King's Cage

by Victoria Aveyard

“Can you get yourself up?” I ask Ptolemus, reaching for Wren as I speak.

  With a groan, he swings off the stretcher, forcing himself onto unsteady feet. “I’m not a child, Eve; I can cover thirty feet.” To prove his point, the black steel re-forms to his body in sleek scales.

  If we had more time, I would point out the weaknesses in his usually perfect armor. Holes at the sides, thinning across the back. Instead, I only nod. “You first.”

  He lifts a corner of his mouth, trying to smirk, trying to lessen my concern. I exhale in relief as he rises into the air, rocketing up to the ramparts of the wall. Our cousins above catch him deftly, drawing him in with their own ability.

  “Our turn.”

  Wren clings to my side, safe beneath my arm. I haul in a breath, holding on to the feel of the rhodium metal curving beneath my toes, up my legs, over my shoulders. Rise, I tell my armor.

  Pop.

  The first sensation my father made me memorize was a bullet. I slept with one around my neck for two years. Until it became as familiar to me as my colors. I can name rounds from a hundred yards. Know their weight, their shape, their composition. Such a small piece of metal is the difference between another person’s life and my death. It could be my killer, or my savior.

  Pop, pop, pop. The bullets exploding in their chambers feel like needles, sharp, impossible to ignore. They’re coming from behind. My toes hit the ground again as my focus narrows, my hands flying up to shield against the sudden onslaught.

  Armor-piercing rounds, fat copper jackets with brutal tungsten cores and tapered tips, arc before my eyes, flying backward to land harmlessly in the grass. Another volley comes from at least a dozen guns, and I throw out an arm, protecting myself. The thunder of automatic gunfire drowns out Tolly shouting above me.

  Each bullet ripples against my ability, taking another piece of it, of me. Some halt midair; some crumple. I throw everything I can to create a cocoon of safety. From the wall, Tolly and my cousins do the same. They lift the weight enough to actually let me figure out who is shooting at me.

  Red rags, hard eyes. Scarlet Guard.

  I grit my teeth. The bullets in the grass would be easy to toss back into their skulls. Instead, I rip apart the tungsten like wool, spinning it into glinting thread as fast as I can. Tungsten is incredibly heavy and strong. It takes more energy to work. Another bead of sweat rolls along my spine.

  The threads splay out in a web, hitting the twelve rebels head-on. In the same motion, I wrench the guns from their hands, shredding them to pieces. Wren clings to me, holding tightly, and I feel myself pulled back and up, sliding along perfect diamondglass.

  Tolly catches me, as he always does.

  “And down again,” he mutters. His grip on my arm is crushing.

  Wren gulps, leaning to look. Her eyes widen. “Bit farther this time.”

  I know. It’s a hundred feet down sheer cliff, and then another two hundred over sloping rock to twist around to the river’s edge. In the shadow of the bridge, Father said.

  In the garden, the rebels struggle, straining against my net. I feel them push and pull it, as the metal itself strains to break apart. It eats at my focus. Tungsten, I curse to myself. I need more practice.

  “Let’s go,” I tell them all.

  Behind me, the tungsten cracks apart into dust. A strong, heavy thing, but brittle. Without a magnetron’s hand, it breaks before it bends.

  House Samos is done with both.

  We will not break, and we will no longer bend.

  The boats cut soundlessly through the water, gliding across the surface. We make good time. Our only obstacle is the pollution of Gray Town. The stink of it clings to my hair, still foul in my body even as we break through the second ring of barrier trees. Wren senses my discomfort and puts a hand on my bare wrist. Her healing touch clears my lungs and chases away my exhaustion. Pushing steel through water becomes tiring after a while.

  Mother leans over the sleek side of my boat, trailing one hand in the flowing Capital. A few catfish rise to her touch, their whiskers twining with her fingers. The slimy beasts don’t bother her, but I shudder with disgust. She isn’t concerned by whatever they tell her, meaning they can’t sense anyone pursuing us. Her falcon overhead keeps watch as well. When the sun sets, Mother will replace him with bats. As expected, not a scratch on her, or Father. He stands at the prow of the lead boat, setting our path. A black silhouette against the blue river and green hills. His presence calms me more than the peaceful valley.

