by Audrey Grey
Clouds to skate, branches to swing; wind to gather beneath our wings.
But one little raven is feeling blue,
And perhaps a bit lonely too.
Oh her buttons are stacked a hundred feet high, her beautiful yarn reaching the sky.
Her nest juts from the largest trees; her wings gather the wildest breeze.
But her friends, there aren’t a single one.
To count her buttons, or chase the sun.
She is different, you see, than you and me.
Like the stars to the moon, and the fish to the sea.
It’s a children’s book. “My mother wrote that for me.” Flame’s small, angry laugh sounds like ripping fabric. “Fitting, for a freak unable to get along with the other kids.”
No surprise there.
“Do you want to see what happens when a Silver gets caught with unsanctioned literature?”
I try to say no but there’s a wild look to her eyes, and it’s like she doesn’t even see me. The memory switches on suddenly.
I gasp.
Bright light . . .
Clouds overhead . . .
Smells of sweat and dirty bodies and the greasy fried pigs’ feet they sell on Sundays at the Riverton market. I’m standing on my tiptoes, peering over grimy hats and oily heads at the scaffolding in front of me.
“What is this?” I whisper, but I know. I know. Somehow, through our Microplant, Flame is uploading a stored synaptic memory.
“I’m twelve.” Her voice has gone hard. “So I still think they’ll have mercy on them.”
Look away. But I can’t. It’s in my head, and I experience everything. My hand—Flame’s hand—wrapped around Cage’s as we fight elbows and shoulders. The excited jeers from the crowd that grow louder with every step the executioner takes toward Flame’s parents. The ropes slink around their necks. Suddenly I call out, flailing wildly. Cage clamps his hand over my mouth . . . and I scream and scream out every bit of my heart.
The sound of Flame’s adoptive parent’s dropping through the scaffolding ends the memory. I focus on Flame, and she smiles the saddest smile I have ever seen. “They had to make an example of them.”
“Enough.”
It’s like she doesn’t hear me. “Harmless Silvers whose only crime was taking in orphans and loving books and they took them and they forced their heads—”
“Please, Flame, stop!”
She faces me suddenly. “So that’s why, when you talk like we are the monsters”—her voice is rising—“like we are the ones to blame and not them, it takes everything I have, everything, to keep from hurting you.”
I take a deep breath. Fighting with Flame will not make things better between us—or improve my odds at survival. “You mean hurting everyone,” I amend carefully. “Because that’s what you want, isn’t it, Fienian? The whole world to burn?”
“Yes.” Her eyes are dark pits of rage. “But I’ll settle for you and your Gold boyfriend if I have to.”
Caspian. Looking at Flame, the way her flesh nearly shivers with fury, I feel something surprising. Envy. How easy it would be to give in to my hatred and madness. To fill my hollow places with it, let it eat away anything I have left.
“Noted,” I say, slipping under the covers. Flame’s savage glare isn’t enough to fight off the black tide of fatigue washing over me. “Big day tomorrow. Think I could get some rest without being murdered in my sleep?”
Flame blinks her sharp gray eyes at me. Then she pops up, stretching through a yawn—even Fienians have to rest, apparently—and turns her attention back to the mess of wires. Her fury seems to have vanished as fast as it came on. “Not making any promises.”
I undo my hairpin, quietly slip it under my pillow—just in case—and make a paltry effort at sleep. But one thought keeps breaking through: Flame is wrong. I don’t blame one side over the other anymore, and I have stopped seeing monsters in place of men.
Truly, I am beginning to suspect the entire world has simply gone mad. And I’m sleeping a few steps away from the maddest of them all.
Chapter Thirty-One
Hands are shaking me. “You sleep like a corpse!” Flame’s agitated voice accuses. “Get up!”
The Centurions burst in and lead me off before I can find my boots. Our hurried footsteps break the silence of the dark halls. Although I am pretty sure they are taking me to the Choosing Ceremony, they just as well could be leading me to the firing squad.
