My heartbeat quickens as we pass a statue in an alcove. I recognize it. My room—my old bedchamber—is a few doors away. Cal’s room too, and Maven’s.
“Not so talkative now,” Clover says, her voice sounding faraway.
Light streams in through the windows, doubly bright from the sun on fresh snow. It does nothing to comfort me. I can handle Maven in the throne room, in his study, when I am on display. But alone—truly alone? Beneath my clothes, his brand smarts and burns.
When we stop at a door and push through to the salon inside, I realize my mistake. Relief washes over me. Maven is king now. His living chambers aren’t here anymore.
But Evangeline’s are.
She sits in the center of the oddly bare salon, surrounded by twisted pieces of metal. They vary in color and material—iron, bronze, copper. Her hands work diligently, shaping flowers from chrome, curling them into a braided silver and gold band. Another crown for her collection. Another crown she can’t wear yet.
Two attendants wait on her. A man and a woman, plainly dressed, their clothes striped with the colors of House Samos. With a jolt, I realize they are Red.
“Make her presentable, please,” Evangeline says, not bothering to look up.
The Reds descend, waving me to the single mirror in the room. As I stare into it, I realize Elane is here as well, lazing on a long couch in a beam of sunlight like a satisfied cat. She meets my gaze without question or fear, only disinterest.
“You may wait outside,” Elane says when she breaks eye contact, turning back to my Arven guards. Her red hair catches the light, rippling like liquid fire. Even though I have an excuse for looking horrible, I still feel self-conscious in her presence.
Evangeline nods, agreeing, and the Arvens file out. Both cast disgruntled glances in my direction. I greedily drink them in to treasure later.
“Anyone care to explain?” I ask the quiet room, expecting no answer.
The other two laugh together, exchanging pointed glances. I take the opportunity to assess the room and the situation. There’s another door, probably leading to Evangeline’s bedroom, while the windows are locked tight against the cold. Her room looks out on a familiar courtyard, and I realize my cell of a bedroom must face hers. The revelation shivers me.
To my surprise, Evangeline drops her work with a clatter. The crown shatters, unable to hold its shape without her ability. “It is the queen’s duty to receive guests.”
“Well, I’m not a guest and you’re not a queen, so . . .”
“If only your brain were as quick as your mouth,” she snaps back.
The Red woman blinks rapidly, flinching like our words might hurt her. Actually, they might, and I resolve to be less stupid. I bite my lip to keep more foolish thoughts from spilling out, letting the two Red servants work. The man attends to my hair, brushing it through and coiling it into a spiral, while she does up my face. No Silver paint, but she uses blush, a bit of black to line my eyes, and striking red for my lips. A garish sight.
“That will do,” Elane says from her back. The Reds are quick to pull away, dropping their hands to their sides and bowing their heads. “We can’t have her looking too well treated. The princes won’t understand it.”
My eyes widen. Princes. Guests. Who am I being paraded in front of now?
Evangeline notices. She huffs aloud, flicking a bronze flower at Elane. It embeds in the wall above her head, but Elane doesn’t seem to mind. She only sighs dreamily.
“Mind what you say, Elane.”
“She’ll find out in a few moments, my dear. What’s the harm?” She gets up from her pillows, extending long limbs that glow with her ability. Evangeline’s eyes track her every movement, sharpening when Elane crosses the room to my side.
She joins me at the mirror, looking into my face. “You’ll behave today, won’t you?”
I wonder how quickly Evangeline would skin me if I slammed my elbow into Elane’s perfect teeth.
“I’ll behave.”
“Good.”
And then she disappears, wiped from sight but not sensation. I still feel her hand on my shoulder. A warning.
I look through where Elane’s body was, back to Evangeline. She gets up from the floor, her dress pooling around her, fluid as mercury. It very well could be.
When she strides toward me, I can’t help but recoil. But Elane’s hand keeps me from moving, forcing me to stand up straight and allow Evangeline to lean over me. A corner of her mouth lifts. She likes seeing me afraid. When she raises a hand and I flinch, she smiles openly. But instead of striking me, she tucks a strand of hair behind my ear.