  No one speaks for many miles. Not even the cousins, who I can usually count on for nonsense chatter. Instead, they focus on discarding their Security uniforms. Emblems of Norta float in our wake, while the jewel-bright medals and badges sink into darkness. Hard earned with Samos blood, marks of our allegiance and loyalty. Now lost to the depths of the river and the past.

  We are not Nortans anymore.

  “So it’s decided,” I murmur.

  Behind me, Tolly straightens up. His ruined arm is still bandaged. Wren won’t risk regrowing an entire hand on the river. “Was there ever any doubt?”

  “Was there ever a choice?” Mother turns to look over her shoulder. She moves with the lean grace of a cat, stretching out in her bright green gown. The butterflies are long gone. “A weak king we could control, but there’s no handling madness. As soon as Iral decided to oppose him outright, our play was decided for us. And choosing the Lakelander”—she rolls her eyes—“Maven cut the last bonds between our houses himself.”

  I almost scoff in her face. No one decides anything for my father. But laughing at Mother is not a mistake I’m stupid enough to make. “Will the other houses back us, then? I know Father was negotiating.” Leaving his children alone, at the mercy of Maven’s increasingly volatile court. More words I would never dare say aloud to either of my parents.

  Mother senses them anyway. “You did well, Eve,” she croons, putting a hand to my hair. She runs a few silver strands through her wet fingers. “And you, Ptolemus. Between that mess in Corvium and the house rebellions, no one doubted your allegiance. You bought us time, valuable time.”

  I keep my focus on steel and water, ignoring her cold touch. “I hope it was worth it.”

  Before today, Maven faced multiple rebellions. Without House Samos, our resources, our lands, our soldiers, how could he stand to win? But before today, he didn’t have the Lakelands. Now I have no idea what might unfold. I don’t like the feeling at all. My life has been a study in planning and patience. An uncertain future frightens me.

  In the west, the sun sinks red against the hills. Red as Elane’s hair.

  She’s waiting, I tell myself again. She’s safe.

  Her sister was not so fortunate. Mariella died poorly, hollowed out by the seething Merandus whisper. I avoided him as much as I could, glad I knew nothing of Father’s plans.

  I saw the depths of his punishment in Mare. After the interrogation, she flinched from him like a kicked dog. It was my fault. I forced Maven’s hand. Without my interference, he might have never let the whisper have his way—but then he would have stayed away from Mare altogether. He would not have been so blinded by her. Instead, he did as I hoped, and drew her closer. I expected them to drown each other. How easy. Sink two enemies with one anchor. But she refused to break. The girl I remember, the masquerading, terrified servant who believed every lie, would have submitted to Maven months ago. Instead, she donned a different mask. Danced on his strings, sat by his side, lived a half-life without freedom or ability. And still held on to her pride, her fire, her anger. It was always there, burning in her eyes.

  I have to respect her for that. Even though she took so much from me.

  She was a constant reminder of what I was supposed to be. A princess. A queen. I was born ten months after Tiberias. I was made to marry him.

  My first memories are of Mother’s snakes hissing in my ears, breathing her whispers and promises. You are a daughter of fangs and steel. What are you meant for, if not t
o rule? Every lesson in the classroom or the arena was preparation. Be the best, the strongest, the smartest, the most deadly and the most cunning. The most worthy. And I was everything.

  Kings are not known for their kindness or their compassion. Queenstrial is not meant to make happy marriages, but strong children. With Cal, I had both. He would not have begrudged me my own consort, or tried to control me. His eyes were soft and thoughtful. He was more than I had ever hoped for. And I had earned him with every drop of blood I’d spilled, all my sweat, all my tears of pain and frustration. Every sacrifice of who my heart wanted to be.

  The night before Queenstrial, I dreamed what it would be like. My throne. My royal children. Subject to no one, not even Father. Tiberias would be my friend and Elane my lover. She would marry Tolly, as planned, ensuring none of us could ever be parted.

  Then Mare fell into our lives and blew that dream away like sand.