We pause by the door. A Centurion quickly drapes me in a satin, bell-shaped emerald-green cloak that swirls around my ankles. It is heavy, trimmed in black marten fur that descends down the front and borders the arm openings on each side, and extravagant beyond compare.
“He wanted you to have this,” the Centurion says.
Thank goodness for whomever he is—Nicolai?—because the cool night air nips at my legs as soon as we exit.
It takes a moment to spot the other finalists, spread out in two parallel lines by order of status, facing each other. They shiver in their nightclothes, their milky breath fogging the air. A Centurion stands on either side of every finalist.
I am placed at the end of the line, next to Lady Laurel. My bare feet crunch on cool, dewy grass. Envious eyes roam my cloak, and I realize, once again, I am standing out from the others. I make a point to tell Nicolai no more special favors, however appreciated they are.
A torch sparks to life. One by one, the Centurions light their torches off the other until there are two glorious rows of crackling warmth. Then we are each handed an unlit torch.
I take this time to catalog the remaining finalists. Merida and Rhydian huddle together, their hands all but touching. Teagan, her tall form clad in a black men’s silk tunic that barely covers the top of her grass-blade-thin thighs, stands two finalists down from Blaise, Merida, and Rhydian. Hugo and Lucy stand near the end. They are the only ones dressed for the chill, which means either they heard the Centurions coming—or more likely were prepared for it somehow.
In the silence, it’s hard not to worry about which mentor will pick me. Will it be the mentor Nicolai has chosen for me or someone else? And what if it is someone I despise like Delphine or Roman?
From the distance comes the muffled whinny of horses. We all turn, focusing on the dark expanse where the sound originates. Slowly, two riders emerge, galloping to a sudden stop a few feet from where I stand. One of the horses, a huge white beast, rears, its hooves pawing the air.
When the rider gets the beast under control, he throws back his hood and I see it is Caspian, wearing his military jacket emblazoned with a golden phoenix. A Centurion hands him a burning torch. Spurring the horse to a high-kneed trot, he wheels in a circle around the finalists, his horse grunting milky clouds with every sharp turn. Caspian’s eyes scour the two lines, searching. This is a different Caspian. Towering, imperial, a majestic figure cut from obsidian. I can picture him commanding armies and leading men into battle.
I realize there’s a lot about Prince Caspian Laevus I don’t know, and the thought puts me on edge.
When his horse gets to me, its chest is shiny with sweat and lips bubbly with froth. I freeze. My hair blows back with every loud, warm exhalation from the beast’s velvety-gray nostrils. Made for galloping, the brute is cagy in one place and stamps its feet and throws its massive head about like a battering ram. Caspian doesn’t budge.
Looking up, I squint to make out Caspian’s face, but his expression is covered in shadow. There’s a quiet, unsettling pause as the horse shifts nervously. Finally, Caspian leans down, firelight illuminating his face, and touches his flame to mine.
My torch erupts, kissing my nose and cheeks with radiant warmth. Before I understand what is happening, the Centurion to my right has me by the arm. Caspian halts him with an upraised palm. It takes a moment to understand he’s asking me to choose the other finalist on my team.
I swallow. But there’s only one person here I trust. My torch finds Merida’s. Without a word, Caspian
kicks his horse into a gallop and fades into the darkness.
Just as the dawn begins to break, Merida and I are put on separate horses and blindfolded. Even with my eyes covered, I can feel the resentful looks from the others. They must be wondering why us. Two exiled Golds from forgettable houses.
I’m wondering the same thing.
I don’t know if this turn of events will work in my favor or not. The one thing I do know, however, is this was not in the plan, and Nicolai will not be pleased.
Sounds come to life. Hoof steps from a third rider. Merida’s loud, nervous breathing. Someone takes the reins and begins to lead us across the lawn at a gallop. Although I have never ridden a horse before, Lady March has, and she holds a handful of mane and hugs the beast with her bare legs, her toes curling over the cold stirrups.
