Another drop of derision in your voice and I’ll cut out your tongue.
“The decision was mine,” Father says evenly. “Like you said, the Barrow girl was a valuable hostage. We took her from Maven.” And loosed her on the Square, like a beast from its cage. I wonder how many of Maven’s soldiers she took with her that day. Enough to fulfill Father’s plan at least, to cover our own escape.
“And now she’s in the wind!” Salin implores. His temper slips, inch by inch.
Father shows no signs of interest and states the obvious. “She is in Piedmont, of course. And I assure you, Barrow was more dangerous under Maven’s command than she’ll ever be under theirs. Our concern should be eliminating Maven, not radicals destined to fail.”
Salin blanches. “Fail? They hold Corvium. They control a vast amount of Piedmont, using a Silver prince as a puppet. If that is failure—”
“They seek to make equal that which is not fundamentally equal.” My mother speaks coldly, and her words ring true. “It is foolish, like balancing an impossible equation. And it will end in bloodshed. But it will end. Piedmont will rise up. Norta will throw back Red devils. The world will keep turning.”
All argument seems to die with Mother’s voice. Like Father, she sits back, satisfied. For once, she is without her familiar hiss of snakes. Just the great panther, purring under her touch.
Father forges on, eager to land the killing strike. “Our objective is Maven. The Lakelands. Cleaving the king from his new ally will leave him vulnerable, mortally so. Will you support us in our quest to rid this poison from our country?”
Slowly, Salin and Jerald exchange glances, their eyes meeting across the empty space between them. Adrenaline surges in my veins. They will kneel. They must kneel.
“Will you support House Samos, House Laris, House Lerolan—”
A voice cuts him off. The voice of a woman. It echoes—from nowhere. “You presume to speak for me?”
Jerald twists his wrist, his fingers moving in a rapid circle. Everyone in the chamber gasps, including me, when a third ambassador blinks into existence between Iral and Haven. Her house appears behind her, a dozen of them in clothes of red and orange, like the setting sun. Like an explosion.
Mother jolts beside me, surprised for the first time in many, many years. My adrenaline becomes spikes of ice, chilling my blood.
The leader of House Lerolan takes a daring step forward. Her appearance is severe. Gray hair tied into a neat bun, her eyes burning like heated bronze. The older woman does not know the name of fear. “I will not support a Samos king while a Calore heir lives.”
“I knew I smelled smoke,” Mother mutters, pulling her hand back from the panther. It immediately tenses, shifting to stand as its claws slide into place.
She just shrugs, smirking. “Easy to say, Larentia, now that you see me standing here.” Her fingers drum at her side. I watch them closely. She is an oblivion, able to explode things with a touch. If she got close enough, she could obliterate my heart in my chest or my brain in my skull.
“I am a queen—”
“So am I.” Anabel Lerolan grins wider. Though her clothes are fine, she wears no jewelry that I can see, no crown. No metal. My fist claws at my side. “We will not turn our backs on my grandson. The throne of Norta belongs to Tiberias the Seventh. Ours is a crown of flames, not steel.”
Father’s anger gathers like thunder and breaks like lightning. He stands from his throne, one fist clenching. The metal reinforcements of the chamber itself twist, groaning under the strain of his fury.
“We had a deal, Anabel!” he snarls. “The Barrow girl for your support.”
She just blinks.
Even from the far side, I can hear my brother hiss. “Have you forgotten the reason the Guard has Corvium? Did you not see your grandson fighting his own in Archeon? How can the kingdom stand behind him now?”
Anabel doesn’t flinch. Her lined face remains still, her expression open and patient. A kindly old woman in everything but the waves of ferocity emanating from her. She waits for my brother to push on, but he doesn’t, and she inclines her head. “Thank you, Prince Ptolemus, for at least not furthering the outrageous falsity of my son’s murder and my grandson’s exile. Both committed at the hands of Elara Merandus, both spread through the kingdom in the worst propaganda I have ever seen. Yes, Tiberias has done terrible things to survive. But they were to survive. After every one of us turned on him, abandoned him, after his own poisoned brother tried to kill him in the arena like a base criminal. A crown is the least we can give him in apology.”
