King's Cage

by Victoria Aveyard

  He doesn’t push me to make a decision, but the conversation is enough to let questions I already had rise to the surface. Who do I want to be? What choice am I going to make?

  In the distance, around the edge of the training fields, I spot two familiar figures. One tall, one short, both of them jogging the boundary. They do this every day, their exercises familiar to most of us. Despite Cal’s much longer legs, Mare doesn’t have a problem keeping up. As they get closer, I can see her smiling. I don’t understand a lot of things about the lightning girl, and smiling during a run is one of them.

  “Thanks, Morrey,” I say, getting to my feet when he finishes.

  My brother doesn’t stand with me. He follows my gaze, laying eyes on Mare as she gets closer. She doesn’t make him tense up, but Cal does. Morrey quickly busies himself with the bowls, ducking his head to hide his scowl. No love lost between the Coles and the prince of Norta.

  Mare raises her chin as she jogs, acknowledging us both.

  The prince tries to hide his annoyance when she slows her pace, easing into a walk to approach me and Morrey. Cal doesn’t do it well, but he nods at both of us in an attempt at a polite greeting.

  “Morning,” Mare says, shifting from foot to foot as she catches her breath. Her complexion has improved more than anything; a golden warmth is returning to her brown skin. “Cameron, Morrey,” she says, her eyes ticking between us with catlike speed. Her brain is always spinning, looking for cracks. After what she’s been through, how could she be any other way?

  She must sense the hesitation in me, because she stays put, waiting for me to say something. I almost lose my nerve, but Morrey brushes against my leg. Just bite the bullet, I tell myself. She might even understand.

  “Would you mind taking a walk with me?”

  Before her capture, she would have scoffed, told me to train, brushed me away like an annoying fly. She barely tolerated me. Now she bobs her head. With a single gesture, Mare waves off Cal like only she can.

  Prison changed her, like it changed us all.

  “Sure, Cameron.”

  It feels like I talk for hours, spilling everything I’ve been keeping inside. The fear, the anger, the sick sensation I get every time I think about what I can do and what I’ve done. How it used to thrill me. How such power made me feel invincible, indestructible—and now it makes me feel ashamed. It feels like stabbing myself in the stomach and letting my guts fall out. I avoid her eyes as I speak, keeping my gaze firmly on my feet as we pace the training grounds. As we press on, more and more soldiers flood the field. Newbloods and Reds, all going through their morning exercises. In their uniforms, green coveralls provided by Montfort, it’s hard to tell which is which. We all look the same, united. “I want to protect my brother. He tells me we should go, leave . . .” My voice weakens, trailing off until there are no more words.

  Mare is forceful in her reply. “My sister says the same thing. Every day. She wants to take up Davidson’s offer. Relocate. Let other people fight.” Her eyes darken with intensity. They wobble over the landscape full of green uniforms. She is mechanical in her observations, whether she knows it or not, reading risks and threats. “She said we’ve given enough.”

  “So what will you do?”

  “I can’t turn my back.” She bites her lip, thoughtful. “There’s too much anger in me. If I don’t find a way to get rid of it, it might poison me for the rest of my life. But that probably isn’t what you want to hear.” It would be an accusation from anyone else. From Cal, or Farley. From who Mare was six months ago. Instead her words are softer.

  “Holding on will eat me alive,” I admit. “Continuing on this way, using my ability to kill . . . it will make me a monster.”

  Monster. She shivers when I say it, withdrawing inside herself. Mare Barrow has had her fair share of monsters. She looks away, idly tugging on a braid of hair curling with sweat and humidity.

  “Monsters are so easily made, especially in people like us,” she mumbles. But she recovers quickly. “You didn’t fight in Archeon. Or if you did, I didn’t see you.”

  “No, I was just there to . . .” Keep you in check. In the moment, a good plan. But now that I know what she went through, I feel terrible.

  She doesn’t push.

  “Kilorn’s idea back in Trial,” I say. “He works well branching the newbloods and Reds, and he knew I wanted to take a step back. So I went along—but not to fight, not to kill, unless absolutely necessary.”

