King's Cage

by Victoria Aveyard

  It’s already hot, the sun blazing above the eastern horizon, and I strip off the thin jacket Mom forced me into. Leafy trees line the street, disguising the military base as an upper-class neighborhood. Most of the brick row houses look empty, their windows dark and shuttered. At the bottom of the steps, my transport waits. The driver behind the wheel pushes down his sunglasses, eyeing me over the brim. I should have known. Cal gave me all the time I needed with my family, but he couldn’t stay away long.

  “Kilorn,” he calls, waving a hand in greeting. Kilorn returns the gesture with ease and a smile. Six months has killed their rivalry at the root.

  “I’ll find you later,” I tell him. “Compare notes.”

  He nods. “Sure thing.”

  Even though it’s Cal in the driver’s seat, drawing me in like a beacon, I walk slowly to the transport. In the distance, airjet engines roar. Every step is another inch closer to reliving six months of captivity. If I turned around, no one would blame me. But it would only prolong the inevitable.

  Cal watches, his face grim in the daylight. He extends a hand, helping me into the front seat like I’m some kind of invalid. The engine purrs, its electric heart a comfort and a reminder. I may be scared, but I’m not weak.

  With one last wave to Kilorn, Cal guns the engine and spins the wheel, driving us down the street. The breeze ruffles his roughly cut hair, highlighting uneven spots.

  I run a hand down the back of his head. “Did you do this yourself?”

  He flushes silver. “I tried.” Leaving one hand on the wheel, he takes mine in the other. “Are you going to be all right for this?”

  “I’ll get through it. I suppose your reports have most of the important parts. I just have to fill in the holes.” The trees thin on either side of us, where the officer street hits a larger avenue. To the left is the landing field. We turn right, the transport arcing smoothly over pavement. “And hopefully someone starts filling me in on all . . . this.”

  “With these people, you have to demand answers rather than wait for them.”

  “Have you been demanding, Your Highness?”

  He chuckles low in his throat. “They certainly think so.”

  It’s a five-minute drive to our destination, and Cal does his best to get me up to speed. There was a headquarters along the Lakelander border near Trial. All the Colonel’s soldiers evacuated north in anticipation of a raid on the island. They spent months belowground, in freezing bunkers, while Farley and the Colonel traded communications with Command and prepared for their next target. Corvium. Cal’s voice breaks a little when he describes the siege. He led the strike himself, taking the walls in a surprise raid and then the fortress city, block by block. It’s possible he knew the soldiers he was fighting. It’s possible he killed friends. I don’t prod at either wound. In the end, they completed the siege, removing the last Silver officers by offering them surrender or execution.

  “Most are held hostage now, some ransomed back to their families. And some chose death,” he murmurs, his voice trailing off. He glances over at me, just for a moment, his eyes hidden behind lenses of darkened glass.

  “I’m sorry,” I murmur, and I mean it. Not just because Cal is in pain, but because I have long since learned how gray this world is. “Will Julian be at the debriefing?”

  Cal sighs, grateful for the change in subject. “I don’t know. This morning he said the Montfort brass have been very accommodating where he is concerned—giving him access to the base archives, a laboratory, all the time he wants to continue his newblood studies.”

  I can think of no better reward for Julian Jacos. Time and books.

  “But they might not be too keen on letting a singer near their leader,” Cal adds, thoughtful.

  “Understandable,” I reply. While our abilities are more destructive, Julian’s ability to manipulate is just as deadly. “So, how long has Montfort been at this?”

  “I don’t know either,” he says, his annoyance obvious. “But they took real notice after Corvium. And now, with Maven’s alliance with the Lakelands? He’s uniting too, on the rebellion,” he explains. “Montfort and the Guard did the same. Instead of guns and food, Montfort started sending soldiers. Reds, newbloods. They already had a plan to spring you out of Archeon. Pincer move. Us from Trial, Montfort from Piedmont. They can organize, I’ll give them that. They just needed the right moment.”

  I scoff. “They picked a hell of a moment.” Gunfire and bloodshed cloud my thoughts. “All that for me. Seems stupid.”