“Make no mistake, this is all for my benefit,” she says. “Not yours.”
I have no idea what she’s talking about, but I nod along anyway.
Evangeline doesn’t lead us to the throne room, but to Maven’s private council chambers. The Sentinels guarding the doors look more imposing than usual. When I enter, I realize they’re even manning the windows. An extra precaution after Nanny’s infiltration.
The last time I passed through, the room was empty save for Jon. He’s still here, quiet in the corner, unassuming next to the half-dozen others around the room. I shiver at the sight of Volo Samos, a quiet spider in black with his son, Ptolemus, at his side. Of course, Samson Merandus is here too. He leers at me and I lower my eyes, avoiding his gaze as if I can shield myself from the memory of him crawling into my brain.
I expect to see Maven seated alone at the far end of the marble table, but instead, two men flank him closely. Both are draped in heavy furs and soft suede, dressed to withstand arctic cold even though we are well sheltered from the winter. They have deep, blue-black skin like polished stone. The one on the right has bits of gold and turquoise beaded into the intricate whorls of his braids, while the one on the left settles for long, gleaming locks topped by a crown of blossoms hewn from white quartz. Royalty, clearly. But not ours. Not from Norta.
Maven raises a hand, gesturing to Evangeline as she approaches. In the light of a winter sun, she gleams. “My betrothed, Lady Evangeline of House Samos,” he says. “She was integral to the capture of Mare Barrow, the lightning girl and the leader of the Scarlet Guard.”
Evangeline plays her part, bowing before the two. They bow their heads in turn, their motions long and fluid.
“Our congratulations, Lady Evangeline,” the one with the crown says. He even extends a hand, gesturing for her own. She lets him kiss her knuckles, beaming at the attention.
When she glares at me, I realize Evangeline means for me to join her. I do so reluctantly. I intrigue the two newcomers, and they watch me in fascination. I refuse to so much as nod my head.
“This is the lightning girl?” the other prince says. His teeth flash moon white against night-dark skin. “This is the one giving you so much trouble? And you let her live?”
“Of course he did,” his compatriot crows. He gets to his feet, and I realize he must be almost seven feet tall. “She’s marvelous bait. Though I’m surprised her terrorists haven’t attempted a real rescue, if she’s as important as you say.”
Maven shrugs. He exudes an air of quiet satisfaction. “My court is well defended. Infiltration is all but impossible.”
I glance at him, meeting his eyes. Liar. He almost smirks at me, like it’s a private joke between us. I fight the familiar urge to spit at him.
“In Piedmont we would march her through the streets of every city,” the prince with the quartz crown says. “Show our citizens what becomes of people like her.”
Piedmont. The word rings like a bell in my head. So these are the Piedmont princes. I rack my brain, trying to remember what I know of their country. An ally of Norta, forming part of our southern border. Governed by a collection of princes. All that I know from Julian’s lessons. But I know other things too. I remember finding shipments on Tuck, supplies stolen from Piedmont. And Farley herself hinted that the Scarlet Guard was expanding there, intent on spreading their rebellion throug
h Norta’s closest ally.
“Does she speak?” the prince continues, looking between Maven and Evangeline.
“Unfortunately,” she replies with a pointed smirk.
Both princes laugh at that, as does Maven. The rest of the room follows suit, pandering to their lord and master.
“Well then, Prince Daraeus? Prince Alexandret?” Maven sweeps his gaze over each in turn. He proudly plays the part of king, despite the two royals twice his age and size. Somehow he measures up against them. Elara trained him so well. “You wanted to see the prisoner. And you’ve seen her.”
Alexandret, already standing so close, takes my chin in soft hands. I wonder what his ability is. I wonder how afraid of him I should be. “Indeed, Your Majesty. We have a few questions, if you would be so kind as to allow it?”
Though he frames the words as a request, this is little more than a demand.
“Your Majesty, I’ve already told you what she knows.” Samson speaks up from his chair, leaning across the table so he can gesture to me. “Nothing in Mare Barrow’s mind escaped my search.”