  “And you want to continue on that path.” Not a question.

  Slowly, I nod. I shouldn’t feel embarrassed. “I think it’s better this way. Defend, not destroy.” At my side, my fingers flex. Silence pools beneath my flesh. I don’t hate my ability, but I can hate what it does.

  Mare fixes me with a grin. “I’m not your commander. I can’t tell you what to do, or how to fight. But I think it’s a good idea. And if anyone tries to tell you otherwise, point them my way.”

  I smile. Somehow I feel a weight lift. “Thanks.”

  “I’m sorry, by the way,” she adds, coming closer. “I’m the reason you’re here. I know now, what I did to you, forcing you to join up—it was wrong. And I’m sorry.”

  “You’re absolutely right. You did wrong, that’s for bleeding sure. But I got what I wanted, in the end.”

  “Morrey.” She sighs. “I’m glad you got him back.” Her smile doesn’t disappear, but it certainly fades, weakened by all mention of brothers.

  On the low rise ahead, Morrey waits, now standing in silhouette against the base buildings spread out behind him. Cal is gone. Good.

  Even though he’s been with us for months, Cal is awkward without purpose, bad at conversation, and always on edge when he doesn’t have a strategy to mull over. Part of me still thinks he sees us all as disposable—cards to picked up and thrown away as strategy dictates. But he loves Mare, I remind myself. He loves a girl with Red blood.

  That must count for something.

  Before we make it back to my brother, one last fear bubbles up in my throat.

  “Am I abandoning you all? The newbloods.”

  My ability is silent death. I am a weapon, like it or not. I can be used. I can be useful. Is it selfish to walk away?

  I get the feeling it’s a question Mare has asked herself many times. But her answer is for me, and me alone.

  “Of course not,” she mutters. “You’re still here. And you’re one less monster for us to worry about. One less ghost.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Mare

  Even though my time at the Notch was fraught with exhaustion and heartbreak, it still holds a corner of my heart. For once, I remember the good more vividly than the bad. Days when we returned with living newbloods, snatched from the jaws of execution. It felt like progress. Every face was proof that I was not alone—and that I could save people as easily as kill them. Some days, it felt simple. Right. I’ve been chasing that sensation ever since.

  The Piedmont base has its own training facilities, both indoor and outdoor. Some are equipped for Silvers, the rest for Red soldiers to learn war. The Colonel and his men, now numbering in the thousands and growing every day, claim the shooting range. Newbloods like Ada, those with less-devastating abilities, train with him, perfecting their aim and combat skills. Kilorn shuttles between their ranks and the newbloods on the Silver training grounds. He belongs with neither group, yet his presence soothes many. The fish boy is the opposite of a threat, not to mention a familiar face. And he doesn’t fear them, like so many of the “true” Red soldiers. No, Kilorn has seen enough from me to never be afraid of a newblood ever again.

  He accompanies me now, escorting me around the edge of a building about the size of an airjet hangar. But it has no runway. “Silver gymnasium,” he says, pointing at the structure. “All sorts of stuff in there. Weights, an obstacle course, an arena—”

  “I get it.” I learned my skills in a place like that, surrounded by leering Silvers who would kill me if they saw one
drop of my blood. At least I don’t have to worry about that anymore. “Probably shouldn’t train anywhere with a roof or lightbulbs.”

  Kilorn snorts. “Probably not.”

  One of the gymnasium doors bangs open and a figure steps out, a towel around his neck. Cal scrubs sweat off his face, still silver-flushed with exertion. Weight lifting, I assume.

  He narrows his eyes and closes the distance between us as quickly as he can. Still panting, he puts a hand out. Kilorn takes it with an open grin. “Kilorn.” Cal nods. “Taking her on a tour?”

  “Ye—”

  “Nah, she’s going to start up with some of the others today.” Kilorn speaks over me, and I resist the urge to elbow him in the gut.

  “What?”

  Cal darkens. He heaves a deep breath. “I thought you were going to give yourself more time.”

  Kilorn surprised me in the hospital, but he’s right. I can’t sit around anymore. It feels useless. And I am restless, with anger boiling beneath my skin. I’m not Cameron. I’m not strong enough to step back. Even lightbulbs have started sparking when I enter a room. I need release.

