Her fist clenches and the bullet rockets backward to where it came from, chased on by splinters of cold steel as they explode from her dress. I watch in horror as blue-and-red figures weave through the metallic storm, dodging, dipping, darting in and out of every blow. They even catch pieces of her metal projecticles and hurl them back, beginning the cycle again in a violent, glittering dance.
Evangeline is not the only one to attack. Sentinels pitch forward, surging over the high table, forming a wall before us. Their movements are perfect, made through years of relentless training. But their ranks have gaps. And some throw their masks away, discarding their flamelike robes. They turn on one another.
The High Houses do the same.
I’ve never felt so exposed, so helpless, and that’s saying quite a bit. In front of me, gods duel. My eyes widen, trying to see it all. Trying to make sense of this. I’ve never imagined anything like it. An arena battle in the middle of a ballroom. Jewels instead of armor.
Iral and Haven and Laris in their shocking yellow seem to form one side of whatever this is. They back one another, aid one another. Laris windweavers toss Iral silks from one side of the room to the other with sharp gusts, wielding them like living arrows while the Irals fire pistols and throw knives with deadly precision. The Havens have disappeared entirely, but a few Sentinels in front of us drop, felled by invisible attacks.
And the rest, the rest don’t know what to do. Some—Samos, Merandus, most of the guards and Sentinels—rally to the high table, rushing to defend Maven, who I can’t see. But most fall back, surprised, betrayed, not willing to wade into such a mess and risk their own necks. They defend and do nothing else. They watch to see the direction of the tide.
My heart leaps in my chest. This is my chance. In the chaos, no one will notice me. The manacles have not taken away my thief’s instincts or talents.
I push off the floor, finding my feet, not bothering to wonder about Maven or anyone. I focus only on what’s in front of me. The closest door. I don’t know where it goes, but it will get me away from here, and that’s enough. As I move, I grab a knife off the table and set it to work, trying to pick the locks of my manacles.
Someone flees ahead of me, leaving a trail of scarlet blood. He limps but moves fast, ducking through a door. Jon, I realize. Making his escape. He sees the future. Surely he can see the best way out of here.
I wonder if I’ll be able to keep up.
I get my answer after a grand total of three steps, when a Sentinel seizes me from behind. He pins my arms to my sides, holding tight. I groan like an annoyed child, exasperated beyond frustration, as my hand drops the knife.
“No, no, no,” Samson says as he steps into my path. The Sentinel won’t even let me flinch. “We can’t have this.”
Now I can see what this is. Not a rescue. Not for me. A coup, an assassination attempt. They’ve come for Maven.
Iral, Haven, and Laris cannot win this battle. They’re outnumbered, but they know that. They prepared for it. The Irals are schemers and spies. Their plan is well executed. Already they’re making an escape through the shattered windows. I watch, dumbfounded, as they throw themselves out into the sky, catching gales of wind that fling them out and away. Not all of them make it. Nornus swifts catch a few, as does Prince Daraeus, despite a long knife protruding from his shoulder. I assume the Havens are long gone too, though one or two flicker back into my vision, each one bleeding, dying, assaulted by a Merandus whisper’s onslaught. Daraeus himself puts out one blurring arm and catches someone by the neck. When he squeezes, a Haven blinks into existence.
The Sentinels who turned, all Laris and Iral, don’t make it either. They kneel, angry but unafraid, burning with determination. Without their masks, they don’t look so terrifying.
A gurgling sound draws our attention. The Sentinel turns, allowing me to see the center of what was once the feasting table. A crowd clusters where Maven’s seat was, some on guard, some kneeling. Through their legs, I see him.
Silver blood bubbles from his neck, gushing through the fingers of the nearest Sentinel, who is trying to keep pressure on a bullet wound. Maven’s eyes roll and his mouth moves. He can’t speak. He can’t even scream. A wet, gasping sort of noise is all he can make.
I’m glad the Sentinel holds me still. Or else I might run to him. Something in me wants to run to him. Whether to finish the job or comfort him as he dies, I don’t know. I desire both in equal measure. I want to look into his eyes and see him leave me forever.
