I fear being alone more than anything else. So why do I do this? Why do I push away the people I love? What is so very wrong with me?
I don’t know.
And I don’t know how to make it stop.
Gathering an army is the easy part. The records from Harbor Bay lead us to newbloods in towns and villages across the Beacon region, from Cancorda to Taurus to the half-flooded ports of the Bahrn Islands. Because of Julian’s list, we expand out, until every part of Norta is within our grasp. Even Delphie, the southernmost city in the kingdom, is just a few hours away by jet.
Every population center, no matter how small, has a new garrison of Silver officers meant to catch us and turn us over to the king. But they can’t guard every target at all times, and Maven is not yet strong enough in his reign to kidnap hundreds overnight. We strike randomly, without pattern, and we usually catch them off balance. Sometimes we get lucky, and they don’t even know we’re there at all. Shade proves his use time and again, as do Ada and Nix. Her abilities help us find our way around city walls—his help us go right through them.
But it always comes down to me. I am always the one to confront each newblood, to explain what they are and what kind of danger they pose to the king. Then they are given a choice, and they always choose to live. They always choose us. We give safe passage to their families, directing the ones left behind to the various sanctuaries and bases operated by the Scarlet Guard. To Command, as Farley says, her words more cryptic every time. A few are even sent to Tuck Island, to seek the safety of the Colonel. He might hate newbloods, but Farley assures me he won’t turn away true Reds.
The newbloods we find are afraid, some angry, but a few are surprised, usually the children. For the most part, they don’t know what they are. But some do, and they are already haunted by the mutations of our blood.
On the outskirts of the city of Haven, we meet Luther Carver. A young boy of eight with wispy black hair, small for his age, the son of a carpenter. We find him in his father’s workshop, excused from school to learn the trade. It takes very little convincing to get Mr. Carver to let us in, though he eyes Cal and even Nix with suspicion. And the boy refuses to look me in the eye, his tiny fingers twitching with nerves. He trembles when I speak to him, and insists on calling me lightning girl.
“Your name is on this list because you are special, because you are different,” I tell him. “Do you know what I’m talking about?”
The boy shakes his head violently, his long bangs swiping to and fro. But his aptly named father stands like a guardian at his back. Solemnly, slowly, he nods his head.
“It’s all right, Luther, it’s nothing to be ashamed of.” I reach across the table, past intricate designs that are certainly Carver’s handiwork. But Luther’s fingers ghost away from my touch and he pulls his hands into his lap, squirming out of my reach.
“It’s nothing personal,” Carver says, putting a soothing hand on his son’s shoulder. “Luther’s not—he just doesn’t want to cause you any harm. It comes and goes—it’s getting worse, you see. But you’re going to help him, aren’t you?” The poor man sounds pained, his voice cracking. My heart goes out to him, and I wonder what my father would be like in such a position. Faced by people who understand your child, who can help—but must take him away from you. “You know why he is this way?”
It’s a question I’ve asked myself many times, a question almost every newblood asks of me. But still I have no answer. “I’m sorry but I don’t, sir. We only know that our abilities come from a mutation, something in our blood that can’t be explained.”
I think of Julian and his books, his research. He never got to teach me about the Divide, the ancient moment when silver blood split from red, only that it happened and resulted in the world now. I suppose a new Divide has begun, in blood like mine. He was studying me before his capture, trying to figure out the answer to this exact question. But he never got the chance.
Cal shifts at my side, and when he rounds the table, I expect to see the intimidating mask he keeps so close. Instead, he smiles kindly, so wide it almost reaches his eyes. Then he bends, kneeling down so he can look Luther in the eye. The boy is transfixed by the sight, overwhelmed not just by the presence of a prince but by his undivided attention.
“Your Highness,” he squeaks, even trying to salute. At his back, his father is not so proper, and his brow furrows. Silver princes are not his favorite guests.
Still, Cal’s grin deepens, and his eyes remain on the boy. “Please, call me Cal,” he says, and extends his hand. Again, Luther pulls away, but Cal doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, I’ll wager he expected it.