  “It’s been a few days. I thought it over.” I put my hands on my hips, bracing myself against his inevitable counter. Without even realizing it, Cal settles into his patented arguing-with-Mare stance. Arms crossed, brow furrowed, feet firmly planted. With the sun behind me, he has to squint, and after his workout, he reeks of sweat.

  Kilorn, the rotten coward, backs away a few steps. “I’ll see you when you finish having a moment.” He tosses a shit-eating grin over his shoulder, leaving me to fend for myself.

  “Just a minute,” I call at his retreating form. He only waves, disappearing around the corner of the gymnasium. “Some backup he is. Not that I need it,” I add quickly, “since it’s my decision and this is just training. I’ll be perfectly fine.”

  “Well, half my worry is for the people in the blast zone. And the rest . . .” He takes my hand, using it to pull me closer. I wrinkle my nose, digging in my heels. Not that it matters much. I slide along the pavement anyway.

  “You’re all sweaty.”

  He grins wrapping one arm around my back. No escape. “Yep.”

  The scent isn’t entirely unpleasant, even though it should be. “So you’re not going to fight me on this?”

  “Like you said. Your decision.”

  “Good. I don’t have the energy to bicker twice in one morning.”

  He shifts and pushes me back gently, to better see my face. His thumbs graze the underside of my jaw. “Gisa?”

  “Gisa.” I huff, brushing a wisp of hair out of my face. Without the Silent Stone, my health has vastly improved, down to my nails and hair growing at a normal rate again. Still gray ends, though. That’s never going away. “She keeps bothering me about relocation. Go to Montfort. Leave everything behind.”

  “And you told her go ahead, didn’t you?”

  I blush scarlet. “It just slipped out! Sometimes . . . I don’t think before I speak.”

  He laughs. “What? You?”

  “And then Mom took her side, of course, and Dad didn’t take a side at all, playing peacemaker, of course. It’s like”—my breath hitches—“it’s like nothing ever changed. We could have been back in the Stilts, in the kitchen. I guess that shouldn’t bother me so much. In the scheme of things.” Embarrassed, I force myself to look up at Cal. It feels horrible complaining about family to him. But he asked. And it spilled out. He just studies me like I’m battlefield terrain. “This isn’t something you want to think about. It’s nothing.”

  His grip on my hand tightens before I can even think to pull away. He knows the way I run. “Actually, I was thinking about all the soldiers I trained with. At the front, especially. I’ve seen soldiers come back whole in body, but missing something else. They can’t sleep or maybe they can’t eat. Sometimes they slide right back into the past—into a memory of battle, triggered by a sound or a smell or any other sensation.”

  I gulp and circle my wrist with shaking fingers. Squeezing, I remember the manacles. The touch makes me sick. “Sounds familiar.”

  “You know what helps?”

  Of course I don’t, or else I’d do it. I shake my head.

  “Normalcy. Routine. Talking. I know you don’t exactly like the last one,” he adds, smirking slowly. “But your family just wants you to be safe. They went through hell when you were . . . gone.” He still hasn’t figured out the proper word for what happened to me. Captured or imprisoned doesn’t exactly carry the right weight. “And now that you’re back, they’re doing what anyone would do. They’re protecting you. Not the lightning girl, not Mareena Titanos, but you. Mare Barrow. The girl they know and remember. That’s all.”

  “Right.” I nod slowly. “Thanks.”

  “So about that talking thing.”

  “Oh, come on, right now?”

  His grin splits and he laughs, his stomach muscles tensing against me. “Fine, later. After training.”

  “You should go shower.”

  “Are you kidding? I’m going to be two steps behind you the whole time. You want to train? Then you’re going to train properly.” He pokes me in the small of my back, making me stumble forward. “Come on.”