  Once, I thought the crown prince would do the unthinkable. Push me aside for the long-lost Titanos with strange ways and an even stranger ability. Instead, she was a deadly pawn, sweeping my king from the board. The paths of fate have strange twists. I wonder if that newblood seer knew about today. Does he laugh at what he sees? I wish I’d gotten my hands on him just once. I hate not knowing.

  On the banks ahead, manicured lawns come into view. The edges of the grass tinge gold and red, giving the estates lining the river a lovely glow. Our own manor house is close, just one more mile. Then we turn west. Toward our true home.

  Mother never answered my question.

  “So, was Father able to convince the other houses?” I ask her.

  She narrows her eyes, her entire body tightening. Coiling up, like one of her snakes. “House Laris was already with us.”

  That I knew. Along with controlling most of the Nortan Air Fleet, the Laris windweavers govern the Rift. In truth, they rule by our command. Eager puppets, willing to trade anything to maintain our iron and coal mines.

  Elane. House Haven. If they aren’t with us—

  I lick lips that are suddenly dry. A fist clenches at my side. The boat groans beneath me. “And . . .”

  “Iral has not agreed to the terms, and more than half of Haven won’t either.” Mother sniffs. She folds her arms across her chest, as if insulted. “Don’t worry, Elane isn’t one of them. Please stop crushing the boat. I don’t feel like swimming the last mile.”

  Tolly nudges my arm, a slight touch. Exhaling, I realize my grip on the steel was a bit too strong. The bow smooths again, rippling back into shape.

  “Apologies,” I mutter quickly. “I’m just . . . confused. I thought the terms were already agreed upon. The Rift will rise in open defiance. Iral brings on House Lerolan and all of Delphie. An entire state will secede.”

  Mother glances past me, to Father. He angles his boat toward the shore, and I follow his lead. Our familiar estate peeks through the trees, backlit by dusk. “There was some debate over titles.”

  “Titles?” I sneer. “How stupid. What could their argument possibly be?”

  Steel hits stone, bumping up to the low retaining wall running along the water. With a small burst of focus, I hold the metal firm against the current. Wren helps Tolly out first, stepping up onto the lush carpet of grass. Mother watches, her gaze lingering on his missing hand while the cousins follow.

  A shadow falls over us both. Father. He stands over her shoulder. A light wind ripples his cloak, playing along the folds of void-black silk and silver thread. Hidden beneath is a suit of blue-tinged chromium so fine it could be liquid.

  “‘I will not kneel to another greedy king,’” he whispers. Father’s voice is always soft as velvet, deadly as a predator. “That’s what Salin Iral said.”

  He reaches down, offering my mother his hand. She takes it deftly and steps from the boat. It doesn’t move under her, held by my ability.

  Another king.

  “Father . . . ?”

  The word dies in my mouth.

  “Cousins of iron!” he shouts, never breaking our stare.

  Behind him, our Samos cousins drop to a knee. Ptolemus does not, looking on with as much confusion as I feel. Blood members of a house do not kneel to one another. Not like this.

  They respond as one, their voices ringing. “Kings of steel!”

  Quickly, Father extends his hand, catching my wrist before my shock ripples the boat beneath.

  His whisper is almost too low to hear.

  “To the Kingdom of the Rift.”

  TWENTY

  Mare

  The green-uniformed teleporter lands evenly, on steady feet. It’s been a long time since the world squeezed and blurred for me. The last time was Shade. The split-second memory of him aches. Paired with my wound and the nauseating rush of pain, it’s no wonder I collapse to my hands and knees. Spots dance before my eyes, threatening to spread and consume. I will myself to stay awake and not vomit all over . . . wherever I am.

  Before I can look much farther than the metal beneath my fingers, someone pulls me up into a crushing embrace. I cling on as hard as I can.

  “Cal,” I whisper in his ear, lips brushing flesh. He smells like smoke and blood, heat and sweat. My head fits perfectly in the space between his neck and shoulder.

  He trembles in my arms, shaking. Even his breath hitches. He’s thinking the same thing I am.

  This can’t be real.

  Slowly, he pulls back, bringing his hands to cup my face. He searches my eyes and glares over every inch of me. I do the same, looking for the trick, the lie, the betrayal. Maybe Maven has skin changers like Nanny. Maybe this is another Merandus hallucination. I could wake up on Maven’s train, to his ice eyes and Evangeline’s razor smile. The entire wedding, my escape, the battle—some horrific joke. But Cal feels real.

