When I was first trained to be a princess, a laughable thing in itself, I was engaged to the second prince, and I attended very few meetings of court. Balls, yes, feasts many, but nothing like this until my confinement. Now I’ve almost lost count of how many times I’ve been forced to sit like Maven’s well-trained pet, listening to petitioners, politicians, and newbloods pledging allegiance.
Today looks to be more of the same. The governor of the Rift region, a lord of House Laris, finishes a well-rehearsed plea for Treasury funds to repair Samos-owned mines. Another one of Volo’s puppets, his strings clearly visible. Maven defers him easily, with a wave and a promise to review his proposal. Though Maven is a man of his word with me, he is not at court. The governor’s shoulders slump in dejection, knowing it will never be read.
My back already hurts from the stiff chair, not to mention the rigid posture I have to maintain in my latest court ensemble. Crystal and lace. Red, of course, as always. Maven loves me in red. He says it makes me look alive, even as life is leached from me with every passing day.
A full court is not required for the daily hearings, and today the throne room is half empty. The dais is still crowded, though. Those chosen to accompany the king, flanking his left and right, take great pride in their position, not to mention the opportunity to be featured in yet another national broadcast. When the cameras roll, I realize that more newbloods must be coming. I sigh, resigning myself to another day of guilt and shame.
My gut twists when the tall doors open. I lower my eyes, not wanting to remember their faces. Most will follow Morritan’s damning example and join Maven’s war in an attempt to understand their abilities.
Next to me, Jon twitches in his usual way. I focus on his fingers, long and thin, drawing lines against his pant leg. Sweeping back and forth, like a person riffling through pages of a book. He probably is, reading the tentative threads of the future as they form and change. I wonder what he sees. Not that I would ever ask. I will never forgive him for his betrayal. At least he doesn’t try to talk to me, not since I passed him in the council chambers.
“Welcome all,” Maven tells the newbloods. His voice is practiced and steady, carrying through the throne room. “Not to worry. You’re safe now. I promise you all, the Scarlet Guard will never threaten you here.”
Too bad.
I keep my head bowed, hiding my face from the cameras. The rush of blood roars in my ears, hammering in time with my heart. I feel nauseous; I feel sick. Run! I scream in my head, even though no newblood could escape the throne room now. I look anywhere but at Maven and the newbloods, anywhere but at the invisible cage drawing in around them. My eyes land on Evangeline, only to find her staring back at me. She isn’t smirking for once. Her face is blank, empty. She has much more practice at this than I do.
My nails are ragged, cuticles picked raw during long nights of worry and longer days of this painless torture. The Skonos healer who makes me look healthy always forgets to check my hands. I hope anyone watching the broadcasts does not.
Next to me, the king keeps at this horrid display. “Well?”
Four newbloods present themselves, each one more nervous than the last. Their abilities are often met with astonished gasps or harried whispers. It feels like a grim mirror to Queenstrial. Instead of performing their abilities for a bridal crown, the newbloods are performing for their lives, to earn what they think is sanctuary at Maven’s side. I try not to watch, but find my eyes straying out of pity and fear.
The first, a heavyset woman with biceps to rival Cal’s, tentatively walks through a wall. Just straight through, as if the gilded wood and ornate molding were air. At Maven’s fascinated encouragement, she then does the same to a Sentinel guard. He flinches, the only indication of humanity behind his black mask, but is otherwise unharmed. I have no idea how her ability works at all, and I think of Julian. He’s with the Scarlet Guard too, and hopefully watching every one of these broadcasts. If the Colonel allows it, that is. He’s not exactly a fan of my Silver friends.
Two old men follow the woman, white-haired veterans with faraway eyes and broad shoulders. Their abilities are familiar to me. The shorter one with missing teeth is like Ketha, one of the newbloods I recruited months ago. Though she could explode an object or person with thought alone, she did not survive our raid on Corros Prison. She hated her ability. It is bloody and violent. Even though the newblood man only destroys a chair, blinking it to splinters, he doesn’t look happy about it either. His friend is soft-spoken, introducing himself as Terrance before telling us he can manipulate sound. Like Farrah. Another recruit of mine. She did not come to Corros. I hope she is still alive.