  The prince is incessant, jogging backward until I match his pace. We pass the track, the outdoor obstacle course, a wide field of close-cut grass, not to mention several circles of dirt for sparring and a target range more than a quarter mile long. Some newbloods run the obstacle course and the track, while a few practice alone in the field. I don’t recognize them, but the abilities I see are familiar enough. A newblood akin to a nymph forms columns of clear water before letting them drop to the grass, creating spreading puddles of mud. A teleporter navigates the course with ease. She appears and disappears all over the equipment, laughing at others having a more difficult time. Every time she jumps, my stomach twists, remembering Shade.

  The sparring circles unsettle me most of all. I haven’t fought someone for training, for sport, since Evangeline so many months ago. It was not an experience I care to repeat. But I’ll certainly have to.

  Cal’s voice keeps me level, drawing my focus back to the task at hand. “I’ll get you on your weights routine starting tomorrow, but today we can jump into target and theory.”

  Target I understand. “Theory?”

  We stop at the edge of the long range, staring at the mist burning off in the distance.

  “You came into Training about a decade late for that. But before our abilities are in fighting form, we spend a lot of time studying our advantages and disadvantages, how to use them.”

  “Like nymphs beating burners, water over fire.”

  “Sort of. That’s an easy one. But what if you’re the burner?” I just shake my head, and he grins. “See, tricky. Takes a lot of memorization and comprehension. Testing. But you’re going to do this on the fly.”

  I forgot how suited to this Cal is. He is a fish in water, at ease, grinning. Eager. This is what he’s good at, what he understands, where he excels. It’s a lifeline in a world that never seems to make any sense.

  “Is it too late to say I don’t want to train anymore?”

  Cal just laughs, tipping his head back. A bead of sweat rolls down his neck. “You’re stuck with me, Barrow. Now, hit the first target.” He stretches out a hand, indicating a square granite block ten yards away, painted like a bull’s-eye. “One bolt. Dead center.”

  Smirking, I do as asked. I can’t miss at this range. A single purple-white bolt streaks through the air and hits home. With a resounding crack, the lightning leaves a black mark in the center of the bull’s-eye.

  Before I have time to feel proud, Cal bodily shoves me aside. Off guard, I stumble, almost falling into the dirt. “Hey!”

  He just steps away and points. “Next target. Twenty yards.”

  “Fine,” I huff, turning my eyes on the second block. I raise my arm again, ready to aim—and Cal shoves me again. This time my fe
et react more quickly, but not enough, and my bolt goes wild, crackling into the dirt.

  “This feels very unprofessional.”

  “I used to do this with someone firing blanks next to my head. Would you prefer that?” he asks. I shake my head quickly. “Then hit—the—target.”

  Normally, I’d be annoyed, but his smile spreads, making me blush. It’s training, I think. Get a hold of yourself.

  This time, when he goes to push me, I sidestep and fire, clipping the granite marker. Another dodge, another shot. Cal starts to change up his tactic, going for my legs or even burning a fireball across my vision. The first time he does that, I hit the ground so fast I end up spitting dirt. “Hit the target” becomes his anthem, followed by a yard marker anywhere between fifty and ten. He shouts the targets at random, all while forcing me to dance on my toes. It’s harder than running, much harder, and the sun turns brutal as the day wears on.

  “The target is a swift. What do you do?” he asks.

  I grit my teeth, panting. “Spread the bolt. Catch him as he dodges—”

  “Don’t tell me, do it.”

  With a grunt, I swing my arm in a chopping, horizontal motion, sending a spray of voltage in the target’s direction. The sparks are weaker, less concentrated, but enough to slow a swift down. Next to me, Cal just nods his head, the only indication that I did something right. It feels good anyway.

  “Thirty yards. Banshee.”

  Clapping my hands to my ears, I squint at the target, willing lightning without use of my fingers. A bolt vaults from my body, arcing like a rainbow. It misses, but I splash the electricity, making the sparks burst in different directions.

  “Five yards. Silence.”

  The thought of an Arven floods me with panic. I try to focus. My hand strays for a gun that isn’t there, and I pretend to shoot the target. “Bang.”

  Cal snorts a bit. “That doesn’t count, but okay. Five yards, magnetron.”

  That one I know intimately. With all the force I can muster, I rocket a blast of lightning at the target. It cracks in two, sliding apart at dead center.