  He’s paler than I remember, with blunt, close-cut hair. It would curl like Maven’s if given the chance. Rough stubble lines his cheeks, along with a few minor nicks and cuts along the sharp edges of his jaw. He is leaner than I remember, his muscles harder beneath my hands. Only his eyes remain the same. Bronze, red-gold, like iron brought to blazing heat.

  I look different too. A skeleton, an echo. He runs a limp lock of hair through his fingers, watching the brown fade to brittle gray. And then he touches the scars. At my neck, my spine, ending with the brand below my ruined dress. His fingers are gentle, shockingly so after we almost ripped each other apart. I am glass to him, a fragile thing that might shatter or disappear at any moment.

  “It’s me,” I tell him, whispering words we both need to hear. “I’m back.”

  I’m back.

  “Is it you, Cal?” I sound like a child.

  He nods, his gaze never wavering. “It’s me.”

  I move because he won’t, taking us both by surprise. My lips mold to his with ferocity, and I pull him in. His heat falls like a blanket around my shoulders. I fight to keep my sparks from doing the same. Still, the hairs on his neck rise, responding to the electric current jumping in the air. Neither of us closes our eyes. This might still be a dream.

  He comes to his senses first, scooping me off my feet. A dozen faces pretend to look away in some semblance of propriety. I don’t care. Let them look. No flush of shame rises. I’ve been forced to do far worse in front of a crowd.

  We’re on an airjet. The long fuselage, dull roar of engines, and clouds slipping past make it unmistakable. Not to mention the delicious purr of electricity pulsing through wires spanning every inch. I reach out, laying my palm flat against the cool, curved metal of the jet wall. It would be easy to drink the rhythmic pulse, pull it into me. Easy and stupid. As much as I want to gorge myself on the sensation, that would end very poorly.

  Cal never removes his hand from the small of my back. He turns to look over his shoulder, addressing one of the dozen people harnessed in their seats.

  “Healer Reese, her first,” he says.

  “Sure thing.”

  My grin disappears the second an unfamiliar ma
n puts his hands on me. His fingers close around my wrist. The grip feels wrong, heavy. Like stone. Manacles. Without thought, I smack him away and jump back, as if burned. Terror mauls my insides as sparks spit from my fingers. Faces flash, clouding my vision. Maven, Samson, the Arven guards with their bruising hands and hard eyes. Overhead, the lights flicker.

  The red-haired healer flinches back, yelping, as Cal smoothly angles between us.

  “Mare, he’s going to treat your wounds. He’s a newblood, with us.” He braces one hand against the wall by my face, shielding me. Boxing me in. Suddenly the decent-sized jet is too small, the air stale and suffocating. The weight of manacles is gone but not forgotten. I still feel them at my wrists and ankles.

  The lights flicker again. I swallow hard, squeezing my eyes shut, trying to focus. Control. But my heartbeat rages on, my pulse a thunder. I suck down air through gritted teeth, willing myself to calm down. You’re safe. You’re with Cal, the Guard. You’re safe.

  Cal takes my face again, pleading. “Open your eyes, look at me.”

  No one else makes a sound.

  “Mare, no one is going to hurt you here. It’s all over. Look at me!” I hear the desperation in him. He knows as well as I do what could happen to the jet if I lose control entirely.

  The jet shifts beneath my feet, angling down in a steady decline. Getting us close to the ground should the worst happen. Setting my jaw, I force my eyes open.

  Look at me.

  Maven said those words once. In Harbor Bay. When the sounder threatened to tear me apart. I hear him in Cal’s voice, see him in Cal’s face. No, I escaped you. I got away. But Maven is everywhere.

  Cal sighs, exasperated and pained. “Cameron.”

  The name rips my eyes open and I slam both fists into Cal’s chest. He stumbles back, surprised by the force. A silver flush colors his cheeks. He knits his brows in confusion.

  Behind him, Cameron keeps one hand on her seat, steadily swaying with the motion of the jet. She looks strong, zipped into thick-weave tactical gear, with her fresh braids tightly wound to her head. Her deep brown eyes bore into mine.