King's Cage

by Victoria Aveyard

  “Officers’ quarters,” Cal mutters under his breath. “This is a royal base. Government funded. There’s only a few Piedmont bases of this size.”

  His tone tells me he wonders as I do. Then how are we here?

  We slow in front of the only house with every window ablaze. Without thought, I vault over the side of the transport, almost tripping over the rags of my dress. My vision narrows to the path in front of me. Gravel walk, flagstone steps. The ripples of movement behind curtained windows. I hear only my heartbeat, and the creak of an opening door.

  Mom reaches me first, outstripping both my long-limbed brothers. The collision almost knocks the air from my lungs, and her resulting hug actually does. I don’t mind. She could break every bone in my body and I wouldn’t mind.

  Bree and Tramy half carry both of us up the steps and into the row house. They’re shouting something while Mom whispers in my ear. I hear none of it. Happiness and joy overwhelm every sense. I’ve never felt anything like it.

  My knees brush against a rug and Mom kneels with me in the middle of the large foyer. She keeps kissing my face, alternating cheeks so quickly I think they might bruise. Gisa worms in with us, her dark red hair ablaze in the corner of my eye. Like the Colonel, she has a dusting of new freckles, brown spots against golden skin. I tuck her close. She used to be smaller.

  Tramy grins over us, sporting a dark, well-kept beard. He was always trying to grow one as a teenager. Never got further than patchy stubble. Bree used to tease him. Not now. He braces himself against my back, thick arms wrapping around Mom and me. His cheeks are wet. With a jolt, I realize mine are too.

  “Where’s . . . ?” I ask.

  Thankfully, I don’t have time to fear the worst. When he appears, I wonder if I’m hallucinating.

  He leans heavy on Kilorn’s arm and a cane. The months have been good to him. Regular meals filled him out. He walks slowly from an adjoining room. Walks. His pace is stilted, unnatural, unfamiliar. My father has not had two legs in years. Or more than one working lung. As he approaches, eyes bright, I listen. No rasp. No click of a machine to help him breathe. No squeak of a rusty old wheelchair. I don’t know what to think or say. I forgot how tall he is.

  Healers. Probably Sara herself. I thank her a thousand times silently inside my heart. Slowly, I stand, pulling the army jacket tight around me. It has bullet holes. Dad eyes them, still a soldier.

  “You can hug me. I won’t fall over,” he says.

  Liar. He almost topples when I wrap my arms around his middle, but Kilorn keeps him upright. We embrace in a way we haven’t been able to since I was a little girl.

  Mom’s soft hands brush my hair away from my face, and she settles her head next to mine. They keep me between them, sheltered and safe. And for that moment, I forget. There is no Maven, no manacles, no brand, no scars. No war, no rebellion.

  No Shade.

  I wasn’t the only one missing from our family. Nothing can change that.

  He isn’t here, and never will be again. My brother is alone on an abandoned island.

  I refuse to let another Barrow share his fate.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Mare

  The bathwater swirls brown and red. Dirt and blood. Mom drains the water twice, and still she keeps finding more in my hair. At least the healer on the jet took care of my fresh wounds, so I can enjoy the soapy heat without any more pain. Gisa perches on a stool by the edge of the tub, her spine straight in the stiff posture she perfected over the years. Either she’s gotten prettier or six months dulled my memory of her face. Straight nose, full lips, and sparkling, dark eyes. Mom’s eyes, my eyes. The eyes all the Barrows have, except Shade. He was the only one of us with eyes like honey or gold. From my dad’s mother. Those eyes are gone forever.

  I turn from thoughts of my brother and stare at Gisa’s hand. The one I broke with my foolish mistakes.

  The skin is smooth now, the bones reset. No evidence of her mangled body part, shattered by the butt of a Security officer’s gun.

  “Sara,” Gisa explains gently, flexing her fingers.

  “She did a good job,” I tell her. “With Dad too.”

  “That took a whole week, you know. Regrowing everything from the thigh down. And he’s still getting used to it. But it didn’t hurt as much as this.” She flexes her fingers, grinning. “You know she had to rebreak these two?” Her index and middle finger wiggle. “Used a hammer. Hurt like hell.”

