Broken Throne

by Victoria Aveyard

  I don’t waver, staring until he can’t avoid the question anymore.

  “I figured you needed every second you could get,” he admits, biting out the words. As if there is shame in them. “I didn’t want to rush you.”

  His warmth ripples over me, tentative and searching. “Into what?”

  “Into making up your mind, Mare,” Cal huffs, throwing up one hand in exasperation. Like this is the most obvious thing in the world.

  I swallow around the tightness in my throat, biting my lip. He notes every movement in me, watching my face like a battlefield. Looking for an advantage, looking for opportunity. “I did a lot of thinking up at Paradise,” I say. I feel like I’m balancing on a cliff, ready to tip in either direction, with no idea how far the drop might be.

  He didn’t say a word. I won’t ask you to wait for me. The thoughts are haunting.

  “I would certainly hope so,” he says, laughing darkly. He even shakes his head, then takes another gulp. His frustration doesn’t last long, quickly melting into apprehension. I shiver as his eyes dart over me, his lips parted. “And?” he adds quietly, as if holding his breath.

  “And I don’t know. I still don’t know.” Before he can react, my head bows and I look at my hands twisting in my lap. If anyone at the tavern is listening or even looks our way, I don’t notice. Again, the world has narrowed to him and only him. At first I clench my teeth, to hold back the words rattling in my throat. No, I think. You don’t have to do that with him. “I missed you terribly,” I whisper. “I was so afraid to speak to you this morning.”

  The heat grows, cocooning me from the cold air of the mountain. “I was afraid last night,” he murmurs.

  My head snaps up to find him leaning closer. The edge of my vision swims. “And now?” I ask, feeling breathless.

  He doesn’t flinch, his face stone, his eyes fire. “Terrified.”

  I’m all lightning, my nerves crackling beneath my skin. “Me too.”

  “Where does this leave us?” One of his hands brushes mine on the bar top, but doesn’t linger.

  I can only shake my head. I don’t know.

  “Let me simplify.” He licks his lips, and his voice takes on a warrior edge, resolute and unyielding. “In a perfect world, without war, without the reconstruction, without the Lakelands or the Guard or any other obstacle you can think of, what would you do? What would you want for us?”

  I sigh, waving him off. “It doesn’t work like that, Cal.”

  He never wavers, only leaning farther into my space, until our noses are just inches apart. “Humor me,” he says neatly, as if carving every letter.

  My chest tightens. “I suppose I would ask you to stay here.”

  His eyes flash. “Okay.”

  “And I would hope that, in a perfect world, every time you looked at me, you wouldn’t see your brother’s corpse.” The last word comes out hoarsely, broken apart. I lower my gaze, looking anywhere but his face. I settle on his fingers as they twitch, betraying his own pain. “And every time I looked at you, I wouldn’t see him, and what he could have been. If I could have . . . done more.”

  Suddenly his hand is beneath my chin, forcing me to meet his eyes. His touch is flame, almost too hot to bear. “In a perfect world, who would you have chosen?” he rasps.

  I know what he’s asking. Who I would have chosen between Cal and Maven, long ago, before we knew what his brother was, and how far he had fallen. It seems like an impossible question. Balancing two people who don’t actually exist.

  “I can’t answer that,” I mutter, slowly removing his hand from my face. But I keep hold of him. “Not because I don’t want to, but because I simply can’t. It isn’t something I can ever solve.”

  His grip tightens on me. “I don’t see him every time I look at you,” he says. “Do you really see him every time you look at me?”

  Sometimes, yes.

  Every time? Now?

  I search him, my eyes weaving back and forth over every inch of skin I can find. Sure, callused hands. The veins of his exposed neck. A shadow of stubble already spreading over his cheeks. Strong brows, straight nose, the forever crooked smile. Eyes that were never Maven’s.

  “No,” I tell him, and I mean it. “Did you wait, Cal?”

  His fingers weave through mine as he grins. “I’m still waiting.”