  Cal’s grip on my hand tightens. He was raised to be the perfect Silver soldier. I remember his manuals, his books on military tactics. Victory at any cost, they said. And he used to believe it. Just as I used to think nothing on earth could make me go back to Maven.

  “Either they had another target in Archeon, or Montfort really, really wants you,” Cal mutters as the transport slows.

  We stop in front of another brick building, its front decorated by white columns and a long, wrapping porch. Again I think of Fort Patriot, its gates decorated in foreboding bronze. Silvers like beautiful things, and this is no exception. Flowering vines crawl up the columns, blooming with purple bursts of wisteria and fragrant honeysuckle. Soldiers in uniform walk beneath the plants, keeping to the shade. I spot Scarlet Guard in their mismatched clothes and red scarves, Lakelanders in blue, and a crawling mess of official Montfort green. My stomach flips.

  The Colonel marches out to meet us, blissfully alone.

  He starts in before I manage to get down from the transport. “You’ll be meeting with me, two Montfort generals, and one Command officer.”

  Both Cal and I jolt, eyes wide. “Command?” I balk.

  “Yes.” The Colonel’s good eye flashes. He spins on his heel, forcing us to keep up. “Let’s just say wheels are in motion.”

  I roll my eyes, already exasperated. “How about you just say what you mean?”

  “Probably because he doesn’t know,” replies a familiar voice.

  Farley leans in the shadow of one of the columns, arms crossed high over her chest. I gape, jaw dropping open. Because she is hugely, hilariously pregnant. Her belly strains against an altered uniform of a tied shift dress and baggy pants. I wouldn’t be surprised if she gave birth in the next thirty seconds.

  “Ah” is all I can think to say.

  She looks almost amused. “Do the math, Barrow.”

  Nine months. Shade. Her reaction on the cargo jet when I told her what Jon said. The answer to your question is yes.

  I didn’t know what it meant, but she did. She had her suspicions. And she learned she was pregnant with my brother’s child less than an hour after he was murdered. Each revelation is a kick in the gut. Equal parts joy and sorrow. Shade has a child—one he’ll never get to see.

  “Can’t believe no one thought to tell you,” Farley continues, throwing pointed glares at Cal, who shuffles awkwardly. “Certainly had the time.”

  In my shock, all I can do is agree. Not just Cal, but my mother, the rest of the family. “Everyone knew about this?”

  “Well, no use arguing about it now,” Farley pushes on, heaving herself off the column. Even in the Stilts, most women take to bed at this stage of pregnancy, but not her. She keeps a gun at her hip, holstered in open warning. A pregnant Farley is still a dangerous Farley. Probably more so. “I have a feeling you want to get this over as quickly as possible.”

  When she turns her back, leading us in, I hit Cal in the ribs. Twice for good measure.

  He grits his teeth, breathing through the blow. “Sorry,” he grumbles.

  The interior of what must be the base command building seems more like a mansion. Staircases spiral on either side of the entrance hall, connecting to a gallery above lined by windows. Crown molding lines the ceiling, which is painted to look like the wisteria outside. The floor is parquet wood, alternating planks of mahogany, cherry, and oak in intricate designs. But like in the row houses, anything that can’t be bolted down is gone.
Blank spaces line the walls, while alcoves meant for sculptures or busts hold guards instead. Montfort guards.

  Up close, their uniforms are better made than anything the Scarlet Guard or the Colonel’s Lakelanders wear. More like the uniforms of Silver officers. They’re mass-produced—sturdy—with badges, insignia, and the white triangle emblazoned on their arms.

  Cal observes as closely as I do. He nudges me, nodding up the stairs. In the gallery, no fewer than six Montfort officers watch us go. They are gray-haired, battle-worn, with enough medals to sink a ship. Generals.

  “Cameras too,” I whisper to him. In my head I pick them out, noting each electric signature while we pass through the entrance hall.

  Despite the empty walls and sparse decorations, the fine passages make my skin crawl. I keep telling myself the person next to me isn’t one of the Arvens. This isn’t Whitefire. My ability is proof of that. No one is keeping me prisoner. I wish I could drop my guard. It’s second nature at this point.

