“I won’t,” he growls under his breath, so low I almost don’t hear him as he stalks from the room.
The Arvens enter and seize me beneath my arms, pulling me away from the table of papers, all of them slipping from reach.
I’m surprised to learn that Maven’s usually meticulous schedule of hearings and court gatherings is suspended for the rest of the day. I guess our conversation had a stronger effect than I expected. His absence confines me to my room, to Julian’s books. I force myself to read, if only to block out any memories of the morning. Maven is a talented liar, and I don’t trust a single word he speaks. Even if he was telling the truth. Even if he is a product of his mother’s meddling, a thorned flower forced to grow a certain way. That doesn’t change things. I can’t forget everything he’s done to me and so many others. When I first met him, I was seduced by his pain. He was the boy in shadow, a forgotten son. I saw myself in him. Second always to Gisa, the bright star in my parents’ world. I know now that was by design. He caught me back then, ensnaring me in a prince’s trap. Now I’m in a king’s cage. But so is he. My chains are Silent Stone. His is the crown.
The country of Norta was forged from smaller kingdoms and lordships, ranging in size from the Samos kingdom of the Rift to the city-state Delphie. Caesar Calore, a Silver lord of Archeon and a talented tactician, united fractured Norta against the looming threat of joint invasion by Piedmont and the Lakelands. Once he crowned himself king, he married his daughter Juliana to Garion Savanna, the ruling high prince of Piedmont. This act cemented a lasting alliance between House Calore and the princes of Piedmont. Many children of Calore and Piedmont royalty upheld the marriage alliance for the following centuries. King Caesar brought an age of prosperity to Norta, and as such, Nortan calendars consider the beginning of his reign the demarcation of the “New Era,” or NE.
It takes me three tries to get through the paragraph. Julian’s histories are much denser than what I had to learn in school. My thoughts keep drifting. Black hair, blue eyes. Tears Maven refuses to show, even to me. Is it another performance? What do I do if it is? What do I do if it isn’t? My heart breaks for him; my heart hardens against him. I push on to avoid such thoughts.
In contrast, relations between newly founded Norta and the extensive Lakelands deteriorated. Following a series of border wars with Prairie in the second century NE, the Lakelands lost vital agricultural territory in the Minnowan region as well as control of the Great River (also known as the Miss). Taxation following the war, as well as the threat of famine and Red rebellion, forced expansion along the Nortan border. Skirmishes sparked on either side. To prevent further bloodshed, King Tiberias the Third of Norta and King Onekad Cygnet of the Lakelands met in a historic summit at the crossing of Maiden Falls. Negotiations fell apart quickly, and in 200 NE, both kingdoms declared war, each blaming the other for the breakdown in their diplomatic relations.
I can’t help but laugh. Nothing ever changes.
Known as the Lakelander War in Norta, and the Aggression in the Lakelands, the conflict is still ongoing at the time of writing. Total Silver death tolls number approximately five hundred thousand, most in the first decade of war. Accurate records for Red soldiers are not kept, but estimates put the total death toll in excess of fifty million, with casualties more than twice that number. Both Lakelander and Nortan casualties are equal in proportion to their native Red populations.
It takes longer than I care to admit, but I scratch out the math in my head. Almost one hundred times more. If this book belonged to anyone other than Julian, I would throw it away in rage.
A century of war and wasteful bloodshed.
How can anyone change something like that?
For once I find myself counting on Maven’s ability to twist and scheme. Perhaps he can see a way—forge a path—that no one before him has imagined.
THIRTEEN
Mare
A week passes until I leave my room again. Even though they’re a gift from Maven, a reminder of his strange obsession with me, I’m glad for Julian’s books. They’re my only company. A piece of a friend in this place. I keep them close, alongside Gisa’s silk scrap.
Pages pass with the days. I work back through the histories, traveling through words that become less and less believable. Three hundred years of Calore kings, centuries of Silver warlords—this is a world I recognize. But the farther I go, the murkier things become.