Luther flushes, his cheeks pulsing a dark and lovely red. “Sorry.”
“Not at all,” Cal replies. “In fact, I used to do the same thing when I was little. A bit younger than you, but then, I had very, very many teachers. I needed them, too,” he adds, winking. In spite of his fear, the boy smiles a little. “But you just have your dad, don’t you?”
The boy swallows, his tiny throat bobbing. Then he nods.
“I try—” Carver says, again gripping his son’s shoulder.
“We understand, sir,” I tell him. “More than anyone.”
Luther nudges Cal with his shoe, his curiosity overcoming all else. “What could make you afraid?”
Before our eyes, Cal’s outstretched palm bursts into hot, roiling flame. But it is strangely beautiful, a slow burn of languid, dancing fire. Yellow and red, lazy in movement. If not for the heat, it would seem an artistry instead of a weapon. “I didn’t know how to control it,” Cal says, letting it play between his fingers. “I was afraid of burning people. My father, my friends, my—” His voice almost sticks. “My little brother. But I learned to make it do as I wished, to keep it from hurting the people I wanted to stay safe. So can you, Luther.”
While the boy stares, transfixed, his father is not so certain. But he is not the first parent we’ve faced, and I am prepared for his next question. “What you call newbloods? They can do this too? They can—control what they are?”
My own hands web with sparks, each one a twisting purple bolt of perfect light. They disappear into my skin, leaving no trace. “Yes, we can, Mr. Carver.”
With surprising speed, the man retrieves a pot from a shelf, and sets it in front of his son. A plant, maybe a fern, sprouts from the dirt within. Any other would be confused, but Luther knows exactly what his father wants. “Go on, boy,” he prods, his voice kind and gentle. “Show them what needs fixing.”
Before I can bristle at the turn of phrase, Luther holds out one trembling hand. His finger grazes the edge of the fern leaf, careful but sure. Nothing happens.
“It’s okay, Luther,” Mr. Carver says. “You can let them see.”
The boy tries again, his brow furrowing in concentration. This time, he takes the fern by the stem, holding it in his small fist. And slowly, the fern curls beneath his touch, turning black, folding into itself—dying. As we watch, transfixed, Mr. Carver grabs something else from the back shelf and sets it in his son’s lap. Leather gloves.
“You take good care of him,” he says. His teeth clench, shutting tight against the storm inside his heart. “You promise me that.”
Like all true men, he doesn’t flinch when I shake his hand.
“I give you my word, Mr. Carver.”
Only when we’re back at the safe house, which we’re starting to call the Notch, do I allow myself a moment alone. To think, to tell myself the lie was well made. I cannot truly promise this boy, or the others like him, will survive what is to come. But I certainly hope he does, and I will do everything I can to make it so.
Even if this boy’s terrifying ability is death itself.
The newbloods’ families aren’t the only ones to flee. The Measures have made life worse than ever before, driving many Reds into the forests and frontiers, seeking a place where they won’t be worked to death or hanged for stepping out of line. Some come within a few miles of our c
amp, winding north toward a border already painted with autumn snow. Kilorn and Farley want to help them, to give them food or medicine, but Cal and I overrule their pleas. No one can know about us, and the Reds marching on are no different, despite their fate. They will keep heading north, until they meet the Lakelander border. Some will be pressed into the legions holding the line. Others might be lucky enough to slip through, to succumb to cold and starvation in the tundra rather than a bullet in the trenches.
My days blend into each other. Recruitment, training, repeat. All that changes is the weather, as winter grows closer. Now when I wake up, long before dawn, the ground is coated in thick frost. Cal has to heat the airjet himself, freeing wheels and gears coated in ice. Most days he comes with us, flying the jet to whatever newblood we’ve chosen. But sometimes he stays behind, electing to teach rather than fly. Ada replaces him on those days, and is just as good a pilot as he is, having learned with lightning speed and precision. And her knowledge of Norta, of everything from drainage systems to supply routes, is astounding. I can’t begin to fathom how her brain can hold so much, and still have room for so much more. She is a wonder to me, just like every newblood we find.