  “Gisa Barrow, your language is appalling.” I splash a little water at her feet. She swears again, drawing her toes away.

  “Blame the Scarlet Guard. Seems they spend all their time cursing and asking for more flags.” Sounds about right. Not one to be outdone, Gisa reaches into the tub and flicks water at me.

  Mom tuts at both of us. She tries to look stern, and fails horribly. “None of that, you two.”

  A fuzzy white towel snaps between her hands, held out. As much as I want to spend another hour soaking in soothing hot water, I want to get back downstairs much more.

  The water sloshes around me as I stand up and step out of the bath, curling into the towel. Gisa’s smile falters a little. My scars are plain as day, pearly bits of white flesh against darker skin. Even Mom glances away, giving me a second to wrap the towel a bit better, hiding the brand on my collarbone.

  I focus on the bathroom instead of their shamed faces. It isn’t as fine as the one I had in Archeon, but the lack of Silent Stone more than makes up for it. Whatever officer lived here had very bright taste. The walls are garish orange trimmed in white to match the porcelain fixings, including a fluted sink, the deep bathtub, and a shower hidden behind a lime-green curtain. My reflection stares back from the mirror over the sink. I look like a drowned rat, albeit a very clean one. Next to my mother, I see our resemblance more closely. She’s small-boned as I am, our skin the same golden shade. Though hers is more careworn and wrinkled, carved with the years.

  Gisa leads us out and into the hall, while Mom follows, drying my hair with another soft towel. They show me into a powder-blue bedroom with two fluffy beds. It’s small but more than suitable. I’d take a dirt floor over the most sumptuous chamber in Maven’s palace. Mom is quick to pull me into a pair of cotton pajamas, not to mention socks and a soft shawl.

  “Mom, I’m going to boil,” I protest kindly, unwinding the shawl from my neck.

  She takes it back with a smile. Then she kisses me again, swooping to brush both my cheeks. “Just making you comfortable.”

  “Trust me, I am,” I tell her, giving her arm a squeeze.

  In the corner, I notice my jeweled gown from the wedding, now reduced to scraps. Gisa follows my gaze and blushes.

  “Thought I could save a bit of it,” my sister admits, looking almost sheepish. “Those are rubies. I’m not going to waste rubies.”

  It seems she has more of my thief’s instincts than I realized.

  And, apparently, so does my mother.

  She speaks before I even take a step toward the bedroom door.

  “If you think I’m going to let you stay up to all hours talking war, you are absolutely incorrect.” To cement her point, she folds her arms and settles directly in my path. My mother is shorter, like me, but she’s a laborer of many years. She is far from weak. I’ve seen her manhandle all three of my brothers, and I know firsthand she’ll wrestle me into bed if she needs to.

  “Mom, there are things I need to say—”

  “Your debriefing is at eight a.m. tomorrow. Say it then.”

  “—and I want to know what I missed—”

  “The Guard overthrew Corvium. They’re working on Piedmont. That’s all anyone downstairs knows.” She speaks rapid-fire, herding me toward the bed.

  I look to Gisa for help, but she backs away, hands raised.

  “I haven’t spoken to Kilorn—”

  “He understands.”

  “Cal—”

  “Is absolutely fine with your father and brothers. He can storm the capital; he c
an handle them.”

  With a smirk, I imagine Cal sandwiched between Bree and Tramy.

  “Besides, he did everything he could to bring you back to us,” she adds with a wink. “They won’t give him any trouble, not tonight at least. Now get in that bed and shut your eyes, or I’ll shut them for you.”

  The lights hiss in their bulbs; the wiring in the room snakes along electric lines of light. None of it compares to the strength of my mother’s voice. I do as she says, clambering under the blankets of the closest bed. To my surprise, she gets in next to me, hugging me close.

  For the thousandth time tonight, she kisses my cheek. “You’re not going anywhere.”

  In my heart, I know that’s not true.

  This war is far from won.

  But at least it can be true for tonight.

  Birds in Piedmont make a horrible racket. They chirp and trill outside the windows, and I imagine droves of them perched in the trees. It’s the only explanation for such noise. They are good for one thing, though: I never heard birds in Archeon. Even before I open my eyes, I know yesterday was not a dream. I know where I’m waking up, and what I’m waking up to.