Written records of the so-called Reformation Period are scarce, though most scholars agree that the period began sometime around 1500 Old Era (or OE) by the modern Nortan calendar. Most records dating before the Reformation, immediately following, during, or prior to the Calamities that befell the continent, were almost entirely destroyed, were lost, or are impossible to read at present. Those recovered are closely studied and guarded within the Royal Archives in Delphie, as well as similar facilities in neighboring kingdoms. The Calamities themselves have been studied at length, using field investigation paired with pre-Silverian myth to postulate events. At the time of writing, many believe that a combination of ultimate human war, geologic shift, climate change, and other natural catastrophes resulted in the near extinction of the human race.
The earliest discovered, translatable records date from approximately 950 OE, but the exact year cannot be verified. One document, The Trial of Barr Rambler, is an incomplete account of the attempted court trial of an accused thief in reconstructed Delphie. Barr was accused of stealing his neighbor’s wagon. During the course of the trial, Barr reportedly broke his chains of binding “as if made of twigs” and escaped despite a full guard. It is believed to be the first record of a Silver displaying his ability. To this day, House Rhambos claims to trace its strongarm bloodline from him. However, this claim is refuted by another court record, The Trial of Hillman, Tryent, Davids, wherein three men of Delphie were tried for the subsequent murder of Barr Rambler, who was reported to have no children. The three men were acquitted and later praised by the citizens of Delphie for their work in destroying “the Rambler abomination” (Delphie Records and Writings, Vol. 1).
The treatment of Barr Rambler was not an isolated incident. Many early writings and documents detail fear and persecution of a rising population of abilitied humans with silver-colored blood. Most banded together for protection, forming communities outside Red-dominated cities. The Reformation Period ended with the rise of Silver societies, some living in conjunction with Red cities, though most eventually overtook their red-blooded counterparts.
Silvers persecuted by Reds. I want to laugh at the thought. How stupid. How impossible. I’ve lived every day of my life knowing they are gods and we are insects. I cannot even begin to fathom a world where the reverse was true.
These are Julian’s books. He saw enough merit here to study them. Still, I feel too unsettled to continue, and I keep my reading to later years. The New Era, the Calore kings. Names and places I know in a civilization I understand.
One day my delivered clothes are plainer than ever. Comfortable, made for utility rather than style. My first indication of something amiss. I almost look like a Security officer, with stretchy pants, a black jacket sparsely embellished with pinprick whorls of ruby beading, and shockingly sensible boots. Polished but worn leather, no heel, just the right amount of pinch, and enough room for my ankle manacles. The ones at the wrist are hidden as usual, covered by gloves. Fur-lined. For the cold. My heart leaps. I’ve never been so excited about gloves.
“Am I going outside?” I ask Kitten breathlessly, forgetting how good she is at ignoring me. She doesn’t disappoint, staring straight ahead as she leads me from my luxurious cell. Clover is always easier to read. The twitch of her lips and narrowed green eyes are affirmation enough. Not to mention that they, too, are both wearing thick coats as well as gloves, albeit the rubber ones to protect their hands from electricity I no longer possess.
Outside. I haven’t tasted much more than a breeze from an open window since that day on the steps of th
e palace. I thought Maven was going to take my head off, so obviously my mind was elsewhere. Now I wish I could remember the cold air of November, the sharp wind bringing winter with it. In my haste, I almost outpace the Arvens. They’re quick to yank me in line and make me match their steps. It’s a maddening descent, down stairs and corridors I know by heart.
Familiar pressure ripples against me, and I glance over my shoulder. Egg and Trio join our ranks, bringing up the rear of my Arven guard. They move in unison with Kitten and Clover, steps matching, as we make our way to the entrance hall and Caesar’s Square.
Quick as my excitement came, it bleeds away.
Fear gnaws at my insides. I tried to manipulate Maven into making costly mistakes, to make him doubt, to burn the last bridges he has left. But maybe I failed. Maybe he’s going to burn me instead.
I focus on the click of my boots on marble. Something solid to anchor my fear. My fists curl in my gloves, begging for a spark to tide me over. It never comes.