The last is another woman, probably my mother’s age, her braided black hair streaked with gray. She is graceful in movement, approaching the king with the quiet, elegant strides of a well-trained servant. Like Ada, like Walsh, like me once. Like so many of us were and still are. When she bows, she bows low.
“Your Majesty,” she murmurs, her voice soft and unassuming as a summer breeze. “I am Halley, a servant of House Eagrie.”
Maven gestures for her to rise, donning his false smile. She does as commanded. “You were a servant of House Eagrie,” he says gently. Then he nods over her shoulder, finding the commanding head of Eagrie in the small crowd. “My thanks, Lady Mellina, for bringing her to safety.”
The tall, bird-faced woman is already curtsying, knowing the words before he speaks them. As an eye, she can see the immediate future, and I assume she saw her servant’s ability before her servant even realized what she was.
“Well, Halley?”
Her eyes flick to mine for a single moment. I hope I hold up under her scrutiny. But she isn’t looking for my fear, or what I hide beneath my mask. Her eyes turn faraway, seeing through and seeing nothing at the same time.
“She can control and create electricity, great and small,” Halley says. “You have no name for this ability.”
Then she looks at Jon. The same look slides over her. “He sees fate. As far as its path goes, for as long as a person walks it. You have no name for this ability.”
Maven narrows his eyes, wondering, and I loathe myself for feeling the same way he does.
But she keeps going, staring and speaking as she turns.
“She can control metal materials through the manipulation of magnetic fields. Magnetron.”
“Whisper.”
“Shadow.”
“Magnetron.”
“Magnetron.”
Down she goes through the line of Maven’s advisers, pointing and naming their abilities with little difficulty. Maven leans forward, quizzical, head tipped to one side in animal curiosity. He watches closely, barely blinking. Many think him stupid without his mother, not a military genius like his brother, so what is he good for? They forget that strategy is not only for the battlefield.
“Eye. Eye. Eye.” She gestures to her former masters, naming them as well before dropping her hand to her side. Her fist clenches and unclenches, waiting for the inevitable disbelief.
“So your ability is to sense other abilities?” Maven finally says, one eyebrow raised.
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“An easy thing to play at.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” she admits, even softer now.
It could be done without much difficulty, especially by someone in her position. She serves a High House, present at court more often than not these days. It would be easy for her to memorize what others can do—but even Jon? As far as I know, he is lauded as the first newblood to join Maven, but I don’t think many know his ability. Maven wouldn’t want people to think he relies on someone with red blood to advise his decisions.
“Keep going.” He raises dark eyebrows, goading her on. Perform.
She does as he commands, naming Osanos nymphs, Welle greenwardens, a lone Rhambos strongarm. One after another, but they’re wearing colors, and she is a servant. She’s supposed to know these things. Her ability is a parlor t
rick at best, a lie and a death sentence at the worst. I know she feels the sword hanging over her head, growing closer with every tick of Maven’s jaw.
At the back, an Iral silk in red and blue gets to his feet, adjusting his coat as he walks. I only notice because his steps are strange, not as fluid as a silk’s should be. Odd.
And Halley notices too. She trembles, only for a second.
It could be her life or his.
“She can change her face,” she whispers, her finger quivering in the air. “You have no name for this ability.”
The usual whispers of court end without an echo, snuffed out like a candle. Silence falls, broken only by the rising beat of my heart. She can change her face.
My body buzzes with adrenaline. Run! I want to yell. Run!
And when the Sentinels take the Iral lord by the arms, marching him forward, I beg to myself, Please be wrong. Please be wrong. Please be wrong.
“I am a son of House Iral,” the man growls, trying to break the grip of the Sentinel soldiers. An Iral would be able to do it, twisting away with a smile. But whoever he or she is does not. My stomach drops to my feet. “You take the word of a lying Red slave above mine?”
