Broken Throne

by Victoria Aveyard

  I blink away tears of frustration. She’s so good at turning arguments back on her opponents. I’m just usually not one of them. “Evangeline, I won’t be in danger. I’ve told you that so many times.”

  “If you’re going to keep telling me to attend the abdication, then I’m going to keep telling you to decline Davidson’s offer.” Despite her combative tone, her thumb grazes the back of my hand. Such is Evangeline’s way. To push me aside while pulling me closer.

  “These things are not the same, not by a long shot,” I tell her. “And you don’t see me trying to persuade you away from patrol service.”

  She tips her head back and laughs. “Because I’m much better at fighting than you are.”

  I try to match her laugh. It comes out hollow, a mockery. And I speak without thinking. “Some of the best warriors in the world end up in early graves.”

  Her fingers rip from mine and she recoils as if burned. Evangeline turns so quickly I almost miss the tears springing to her eyes. Naturally, I try to follow, but she waves me back, palm up and shaking. Her rings, bracelet, and necklace quiver and dance, spinning around her. Mirroring her pain.

  “I’m sorry,” I blurt out, feeling like a prize fool.

  Her father, Elane, she’s remembering him. A great warrior in an early grave. Even though Volo Samos kept her trapped, he made her what she is. So strong, so fierce. And she loved him, no matter what anyone else thought. She loved him and she let him die. I know she blames herself. She still has nightmares about it. Escaping her cage, and paying for it with a man’s life.

  All thoughts of the abdication and my future profession melt away. Without hesitation, I wrap my arms around her, laying my cheek against her back. The wool sweater scratches, caught between my face and her shoulder blade.

  “Eve, I’m so sorry,” I whisper. “I didn’t mean to remind you.”

  “It’s fine,” she clips back. “Every door hinge reminds me.”

  Every earring. Every lock. Every lamp. Every knife. Every gun. Every piece of metal within her perception. He taught her as much, made her into the weapon she is now. No wonder she always runs to the garden. She escaped him, but never his memory.

  At least she’s letting me hold her. That’s a start. And an opportunity. A responsibility.

  “I know you like to pretend to be made of iron,” I murmur, tightening my grip. She leans into me, her shoulders rising and falling. “Even in your heart, my love. I know better, and you don’t have to hide with me.”

  The letter in the salon seems to burn a hole in my brain. She must abdicate with Ptolemus. It’s the best way to end this, the safest way. It might not save us any more bloodshed, but it will save her any more guilt. I don’t know how much more of this she can stand.

  “I know why you won’t go back to the Rift,” I murmur against her. She stiffens but doesn’t run. A good sign. “You’re afraid your mother will be there.”

  Evangeline breaks my hold on her so easily, I almost don’t notice she’s gone.

  The door slams behind her, and I am left alone.

  THREE

  Evangeline

  I’m on the other side of the premier’s estate before I feel like I can catch my breath. Once, I might have blamed the altitude, but I’m long since accustomed to the thin air. No, the tightness in my chest is from inconvenient, idiotic feelings. Not to mention the usual shame.

  Elane is no stranger to my tears. That doesn’t mean I enjoy crying in front of her, or showing weakness of any kind. To anyone. For as brutal as the Nortan court was, I understood it. It was a game I played well, shielded by my jewels and armor and family, all as fearsome as any other. Not anymore.

  I wasn’t there; I didn’t see him die. But I heard enough of the whispers to know the ending he met, and I dream of it anyway. Almost every night, I wake up with that image in my head. Volo Samos, striding across the battlefield, stepping onto the bridge. His dark eyes are glazed and faraway. Julian Jacos sang to him, and sent him walking to his death. I still wonder if he knew. If he was trapped inside his own head, watching as the edge came closer and closer.

  Every time, I see my father’s body smashed against a Lakelander ship. His skull cracked open. Fingers still twitching. Silver blood running freely from a dozen wounds. The picture changes sometimes. Spine broken. Legs twisted. Guts spilling. Armor shattered. Sometimes he explodes into dust and ashes. I always wake up before the Lakelander queens reach him, or the river swallows him whole.