Behind her, Iral and Haven stand firm. A curtain of tension falls over the hall. Everyone feels it. We’re Silvers, born to strength and power. All of us train to fight, to kill. We hear the tick of a clock in every heart, counting down to bloodshed. I glance at Elane, lock eyes with her. She presses her lips into a grim line.
“The Rift is mine,” Father growls, sounding like one of Mother’s beasts. The noise shudders in my bones, and I am instantly a child.
It has no such effect on the old queen. Anabel just tips her head to the side. Sunlight glints down the straight, iron strands of her hair gathered at the nape of her neck.
“Then keep it,” she replies with a shrug. “As you said, we had a deal.”
And just like that, the coiling turmoil threatening to engulf the room sweeps away. A few of the cousins, as well as Lord Jerald, visibly exhale.
Anabel spreads her hands wide, an open gesture. “You are the king of the Rift, and may you reign for many prosperous years. But my grandson is the rightful king of Norta. And he will need every ally we can muster to take his kingdom back.”
Even Father did not foresee this turn. Anabel Lerolan has not been to court in many years, electing to remain in Delphie, her house’s seat. She despised Elara Merandus and could not be near her—that, or she feared her. I suppose now, with the whisper queen gone, the oblivion queen can return. And return she has.
I tell myself not to panic. Blindsided as Father may be, this is not surrender. We keep the Rift. We keep our home. We keep our crowns. It’s only been a few weeks, but I’m loath to give away what we’ve planned for. What I deserve.
“I wonder how you intend to restore a king who wants no part in a throne,” Father muses. He steeples his fingers and surveys Anabel over them. “Your grandson is in Piedmont—”
“My grandson is an unwilling operative of the Scarlet Guard, which in turn is controlled by the Free Republic of Montfort. You’ll find that their leader, the one calling himself premier, is quite a reasonable man,” she adds with the air of someone discussing the weather.
My stomach twists, and I feel vaguely sick. Something in me, a deep instinct, screams for me to kill her before she can continue.
Father raises an eyebrow. “You’ve made contact with him?”
The Lerolan queen smiles tightly. “Enough to negotiate. But I speak to my grandson more often these days. He’s a talented boy, very good with machines. He reached out in his desperation, asking for only one thing. And thanks to you, I delivered.”
Mare.
Father narrows his eyes. “Does he know of your plans, then?”
“He will.”
“And Montfort?”
“Is eager to ally themselves with a king. They will support a war of restoration in the name of Tiberias the Seventh.”
“As they have in Piedmont?” If no one else will point out her folly, I certainly must. “Prince Bracken dances on their strings, controlled. Reports indicate they have taken his children. You would so willingly let your grandson become their puppet too?”
I came here eager to see others kneel. I remain seated, but I feel bare before Anabel as she grins. “As your mother said so eloquently, they seek to make equal that which is not fundamentally equal. Victory is impossible. Silver blood cannot be overthrown.”
Even the panther is quiet, watching the exchange with ticking eyes. Its tail flicks slowly. I focus on its fur, dark a
s the night sky. An abyss, just like the one we edge toward. My heart drums a harried rhythm, pumping both fear and adrenaline throughout my body. I don’t know which way Father will lean. I don’t know what will become of this path. It makes my skin crawl.
“Of course,” Anabel adds, “the kingdom of Norta and the kingdom of the Rift would be tightly bound by their alliance. And by marriage.”
The floor seems to tip beneath me. It takes every ounce of will and pride to remain on my cold and vicious throne. You are steel, I whisper in my head. Steel does not break or bend. But I can already feel myself bowing, giving way to my father’s will. He’ll trade me in a heartbeat, if it means keeping the crown. The kingdom of the Rift, the kingdom of Norta—Volo Samos will take whatever he can grasp. If the latter is out of reach, he will do whatever he can to maintain the first. Even if it means breaking his promise. Selling me off one more time. My skin prickles. I thought all this was behind us. I am a princess now, my father a king. I don’t need to marry anyone for a crown. The crown is in my blood, in me.