Samson reacts before Maven can even ask, quick as a swift. He descends the steps of the dais, his electric-blue eyes crackling with hunger. I guess he hasn’t had many brains to feed on since mine. With a yelp, the Iral son stumbles to his knees, head bowed. Samson slams into his mind.
And then his hair bleeds gray, shortens, recedes to a different head with a different face.
“Nanny,” I hear myself gasp. The old woman dares look up, eyes wide and scared and familiar. I remember recruiting her, bringing her to the Notch, watching her wrangle the newblood kids and tell stories of her own grandchildren. Wrinkled as a walnut, older than any of us, and always up for a mission. I would run to embrace her if that were remotely possible.
Instead, I fall to my knees, my hands latching onto Maven’s wrist. I beg like I have only once before, my lungs full of ash and cold air, my head still spinning from the controlled crash of a jet.
The dress rips along a seam. It is not meant for kneeling. Not like me.
“Please, Maven. Don’t kill her,” I ask him, gulping at air, grasping at whatever I can to save her life. “She can be used; she is valuable. Look what she can do—”
He pushes me away, his palm against my brand. “She is a spy in my court. Aren’t you?”
Still I beg, speaking before Nanny’s smart mouth can get her well and truly killed. And for once, I hope the cameras are still watching.
“She has been betrayed, lied to, misled by the Scarlet Guard. It’s not her fault!”
The king does not condescend to stand, not even for a murder at his feet. Because he’s afraid to leave his Silent Stone, to make a decision beyond its circle of empty comfort and safety. “The rules of war are clear. Spies are to be dealt with swiftly.”
“When you are sick, who do you blame?” I demand. “Your body or the disease?”
He glares down at me and I feel hollow. “You blame the cure that didn’t work.”
“Maven, I am begging you . . .” I don’t remember starting to cry, but of course I am. They are shameful tears, because I weep for myself as well as her. This was the beginning of a rescue. This was for me. Nanny was my chance.
My vision blurs, fogging the edge of my sight. Samson raises a hand, eager to dive into what she knows. I wonder how devastating this will be to the Scarlet Guard—and how stupid they were to do this. What a risk, what a waste.
“Rise. Red as the dawn,” she mutters, spitting.
Then her face changes one last time. To a face we all recognize.
Samson falls back a half step, surprised, while Maven gives a strangled sort of cry.
Elara stares back at us from the floor, a living ghost. Her face is mangled, destroyed by lightning. One eye is gone, the other bloodshot with vile silver. Her mouth curls into an inhuman sneer. It triggers terror in the pit of my stomach, though I know she’s dead. I know I killed her.
It’s a clever ploy, buying her enough time to raise a hand to her lips, to swallow.
I’ve seen suicide pills before. Even though I shut my eyes, I know what happens next.
It’s better than what Samson would have done. And her secrets stay secrets. Forever.
TEN
Mare
I tear apart every book on my shelf, rip them to shreds. The bindings snap, the pages tear, and I wish they would bleed. I wish I could bleed. She’s dead because I’m not. Because I’m still here, bait in a trap, a lure to draw the Scarlet Guard out of their sanctuaries.
After a few hours of pointless destruction, I realize I’m wrong. The Scarlet Guard wouldn’t do this. Not the Colonel, not Farley, not for me.
“Cal, you stupid, stupid bastard,” I say to no one.
Because of course this was his idea. It’s what he learned. Victory at any cost. I hope he doesn’t continue to pay this impossible price for me.
Outside, it’s snowing again. I feel none of its cold, only my own.
In the morning, I wake up on my bed, still in my dress, though I don’t remember getting up from the floor. The ruined books are gone too, meticulously swept from my life. Even the smallest pieces of torn paper. But the shelves aren’t empty. A dozen leather-bound books, new and old, occupy the spaces. The urge to ruin them too consumes me, and I stumble to my feet, lunging.
The first one I grab is ratty, its cover torn and aged. I think it used to be yellow, or maybe gold. It doesn’t really matter to me. I flip it open, one hand grabbing for a sheaf of pages, ready to tear them to bits like the rest.
Familiar handwriting freezes me to the spot. My heart leaps in recognition.
Property of Julian Jacos.