  We think the Lakelanders kept his corpse. He wasn’t in the river when our own nymphs dredged the water looking for survivors. Cenra and Iris kept his body for reasons I cannot fathom, speeding away to their distant kingdom with my father rotting between them.

  “Nymph bitch,” I mutter under my breath, echoing the words of a long-dead king. It helps a little, even if my anger is misplaced. Iris Cygnet didn’t kill my father. I don’t even think I could blame Julian for it. Only one person still living carries that burden.

  I knew it was coming, and I did nothing.

  My fingers comb through my hair, pulling the roots. The familiar sting clears my mind a little, chasing off the deeper pain.

  Shaking my head, I try to take stock of my surroundings. Davidson’s palatial compound isn’t as large as Whitefire Palace, but the estate is more winding, and it’s still easy to get lost. Good. Like the rest of the rooms, this distant hall has polished wood floors, river-stone accents, and dark green walls. A nearby bank of windows looks out on thick pine forest standing sentinel above Ascendant. The sun dips lower with every passing second. I feel so much as hear the clock ticking on a small table nearby. Certainly Ptolemus will go before sunset. No pilot wants to take off from the mountains in darkness.

  Since I’ve been effectively chased from Carmadon’s garden, and now from my own chambers, I’m faced with a choice and two very different forms of distraction. Namely, the kitchens or the gymnasium. My heart tugs toward food. Carmadon might be a busybody, but he’s a splendid cook, and his kitchen staff are just as talented as he is. Unfortunately, the kitchens will be busy with servants and probably Carmadon himself, overseeing his next interrogation disguised as a dinner party.

  I shudder at the thought. There’s supposed to be some kind of gala soon, a celebration, though the war in the east is far from done. What we could be celebrating I’m not sure, but it will certainly be a spectacle. Davidson’s doing, I know. He’ll invite delegates from the Nortan States, both Red and Silver, as well as members of his own government and the Scarlet Guard representatives who can be spared from their positions. Some have already been back and forth, but I wager he’ll try to get as much of the alliance in one room as he can. He does love the false image of a united front. Red, Silver, newblood, alike in goals and allegiance.

  Maybe in a decade, I scoff to myself. There is much still to be done, to make Davidson’s dream come true. The Lakelands stand directly in the way, alongside Piedmont, Prairie, and too many other obstacles to name.

  I wonder if I’ll have a part in it. If I want to have a part in it.

  Enough, Evangeline.

  That settles it. I need the gymnasium. My brain is too much of a mess to do anything but hit something big and heavy.

  The training arenas of Norta were sterile places. White walls, glass enclosures, padded obstacle courses. Rigid and perfect, with healers on hand to tend even the smallest of injuries. The training arena in the Ridge was similar, though ours at least had a view of the surrounding landscape. I spent hours in those places, drilling myself to military perfection. It isn’t difficult to fall back into an old routine.

  Montfort favors the outdoors and fresh air. They probably think it makes them hardier, training in the dirt and snow. The training compound on the estate is near the armory, made of a collection of small buildings surrounding a circular track, itself a makeshift arena for sparring.

  After changing into my lightweight gear, I start with a warm-up run. Pine trees cast long shadows across the empty t
rack.

  When I first came here, it was harder than I realized it would be to push through a run. The altitude gets to everyone, and I spent a good week gulping water whenever I could, trying to stave off dehydration. Eventually we adjusted, though Elane took a bit longer. She’s still generous with moisturizers and balms to combat the dry air.

  Now I barely feel the strain. This place makes you stronger, in more ways than one.

  After thirty minutes, with my pulse surging in my ears, I slow to a walk, sweat cooling my skin. It makes me shiver.

  I whirl at the distant feel of copper, adrenaline surging through my veins. In spite of my pride, I almost take off running.

  “Ptolemus,” I mutter.

  My brother picks his way across the compound, that same copper disc tucked away in his belt. A beacon, an anchor. A piece of metal that means we will never lose sight of each other on the battlefield. He wore it today, not because we’re going to war together, but because he wants me to feel him approaching. He wants to give me a chance to run away.

  I grit my teeth and set my feet.

  I owe him this much.

