The extra flight suits from the jet stores are black and silver, providing us with a ragtag kind of uniform that will also serve as our disguises. The others fuss over their suits, making adjustments where they must to fit into them. As always, Kilorn fiddles with his collar, trying to loosen the stiff fabric a little. Nix’s barely zips over his belly, and looks liable to rip open at any moment. In contrast, Nanny is practically swimming in hers but doesn’t bother to roll her sleeves or pant legs like I have to. She’ll take a different form when the jet lands, a form that turns my stomach and makes my heart race with too many emotions to count.
Luckily, the Blackrun was built for transport, and holds all eleven of us with room to spare. I expect the extra weight to slow us down, but judging by the control panel, we’re cruising along at the same speed as always. Maybe even a little faster. Cal pushes the craft as best as he can, keeping us out of the moonlight and safely hidden in the autumn clouds rolling along the Nortan coast.
He glares out the window, eyes flitting between the clouds and the many blinking instruments before him. I still don’t understand what any of them mean, despite my many weeks sitting next to him in the cockpit. I was a poor student in the Stilts and that has not changed. I simply don’t have a mind like he does. I know only shortcuts, how to cheat, how to lie, how to steal, and I know how to see what people hide. And right now, Cal is certainly hiding something. I would be afraid of anyone else’s secrets, but I know what Cal keeps close cannot hurt me. He’s trying to bury his own weakness, his own fear. He was raised to believe in strength and power and nothing else. To falter was the ultimate mistake. I told him before that I was afraid too, but a few whispered words are not enough to break years of belief. Just like me, Cal puts up a mask, and he won’t even let me see behind it.
It’s for the best, the practical side of me thinks. The other part, the one that cares too much for the exiled prince, worries terribly. I know the physical danger of this mission, but the emotional never crossed my mind until this afternoon. What will Cal become in Corros? Will he leave the same way he went in? Will he leave at all?
Farley checks our cache of weapons for the twelfth time. Shade tries to help and she bats him away, but there’s little force behind the action. Once, I catch a smirk pass between them, and she finally allows him to count out bullets from a packet marked Corvium. Another stolen shipment, Crance’s doing most likely. Together with Farley’s contacts, he managed to smuggle us more guns, blades, and various other weapons than I could have imagined possible. Everyone will be armed, with their ability and whatever else they choose. I myself want nothing but my lightning, but the others are more eager, claiming daggers or pistols or, in Nix’s case, the brutal, collapsible spear he’s favored these past few weeks. He hugs it close, running his fingers along the sharpened steel with abandon. Another would have cut himself open by now, but Nix’s flesh is tougher than most. The other invulnerable newblood, Darmian, follows his lead and lays a thick, cleaver-like blade across his knobbly knees. The edge gleams, begging to cut through bone.
As I watch, Cameron shakily takes a small knife, careful to keep it sheathed. She spent the last three days honing her ability, not her knife work, and the dagger is a last resort, one I hope she doesn’t have to utilize. She catches my eye, her expression pained, and for a moment I fear she might snap at me or, worse, see through my mask. Instead, she nods in grim acknowledgment.
I nod back, extending the invisible hand of friendship between us. But her gaze hardens and she looks away sharply. Her meaning is clear. We are allies but not friends.
“Not long now,” Cal says, nudging me on the arm so that I turn around. Too soon, my mind screams, though I know we’re right on schedule.
“This will work.” My voice shakes, and thankfully he’s the only one to hear it. He doesn’t poke at my weakness, letting it fester. “This will work.” Even weaker this time.
“Who has the advantage?” he asks.
The words shock, sting, and soothe in succession. Instructor Arven asked the same thing in Training, when he paired his students against each other in battles for blood and pride. He asked it again in the Bowl of Bones, before a Rhambos strongarm skewered him like a fat, foul pig. I hated the man, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t learn anything from him.
We have surprise; we have Cameron; we have Shade and Gareth and Nanny and five other newbloods no Silver could possibly plan for. We have Cal, a military genius.
And we have cause. We have the Red dawn at our backs, begging to rise.
“We have the advantage.”