  Mom is an early riser by habit. Gisa isn’t here either, but I’m not alone. I poke out the bedroom door to find a lanky boy sitting at the top of the stairs, his legs stretched out over the steps.

  Kilorn gets to his feet with a grin, his arms spread wide. There’s a decent chance I’ll fall apart from all the hugging.

  “Took you long enough,” he says. Even after six months of capture and torment, he won’t treat me with kid gloves. We fall back into our old ways with blinding speed.

  I nudge him in the ribs. “No thanks to you.”

  “Yeah, military raids and tactical strikes aren’t exactly my specialty.”

  “You have a specialty?”

  “Well, besides being a nuisance?” he laughs, walking me downstairs. Pots and pans clatter somewhere, and I follow the smell of frying bacon. In the daylight, the row house seems friendly, and out of place for a military base. Butter-yellow walls and florid purple rugs warm the central hallway, but it is suspiciously bare of decorations. Nail holes dot the wallpaper. Maybe a dozen paintings have been removed. The rooms we pass—a salon and a study—are also sparsely furnished. Either the officer who lived here emptied his home, or someone else did it for him.

  Stop it, I tell myself. I’ve earned the right not to think about betrayals or backstabbing for one damn day. You’re safe; you’re safe; it’s over. I repeat the words in my head.

  Kilorn puts an arm out, stopping me at the door to the kitchen. He leans forward into my space, until I can’t avoid his eyes. Green as I remember. They narrow in concern. “You’re okay?”

  Usually, I would nod, smile away the insinuation. I’ve done it so many times before. I pushed away the people closest to me, thinking I could bleed alone. I won’t do that anymore. It made me hateful, horrific. But the words I want to pour out of me won’t come. Not for Kilorn. He wouldn’t understand.

  “Starting to think I need a word that means yes and no at the same time,” I whisper, looking at my toes.

  He puts a hand to my shoulder. It doesn’t linger. Kilorn knows the lines I’ve drawn between us. He won’t push past them. “I’m here when you need to talk.” Not if, when. “I’ll hound you until you do.”

  I offer a shaky grin. “Good.” The sound of cooking fat crackles on the air. “I hope Bree hasn’t eaten it all.”

  My brother certainly tries. While Tramy helps her cook, Bree hovers at Mom’s shoulder, picking strips of bacon right out of the hot grease. She swats him away as Tramy gloats, smirking over a pan of eggs. They’re both adults, but they seem like children, like I remember them. Gisa sits at the kitchen table, watching out of the corner of her eye. Doing her best to remain proper. She drums her fingers on the wooden tabletop.

  Dad is more restrained, leaning against a wall of cabinets, his new leg angled out in front of him. He spots me before the others and offers a small, private smile. Despite the cheerful scene, sadness eats at his edges.

  He feels our missing piece. The one that will never be found.

  I swallow around the lump in my throat, pushing the ghost of Shade away.

  Cal is also noticeably absent. Not that he will stay away long. He’s probably sleeping, or perhaps planning the next stage of . . . whatever’s going on.

  “Other people need to eat,” I scold as I pass Bree. Quickly, I snatch the bacon from his fingers. Six months have not dulled my reflexes or impulses. I grin at him as I take a seat next to Gisa, now twisting her long hair into a neat bun.

  Bree makes a face as he sits, a plate in hand piled with buttered toast. He never ate this well in the army, or on Tuck. Like the rest of us, he’s taking full advantage of the food. “Yeah, Tramy, save some for the rest of us.”

  “Like you really need it,” Tramy retorts, pinching Bree’s cheek. They end up slapping each other away. Children, I think again. And soldiers too.

  Both of them were conscripted, and both of them survived longer than most. Some might call it luck, but they’re strong, both of them. Smart in battle, if not at home. Warriors lie beneath their easy grins and boyish behavior. For now I’m glad I don’t have to see it.

  Mom serves me first. No one complains, not even Bree. I dig into eggs and bacon, as well as a cup of rich, hot coffee with cream and sugar. The food is fit for a Silver noble, and I should know. “Mom, how did you get this?” I ask around bites of egg. Gisa makes a face, wrinkling her nose at the food lolling about in my mouth as I speak.