  The meeting room reminds me of Maven’s council chamber. It has a long, polished table and finely upholstered chairs, and it’s illuminated by a bank of windows looking out over another garden. Again the walls are empty, except for a seal painted directly on the wall. Yellow and white stripes, with a purple star in the center. Piedmont.

  We’re the first to arrive. I expect the Colonel to take a seat at the head of the table, but he doesn’t, electing for the chair on its right instead. The rest of us file in next to him, facing the empty side we leave open for the Montfort officers and Command.

  The Colonel looks on, perplexed. He watches as Farley sits, his good eye cold and steely. “Captain, you don’t have clearance for this.”

  Cal and I exchange glances, eyebrows raised. Farley and the Colonel clash often. At least that hasn’t changed.

  “Oh, were you not informed?” she replies, pulling a folded strip of paper from her pocket. “So sad how that happens.” With a flick of her hand, she slides the paper over to the Colonel.

  He unfolds it greedily, eyes scanning a page of harsh-typed letters. It isn’t long, but he stares at it for a while, not believing the words. Finally he smooths the message against the table. “This can’t be right.”

  “Command wants a representative at the table.” Farley grins. She splays her hands wide. “Here I am.”

  “Then Command made a mistake.”

  “I’m Command now, Colonel. There is no mistake.”

  Command rules the Scarlet Guard, the hub of a very secretive wheel. I have only heard whispers of their existence, but enough to know they control the entirety of a vast, complicated operation. If they made Farley one of them, does this mean that the Guard is truly coming out of the shadows—or is it just Farley they want?

  “Diana, you can’t—”

  She bristles, flushing red. “Because I’m pregnant? I assure you, I can handle two tasks at once.” If not for their uncanny resemblance, both in appearance and attitude, it would be easy to forget that Farley is the Colonel’s daughter. “Do you want to press the matter further, Willis?”

  He clenches a fist on the message, knuckles turning bone white. But he shakes his head.

  “Good. And it’s General now. Act accordingly.”

  A retort dies in the Colonel’s throat, giving him a strangled look. With a satisfied smirk, Farley retrieves the message and tucks it away. She notes Cal watching, just as confused as I am.

  “You’re not the only ranking officer in the room now, Calore.”

  “I suppose not. Congratulations,” he adds, offering a tight smile.

  It takes her off guard. After her father’s open hostility, she didn’t expect support from anyone, least of all the begrudging Silver prince.

  The Montfort generals enter from another door, resplendent in their dark green uniforms. One I saw in the gallery. She has an even bob of white hair, watery brown eyes, and long, fluttering lashes. She blinks rapidly. The other, a dark-haired woman, brown-skinned, looks to be about forty and built like an ox. She tips her head at me, as if greeting a friend.

  “I know you,” I say, trying to place her face. “How do I know you?”

  She doesn’t answer, turning her head over her shoulder to wait for one more person, a gray-haired man in plain clothing. But I barely notice him at all, distracted by his companion. Even without his house colors, dressed in simple grays instead of his usual faded gold, Julian is hard to miss. I feel a burst of warmth at the sight of my old teacher. Julian inclines his head, offering a small smile in greeting. He looks better than I’ve ever seen him, even when I first met him at the summer palace. Then he was worn, wearied by a court of enemies, haunted by a dead sister, a broken Sara Skonos, and his own doubt. Though his hair is now more gray than brown, his wrinkles deeper, he seems vibrant, alive, unburdened. Whole. The Scarlet Guard has given him purpose. And Sara too, I bet.

  His presence soothes Cal even more than me. He relaxes a bit at my side, giving his uncle the slightest nod. Both of us see what this is, what kind of message Montfort is trying to send. They do not hate Silvers—and they do not fear them.

  The other man shuts the door behind him as Julian takes a seat, firmly planting himself on our side of the table. Even though he’s six feet tall, he seems small without a uniform of his own. Instead, he wears civilian clothing. A simple buttoned shirt, pants, shoes. No weapons that I can see. He has red blood, that’s certain, judging by the pink undertones in his sandy skin. Newblood or Red, I don’t know. Everything about him is decidedly neutral, pleasantly average, and unassuming. He seems a blank page, either by nature or design. There’s nothing else to indicate who or what he might be.