No, that isn’t true. You still need Father. You need his name. You are never your own.
Blood thunders in my ears, the roar of a hurricane. I can’t bring myself to look up at Elane. I promised her. She married my brother so we would never be parted. She upheld her side of the bargain, but now? They’ll send me to Archeon. She’ll stay here with Tolly as his wife and, one day, his queen. I want to scream. I want to rip the infernal chair under me to shreds and tear everyone in this room apart. Including myself. I can’t do this. I can’t live like this.
A few weeks of the closest thing to freedom I’ve ever known—and I can’t let it go. I can’t go back to living for someone else’s ambitions.
I breathe through my nose, trying to keep my rage in check. I have no gods, but I certainly pray.
Say no. Say no. Say no. Please, Father, say no.
No one looks at me, my only relief. No one watches my slow unraveling. They only have eyes for my father and his decision. I try to detach. Try to put my pain in a box and tuck it away. It’s easy to do in Training, in a fight. But it’s almost impossible now.
Of course. The voice in my head laughs sadly. Your path always led here, no matter what. I was made to marry the Calore heir. Physically made. Mentally made. Constructed. Like a castle, or a tomb. My life has never been my own, and it never will be.
My father’s words drive nails into my heart, each one another burst of bloody sorrow.
“To the kingdom of Norta. And the kingdom of the Rift.”
TWENTY-FOUR
Cameron
It takes Morrey longer than the other hostages.
Some believed within minutes. Others held out for days, stubbornly clinging to the lies they’d been spoon-fed. The Scarlet Guard is a collection of terrorists, the Scarlet Guard is evil. The Scarlet Guard will make life worse for you. King Maven freed you from war and will free you from more still. Twisted half-truths spun into propaganda. I can understand how they and so many others were taken in. Maven exploited a thirst in Reds who didn’t know what it was to be manipulated. They saw a Silver pledging to listen when his predecessors would not, to hear the voices of people who had never been heard. An easy hope to buy into.
And the Scarlet Guard are far from innocent heroes. They are flawed at best, combating oppression with violence. The children of the Dagger Legion remain wary. They’re all just teenagers bouncing from the trenches of one army to another. I don’t blame them for keeping their eyes open.
Morrey still clings to his misgivings. Because of me, what I am. Maven accused the Guard of murdering people like me. No matter how much my brother tries, he can’t shake the words.
As we sit down to breakfast, our bowls of oatmeal hot to the touch, I brace myself for the usual questions. We like to eat outside on the grass, beneath the open sky, with the training fields stretched out. After fifteen years in our slum, every fresh breeze feels like a miracle. I sit cross-legged, my dark green coveralls soft from wear and too much washing to count.
“Why don’t you leave?” Morrey asks, jumping right in. He stirs the oatmeal three times, counterclockwise. “You haven’t pledged your oath to the Guard. You don’t have any reason to stay here.”
“Why do you do that?” I tap his spoon with mine. A stupid question, but an easy dodge. I never have a good answer for him, and I hate that he makes me wonder.
He shrugs his narrow shoulders. “I like the routine,” he mumbles. “At home . . . well, you know home was bleeding awful, but . . .” He stirs again, the metal scraping. “You remember the schedules, the whistles.”
“I do.” I still hear them in my dreams. “And you miss that?”
He scoffs. “Of course not. I just . . . Not knowing what’s going to happen. I don’t understand it. It’s—it’s scary.”
I spoon up some oatmeal. It’s thick and tasty. Morrey gave me his sugar ration, and the extra sweetness undercuts whatever discomfort I feel. “I think that’s how everyone feels. I think it’s why I stay.”
Morrey turns to look at me, narrowing his eyes against the glare of the still-rising sun. It illuminates his face, throwing into harsh contrast how much he’s changed. Steady rations have filled him out. And the cleaner air clearly agrees with him. I haven’t heard the scraping cough that used to punctuate his sentences.
One thing hasn’t changed, though. He still has the tattoo, just as I do. Black ink like a brand around his neck. Our letters and numbers match almost exactly.