  This must be what it feels like for a gravitron to fly. Somehow my stomach drops and leaps at the same time. Despite the warmth of him all around me, I begin to shiver. “I can’t make promises,” I sputter hastily, already trying to get ahead of the admission we’ve both made. “We don’t know where the world is going. My family is here, and you have so much to do back east—”

  “I do,” he says, nodding. “I am also very good at flying jets.”

  I can’t help but laugh. “You and I both know you can’t just commandeer a jet when you want to see me.” Though the thought does make my heart skip a beat.

  “You and I both know you aren’t going to stay put here either,” he retorts, and his free hand goes to my chin again. I don’t push it away. “The future won’t let you. And I don’t think you can let yourself sit still much longer.”

  The words continue to spill out, as quickly as they pop into my head. Obstacles in our way, problems to be solved. “That doesn’t mean I’ll be anywhere close to the States, if and when I do decide to get involved with all this again.”

  Cal just grins wider. For a moment he is a second sun, beaming warmth all over me. It breaks and re-forms my heart. “If geography is really the only thing standing in our way, then I consider this settled.”

  Sighing, I allow just a bit of the tension in me to release. I relax into his hand, angling my head. Can it really be this easy? “Do you forgive me?”

  His eyes darken and his smile seems to fade. “Have you forgiven yourself?”

  Again he looks me over, hunting for an answer. Ready for me to lie.

  It takes all my strength not to.

  “No,” I whisper, expecting him to pull back. To turn away. “I don’t know if I can.”

  He has his own demons, as many as me. I wouldn’t blame him if he didn’t want to shoulder the burden of mine too. But he only tightens his grip, until I can’t tell where my fingers end and his begin.

  “That’s okay,” he says simply, like it’s just so obvious. “We have time.”

  I blink as I feel myself fall from the cliff, the balance finally tipped.

  “We have time,” I echo.

  My heartbeat thumps, a steady rhythm. The electricity in the walls, in the lights, responds to my call, humming with energy. And then I simply shut it all off, plunging the tavern and the street into embracing darkness. It’s as easy as breathing. Voices around us rise in alarm, but I ignore them, focused on Cal instead. No one can see us now.

  His lips meet mine slowly, a steady invitation. He always lets me set the pace, always gives me a chance to step back. I have no intention of slowing down, or stopping. The sounds of the tavern fade away around me and my eyes slide shut, until the only sensation is the feel of him. And the crackle of electricity beneath my skin, begging to release again.

  If I could hold it back forever, I would.

  When the lights return, buzzing back to life, I pull away first.

  He lingers, reluctant, then smirks as he reaches for his money. But I’ve already left some on the countertop, my hands quicker than his ever will be. We grin at each other. I wish I still had the coin he gave me, that night when I stood in the shadows and waited for someone to see me for who I was.

  I take his hand and lead him back up the mountainside. To his room, to mine, to the forest. To fire or lightning. It doesn’t matter.

  I am almost nineteen. I have nothing but time. To choose, to heal.

  To live.

  SIX

  Cal

  By the time the gala catches us, I would rather sleep through the evening. And it really does feel like a predator, crouching at the end of the wee
k, waiting to pounce. I’ve had more than my fair share of balls, parties, and overblown celebrations in my lifetime. I know how this goes, and I know how boring, exhausting, and otherwise nauseating this night will be. After our days filled with meetings and debates, small talk with the delegates will be salt in an open, oozing wound.

  At least I’m not alone here. Mare hates this as much as I do, but when I suggested we both conveniently come down with sickness, she set my hair on end. We spend enough time together. People would believe it.

  But she’s right. We owe it to the alliance, to our delegations, and to ourselves to make a show of this. In the end it’s just a party, and maybe we can hunt down a little fun in the midst of it all. Not to mention, Carmadon has had the kitchens working all week. At the least, I’ll leave tonight very well fed. Besides, I’d rather not risk Nanabel’s wrath or Julian’s gentle disappointment. Both have worked too hard this week, especially Nanabel. She settled after our first meeting, doing her best to bridge the gap between the Silvers of Norta and the rest of the alliance. Without her work, and Radis’s too, we might have another rebellion on our hands, with more nobles ready to join the Secession. Instead, we have allies.