I would nod in agreement, but Alexandret’s grip keeps me still. I stare up at him, trying to deduce exactly what he wants from me. His eyes are an abyss, unreadable. I don’t know this man and find nothing in him I can use. My skin crawls at his touch and I wish for my lightning, to put a little distance between us. Over his shoulder, Daraeus shifts so he can see me better. His gold beading catches the winter light, filling his hair with dazzling brightness.
“King Maven, we would like to hear it from her own lips,” Daraeus says, leaning in to Maven. Then he smiles, all ease and charisma. Daraeus is beautiful and uses his looks well. “Prince Bracken’s request, you understand. We only need a few minutes.”
Alexandret, Daraeus, Bracken. I commit the names to memory.
“Ask what you will.” Maven’s hands grip the edge of his seat. Neither one stops smiling, and nothing has ever looked so false. “Right here.”
After a long moment, Daraeus relents. He inclines his head in a deferential bow. “Very well, Your Majesty.”
Then his body blurs, moving so quickly I barely see his movements. He is suddenly right beside me. Swift. Not as fast as my brother, but fast enough to send a shock of adrenaline coursing through me. I still don’t know what Alexandret can do. I can only pray he isn’t a whisper, that I won’t have to face such torture again.
“Is the Scarlet Guard operating in Piedmont?” Alexandret asks as he looms over me, his deep eyes boring into mine. Unlike Daraeus, there is no smile in him.
I wait for the telltale sting of another mind crashing into my own. It never comes. The manacles—they won’t allow an ability to penetrate my cocoon of silence.
My voice cracks. “What?”
“I want to hear what you know of the Scarlet Guard’s operations in Piedmont.”
Every interrogation I’ve been subjected to has been performed by a whisper. It’s odd to have someone ask me questions freely, and trust my answers without splitting open my skull. I suppose Samson has already told the princes everything he learned from me, but they don’t trust what he said. Smart, then, to see if my story matches up with his.
“The Scarlet Guard is good at keeping secrets,” I reply, my thoughts a blur. Do I lie? Do I throw more fuel to the fire of distrust between Maven and Piedmont? “I wasn’t allowed much information regarding their operations.”
“Your operations.” Alexandret furrows his brow, forming a deep crease in the center of his forehead. “You were their leader. I refuse to believe you can be so useless to us.”
Useless. Two months ago I was the lightning girl, a storm in human form. But before that I was as he says. Useless to everyone and everything, even my enemies. Back in the Stilts I hated it. Now I’m glad. I’m a poor weapon for a Silver to wield.
“I am not their leader,” I tell Alexandret. Behind me, I hear Maven shift, settling back into his seat. I hope he’s squirming. “I never even met their leaders.”
He doesn’t believe me. But he doesn’t believe what he’s already been told either. “How many of your operatives are in Piedmont?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who is funding your endeavors?”
“I don’t know.”
It starts as a prickle in my fingers and toes. A tiny sensation. Not pleasant but not uncomfortable. Like when a limb goes numb. Alexandret never lets go of my jaw. The manacles, I tell myself. They will protect me from him. They must.
“Where are Prince Michael and Princess Charlotta?”
“I don’t know who those people are.”
Michael, Charlotta. More names to memorize. The prickling continues, now in my arms and legs. I draw hissing breath through my teeth.
His eyes narrow in concentration. I brace myself for an explosion of pain born of whatever ability he will subject me to. “Have you had any contact with the Free Republic of Montfort?”
Still the prickling is bearable. Only his tight grip on my jaw is truly painful.
“Yes,” I bite out.
Then he pulls back, letting my chin go with a sneer. He glances at my wrists, then forcibly raises one sleeve to see my bindings. The buzzing in my arms and legs recedes as he scowls.
“Your Majesty, I wonder if I might question her without manacles of Silent Stone?” Another demand disguised as a request.
This time, Maven denies him. Without my manacles, his ability will be unbound. It must be enormous for it to have penetrated even a little through my cage of silence. I’ll be tortured. Again.