Cal’s grin is just as forced as mine, but it warms me anyway. “That’s my girl.”
Again, his words bring forth roiling, conflicting emotion.
A click and a hiss of static from the radio wipe all thoughts of Cal from my mind. I turn my gaze on Nanny, who nods in reply. Before my eyes, her body changes, transforming from an old woman into a boy with ice-blue eyes, black hair, and no soul. Maven. Her clothes shift with her appearance, replacing the flight suit with a pristine, black dress uniform, complete with a row of gleaming medals and a bloodred cape. A crown nestles in the black curls, and I have to fight the urge to toss it from the jet.
The others watch in rapt attention, amazed by the sight of the false king, but I feel only hatred, and the smallest twinge of regret. Nanny’s kindness bleeds through the disguise, turning Maven’s lips into a soft smile I recognize far too well. For a single, painful moment, I’m looking at the boy I thought he was, and not the monster he turned out to be.
“Good,” I force out, my voice thick with emotion. Only Kilorn seems to notice, and wrenches his gaze away from Nanny. I barely shake my head at him, telling him not to worry. We have more important things to dwell on.
“Corros Air, this is Fleet Prime,” Cal says into the radio. On other flights, he did his best to sound bored, uninterested in the mandatory call-ins to different bases, but now he’s all business. After all, we’re pretending to be the king’s own transport, what is known as Fleet Prime, a craft above all scrutiny. And Cal knows firsthand what this particular call-in is supposed to sound like. “The Throne approaches.”
No complicated call sign, no requesting permission to land. Nothing but stern authority, and any operator on the other end would be hard-pressed to deny him. As expected, the responding voice stammers.
“R-r-r-received, Fleet Prime,” a man says. His deep, rasping voice does nothing to hide his unease. “Your pardon, but we were not expecting His Royal Highness until tomorrow afternoon?”
Tomorrow. The fourth day, when Jon said we would die—and he was right. Maven would bring an army of guards with him, from Sentinels to deadly warriors like Ptolemus and Evangeline. We would be no match for them.
I wave a hand behind me, gesturing, but Nanny’s already there. Her closeness in Maven’s form makes my skin prickle.
“The king follows no schedule but his own,” she says into the radio, her cheeks flushed silver. Her tone isn’t sharp enough, but the voice is unmistakable. “And I will not explain myself to a glorified doorman.”
A crash on the other end of the radio can only be the operator falling out of his seat. “Yes—yes, of course, Your Highness.”
Behind us, someone snorts into his sleeve. Probably Kilorn.
Cal offers Nanny a nod, before taking the radio mouthpiece back. I see the same pain in him, the one I feel too deeply. “We will be landing in ten minutes. Prepare Corros for the king’s arrival.”
“I’ll see to it personal—”
But Cal switches off the radio before the operator can finish, and allows himself a single, relieved smile. Again, the others cheer, celebrating a nonexistent victory. Yes, the obstacle is hurdled, but many more will follow. All of them are below us, on the gray-green fields that edge the Wash wastelands, hiding the prison that might be our doom.
A tinge of daylight bleeds on the eastern horizon, but the sky above is still a deep, drowning blue when the Blackrun lan
ds on the smooth Corros runway. This is not a military base crowded with jet squadrons and hangars, but it’s still a Silver facility, and a palpable air of danger hangs over everything. I slide the flight helmet over my head, hiding my face. Cal and the others follow suit, donning their own helmets and slapping the face shields into place. To an outsider, we must look frightening. All in black, masked, accompanying the young, ruthless king to his prison. Hopefully the guards will look right past us, more concerned with the king’s presence than his companions’.
I can’t sit any longer, and get out of my chair as fast as I can. The safety belts dangle in my wake, jingling together. I do what I must, what I wish I didn’t have to, and take Nanny by the arm. She even feels like Maven.
“Look through people,” I tell her, my voice muffled by the helmet. “Smile without kindness. No small talk, no court talk. Act as if you have a million secrets, and you’re the only one important enough to know them all.”
