He won’t tell me what he’s looking for, but I know. Despite the walls my mother built around me, Cal always manages to weasel through. His hunting eyes fill me with sorrow. Even now, he thinks there’s something in me left to save—and to mourn. There is no escaping our fate, not for either of us. He must sentence me to die. And I must accept death. But Cal wants to know if he’s killing his brother along with the monster—or if the brother died long ago.
Cut for cut, my mother whispers, louder now, taunting. The words slice like a razor.
It would hurt him deeply, wound him forever, if I let him glimpse what little is left of me. That I’m still here, in some forgotten corner, just waiting to be found. I could ruin him with one glance, one echo of the brother he remembers. Or I could free him of me. Make the choice for him. Give my brother one last proof of the love I can no longer feel, even if he never knows it.
I weigh the choice in my heart, each side heavy and impossible. For one terrifying moment, I don’t know what to do.
Despite all my mother’s fine work, I can’t find it in myself to land that final blow.
I drop my gaze, forcing a detached smirk to my lips.
“I would do it all again, Cal,” I tell him, lying with such grace. It feels easy, after so many years behind a mask. “If given the choice to go back, I would let her change me. I would watch you kill him. I’d send you to the arena. And I’d get it right. I’d give you what you deserve. I’d kill you now if I could. I’d do it a thousand times.”
My brother is simple, easy to manipulate. He sees only what lies in front of him, only what he can understand. The lie does its job well. His eyes harden, that undying ember in him almost extinguished entirely. One hand twitches, wanting to form a fist. But the Silent Stone affects him too, and even if he had the strength to make me burn, he could not.
“Good-bye, Maven,” Cal says, his voice broken. He isn’t really speaking to me.
The farewell is for another boy, lost years ago, before he became what I am now. Cal lets go of him, the Maven I was. The Maven I still am, somewhere inside, unable or unwilling to step into the light.
This will be the last time we speak to each other alone. I can feel that in my marrow. If I see him again, it will be before the throne, or beneath the cold steel of the executioner’s blade.
“I look forward to the sentencing,” I drawl in reply, watching him flee the room. The door slams behind him, shaking paintings in their frames.
Despite all the difference between us, we have this in common. We use our pain to destroy.
“Good-bye, Cal,” I say to no one.
Weakness, my mother answers.
Cal
Julian says I don’t have to start this with “dear diary” or anything official. Still, this feels stupid. And a waste of time. My days aren’t exactly empty.
Not to mention this whole thing is a security risk.
But Julian certainly knows how to nag.
He knows I’m not talking enough about, well, anything. Not with him, not with Mare. She isn’t exactly forthcoming either, but at least she has her sister, her family, Farley, Kilorn, and whoever else she needs when she does decide to say something. I’m nowhere near as lucky. All I have is her and Julian, and I guess Nanabel. Not that I really want to talk to my grandmother about my mental state, or my girlfriend, or the trauma of the past year.
My mother had a diary too. It didn’t stop Elara from doing . . . what she did. But it seemed to ground her, in the beginning. Maybe it will help me too.
I’m not exactly good at writing. I certainly read a lot, but it hasn’t rubbed off. And I really don’t want another liability for the Nortan States. Things are precarious enough.
Or am I just being vain, thinking that anything I scribble down could somehow threaten the reconstruction? Probably.
How does anyone do this? Journals are impossible. I feel idiotic.
* * *
Mare wasn’t kidding about the Paradise Valley. It’s gorgeous and dangerous. We had to wait for a storm to clear out before we could get up here. Had to burn a hole in a snowdrift just to get to the cabin door. And we heard wolves all night long. I wonder if I can lure any to the cabin with dinner scraps?
* * *
Do not lure wolves with dinner scraps.
* * *
The States and the Scarlet Guard are cooperating well even without me running between them. I was expecting Nanabel to drag me out of the cabin after twenty-four hours, but it looks like we’ll get the full time away. And we got to celebrate my birthday properly, despite the bison interruption. They are very noisy.
* * *
Third day cooped up inside the cabin. Normally wouldn’t mind, but Mare insists on doing puzzles, and I think they’re all missing pieces. Seems rudely symbolic.
* * *
Fell in a geyser. Very happy to be heatproof. My clothes, not so much. Gave a bison a real show on the jog back to the cabin.
* * *
Another snowstorm last night. Mare couldn’t help but get involved. Thunder snow is incredible. And she’s a show-off.
* * *
Convinced the supply-drop pilots to take us on a quick tour around the valley. The whole of Paradise is on top of a caldera and a dormant volcano. Bit unsettling. Even for me.
* * *
No bad dreams for the last two weeks. Usually I’d blame exhaustion, but we’re not doing much more than lying around and hiking nearby. I think something about the wilderness is settling me. The question is, am I healing—or is this just stasis? Will the nightmares come back when we leave? Will they be worse?
* * *
Worse.
And always the same thing.
Maven, alone on that island, standing just out of reach no matter how hard I try to move.
* * *
She doesn’t want to come with me. And I’d rather she didn’t.