As we travel, I struggle to gather a rough outlay of our surroundings. We cross a wooden bridge. A stream. Long stretches of grass. At one point, tree branches scratch my face and I know we are in a forest.
A sudden stop. The sound of the third rider retreating on his horse. Something’s about to happen, and I focus on gleaning whatever I can from our surroundings. Not much wind, so probably we are entrenched by woods or cliffs on at least two sides. I smell stagnant water and feel the horse sinking a bit in what has to be mud. There’s the sound of someone walking lightly on stone and then I feel someone take my reins. We are moving.
I instinctively lean back in my saddle as I feel my horse begin to plunge down stairs, hooves clacking on stone. There are three winding sets of steep stairs and then, by the wet, hollow sound of it, a damp tunnel. After what seems like forever, we dismount, a keypad beeps, a door creaks open, and we are led inside.
The first thing I notice is the lack of sound. The second thing is my brain, which tingles and crawls, as if a tiny worm wiggles through its dense gray matter.
My blindfold slides off, and I gasp. Beside me, Merida inhales sharply. We are inside what has to be a Sim, suspended in infinite bluish-black space, surrounded on all sides by stars. And that’s when I understand it is a perfect replica of our universe.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” I know who it is before I even look. Caspian is standing just behind me, smiling, starlight casting him in a diaphanous glow so his hair appears a rich, burnished gold.
“Amazing.” As far as I can tell, there is no boundary, just an endless array of stars. I find the Orion Constellation. As I focus my eyes, it seems to get closer—or maybe that is my imagination. Orion’s sword comes into view. Slowly, a pink and blue veil billows out like a net, wrapping us in its gaseous blanket.
We are inside the Orion Nebula.
Before I can speak, it changes again. I am inside a cluster of fat, shimmery stars, shining clear, bluish-white. I look around for the others but see only stars. I count six. That’s when I realize I am formless, emanating with boundless energy and light.
I am one of the seven sisters inside the Pleiades star cluster. It doesn’t take much to determine which one I am. The same one I was named after. The most beautiful, brightest one of them all.
Maia.
“Maia.” My father’s voice, a whisper across the void.
“Maia,” he calls again. “Find the hall of the three-headed Sphinx caged in gold—” And then it’s as if everything is sucked into a vacuum, the stars stretching out like taffy before a black rubber band of darkness snaps closed.
I come to on the floor inside a high-domed silver room, lying in a puddle of satin and fur. Something soft—Caspian’s jacket—wedges beneath my head. I want to yell for my father, but Caspian is leaning over me.
Straightening my cumbersome cloak to better cover my bare thighs, I struggle to my feet, fighting off waves of dizziness. “What happened?”
“You disappeared,” Merida says with a worried frown.
“Disappeared?”
“From the Simulation,” Caspian clarifies. “I ejected immediately, and we found you unconscious.”
Glancing around, I see the panel by the door. So this is an auto-Sim, an incredibly rare and expensive Simulator designed for use without an operator, which means Caspian had a remote ejector to push if something went wrong.
Which apparently, it did. That explains why I was ejected before my father could finish his message. My shoulders sag. Now I’ll just have to find a way to steal the remote ejector, find my way back here, and guess the code to enter—all before the first trial starts.
Easy peezy.
“The last thing I remember is being with you and Merida,” I lie. “How long was I out?”
Merida and Caspian look at each other.
“A long time,” Caspian finally says.
“How long until Shadow Fall?”
Caspian pulls out a gold pocket watch, its chain jingling. “Two hours and fifty-two minutes.”
Less than three hours until the first challenge. Not only will it be impossible to get back here before then, but we have wasted most of our time for preparation.
Merida toys with her nightgown as she looks to Caspian. “I wanted to get help, but he thought it best . . . ?”
“My father sees Rebels and Fienian Sympathizers in every corner,” Caspian explains grimly. “What do you think he would do with you?”
String me up from the Tower, no doubt.
“It must have been an anomaly,” I suggest.