  Tonight she intends to bask in her small victories, bedecking herself in the old jewels she once wore as a queen. As we wait for Julian and Sara, she inspects herself in the mirrors of our salon, turning back and forth to let her fire-colored gemstones catch the light. Her long, flowing orange gown seems to dance as she whirls. Anabel is no fool, and she was careful to avoid wearing a crown, even if she does still dress like a queen.

  “Julian tells me you’re going to be staying on a few days after his wedding,” she says to her reflection, though the words are meant for me.

  I’ve been ready for half an hour and I’m almost asleep on the couch when she speaks. Her voice jolts me back, and I sit up, sharp as ever in my plain black suit. Only the badge on my collar, the joined circles in red, white, and silver, adorns my clothing.

  “Yes,” I reply after gathering myself. Her eyes follow me in the mirror. “A few weeks, I think. Then I’ll head back to Archeon and return to work.”

  My body tightens, bracing for a scathing remark or scolding refusal. Instead Nanabel just fixes her hair, smoothing her gray locks back behind her ears. She draws out her response, making me wait.

  “Good,” she finally says, and I nearly fall out of my seat. “You’ve earned a break.”

  “I—I suppose so, yeah,” I sputter, surprised. She knows who I’m staying with, and why. Mare Barrow isn’t exactly her favorite person in the world. “Thanks.”

  “Of course,” she says. My grandmother grins as she turns around, amused by my shock. “You might not think it, but I’m proud of you, Cal. What you’ve done, what you continue to do. You’re a young man, and you’ve accomplished so much with your time.” Her footsteps are soft, muffled by the rich carpets of the salon. The couch sinks as she sits next to me, one lined hand taking mine. “You’re strong, my dear boy. Too strong. You deserve the happy moments when you find them. And all I want, beyond anything else, a crown or a country, is for you to live.”

  My throat threatens to close, and I have to look away from her, if only to hide the sharp sting of tears. She clenches her jaw, just as uncomfortable with emotion.

  “Thank you,” I force out, focusing on a spot in the carpet. As much as I’ve wanted those words from her, they aren’t easy to hear or accept.

  Her grip on my fingers tightens, forcing me to look at her. We have the same eyes, she and I. Burning bronze. “I’ve lived through the rule of four kings. I know greatness—and sacrifice—when I see it,” she says. “Your father would be proud of you. In the end.”

  When Julian and Sara finally emerge, they are good enough to ignore my red-rimmed eyes.

  With the delegations out of their uniforms and in finery, it’s easy to pretend this is just a party. Not simply another meeting veiled by silk, liquor, and roving plates of stupidly tiny foods. At least Montfort isn’t as rigid as old Norta or its court. I don’t have to wait to be announced, and I descend into the grand ballroom with the rest of the delegates, all of us moving like a school of jewel-colored fish.

  The chamber can’t compare to Whitefire, or even the Hall of the Sun. Royals have the edge when it comes to splendor, but I hardly mind. Instead of white molding and gilt frames, the long ballroom has polished timber arches and brilliant cut-glass windows looking out on the valley as night falls. The fire of sunset sparkles off mirrors that make the space seem grander and bigger. Overhead, cast-iron hoops are set with a thousand candles, flickering with golden flame. No less than six fireplaces, all of them rough stone, throw off pleasant heat to warm the expansive room. I feel each one at the edge of my perception, and I look across the floor, searching for familiar faces.

  Mare’s brothers and Kilorn would be easiest to spot, tall as they are. They aren’t here yet, so likely she isn’t either. The premier is, of course, greeting delegates as they filter into the room. Carmadon stands proudly at his side, waving over servants as they pass. I watch as he nearly force-feeds one of the Nortan nobles a tiny portion of salmon.

  Evangeline must have the night off from her bodyguard duties. She has Elane hanging on her arm, the two of them hovering near the string band that’s still warming up. When the violinist raises his instrument, the pair of them begin to dance in perfect rhythm. As always, Evangeline manages to sparkle in the most threatening way. Her gown is beaten bronze, sculpted to her form but somehow fluid. The color looks good on her, warming up her otherwise cold appearance. Elane, on the other hand, seems to be playing the part of a winter queen. Her red hair flames as always, made even more bright by her pale skin, a light blue suit, and silver lipstick. Ptolemus stands nearby, not so loudly dressed, with Wren Skonos on his arm. Both of them favor dark green, an emblem of their new allegiance to Montfort.