  “Daily delivery for the street,” Mom replies, tossing a braid of gray-and-brown hair over her shoulder. “This row is all Guard officers, ranking officials, and significant individuals—and their families.”

  “‘Significant individuals’ meaning . . .” I try to read between the lines. “Newbloods?”

  Kilorn answers instead. “If they’re officers, yeah. But newblood recruits live in the barracks with the rest of the soldiers. Thought it was better that way. Less division, less fear. We’re never going to have a proper army if most of the troops are afraid of the person next to them.”

  In spite of myself, I feel my eyebrows rise in surprise.

  “Told you I had a specialty,” he whispers with a wink.

  My mother beams, putting the next plate of food in front of him. She ruffles his hair fondly, setting the tawny locks on end. He awkwardly tries to smooth them down. “Kilorn’s been improving relations between the newbloods and the rest of the Scarlet Guard,” she says proudly. He tries to hide the resulting blush with a hand.

  “Warren, if you’re not going to eat that—”

  Dad reacts faster than any of us, rapping Tramy’s outstretched hand with his cane. “Manners, boy,” he growls. Then he snatches bacon from my own plate. “Good stuff.”

  “Best I’ve ever had,” Gisa agrees. She daintily but eagerly picks at eggs sprinkled with cheese. “Montfort knows their food.”

  “Piedmont,” Dad corrects. “Food and stores are from Piedmont.”

  I file the information away and wince at the instinct to do so. I’m so used to dissecting the words of everyone around me that I do it without thought, even to my family. You’re safe; you’re safe; it’s over. The words repeat in my head. Their rhythm levels me out a bit.

  Dad still refuses to sit.

  “So how do you like the leg?” I ask.

  He scratches his head, fidgeting. “Well, I won’t be returning it anytime soon,” he says with a rare smile. “Takes getting used to. Skin healer’s helping when she can.”

  “That’s good. That’s really good.”

  I was never truly ashamed of Dad’s injury. It meant he was alive and safe from conscription. So many other fathers, Kilorn’s included, died for a nonsense war while mine lived. The missing leg made him sour, discontent, resentful of his chair. He scowled more than he smiled, a bitter hermit to most. But he was a living man. He told me once it was
cruel to give hope where none should be. He had no hope of walking again, of being the man he was before. Now he stands as proof of the opposite and that hope, no matter how small, no matter how impossible, can still be answered.

  In Maven’s prison, I despaired. I wasted. I counted the days and wished for an ending, no matter the kind. But I had hope. Foolish, illogical hope. Sometimes a single flicker, sometimes a flame. It also seemed impossible. Just like the path ahead, through war and revolution. We could all die in the coming days. We could be betrayed. Or . . . we could win.

  I don’t even know what that looks like, or what exactly to hope for. I just know that I must keep my hope alive. It is the only shield I have against the darkness inside.

  I look around at the kitchen table. Once I lamented that my family did not know me, didn’t understand what I had become. I thought myself separate, alone, isolated.

  I could not be more wrong. I know better now. I know who I am.

  I am Mare Barrow. Not Mareena, not the lightning girl. Mare.

  My parents quietly offer to accompany me to the debriefing. Gisa does too. I refuse. This is a military undertaking, all business, all for the cause. It will be easier for me to recall in detail if my mother isn’t holding my hand. I can be strong in front of the Colonel and his officers, but not her. She makes it too tempting to break. Weakness is acceptable, forgivable, around family. But not when lives and wars hang in the balance.

  The kitchen clock ticks eight a.m., and right on time an open-topped transport rolls up outside the row house. I go quietly. Only Kilorn follows me out, but not to join me. He knows he has no part in this.

  “So what will you do with yourself for the day?” I ask as I wrench open the brass-knobbed door.

  He shrugs. “I had a schedule up in Trial. Bit of training, rounds with the newbloods, lessons with Ada. After I came down here with your parents, I figured I’ll keep it up.”

  “A schedule,” I snort, stepping out into the sunshine. “You sound like a Silver lady.”

  “Well, when you’re as good-looking as I am . . . ,” he sighs.