Pausing, Caspian glances at Merida and gives a quick nod. “Lady Merida, you may leave now. An attendant will guide you to your apartment to await the trials.”
The hasty curtsy Merida performs looks silly with her nightgown. As soon as the door shuts behind her, the formal stiffness melts from Caspian’s body and he steps closer, pulling the cloak tighter around me. “You’re okay?”
“Yes.” I try to brush him away with my hand, but he persists.
“The cloak kept you warm?”
One hand absentmindedly slides down the silky-soft fur lining. “That was you?”
He allows a questioning smile. “Who else?”
“Oh. Thank you.”
There is an awkward pause, and Caspian forces a laugh. “It’s nothing. All the mentors present a gift to the finalists before the first trial, so . . .” He gives the cloak the once-over. “I just thought . . . Well, it’s green and . . .”
“Ostentatious?” I am only half-teasing.
A frown settles on his face. I realize he’s probably not used to such blatant honesty. “I was going to say it is the perfect shade for your eyes but”—he breaks into a slow grin—“it really is garish, isn’t it? Fienian hell. O said get you something practical, but I tend not to listen very well.”
For some reason, I feel myself smiling. “No, it’s, uh, very warm.” More awkward silence. I chew my lip, twisting on my toes. “So, this place . . . ?”
“Of course.” Caspian exhales as he begins to make a slow circle around the walls. “My father had this built years ago. The man who designed it made it this beautiful metallic silver for reasons only he understood.” He touches the slightly reflective wall. “It was the most comprehensive and advanced Simulator ever built, right up until the day it stopped working.”
“But the stars—”
“Left by its creator.” My Father. “A sort of default setting. And never once, not when it was working, not when it became what you saw, has it ever experienced an anomaly.” An intense look darkens his face. “Until now.”
My heart races. Just like the Sim before, my father was trying to tell me something before I was pulled.
Find the hall of the Three-Headed Sphinx caged in gold. It has to be a riddle of some sort.
I exit my thoughts to see Caspian watching me with sharp, unblinking eyes. I bite my lip. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Lady March, do you think I could have made it this far in my father’s court without knowing how to spot when someone is hiding something?”
“Okay.” I fiddle with my cape. “Why not alert the Gold Cloaks?”
We are close. I can feel his warm breath against my cheeks and see the interwoven stroma inside his warm honey irises. I want to trust him. If there’s anyone I can trust, surely it’s the prince I was matched with?
I rock on my heels. “Why did you bring me here?”
Caspian’s eyes rake my face, as if poring over my features will give him the answer to some puzzle. “The day I found you by the telescope, it responded to you.”
“And you wanted to see how the Sim would respond?”
“It’s always seemed—I don’t know—as if it was waiting for something . . . or someone.”
I bite my lip. “And now, what do you think?”
“There are even more questions.”
My heart knocks against my ribcage. “For instance?”
“For instance, Lady March, who are you really?”
The question takes me aback. Even I don’t know how to answer. I’m not Chosen, not anymore, but I’m not a Bronze, either. I’m not a courtier, nor am I the fallen Gold whose identity I inhabit. Parts of me are Lady March, yet parts of me are Maia Graystone.
And some dark part of me, the part I try to hide, the desperate, primal part, is the girl from the pit.
He is watching me, waiting for an answer. So I give him the only one I can. “I’m the girl who will be left standing at the end.”
Hopefully.
“At least we know you’re confident.”
“Is that why you chose me?”
“Partly,” he admits.
“The other part?”
His lips press together for a brief moment as he ponders my question. “Because you are different than the others. Count and Countess Bloodwood, they don’t intimidate you.”
“And,” I say, finishing his thought, “if I make it all the way through, I wouldn’t be afraid to ally with you against them.”
“I think you misunderstand, Lady March. I don’t want an ally against Countess Bloodwood. I want you to replace her.”
I feel my heart give a wild kick. And maybe it’s because we were matched, or because of all those nights spent memorizing his face and picturing our future together, but my mind goes there. “You want me to . . . marry you?”