  If anything is proof of the new world, the new possibility we could have, the Samos siblings are. First Evangeline, once meant to be my queen and my burden, then a princess of a hostile kingdom—now a soldier of an equal nation, with the woman she loves at her side. And her brother, heir to a throne as much as I was, nearly crushed by the expectations of a similar father—Ptolemus is here too, oathed to defend all he was raised to destroy. Both have so many sins behind them; both have no right to forgiveness or a second chance. But they found it, and the world is better for having them.

  Like Mare, I can’t help but think of Shade when I see them. He was my friend and I miss him, but I can’t hate Ptolemus for what he did. After all, I’ve done the same. Taken siblings and loved ones, killed for what I was told to believe. How can I condemn him without condemning myself?

  Behind me, Julian and Sara keep watch, already halfway through their first drinks. “Just doing our duty,” Sara quips, catching my eye.

  “Thanks,” I reply, grinning.

  The pair of them pledged to keep any delegates away from me as long as I wanted, to give me time to breathe. Today was the worst of all: I spent most of it policing a shouting match between a Scarlet Guard general and one of Montfort’s transport ministers.

  Nanabel needs no such reprieve and is already working her way through the room, angling into the circle of diplomats around the premier. By party’s end, they’ll either never speak to each other again or be close friends. I’m not sure which is more frightening.

  “Behind you, Cal,” Julian says and points his chin back up the stairs. From our spot on the floor, we have an excellent view of the crowd as it descends, and it doesn’t take me long to pick them out.

  Gisa really outdid herself with the whole family, even Mare’s father. Daniel doesn’t look particularly comfortable in the dark green dress suit, but there’s a distinct pride to him as he walks unaided down the steps. Mare’s mother, Ruth, looks regal next to him, her graying hair swept up into a complicated braid set with green clips to match her dragonfly-patterned gown. Tramy’s suit jacket is particularly bright,
embroidered with flowers and vines over yellow silk. Bree is his broader counterpart, though his jacket is pale orange. Kilorn completes the trio, grinning broadly over his blue and gold-vined coat. Even Farley received a Gisa Barrow original outfit: she’s clad head to toe in red-and-white silk offset with gold detailing and flower embroidery. She doesn’t have Clara with her, the party being too late for the infant. I wonder what the young general will abandon first—her gleaming jacket or the party.

  Gisa follows at a distance, looking as smug as a cat with a caught mouse. She has a girl I don’t recognize at her side, their elbows joined, both their dresses pale pink with intricate lacing.

  She chose purple for Mare again, sheer silk overlaid with gold branches and silver blossoms. The meaning isn’t difficult to figure out. All the Barrows and Farley too wear some sort of plant in bloom—roses, lilies, magnolias, fresh leaves. Though winter looms, they are spring. Reborn.

  Mare smiles just for me as she walks, careful to keep the hem of her skirt in check on the stairs. The many candles dance above her, making her glow. I wait patiently, letting the rest of the crowd break around me in a river. If someone tries to speak to me, I don’t notice. My focus is on one person in the room.

  A flush colors the tops of her cheeks, the perfect complement to the berry color of her lips. And the curl of freshly dyed hair, purple at the ends. I can’t help but smile like an idiot, especially when she tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. The stones glimmer there, for her brothers, for Kilorn, and for me. The scarlet gem winks across the room, a star I would follow anywhere.

  When she reaches the floor, I don’t move, letting her maneuver carefully around her mess of brothers. They spot me and offer curt nods, better than I deserve. Mare’s mother is more polite, offering a smile, while her father pointedly looks at the ceiling. I don’t mind. I have time with them. I have time with her.

  “I have to say, I expect more from you,” Mare says, stepping up to me. She runs a hand down the lapel of my suit, letting her fingers trace the buttons before finding the badge on my collar. Her touch, even through the clothes, makes me shiver. “You look like you’re dressed for a quiet night in.”