She nods, taking this all in stride. After all, Cal and I have both instructed her on how to pass as Maven. This is merely a reminder, a last glance at the book before the test. “I’m not a fool,” she replies coldly, and I almost punch her in the jaw. She is not Maven rings in my head, louder than a bell.
“I think you’ve got it,” Kilorn says as he stands. He grabs my arm, pulling me slightly away. “Mare nearly killed you.”
“Everyone ready?” Farley shouts from the rear of the jet. Her hand hovers next to the ramp release, eager to press it.
“Form up!” Cal barks, sounding a bit too much like a drill sergeant. But we respond, falling into the ordered lines he taught us, with Nanny at the head. He takes her side, falling into the role of her most lethal bodyguard.
“Let’s make some bad decisions,” Farley says. I can almost hear her smiling as she pushes the release.
A hiss—then gears turn, wires pulse, and the back of the jet yawns open to greet the last morning some of us will ever see.
A dozen soldiers wait a respectable distance from the Blackrun, their formation tight and practiced. At the sight of the newblood masquerading as their king, they snap into stiff, perfect salutes. One hand to the heart, one knee to the ground. The world looks darker behind the shield of my flight helmet, but it doesn’t hide the clouded gray of their military uniforms, or the squat, unassuming compound behind them. No bronze gates, no diamondglass walls—there aren’t even windows. Just a single, flat brick of concrete stretching out into the abandoned fields of this wasteland. Corros Prison. I allow myself one glance back at the craft and the runway stretching into the distance where shadows and radiation dance. I can just see a pair of airjets idling in the gloom, their metal bellies full and round. Prison planes, used to transport the captured. And if all goes to plan, they’ll see action again soon.
We approach Corros in silence, trying to march in step. Cal flanks Nanny, one fist permanently clenched at his side, while I trail just behind, with Cameron on my left and Shade on the right. Farley and Kilorn keep to the center of the formation, never letting go of their guns. The air itself seems electrified, coursing with danger.
It is not death I fear, not anymore. I’ve faced dying too many times to be afraid of it. But the prison itself, the thought of being captured, forced into chains, turned into the Queen’s mindless puppet—that I cannot bear. I would rather die a hundred times than face such a fate. So would any of us.
“Your Highness,” one of the soldiers says, daring to look up at the person he believes to be king. The badge on his breast, three crossed swords in red metal, mark him as a captain. The bars on his shoulders, bright red and blue, can only be his house colors. House Iral. “Welcome to Corros Prison.”
As instructed, Nanny looks straight through him, waving one pale hand in dismissal. That should be enough to convince anyone of her supposed identity. But as the soldiers stand, the captain’s eyes flick over us, noting our own uniforms—and the lack of Sentinels accompanying the royal sovereign. He hesitates on Cal, one razored glance focusing on his helmet. He says nothing, however, and his soldiers fall into formation next to us, their footsteps echoing with ours. Haven, Osanos, Provos, Macanthos, Eagrie—I note the familiar colors on a few uniforms. The last, House Eagrie, the House of Eyes, is our first target. I tug on Cameron’s sleeve, nodding gently toward the bearded blond man with darting eyes and white-and-black stripes on his shoulder.
She inclines her head, and her fists ball at her sides in quiet concentration. The raid has begun.
The captain takes Nanny’s other side, stepping in front of me so smoothly I barely notice. A silk. He has the same tanned skin, gleaming black hair, and angled features of Sonya Iral and her grandmother, the sleekly dangerous Panther. I can only hope the captain is not so talented at intrigue as she is, or else this is going to be much more difficult than expected.
“Your specifications are nearly completed, Your Highness,” he says. There’s a prickling air to his words. “Every cell block is individually sealed, as instructed, and the next shipment of Silent Stone arrives tomorrow with the new unit of guards.”
“Good,” Nanny replies, sounding uninterested. Her pace quickens a little, and the captain adjusts in kind, keeping up with her. Cal does the same, and we follow. It looks like a chase.