“You may not, Your Highness. She is far too dangerous for that,” Maven says with a curt shake of his head. In spite of all my hatred, I feel the smallest bloom of gratitude. “And, as you said, she’s valuable. I can’t have you breaking her.”
Samson doesn’t bother to hide his disgust. “Someone should.”
“Is there anything else I can do for Your Highnesses, or for Prince Bracken?” Maven pushes on, speaking over his demonic cousin. He unfolds himself from his chair, using one hand to smooth his dress uniform studded with medals and badges of honor. But he keeps one hand on the seat, clawed around an arm of Silent Stone. It is his anchor and his shield.
Daraeus bows low enough for both princes, smiling again. “I did hear rumors of a feast.”
“For once,” Maven replies with a sharp grin in my direction, “the rumors are true.”
Lady Blonos never taught me the protocol for entertaining royalty of an ally nation. I’ve seen feasts before, balls, a Queenstrial I inadvertently ruined, but never anything like this. Perhaps because Maven’s father was not so concerned with appearance, but Maven is his mother’s son in flesh and bone. To look powerful is to be powerful, she said once. Today he takes that lesson to heart. His advisers, his Piedmont guests, and I are seated at a long table where we can overlook all the rest.
I’ve never set foot in this ballroom before. It dwarfs the throne room, the galleries, and the feasting chambers of the rest of Whitefire. It fits the entire assembled court, all the lords and ladies and their extended families, with ease. The chamber is three stories tall, towering windows of crystal and colored glass, each one depicting the colors of the High Houses. The result is a dozen rainbows arcing over a marble floor veined with black granite, each beam of light a prism shifting through the diamond facets of chandeliers worked into trees, birds, sunbeams, constellations, storms, infernos, typhoons, and a dozen other symbols of Silver strength. I would spend the entire meal staring at the ceiling if not for own my precarious position. At least I’m not next to Maven this time. The princes have to suffer him tonight. But Jon is on my left and Evangeline on my right. I keep my elbows tucked sharply to my sides, not wanting to accidentally touch either of them. Evangeline might stab me, and Jon might share another nauseating premonition.
Luckily, the food is good. I force myself to eat, and I keep away from the liquor. Red servants circulate, and no glass is ever empty. After ten minutes of trying
to catch someone’s eye, I abandon the pursuit. The servants are smart, and not willing to risk their lives for a glance at me.
I fix my eyes ahead, counting the tables, counting the High Houses. All are here, plus House Calore, represented by Maven alone. He has no cousins or other family that I know of, though I assume they must exist. Like the servants, they’re probably smart enough to avoid his jealous wrath and tremulous grip on the throne.
House Iral seems smaller, dulled despite their vibrant blue-and-red outfits. There are nowhere near as many of them, and I wonder how many Irals were sent to Corros Prison. Or maybe they fled court. Sonya is still here, though, her posture elegant and practiced but strangely tense. She’s traded her officer’s uniform for a sparkling gown and sits beside an older man, resplendent in a collar of rubies and sapphires. Probably the new lord of her house since his predecessor, the Panther, was murdered by a man sitting only a few feet away. I wonder if Sonya told them what I said about her grandmother and Ptolemus. I wonder if they care.
I jolt when Sonya looks up sharply, catching my eye.
Next to me, Jon sighs long and low. He picks up his glass of scarlet wine with one hand and shunts his dinner knife away with the other.
“Mare, could you do me a small favor?” he says calmly.
Even his voice disgusts me. Sneering, I turn to look at him with all the venom I can muster. “Excuse me?”
Something cracks, and pain sears along my cheekbone, cutting skin, burning flesh. I jerk from the sensation, falling sideways, shying away like a spooked animal. My shoulder collides with Jon, and he pitches forward, spilling wine and water over the fine tablecloth. Blood too. There’s a lot of blood. I feel it, warm and wet, but I don’t look down to see the color. My eyes are on Evangeline, standing from the table, one arm outstretched.
A bullet shudders on the air in front of her, held in place. I assume it matches the one that cut my cheek—and could have done much worse.
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