I need to do this alone.
Cal
The fog lifts slowly. I wish it wouldn’t. I wish visibility would be too poor for a landing, and I’d have to turn back to the mainland.
I could always lie and turn back anyway. No one would question it. No one would care if I made it to Tuck or not. No one would even know.
No one but me.
And him.
The island is gray this time of year, as the autumn days bleed toward winter. It barely stands out in the steel-colored ocean, little more than a smudge against the rising sun. I buzz the northern cliffs, maneuvering my small dropjet with a few easy movements of the controls. It looks the same as it did last year. I try not to think, to remember. I peer down at the landscape, focusing on that instead. Few trees, the dunes, slopes of yellowing grass, the docks of the small harbor, the abandoned base—it unfurls below me in a second. The runway bisects the island and makes for an easy target. I try not to look at the squat barracks as I wheel the dropjet into position, its propellers whipping up a cloud of sand and dune grass. This place holds enough bad memories—I can only handle so many at a time.
Before I can change my mind, I drop altitude. The landing is rougher than it should be, the craft jarring as it touches down. But I’m eager to be finished, and my hands shake, even as I flip the necessary switches and levers. The roar of the propellers lessens as they slow but don’t stop. I won’t be here long. I can’t bear it.
Julian offered to come, as did Nanabel. I refused both.
The island is without any sound but the wind in the grass and the seabirds calling out over the water. I’m tempted to whistle, just to make some human noise. It’s odd, knowing I’m the only living person on the island. Especially with the remains of barracks and such human memories all around.
Tuck has been without people since the Scarlet Guard evacuated, fearing a raid after Mare’s capture. They still haven’t come back. While the base has been worn by wind and the changing seasons, the rest of the island looks content to be left alone.
My feet follow the path from the runway, winding int
o the tall grass and up the gentle hills. Soon the trail fades, gravel giving way to sandy soil. There are no markers to lead the way—only people who know what they’re looking for will find him.
Shade is on the other side of the island, his grave overlooking the dawn. That was Mare’s request, when the time came. To make sure he was as far away from her brother as the island allowed.
There was talk of burying him elsewhere. He asked to be buried with his mother, but he did not specify a place. Elara was on Tuck, in a shallow grave. Despite the state of decay, she would have been easy to dig up and move to the mainland. Of course, there was opposition to the idea. Not only because of the gruesome nature, but because, as Julian quietly pointed out, he didn’t want Maven’s grave to be well known or easily accessible. It could become a rallying point or a monument, giving strength to anyone who might take up his cause.
In the end, we decided Tuck was best. An island in the middle of the ocean, so isolated that even Maven might find peace.
The loose ground shifts beneath me, sucking at my boots. The steps become more difficult, and not only because of the terrain. I force the last few yards and crest the rise beneath the gray light of autumn. I can smell rain, but the storm hasn’t hit yet.
The field is empty. Even the birds don’t come here.
At first glimpse of the stones, I drop my eyes, focusing on my feet. I don’t trust myself to keep walking if I have to watch it get closer. The dream rattles in my head, haunting me. I count off the last few feet, looking up only when I must.
There is no silhouette, no impossible shadow of a lost boy waiting to be found.
Elara’s headstone is unmarked, a single gray slab already worn smooth by the wind. There will be no record of her here. Not her name, not her house. Not a word of who she was in life. She doesn’t deserve a memory. She stole so many others’.
I refused to give Maven the same treatment. He deserves something at least.
His stone is milky white, with rounded edges. The letters are cut deep, some already filled with dirt or dead grass. I clean them out with a few swipes of my fingers, shivering as I touch the cold, damp stone.
MAVEN CALORE
Beloved son, beloved brother.
Let no one follow.
He is without his title, with little more than his name. But every word on the stone is the truth. We loved him—and he strayed down a path no one else should pursue.
Even though I’m the only person on the island, the only one for miles and miles, I can’t find the strength to speak. My voice dies; my throat tightens. I couldn’t say good-bye to him if my own life depended on it. The words simply won’t come.
My chest tightens as I bend a knee, bowing over his grave. I keep one hand to the stone, letting it flood me with sickly cold. I expected fear—I’m standing over two corpses. Instead there is only grief.
I’m sorry races through my head, a hundred times, a thousand times. Memories of him flash just as quickly, from when he was a young boy to the last time I saw him, and sentenced him to die. I should have found another way. I curse myself, and not for the first time this morning. I could have kept him alive somehow. There was a chance. Even in Archeon, during the siege. Something could have been done. There must have been a way—and I just couldn’t find it.
Some days, Mare tells me to move past it. Not to forget, but to accept what has been done. Some days, she bleeds with me, retreating to blame herself as I do the same. And some days, I can only blame him, blame Elara, blame my father. I was just a boy too. What was I supposed to do?
The wind turns icy, a sudden gust howling through my jacket. I tighten against the cold, letting heat flood my chest.
Maybe I should have burned him. Given his body to flame, and let the rest of him go where it willed, carried on the wind.
