“The skin healers can only do so much. If only he’d broken his spine, that’d be no trouble at all.” Robert’s laugh sounded hollow, a song without notes. The king was not yet dead, and already his consort was a shell of himself. And while she feared for her father-in-law, knowing that a painful, diseased death waited for him, she was terrified of losing Robert as well. He cannot succumb to this. I won’t let him.
“It’s fine, no need to explain,” Coriane muttered. She did her best not to cry, though every inch of her hoped to. How can this be happening? Are we not Silvers? Are we not gods? “Does he need anything? Do you?”
Robert smiled an empty smile. His eyes flashed to her stomach, not yet rounded by the life inside. A prince or princess, she did not know yet. “He would have liked to have seen that one.”
House Skonos tried everything, even cycling the king’s blood. But whatever sickness he had never disappeared. It wasted at him faster than they could heal. Usually Robert stayed by him in his chamber, but today he left Tiberias alone with his son, and Coriane knew why. The end was near. The crown would pass, and there were things only Tibe could know.
The day the king died, Coriane marked the date and colored the entire diary page in black ink. She did the same a few months later, for Robert. His will was gone, his heart refusing to beat. Something ate at him too, and in the end, it swallowed him whole. Nothing could be done. No one could hold him back from taking shadowed flight. Coriane wept bitterly as she inked the day of his ending in her diary.
She carried on the tradition. Black pages for black deaths. One for Jessamine, her body simply too old to continue. One for her father, who found his end in the bottom of a glass.
And three for the miscarriages she suffered over the years. Each one came at night, on the heels of a violent nightmare.
SIX
Coriane was twenty-one, and pregnant for a fourth time.
She told no one, not even Tibe. She did not want the heartache for him. Most of all, she wanted no one to know. If Elara Merandus was truly still plaguing her, turning her own body against her unborn children, she didn’t want any kind of announcement regarding another royal child.
The fears of a fragile queen were no basis for banishing a High House, let alone one as powerful as Merandus. So Elara was still at court, the last of the three Queenstrial favorites still unmarried. She made no overtures to Tibe. On the contrary, she regularly petitioned to join Coriane’s ladies, and was regularly denied her request.
It will be a surprise when I seek her out, Coriane thought, reviewing her meager but necessary plan. She’ll be off guard, startled enough for me to work. She had practiced on Julian, Sara, even Tibe. Her abilities were better than ever. I will succeed.
The Parting Ball signaling the end of the season at the summer palace was the perfect cover. So many guests, so many minds. Elara would be easy to get close to. She would not expect Queen Coriane to speak to her, let alone sing to her. But Coriane would do both.
She made sure to dress for the occasion. Even now, with the wealth of the crown behind her, she felt out of place in her crimson and gold silks, a girl playing dress-up against the lords and ladies around her. Tibe whistled as he always did, calling her beautiful, assuring her she was the only woman for him—in this world or any other. Normally it calmed her, but now she was only nervous, focused on the task at hand.
Everything moved both too slowly and too quickly for her taste. The meal, the dancing, greeting so many curled smiles and narrowed eyes. She was still the Singer Queen to so many, a woman who bewitched her way to the throne. If only that were true. If only I was what they thought me to be, then Elara would be of no consequence, I would not spend every night awake, afraid to sleep, afraid to dream.
Her opportunity came deep into the night, when the wine was running low and Tibe was in his precious whiskey. She swept away from his side, leaving Julian to attend to her drunken king. Even Sara did not notice her queen steal away, to cross the path of Elara Merandus as she idled by the balcony doors.
“Come outside with me, won’t you, Lady Elara?” Coriane said, her eyes wide and laser-focused on Elara’s own. To anyone who might pass by, her voice sounded like music and a choir both, elegant, heartbreaking, dangerous. A weapon as devastating as her husband’s flame.
Elara’s eyes did not waver, locked upon Coriane’s, and the queen felt her heart flutter. Focus, she told herself. Focus, damn you. If the Merandus woman could not be charmed, then Coriane would be in for something worse than her nightmares.
But slowly, sluggishly, Elara took a step back, never breaking eye contact. “Yes,” she said dully, pushing the balcony door open with one hand.
They stepped out together, Coriane holding Elara by the shoulder, keeping her from wavering. Outside, the night was sticky hot, the last gasps of summer in the upper river valley. Coriane felt none of it. Elara’s eyes were the only things in her mind.
“Have you been playing with my mind?” she asked, cutting directly to her intentions.
“Not for a while,” Elara replied, her eyes faraway.
“When was the last time?”
“Your wedding day.”
Coriane blinked, startled. So long ago. “What? What did you do?”
“I made you trip.” A dreamy smile crossed Elara’s features. “I made you trip on your dress.”
“That—that’s it?”
“Yes.”
“And the dreams? The nightmares?”
Elara said nothing. Because there’s nothing for her to say, Coriane knew. She sucked in a breath, fighting the urge to cry. These fears are my own. They always have been. They always will be. I was wrong before I came to court, and I’m still wrong long after.
“Go back inside,” she finally hissed. “Remember none of this.” Then she turned away, breaking the eye contact she so desperately needed to keep Elara under her control.
Like a person waking up, Elara blinked rapidly. She cast a single confused glance at the queen before hurrying away, back into the party.