NT-ARSM-188908, his reads. New Town, Assembly and Repair, Small Manufacturing. I’m 188907. I was born first. My neck itches at the memory of the day when we were marked, permanently bound to our indentured jobs.
“I don’t know where to go.” I say the words out loud for the first time, even though I’ve been thinking them every day since I escaped Corros. “We can’t go home.”
“I guess not,” he mumbles. “So what do we do here? You’re going to stay and let these people—”
“I told you before, they don’t want to kill newbloods. That was a lie, Maven’s lie—”
“I’m not talking about that. So the Scarlet Guard isn’t going to kill you—but they’re still putting you in danger. You spend every minute you’re not with me training to fight, to kill. And in Corvium I saw . . . when you led us out . . .”
Don’t say what I did. I remember it well enough without him describing the way I killed two Silvers. Faster than I’ve ever killed before. Blood pouring from their eyes and mouths, their insides dying organ by organ as my silence destroyed everything in them. I felt it then. I feel it still. The sensation of death pulses through my body.
“I know you can help.” He puts his oatmeal down and takes my hand. In the factories, I used to hold on to him. Our roles reverse. “I don’t want to see them turn you into a weapon. You’re my sister, Cameron. You did everything you could to save me. Let me do the same.”
With a huff, I fall back against the soft grass, leaving the bowl at my side.
He lets me think, and instead turns his eyes on the horizon. He waves a dark hand at the fields in front of us. “It’s so bleeding green here. Do you think the rest of the world is like this?”
“I don’t know.”
“We could find out.” His voice is so soft I pretend not to hear him, and we lapse into an easy silence. I watch spring winds chase clouds across the sky while he eats, his motions quick and efficient. “Or we could go home. Mama and Dad—”
“Impossible.” I focus on the blue above, blue like we never saw in that hellhole we were born in.
“You saved me.”
“And we almost died. Better odds, and we almost died.” I exhale slowly. “There’s nothing we can do for them right now. I thought maybe once but—all we can do is hope.”
Sorrow tugs at his face, souring his expression. But he nods. “And stay alive. Stay ourselves. You hear me, Cam?” He grabs my hand. “Don’t let this change you.”
He’s right. Eve
n though I’m angry, even though I feel so much hatred for everything that threatens my family—is feeding that rage worth the cost?
“So what should I do?” I finally force myself to ask.
“I don’t know what having an ability’s like. You have friends who do.” His eyes twinkle as he pauses for effect. “You do have friends, right?” He quirks a smirk at me over the rim of his bowl. I smack his arm for the implication.
My mind jumps to Farley first, but she’s still in the hospital, adjusting to a new baby, and she doesn’t have an ability. Doesn’t know what it’s like to be so lethal, in control of something so deadly.
“I’m scared, Morrey. When you throw a tantrum, you just yell and cry. With me, with what I can do . . .” I reach a hand to the sky, flexing my fingers against the clouds. “I’m scared of it.”
“Maybe that’s good.”
“What do you mean?”
“At home, you remember how they use the kids? To fix the big gears, the deep wires?” Morrey widens his dark eyes, trying to make me understand.
The memory echoes. Iron on iron, the screech and twist of constantly whirring machinery across endless factory floors. I can almost smell the oil, almost feel the wrench in my hand. It was a relief when Morrey and I got too big to be spiders—what the overseers called the little kids in our division. Small enough to go where adult workers couldn’t, too young to be afraid of being crushed.
“Fear can be a good thing, Cam,” he pushes on. “Fear doesn’t let you forget. And the fear you have, the respect you have for this deadly thing inside of you, I think that’s an ability too.”
My oatmeal is cold now, but I force a mouthful so I don’t have to talk. Now the sugary taste is overpowering, and the glop sticks to my teeth.
“Your braids are a mess,” Morrey mutters to himself. He turns to another routine, an old one familiar to us both. Our parents worked earlier than we did, and we had to help each other get ready at dawn. He’s long since known how to fix my hair, and it takes no time at all for him to untangle it. It feels good to have him back, and I’m overcome with emotion as he plaits my curly black hair into two braids.
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