kind. He did not deserve the ending I helped give him. Neither did his kin.
But Cal narrows his eyes against the rising sun. He sees something we don’t, something even Ada’s lists and facts cannot understand. “Maven wouldn’t waste time on such a thing, even to keep up appearances. The Lerolans are nothing to him, and he’s already killed the newbloods of Delphie—he wouldn’t go back without a good reason.”
“And that is?” I ask.
His mouth opens, as if he expects the right answer to fall out. Nothing happens, and finally he shakes his head. “I’m not sure.”
Because this is not a military maneuver. This is something else, something Cal doesn’t understand. He has a talent for war, not intrigue. That is Maven and his mother’s domain, and we’re hopelessly outgunned on their playing field. The best we can do is challenge them on our own terms, with might, not minds. But we need more might. And fast.
“Pitarus,” I say aloud, sounding final. “And tell Nanny she’s coming.”
The old woman has been requesting to help since she came here, and Cal thinks she’s ready to do it. Harrick, on the other hand, has not joined us on another recruitment. Not since Templyn. I don’t blame him.
I don’t need Cal to point out where the Rift region starts. As we pass from the King State, entering into the Prince State, the divide is shockingly clear from our high altitude. The airjet soars over a series of rift valleys, each one bordered by a marching line of mountains. They look almost man-made, forming long gashes like the scrape of fingernails across earth. But these are too big, even for Silvers. This land was made by something more powerful and destructive, thousands of years ago. Autumn bleeds over the land, painting the forest below in varying shades of fire. We’re much farther south than the Notch, but I see pockets of snow on the peaks, hiding from the rising sun. Like Greatwoods, the Rift is another wilderness, though its wealth lies in steel and iron, not lumber. Its capital, Pitarus, is the only city in the region, and an industrial nerve center. It sits on a river fork, connecting the steel refineries to the war front, as well as the southern coal towns to the rest of the kingdom. Though the Rift is officially governed by the windweavers of House Laris, it is the ancestral home of House Samos. As the owners of the iron mines and steel factories, they truly control Pitarus and the Rift. If we’re lucky, Evangeline might be skulking around, and I’ll get to repay her for all her evils.
The nearest rift valley to Pitarus is more than fifteen miles away, but offers good cover to land. This is the bumpiest of all the ruined runways, and I wonder if we’ve overstepped. But Cal keeps the Blackrun in hand, getting us down safely, if shaken.
Nanny claps her hands, delighte
d by the flight, her wrinkled face lit by a wide smile. “Is it always this much fun?” she asks, peering at us.
Across from her, Shade pulls a grimace. He still hasn’t gotten used to flying, and does his best not to lose his breakfast in her lap.
“We’re looking for four newbloods.” My voice echoes down the craft, silencing the snapping of buckles and restraints. Shade’s feeling better, so he’s here again, sitting next to Farley. Then there’s Nanny and the newblood Gareth Baument. This will be his third recruitment in four days, since Cal decided the former horse master would be a welcome addition to our daily missions. Once he worked for Lady Ara Iral herself, maintaining her vast stable of horses at the family estate on the Capital River. At court, everyone called her the Panther for her gleaming black hair and catlike agility. Gareth is less complimentary. He’s more likely to call her the Silk Bitch. Luckily, his work for House Iral kept him fit and limber, and his abilities are nothing to scoff at either. When I first questioned him, asking if he could do anything special, I ended up on the ceiling. Gareth manipulated the forces of gravity holding me to the earth. If we had been standing in the open, I probably would have ended up in the clouds. But I leave that to Gareth. Besides jettisoning people into the air, he can use his ability to fly.
“Gareth will drop Nanny into the city, and she’ll enter the Security Center disguised as Lord General Laris.” I glance to her, only to find myself staring at a slight older man rather than the woman I’ve come to know. He nods back at me and flexes his fingers, as if he’s never used them before. But I know better. It’s Nanny beneath that skin, pretending to be the Silver commander of the Air Fleet. “She’ll get us a printout of the four newbloods living in Pitarus and the rest in the Rift region. We’ll follow on foot, and Shade will pull us all out.”
As usual, Farley is the first out of her seat. “Good luck with that one, Nan,” she says, jabbing a finger at Gareth. “If you liked this, you’re going to love what he does.”
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