Coriane moved in the opposite direction, toward the stone bannister ringing the balcony. She leaned over it, trying to catch her breath, trying not to scream. Greenery stretched below her, a garden of fountains and stone more than forty feet down. For a single, paralyzing second, she fought the urge to jump.
The next day, she took a guard into her service, to defend her from any Silver ability someone might use against her. If not Elara, than surely someone else of House Merandus. Coriane simply could not believe how her mind seemed to spin out of control, happy one second and then distraught the next, bouncing between emotions like a kite in a gale.
The guard was of House Arven, the silent house. His name was Rane, a savior clad in white, and he swore to defend his queen against all forces.
They named the baby Tiberias, as was custom. Coriane didn’t care for the name, but acquiesced at Tibe’s request, and his assurance that they would name the next after Julian. He was a fat baby, smiling early, laughing often, growing bigger by leaps and bounds. She nicknamed him Cal to distinguish him from his father and grandfather. It stuck.
The boy was the sun in Coriane’s sky. On hard days, he split the darkness. On good days, he lit the world. When Tibe went away to the front, for weeks at a time now that the war ran hot again, Cal kept her safe. Only a few months old and better than any shield in the kingdom.
Julian doted on the boy, bringing him toys, reading to him. Cal was apt to break things apart and jam them back together incorrectly, to Coriane’s delight. She spent long hours piecing his smashed gifts back together, amusing him as well as herself.
“He’ll be bigger than his father,” Sara said. Not only was she Coriane’s chief lady-in-waiting, she was also her physician. “He’s a strong boy.”
While any mother would revel in those words, Coriane feared them. Bigger than his father, a strong boy. She knew what that meant for a Calore prince, an heir to the Burning Crown.
He will not be
a soldier, she wrote in her newest diary. I owe him that much. Too long the sons and daughters of House Calore have been fighting, too long has this country had a warrior king. Too long have we been at war, on the front and—and also within. It might be a crime to write such things, but I am a queen. I am the queen. I can say and write what I think.
As the months passed, Coriane thought more and more of her childhood home. The estate was gone, demolished by the Provos governors, emptied of her memories and ghosts. It was too close to the Lakelander border for proper Silvers to live, even though the fighting was contained to the bombed-out territories of the Choke. Even though few Silvers died, despite the Reds dying by the thousands. Conscripted from every corner of the kingdom, forced to serve and fight. My kingdom, Coriane knew. My husband signs every conscription renewal, never stopping the cycle, only complaining about the cramp in his hand.
She watched her son on the floor, smiling with a single tooth, bashing a pair of wooden blocks together. He will not be the same, she told herself.
The nightmares returned in earnest. This time they were of her baby grown, wearing armor, leading soldiers, sending them into a curtain of smoke. He followed and never returned.
With dark circles beneath her eyes, she wrote what would become the second-to-last entry into her diary. The words seemed to be carved into the page. She had not slept in three days, unable to face another dream of her son dying.
The Calores are children of fire, as strong and destructive as their flame, but Cal will not be like the others before. Fire can destroy, fire can kill, but it can also create. Forest burned in the summer will be green by spring, better and stronger than before. Cal’s flame will build and bring roots from the ashes of war. The guns will quiet, the smoke will clear, and the soldiers, Red and Silver both, will come home. One hundred years of war, and my son will bring peace. He will not die fighting. He will not. HE WILL NOT.
Tibe was gone, at Fort Patriot in Harbor Bay. But Arven stood just outside her door, his presence forming a bubble of relief. Nothing can touch me while he is here, she thought, smoothing the downy hair on Cal’s head. The only person in my head is me.
The nurse who came to collect the baby noticed the queen’s agitated manner, her twitching hands, the glazed eyes, but said nothing. It was not her place.
Another night came and went. No sleep, but one last entry in Coriane’s diary. She had drawn flowers around each word—magnolia blossoms.
The only person in my head is me.
Tibe is not the same. The crown has changed him, as you feared it would. The fire is in him, the fire that will burn all the world. And it is in your son, in the prince who will never change his blood and will never sit a throne.
The only person in my head is me.
The only person who has not changed is you. You are still the little girl in a dusty room, forgotten, unwanted, out of place. You are queen of everything, mother to a beautiful son, wife to a king who loves you, and still you cannot find it in yourself to smile.
Still you make nothing.
Still you are empty.
The only person in your head is you.
And she is no one of any importance.
She is nothing.
The next morning, a maid found her bridal crown broken on the floor, an explosion of pearls and twisted gold. There was silver on it, blood dark from the passing hours.
And her bathwater was black with it.
The diary ended unfinished, unseen by any who deserved to read it.
Only Elara saw its pages, and the slow unraveling of the woman inside.
She destroyed the book like she destroyed Coriane.
And she dreamed of nothing.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
VICTORIA AVEYARD was born and raised in East Longmeadow, Massachusetts, a small town known only for the worst traffic rotary in the continental United States. She moved to Los Angeles to earn a BFA in screenwriting at the University of Southern California, and stayed there despite the lack of seasons. She is currently an author and screenwriter, using her career as an excuse to read too many books and watch too many movies. You can visit her online at www.victoriaaveyard.com.
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BOOKS BY VICTORIA AVEYARD
Red Queen
Glass Sword
Queen Song
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QUEEN SONG. Text copyright © 2015 by Victoria Aveyard. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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