My knees stop working beneath me. I land with a soft thud, bent over the most comforting thing I’ve seen in weeks. My fingers trace the lines of his name, wishing he would spring from them, wishing I could hear his voice somewhere other than in my head. I flip through the pages, looking for more evidence of him. The words skim by, each one echoing with his warmth. A history of Norta, her formation, and three hundred years of Silver kings and queens blaze past. Some pieces are underlined or annotated. Each new burst of Julian makes my chest constrict with happiness. In spite of my circumstances, my painful scars, I smile.
The other books are the same. All Julian’s, pieces of his much larger collections. I paw through them like a girl starved. He favors the histories, but there are sciences too. Even a novel. That one has two names inside. From Julian, to Coriane. I stare at the letters, the only evidence of Cal’s mother in this entire palace. I put that one back with care, my fingers lingering on its unbroken spine. She never read it. Maybe she didn’t get the chance.
Deep down, I hate that these make me happy. I hate that Maven knows me well enough to know what to give me. Because these are certainly from him. The only kind of apology he can make, the only one I could possibly accept. But I don’t. Of course I don’t. As quick as it came, my smile fades. I can’t let myself feel anything but hatred where the king is concerned. His manipulations aren’t as perfect as his mother’s, but I feel them still, and I won’t let them pull me in.
For a second, I debate ripping the books apart like I did the others. Showing Maven what I think of his gift. But I just can’t. My fingers linger on the pages, so easy to tear. And then I shelve them carefully, one by one.
I will not destroy the books, so I settle for the dress instead, ripping the ruby-encrusted fabric from my body.
Someone like Gisa probably made this dress. A Red servant with keen hands and an artist’s eye, perfectly sewing something so beautiful and terrible that only a Silver could wear it. The thought should make me sad, but only anger bleeds through me. I have no more tears. Not after yesterday.
When the next outfit is delivered by silent, stone-faced Clover and Kitten, I pull it on without hesitation or complaint. The blouse is flecked w
ith a treasure trove of ruby, garnet, and onyx, with long, trailing sleeves striped in black silk. The pants are a gift too, loose enough to pass for comfortable.
The Skonos healer comes next. She focuses her efforts on my eyes, healing both the puffiness and my throbbing headache from last night’s frustrated tears. Like Sara, she is quiet and skilled, her blue-black fingers fluttering along my aches. She works quickly. So do I.
“Can you speak, or did Queen Elara cut your tongue out too?”
She knows what I’m talking about. Her gaze wavers, lashes fluttering in quick blinks of surprise. Still, she doesn’t speak. She has been trained well.
“Good decision. Last time I saw Sara, I was rescuing her from a prison. Seems even losing her tongue wasn’t enough punishment.” I glance past her, to Clover and Kitten looking on. Like the healer, they concentrate on me. I feel the cold ripple of their ability, pulsing in time with the constant silence of my manacles. “There were hundreds of Silvers in there. Many from the High Houses. Have any friends go missing lately?”
I don’t have many weapons in this place. But I have to try.
“Keep your mouth shut, Barrow,” Clover growls.
Just getting her to speak is victory enough for me. I push on.
“I find it odd that no one seems to mind that the little king is a bloodthirsty tyrant. But then I’m Red. I don’t understand you people at all.”
I laugh as Clover shoves me away from the healer, fuming now. “That’s enough healing for her,” she hisses, pulling me from the room. Her green eyes spark with anger, but also confusion. Self-doubt. Little cracks I intend to wheedle my way through.
No one else should risk rescuing me. I have to do it myself.
“Ignore her,” Kitten mutters back at her comrade, her voice high and breathy and dripping venom.
“What an honor it must be for you two.” I keep talking as they lead me down long, familiar corridors. “Babysitting some Red brat. Cleaning up after her meals, tidying her room. All so Maven can have his doll around when he wants.”
It only makes them angrier and rougher with me. They quicken their pace, forcing me to keep up. Suddenly we turn left instead of right, into another part of the palace I dimly remember. Residence halls, where the royals live. I lived here once too, if only for a little while.