Almost everyone is different, with strange abilities beyond what any known Silver can do, or what I could even imagine. Luther continues his careful attempts to control his ability, shriveling everything from flowers to saplings. Cal thinks he can use his power to heal himself, but we’ve yet to find out. Another newblood, an old woman who has everyone call her Nanny, seems to be able to change her physical appearance. She gave us all quite a fright when she decided to waltz through the camp disguised as Queen Elara. Despite her age, I hope to use her in recruitment soon enough. She proves herself as best she can in Cal’s training, learning to fire a gun and use a knife with the rest. Of course, this all makes for a very noisy campsite, and would certainly draw notice, even deep in the Greatwoods—if not for a woman named Farrah, the first recruit after Ada and Nix, who can manipulate sound itself. She absorbs the explosive blasts of gunfire, smothering each round of bullets so that not even an echo ripples across the valley.
As the newbloods expand their abilities, learning to control them as I did, I begin to hope. Cal excels at teaching, especially with the children. They don’t have the same prejudices as the older recruits, and take to following him around the camp even when their training lessons are over. This in turn ingratiates the older newbloods to the exiled prince’s presence. It’s hard to hate Cal when he has children milling around his ankles, begging for another lesson. Even Nix has stopped glaring at him, though he still refuses to do anything more than grunt in Cal’s direction.
I’m not so gifted as the exile, and come to dread the morning and late-afternoon sessions. I want to blame my unease on exhaustion. Half my days are spent recruiting, traveling to the next name on our list, but that’s not it at all. I’m simply a poor instructor.
I work closest with a woman named Ketha, whose abilities are more physical and alike to my own. She can’t create electricity or any other element, but she can destroy. Like Silver oblivions, she can explode an object, blowing it apart in a concussive cloud of smoke and fire. But while typical oblivions are restricted to things they can actually touch, Ketha has no such limitation.
She waits patiently, eyeing the rock in my hand. I do my best not to shrink from her explosive gaze, knowing full well what it can do. In the short week since we found her, she’s graduated from destroying clumps of paper, leaves, even branches, to solid stone. As with the other newbloods, all they need is a chance to reveal their true selves. The abilities respond in kind, like animals finally let out of their cages.
While the others give her training a wide berth, leaving us to the far end of the Notch clearing, I can do no such thing. “Control,” I say, and she nods.
I wish I had more to offer her, but my guidance is woefully poor. I myself have only a month of ability training under my belt, much of it from Julian, who wasn’t even a proper trainer to begin with. What’s more, it’s incredibly personal to me, and I find it difficult to explain exactly what I intend to Ketha.
“Control,” she repeats.
Her eyes narrow, deepening her focus. Strange, her mud-brown eyes are unremarkable despite the power they hold. Like me, Ketha comes from a river village, and could pass for my much-older sister or aunt. Her tanned skin and gray-tipped hair are firm reminders of our humble, unjust origins. According to her records, she was a schoolteacher.
When I heave the rock skyward, tossing it as far up as I can, I’m reminded of Instructor Arven and Training. He made us hit targets with our abilities, honing our aim and focus. And in the Bowl of Bones, I became his target. He nearly killed me, and yet here I am, copying his methods. It feels wrong—but effective.
The rock pulverizes into dust, as if a tiny bomb went off inside it. Ketha claps for herself, and I force myself to do the same. I wonder if she’ll feel differently when her abilities are put to the test, against flesh instead of stone. I suppose I can have Kilorn catch us a rabbit so we can find out.
But he grows more distant with every passing day. He’s taken it upon himself to feed the camp, and spends most of his time fishing or hunting. If I were not so preoccupied with my own duties, recruiting and training, I would try and snap him out of it. But I barely have time to sleep, let alone coax Kilorn back into the fold.