  Technically, my brother is a king now. The second my father’s skull smashed on a ship deck, Tolly became King Ptolemus of the Rift, though none of us will ever acknowledge it. He looks like a shadow today, his silver hair plastered back, his body clad entirely in black. Not court clothing, or even something suitable for travel. As he gets closer, I realize he’s wearing a training suit like mine. Black leather, silver detailing. Enough stretch to move, but firm enough to blunt a blow. He’s ready to fight.

  “Afternoon, Eve,” he says, his voice neither soft nor hard.

  I can’t help but sigh, exasperated. At this point, I think I should just carry around a sign with I’M NOT GOING written on it.

  “Is everyone following me? Are you all taking turns? Well, okay, Tolly, here’s your chance.”

  The corner of his lips twitches, betraying the urge to smile. He glances at the trees. “You saw Wren already?”

  “Wren?” I scoff. My stomach twists at the thought of facing down yet another person trying to sway me from my decision. Tolly’s girlfriend won’t press as much as the others, at least. “No, I haven’t seen her yet. But I’ve already gone through Elane and Carmadon. I think they rehearsed.”

  “Elane maybe. Carmadon definitely.” Tolly chuckles, putting his hands on his hips. His stance broadens, highlighting the width of his shoulders. It makes him look like Cal. Just another soldier in the grand scheme of our mess. “I take it they didn’t have much luck.”

  I raise my chin, defiant. “They did not. You won’t either.”

  He doesn’t seem deterred. “I’m not here to try.”

  “You’re not?”

  Tolly shrugs, as if bored or uninterested. “No.” I look for the lie, but I can’t find it.

  “Then . . . ?” I hesitate and glance around at the quiet training circle. Now that I think about it, this area shouldn’t be deserted. Not at this hour. We’re alone, left to do as we please. I suspect Davidson has something to do with it. Clearing the way for me wherever I go, giving my family an opportunity to try to change my path. They won’t, I tell myself. Stand your ground.

  My brother isn’t bothered by my silence. He starts stretching instead, twisting his body to flex his arms. “I thought I’d get one last training session in before I go,” he says. “Care to join me?”

  “You know I sort of invented this tactic.” My mind flashes to Mare Barrow and the training gym back at Ridge House. I sparred with her while Cal watched, and we beat each other into bloody pulps. Both to nudge Calore and Barrow closer to each other, but also to get Barrow’s head out of her own damn ass. I suspect my brother thinks he can do the same.

  “What tactic?” he asks, widening his eyes in mock innocence. I don’t miss the way his fingers twitch. Tolly and I have sparred enough in our lives for him to know I strike hard, fast, and usually without warning.

  Grinning, I start to circle him. He shifts to match my motions, never letting me get behind him or out of his eye line. “If you can’t convince them, beat them.”

  “So you’re finally admitting I can beat you,” he says, puffing out his chest.

  Buying time, I feel for any metal in the area. There isn’t much, and my meager jewelry won’t be sufficient to subdue someone like Ptolemus. “I did no such thing.”

  He watches me with the Samos smile, a wolfish knife of a thing. I’m sure he knows I’m searching for weapons and coming up empty-handed. “Certainly sounded like it, Eve,” he says, spreading his hands wide. I notice as much as feel the six rings spread across his fingers.

  Each one is tungsten, a heavy, brutish metal. His punches will hurt.

  If he can land them.

  Tolly expects me to make the first move, so I wait instead, continuing to circle. It puts him on edge. My steps quicken a little and I’m careful to keep my ring hand between us, ready to shield whatever he tosses my way. He does the same, smiling. His weapons far outnumber mine.

  Or so he thinks.

  Magnetrons can’t control dirt.

  Lightning quick, I scrape and kick, sending up a cloud of earth to blind him. He flinches, shutting his eyes and whirling to avoid the worst of it. I don’t waste time, leaping toward him as the bracelet and ring on my hand melt into a blunt-edged knife. If I can get behind him, it’s over. Put the dagger to his throat or his ribs, jab so he feels it, and claim victory. Over him and anyone else who might try to tell me what to do.