But like always, I could not let him go. Even now, I cannot let Maven go.
I never will.
My face is already wet when the rain comes.
While the Nortan Civil War officially ended with the abdication of King Tiberias VII, dissolving the Kingdom of Norta as it was known, the cessation of hostilities did not occur until several years after. The conflict that followed was known as the Dancing War, as each side stepped when the other did, matching move for move in a stilted, halting fashion.
Only through the efforts of Montfort and the Scarlet Guard did the fledgling Nortan States manage to hold off invasion attempts from both the Lakelands and Piedmont. It was outwardly a defensive war, with the Nortan States maintaining their borders. However, the Scarlet Guard and General Diana Farley in particular were often accused of infiltration and interference within sovereign nations, attempting to encourage Red and newblood uprisings against Silver governments. The War of Red Thunder two decades later would bring those efforts to fruition.
Diplomatic maneuvers were also integral to maintaining a shaky peace in the eastern nations. The once Queen of the Rift, Evangeline Samos, was ultimately able to intervene on behalf of Montfort and the Nortan States. She treated with Queen Cenra and her successor, Queen Tiora, several times over the course of the Dancing War. Together with the former King of Norta, Tiberias Calore, she was also able to negotiate peace among the former Silver houses still chafing under reconstruction. Premier Leonide Radis, a Montfortan Silver who was elected to the office after Premier Dane Davidson, was a stalwart ally to the Silvers of Norta who gave up their titles.
By the time of Red Thunder, the Nortan States were largely settled, and therefore escaped much of the turmoil that gripped the Lakelands, Piedmont, and the territories of several Prairie warlords. Most notable in Red Thunder was obviously the Storm of the Citadel, an electricon mission to destroy the Lakelands’ largest military installation. In an assault led by Mare Barrow and Tyton Jesper, the fortress was torn apart by lightning.
The Nortan States were not without their own troubles before and during Red Thunder. There were several Silver-led efforts to return a Calore to the throne of Norta, largely in support of Tiberias Calore’s two children as they grew up. Both Shade Calore and Coriane Calore broadcasted their own abdication, renunciation of rights, and citizen pledges to Montfort several times, hoping to quell any conflicts of succession to the former Nortan kingdom. Ironically, Tiberias Calore was a general in Red Thunder, as was Mare Barrow, and both defeated the forces that were hoping to elevate their children to the old Calore throne. At present, the States are governed by a mixed council of elected representatives and military officials. Unlike Montfort, the Nortan States also utilize blood speakers—one individual elected from each of the three blood groups to represent their own. They are currently Jemma Harner of Delphie, Cameron Cole of Harbor Bay, and Julian Jacos of Archeon, representing Reds, newbloods, and Silvers, respectively.
Research into Silver and newblood abilities continues to this day in facilities across the continent, with Montfort leading the charge. The current premier, Nortan-born Kilorn Warren, prioritizes education, and thereby history and science. The Montfort efforts of discovery are the best funded among the organized nations. Most integral have been human subjects, specifically second-generation newbloods who have volunteered for blood testing. Clara Farley-Barrow is a name well known to scientists, as she is a half-newblood, half-Red observed nearly since birth. Her ability to teleport presented in her teens, which is considered a common age of discovery for newbloods.
Many breakthroughs have been made in the past decade. It is now a largely accepted belief that radiation from the Calamities caused many humans to mutate, with most dying off. Those who survived developed abilities over the course of generations and became the Silvers we know today. Scientists are also circling the general hypothesis of competitive evolution. They now believe that Reds were constantly evolving alongside Silvers, and the presence of Silver abilities forced some Reds to adapt abilities of their own for survival.
At present, the Nortan States, the Union of the Lakes, and the Piedmont Federation stand in alliance with the Free
Republic of Montfort. All have democratic governments with equality of blood at their cores, unlike the Silver-led nations of Tiraxes and Ciron and many fiefdoms of Prairie. Some detractors accuse Montfort of empire building, as it appears to hold sway over the other governments. The balance of power has certainly shifted, and the remaining Silver nations strive to maintain peace with the Equal Alliance. Some are making strides toward their own transformations. Tiraxes, for example, is introducing equality laws and representation for its Red citizens, while the Warlady of Fourskulls in Prairie recently married a Red.
* * *
Who can say where the paths lead, or how the scales may balance in another decade? I suppose I can, but that is my curse. To watch, to see, until the ending of all things. We destroy. We rebuild. We destroy again. It is the constant of our kind. We are all a god’s chosen, and we are all a god’s cursed.
—JON
* * *
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’m not known for short acknowledgments, but I’ll do my best. These were written on a plane during holiday travel, so they were done under great duress.
Thank you to the greatest hits, the people who constantly make this possible. Mom, Dad, Andy, Morgan, Tori, Jenny, Indy. Okay, the last one is a dog, but she’s earned it. Thank you so much to all my extended family and friends who have supported me through all my excellent nonsense. I have a job and a life where it would be very easy to lose myself, and you make sure I don’t.
Broken Throne Page 37