While the Security Center of Harbor Bay was a beautiful structure, a vision of carved stone and sparkling glass, Corros is as gray and hopeless as the waste around it. Only the entrance, a single, black-iron door set flush against the wall, breaks the monotony of the prison. No hinges, no lock or handle—the door looks like an abyss, like a gaping mouth. But I feel electricity, bleeding around the edges, originating from a small square panel set next to it. The key switch. Just like Cameron said. The key itself dangles from a black chain at Iral’s neck, but he doesn’t pull it loose.
There are cameras too, beady little eyes trained on the door. They don’t bother me in the slightest. I care more about the silk captain and his soldiers, who have us surrounded, and keep us marching forward.
“I’m afraid I don’t know you, Pilot, or the rest of you for that matter,” the captain prods, leaning so he can see past Nanny and fix Cal with a flint-eyed stare. “Would you identify yourself?”
I clench my fist to keep my fingers from shaking. Cal does no such thing, and barely turns his head, reluctant to even acknowledge the prison captain. “Pilot suits me fine, Captain Iral.”
Iral bristles, as expected. “The Corros facility is under my command and my protection, Pilot. If you think I’m going to let you inside without—”
“Without what, Captain?” Every word out of Nanny’s mouth cuts like a knife, slicing through the deepest parts of me. The captain stops cold and flushes silver, swallowing an ill-advised retort. “Last I checked, Corros belongs to Norta. And who does Norta belong to?”
“I am only doing my job, Your Highness,” he sputters, but the battle is already lost. He puts a hand to his heart again, saluting. “The queen charged me with defense of this prison, and I only wish to obey her commands, as well as yours.”
Nanny nods. “Then I command you to open the door.”
He bows his head, giving way. One of his soldiers, an older woman with a severe, silver braid and square jaw, steps forward, laying one hand on the iron door. I don’t need the black-and-silver stripes on her shoulder to know she’s of House Samos. The iron shifts beneath her magnetron touch, splintering into jagged pieces that retract with sharp efficiency. A blast of cold air hits us head-on, smelling faintly of damp and something sour. Blood. But the entrance hall beyond is made of stark, blinding-white tiles, each one without a hint of stain. Nanny is the first to step inside, and we follow.
Next to me, Cameron trembles, and I nudge her softly. I would hold her hand if I could. I can only imagine how terrible this must be—I would tear myself apart before returning to Archeon. And yet, she returns to her own prison for me.
The entrance is strangely empty. No pictures of Maven, no banners. This place has
no one to impress, and needs no decoration. There are only whirring cameras. Captain Iral’s soldiers quickly retake their posts, flanking each of the four doors around us. The one behind, the black, shuts with the earsplitting screech of metal sliding against metal. The doors to the left and right are painted silver, and gleam in the harsh prison light. The one ahead, the one we must pass through, is a sickening bloodred.
But Iral stops short, gesturing to one of the silver doors. “I assume you’d like to see Her Highness, the queen?”
I am very glad for our helmets, or else the captain would see horror on every single face. Elara is here. My stomach flips at the thought of facing her, and I’m almost sick inside my helmet. Even Nanny pales and her voice sticks, despite her best efforts. I feel Kilorn at my back, inches from me. He is silent, but I hear his meaning all the same. Run. Run. Run. But running is not something I can do anymore.
“Her Highness is here?” Cal bites out. For a second, I’m afraid he’s forgotten himself. “Still?” he adds, the afterthought of a lie. But suspicion flares in the captain all the same. I see it like an explosion in his eyes.
Blessed Nanny laughs aloud, her forced chuckle cold and detached. “Mother has always done as she likes, you know this,” she says to Cal, scolding him. “But I am here on other business, Captain. No need to bother her.”
The captain offers up an obliging smile. It pulls at his face like a sneer, twisting his fine features into something ugly. “Very well, sir.”
Kilorn taps my arm, his touch urgent. He sees what I see. The captain no longer believes us. Turning, I take Cameron by the elbow, and squeeze. Her next signal. Under my touch, her muscles tighten. She’s pouring everything she has into blocking Eagrie’s ability, to keep him from seeing what’s coming. Confusion crosses his face, but he shakes it off, trying to focus on us. He doesn’t understand what’s happening to him.
Glass Sword Page 33