  I catch him around the chest, meaning to swing myself around him with my momentum. But he recovers quickly, planting a firm hand to my shoulder and tossing me to the ground. I hit hard and roll, missing a sure-footed kick by inches. I dodge; he chases. He dodges; I chase. We go back and forth, twisting around each other in almost mirror images. We have the same ability, the same training. I know his moves and he knows mine. He meets my knife with a circular shield; I parry with a thread-thin whip of steel. He just lets it close around his fist and squeezes, forming a glove of spikes over his hands. He knows I’m quick enough to dodge again, and I do, the needle-sharp glove whistling by my ear. I respond with a swipe to his ankle and a corresponding tug on his heavy rings, using them to drag him backward. His ability wars with mine, the two of us ripping at each other. I manage to loose two tungsten circles and draw them to my side. Both flatten and stretch into thin but strong staffs, easy for me to wield.

  Ptolemus only grins at me. He doesn’t form a weapon of his own, leaving the remaining rings on his fingers. The dance begins again, both of us evenly matched and equally prepared. His strength is beyond my own, but I’m faster, and it balances us out. Sparring with Ptolemus is like fighting with my own shadow, or my own ghost. Every time we do it, I hear my father’s voice, or Lord Arven’s, or even my mother’s. The people who made us into the warriors we are now, hard and unforgiving as the steel we control.

  We carry on like this for long, exhilarating, exhausting minutes. We tire at the same pace, both breathing hard and sweating. I have a cut above my eye, shallow but bleeding freely. Tolly spits blood when he gets the chance, maybe down a tooth or two. His face is flushed and mine must be too, but neither of us is the type to surrender or even ask for a break. We’ll push each other hard, until someone gains the upper hand. Usually me.

  I slide again, my knees skidding through the dirt training ring with a satisfying hiss. With crossed arms, I deflect another blow and gather myself to retaliate. But as I get my legs beneath me, Ptolemus lunges too, arms outstretched, as if to hug me.

  Instead his hands, his rings, find either side of my face, striking both my temples in tandem. It’s like being hit by a train. I see stars immediately and slump, though every instinct tells me to stay upright. The dirt is cool beneath my cheek when I blink my eyes open again. It was only a second, nothing to fret over. Ptolemus hasn’t even had time to look concerned yet.

  The world spins for a few seconds, and he gives me enough
room to get my bearings. I stay down longer than I need to, wishing away the dull pain on either side of my skull.

  “I’ll call for Wren,” he says, but I wave him off.

  “It’s just a dizzy spell.” Gritting my teeth, I get to my feet, careful not to stumble and give Tolly an excuse to get a healer. I don’t need anyone else nannying me. I almost hiss at my brother when he tries to help me up. “See, I’m fine. No harm done.”

  He doesn’t need to know I feel like I’ve just taken a hammer to the head. Certainly bruises are springing up already.

  “Good move,” I add, if only to distract Tolly. And myself. The dirt training ring whirls around me still. Tungsten is nothing to sneer at, especially in the hands of a skilled magnetron.

  Tolly examines his rings with a strange expression, his lips pursed. One of the rings is thicker than the other, and heavier too. He spins it around his finger, and a blush colors the top of his cheeks with bright silver. My brother isn’t exactly a talkative sort. Neither of us was taught how to handle our emotions, only to hide them. He didn’t learn that lesson as well as I did.

  “Father taught you how to do that, didn’t he?” I mutter, turning away. The sudden motion makes my head spin. The memories come too fast. Tolly was my father’s heir. Naturally, he got different treatment than I did. Lessons with our father, mostly. Training, statecraft. He prepared Ptolemus to lead our house, and our kingdom too.

  “He did.”

  Those two words hold so much meaning. Their relationship was different from ours. Closer. Better. Ptolemus was everything my father wanted him to be. A son, a strong warrior, dutiful and loyal to our blood. No flaws like mine. No wonder he loved him more. And my brother loved him in return, no matter what happened back in Archeon.

  I absolutely refuse to cry for the second time today. So I focus on the splitting pain in my skull instead of the pain in my heart. “I’m—”

  He cuts me off quickly, forcing me to turn around and look at him. “If you apologize for what happened to him, I’ll muzzle you.” We have the same eyes, storm-cloud eyes. Tolly’s threaten to explode.