  But Farley knows. She moves to get to her feet, and he waves her down.

  “No need for that, General,” he says. In a way, he reminds me of Julian. They have the same wild eyes, the only thing remarkable about him. His are angled, darting back and forth, taking in everything for observation and understanding. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you all,” he adds, nodding to each of us in turn. “Colonel, Miss Barrow, Your Highness.”

  Under the table, Cal’s fingers twitch against his leg. No one calls him that anymore. Not people who mean it.

  “And who are you, exactly?” the Colonel asks.

  “Of course,” the man replies. “I’m sorry I could not come sooner. My name is Dane Davidson, sir. I serve as premier to the Free Republic of Montfort.”

  Cal’s fingers twitch again.

  “Thank you all for coming. I’ve wanted this meeting for some time now,” Davidson continues, “and I think that together, we can achieve magnificent things.”

  This man is the leader of the entire country. He’s the one who asked for me, who wanted me to join him. Has he done all this to get his way? Like his general’s face, his name rings a distant bell.

  “This is General Torkins.” Davidson gestures between them. “And General Salida.”

  Salida. I don’t know her name. But now I’m certain I’ve seen her before.

  The sturdily built general notes my confusion. “I did some reconnaissance, Miss Barrow. I presented myself to King Maven when he was interviewing Ardent—I mean newbloods. You may remember.” To demonstrate she sweeps her hand at the table. No, not at. Through. Like it’s made of nothing—or she is.

  The memory snaps into focus. She displayed her abilities and was accepted into Maven’s “protection,” along with many other newbloods. One of them, in her fear, exposed Nanny to the entire court.

  I stare at her. “You were there the day Nanny—the newblood who could change her face—died.”

  Salida looks truly sorry. She dips her head. “If I had known, if I could have done something, truly I would have. But Montfort and the Scarlet Guard did not communicate openly, not then. We didn’t know all your operations, and they did not know ours.”

  “No longer.” Davidson remains standing, his fists braced against the table. “The Scarlet Guard has need for secrecy, yes, but I’m afraid it wi
ll only do more harm than good from here onward. Too many moving parts not to get in each other’s way.”

  Farley shifts in her seat. Either she wants to disagree or the chair is uncomfortable. But she holds her tongue, letting Davidson carry on.

  “So, in the interest of transparency, I felt it best for Miss Barrow to detail her captivity, as much as she can, to all parties. And afterward, I will answer any and all questions you may have about myself, my country, and our road ahead.”

  In Julian’s histories, there were records of rulers who were elected, rather than born. They earned their crowns with an array of attributes—some strength, some intelligence, some empty promises and intimidation. Davidson rules the so-called Free Republic, and his people chose him to lead. Based on what, I can’t say yet. He has a firm way of speaking, a natural conviction. And he’s obviously very smart. Not to mention he is the kind of man who gets more attractive with the years. I could easily see how people wanted him to rule.

  “Miss Barrow, whenever you’re ready.”

  To my surprise, the first hand to hold mine is not Cal’s, but Farley’s. She gives me a reassuring squeeze.

  I start at the beginning. The only place I can think to start.

  My voice breaks when I detail how I was forced to remember Shade. Farley lowers her eyes, her pain just as deep as mine. I soldier through, to Maven’s growing obsession, the boy king who twisted lies into weapons, using my face and his words to turn as many newbloods as possible against the Scarlet Guard. All the while his fraying edges becoming more apparent.

  “He says she left holes,” I tell them. “The queen. She toyed in his head, taking pieces away, putting pieces in, jumbling him up. He knows that he is wrong, but he believes himself on a path, and he won’t turn from it.”

  A current of heat ripples. At my side, Cal keeps his face still, eyes boring holes in the table. I tread carefully.

  His mother took away his love for you, Cal. He loved you. He knows he did. It just isn’t there anymore, and it never will be. But those words are not for Davidson or the Colonel or even Farley to hear.