The palace seems strangely empty, even more so than usual. Doors are shut fast, while servants flutter through the rooms that aren’t closed yet, quick and quiet as mice. They flutter white sheets over furniture and artwork, covering them up in strange shrouds. Few guards, fewer nobles. The ones I pass are young and wide-eyed. I know their houses, their colors, and I can see naked fear on their faces. All are dressed like me, for the cold, for function. For movement.
“Where is everyone going?” I ask no one, because no one is going to answer.
Clover harshly yanks on my ponytail, forcing me to look straight ahead. It doesn’t hurt, but the action is jarring. She never handles me this way, not unless I give her a good reason.
I spin through the possibilities. Is this an evacuation? Has the Scarlet Guard attempted another assault on Archeon? Or have the rebelling houses returned to finish what they started? No, it can’t be either. This is too calm. We’re not running from anything.
As we cross the hall, I take a deep breath, looking around. Marble beneath me, chandeliers above me, tall glimmering mirrors and gilded paintings of Calore ancestors marching up the walls on either side. Red and black banners, silver and gold and crystal. I feel like it’s all going to crash down and crush me. Fear creeps down my spine when the doors ahead swing open, metal and glass easing on giant hinges. The first breath of cold wind hits me head-on, making my eyes water.
The winter sun shines bright on the gleaming square, blinding me for a second. I blink rapidly, trying to make my eyes adjust. I can’t afford to miss a second of this. The outside world comes into focus steadily. Snow lies deep on the rooftops of the palace and the surrounding structures of Caesar’s Square.
Soldiers line either side of the steps leading down from the palace, immaculate in their neat rows. The Arvens lead me through the double row of soldiers, past their guns and uniforms and unblinking eyes. I turn to look over my shoulder as I walk, stealing a glance at the opulent pale hulk of Whitefire Palace. Silhouettes prowl the roof. Officers in black uniforms, soldiers in clouded gray. Even from here, their rifles are clearly visible, silhouetted against a cold blue sky. And those are just the guards I can see. There must be more patrolling the walls, manning the gates, concealed and ready to defend this wretched place. Hundreds, probably, kept for their loyalty and lethal ability. We cross the square alone, for no one, for nothing. What is this?
I note the buildings we pass. The Royal Court, a circular building with smooth marble walls, spiraled columns, and a crystal dome, has gone unused since Maven’s coronation. It is a symbol of power, a massive hall large enough to seat the assembled High Houses and their retainers, as well as important members of the Silver citizenry. I’ve never been inside. I hope I never am. The judiciary courts, where Silver law is made and enacted with brutal efficiency, branch out from the domed structure. Next to their arches and crystal trappings, the Treasury Hall looks dull. Slab walls—more marble, and I have to wonder how many quarries this place sucked dry—no windows, sitting like a block of stone among sculptures. The wealth of Norta is somewhere in there, more defended than the king, locked in vaults drilled deep into the bedrock below us.
“This way,” Clover growls, pulling me toward the Treasury.
“Why?” I ask. Again, no one answers.
My heartbeat quickens, hammering against my rib cage, and I struggle to keep my breathing even. Each cold gasp feels like the tick of a clock, steadily counting down the moments before I’m swallowed up.
The doors are thick, thicker than the ones I remember from Corros Prison. They open wide as a yawning mouth, flanked by guards in liveried purple. The Treasury has no grand entrance hall, in sharp contrast to every other Silver structure I’ve ever seen. It’s just a long white corridor, curving and sloping downward in a steady spiral. Guards stand at attention every ten yards or so, flush against pure white stone. Where the vaults might be, or where I’m going, I can’t say.
After exactly six hundred steps, we stop in front of a guard.
Without a word he steps forward and to the side, putting his fingers to the wall behind him. He pushes and the marble glides backward a foot, revealing the silhouette of a door. It slides easily at his touch, widening to create a three-foot gap in the stone. The soldier doesn’t strain at all. Strongarm, I note.
The stone is thick and heavy. My fear triples, and I swallow hard, feeling my hands start to sweat in my gloves. Maven is finally putting me in a real cell.
Kitten and Clover shove me, trying to take me off guard, but I plant my feet, locking every joint against them. “No!” I shout, driving a shoulder back into one of them. Kitten grunts but doesn’t stop, continuing to push while Clover takes me around the middle, lifting me clean off the floor.