By the first snowfall, there are twenty newbloods living at the camp, varying from old maids to twitching young boys. Luckily, the safe house is bigger than I first thought, stretching back into the hill in a maze of chambers and tunnels. A few have shafted windows, but most are dark, and we end up having to steal lanterns as well as newbloods from every place we visit. By the time the first snow falls, the Notch sleeps all twenty-six of us comfortably, with room for more. Food is plentiful, thanks to Kilorn and Farrah, who turns him into a silent, deadly hunter. Supplies come in with each wave of recruits, ranging from winter clothes to matches and even a bit of salt. Farley and Crance use their criminal ties to get us what we need, but sometimes we resort to good old-fashioned thievery. In a month’s time, we are a well-oiled, well-hidden machine.
Maven has not found us, and we keep tabs on him as best we can. Signposts and newspapers make it easy. The King Visits Delphie, King Maven and Lady Evangeline Review Soldiers at Fort Lencasser, Coronation Tour Continues through the King State. The headlines pinpoint his location, and we know what each of them means. Dead newbloods in Delphie, in Lencasser, in every place he visits. His so-called coronation tour is just another shroud of secrecy, hiding a parade of executions.
Despite all our abilities and tricks, we are not fast enough to save everyone. For every newblood we discover and bring back to our camp, there are two more hanging from gallows, “missing,” or bleeding into gutters. A few bodies show the telltale signs of death by magnetron, skewered or strangled by iron rods. Ptolemus no doubt, though Evangeline might be there too, basking in the glow of a king. She’ll be queen soon enough, and will certainly do best to keep Maven close. Once, that would infuriate me, but now I feel nothing but pity for the magnetron girl. Maven is not Cal, and he will kill her if it suits him. Just like the newbloods, dead to keep his lies alive, to keep us on the run. Dead, because Maven has miscalculated. He believes enough corpses will make me come back.
But I will not.
NINETEEN
After three days of finding nothing but dead newbloods, three days of failure, we travel to Templyn. A quiet town on the road to Delphie, mostly residential, consisting of vast Silver estates and cramped Red row houses along the river. Masters and servants. Templyn is tricky—it has no vast forest, tunnels, or crowded streets to hide in. Usually we’d use Shade to slip inside the walls, but he’s not with us today. He twisted his leg yesterday, aggravating a still-healing muscle, and I made him stay behind. Cal is missing too, having elected to teach, leaving Ada to man the Blackrun. She’s still there, cozy in her pilot’s seat, reading as she a
lways does. I try to not be jumpy, to lead as Cal would, but I feel strangely bare without him and my brother. I’ve never been without both of them on a recruitment mission, and this is my proving ground. To show the others that I’m not only a weapon to be unleashed but someone willing to fight with them.
Luckily, we have a staggering new advantage. A newblood named Harrick, saved from the quarry pits of Orienpratis two weeks ago. This will be his first recruitment, and hopefully uneventful. The man is mousy and twitching, with the wiry muscles of a stonemason. Farley and I make sure to flank him in the cart, quietly watchful in case he decides to dart off. The others with us, Nix across from me and Crance driving the cart, are more preoccupied with the road ahead.
Our cart falls in line with many others, merchants or laborers heading into the town center for work. Crance’s hands tighten on the reins of our stolen cart horse, an old, spotty dear with a blind eye and a bad hoof. But he urges her forward, keeping pace with the rest, trying to blend in. The town boundaries loom before us, marked by an open gate flanked by intricate stone columns. A flag is strung between them, a familiar banner of a familiar house. Red and orange stripes, almost bleeding together in the early-morning light. House Lerolan, oblivions, the governors of the Delphie region. I blink at it, remembering the bodies of three dead oblivions, Lerolans all killed in the shooting at the Hall of the Sun. The father, Belicos, murdered by Farley and the Scarlet Guard. And his twin sons, barely more than babies, blown to bits by the explosion that followed. Their dead faces were plastered all over the kingdom, in every broadcast, another rallying flag of Silver propaganda. The Scarlet Guard kills children. The Scarlet Guard must be destroyed.
I glance at Farley, wondering if she knows what the flag means, but she focuses on the officers ahead. As does Harrick. His eyes narrow in concentration, and his trembling hands clench. Quietly, I touch his arm, encouraging him. “You can do this,” I murmur.