“You can’t put me down here!” I don’t know what card to play, what mask to put on. Do I cry? Do I beg? Do I act like the rebel queen they think I am? Which one will save me? Fear overrules my senses. I gasp like a girl drowning. “Please, I can’t—I can’t—”
I kick at open air, trying to topple Clover, but she’s stronger than I expect. Egg takes my legs, cleanly ignoring my heel as it cracks into his jaw. They carry me like a piece of furniture, without thought or attention.
Twisting, I manage to catch sight of the Treasury guard as the door slides back into place. He hums to himself, nonchalant. Another day on the job for him. I force myself to look forward, at whatever fate awaits me in these white depths.
This vault is empty; its walkway corkscrews like the corridor, albeit in tighter circles. Nothing marks the walls. No distinguishing features, no seams, not even guards. Just lights overhead and stone all around.
“Please.” My voice echoes in the silence, alone with the sound of my racing heartbeat.
I stare up at the ceiling, willing this all to be a dream.
When they drop me, I gasp, the wind knocked from my lungs. Still, I roll to my feet as quickly as I can. As I stand, fists clenched, teeth bared, I’m ready to fight and willing to lose. I won’t be abandoned here without taking someone’s teeth.
The Arvens stand back, side by side, unamused. Uninterested. Their focus is beyond me, behind me.
I whirl to find myself staring, not at another blank wall, but at a winding platform. Newly built, joining with other corridors or vaults or secret passages. It overlooks tracks.
Before my brain can attempt to connect the dots, before even the briefest whisper of excitement can ripple in my mind, Maven speaks, and smashes my hope to pieces.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself.” His voice echoes from my left, farther down the platform. He stands there, waiting, a guard of Sentinels around him, along with Evangeline and Ptolemus. All of them wear coats like mine, with ample fur to keep them warm. Both Samos children are resplendent in black sable.
Maven steps toward me, grinning with the confidence of a wolf. “The Scarlet Guard aren’t the only ones capable of building trains.”
The Undertrain rattled and sparked and rusted all over, a tin he
ap threatening to split apart at its welds. Still, I prefer it to this glamorous slug.
“Your friends gave me the idea, of course,” Maven says from his plush seat across from me. He lazes, proud of himself. I see none of his psychic wounds today. They’re carefully hidden, either pushed aside or forgotten for the moment.
I fight the urge to curl up in my own seat, and I keep both feet firmly planted on the floor. If something goes wrong, I have to be ready to run. As in the palace, I note every inch of Maven’s train, looking for any kind of advantage. I find none. No windows, and Sentinels and Arven guards are planted at either end of the long compartment. It’s furnished like a salon, with paintings, upholstered chairs and couches, even crystal lights tinkling with the motion of the train. But as with everything Silver, I see the cracks. The paint has barely dried. I can smell it. The train is brand-new, untested. At the other end of the compartment, Evangeline’s eyes dart back and forth, betraying her attempt to seem calm. The train rattles her. I bet she can feel every piece of it moving at high speed. It’s a hard sensation to get used to. I never could, always sensing the pulse of machines like the Undertrain or the Blackrun jet. I used to feel the electric blood—I guess she can feel the metal veins.
Her brother sits beside her, glowering at me. He shifts once or twice, nudging her shoulder. Her pained expression relents every time, calmed by his presence. I guess if the new train explodes, they’re strong enough to survive the shrapnel.
“They managed to escape so quickly from the Bowl of Bones, riding the ancient rails all the way to Naercey before even I could get there. I figured it wouldn’t be so bad to have a little escape route of my own,” Maven continues, drumming his fingers on his knee. “You never know what new concoction my brother may dream up in his attempt to overthrow me. Best to be prepared.”
“And what are you escaping from right now?” I mumble, trying to keep my voice low.
He only shrugs and laughs. “Don’t act so glum, Mare. I’m doing us both a favor.” Grinning, he sinks back in his seat. He kicks his feet up, putting them onto the seat beside me. I wrinkle my nose at the action, angling away. “One can only tolerate the prison of Whitefire Palace for so long.”
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