But I just can’t move, and he just won’t die.
The Skonos skin healer, my skin healer, skids to his side, sliding on her knees. I think her name is Wren. An apt name. She is small and darting as her namesake. She snaps her fingers. “Take it out; I have him!” she shouts. “Out, now!”
Ptolemus Samos crouches, abandoning his guarding vigil. He twitches his fingers and a bullet pulls free of Maven’s neck, bringing with it a fresh fountain of silver. Maven tries to scream, gargling his own blood.
Brow furrowed, the skin healer works, holding both hands over his wound. She bends as if to put her weight on him. From this angle, I can’t see the skin beneath, but the blood stops gushing. The wound that should’ve killed him heals. Muscle and vein and flesh knit back together, good as new. No scar but the memory.
After a long, gasping moment, Maven hurtles to his feet, and fire explodes from both hands, sending his entourage reeling backward. The table before him flips, blasted back by the strength and rage of his flame. It lands in a resounding heap, spitting puddles of blue-burning alcohol. The rest ignites, fed by Maven’s anger. And, I think, terror.
Only Volo has the spine to approach him in such a state.
“Your Majesty, should we evacuate you to the—”
With wicked eyes, Maven turns. Above him, the lightbulbs in the chandeliers burst, spitting flame instead of sparks. “I have no reason to run.”
All this in a few moments. The ballroom is in shambles, full of shattered glass, upended tables, and a few very mangled bodies.
Prince Alexandret is among them, slumped dead in his seat of honor with a bullet hole between his eyes.
I don’t mourn his loss. His ability was pain.
Naturally, they interrogate me first. I should be used to it by now.
Exhausted, emotionally spent, I slump to the cold stone floor when Samson lets me go. My breathing comes hard, like I’ve just run a race. I will my heartbeat to normalize, to stop panting, to hold on to some shred of dignity and sense. I cringe as the Arvens lock my manacles back into place; then they pass the key away. The manacles are a relief and a burden both. A shield and a cage.
We’ve retreated to the grand council chambers this time, the circular room where I saw Walsh die to protect the Scarlet Guard. More room here, more space to try the dozen captured assassins. The Sentinels have learned their lesson, and they keep firm grips on the prisoners, not allowing any movement. Maven leers down from his council seat, flanked on either side by Volo and Daraeus. The latter fumes, torn between livid rage and sorrow. His fellow prince is dead, killed in what I now know was an assassination attempt on Maven. An attempt that, sadly, failed.
“She knew nothing of this. Neither the house rebellion nor Jon’s betrayal,” Samson tells the room. The terrible chamber seems small, with most of the seats empty and the doors firmly locked. Only Maven’s closest advisers remain, looking on, gears turning in their heads.
In his seat, Maven sneers. Almost being murdered doesn’t seem to rattle him. “No, this was not the Scarlet Guard’s doing. They don’t work like this.”
“You don’t know that,” Daraeus snaps, forgetting all his manners and smiles. “You don’t know anything about them, no matter what you might say. If the Scarlet Guard has allied with—”
“Corrupted,” Evangeline snaps from her place behind Maven’s left shoulder. She doesn’t have a council seat or a title of her own and has to stand, despite the many empty chairs. “Gods do not ally with
insects, but they can be infected by them.”
“Pretty words from a pretty girl,” Daraeus says, dismissing her outright. She fumes. “What of the rest?”
At Maven’s gesture, the next interrogation begins in earnest. A Haven shadow, grasped tightly by Trio himself to keep the woman from fleeing. Without her ability, she seems dim, an echo of her beautiful house. Her red hair is darker, duller, without its usual scarlet gleam. When Samson puts a hand to her temple, she shrieks.
“Her thoughts are of her sister,” Samson says without any feeling. Except maybe boredom. “Elane.”
I saw her only hours ago, gliding around Evangeline’s salon. She gave no indication that she knew of an impending assassination. But no good schemer would.
Maven knows it too. He glares at Evangeline, seething. “I’m told Lady Elane escaped with the majority of her house, fleeing the capital,” he says. “Do you have any idea where they might have gone, my dearest?”
She keeps her eyes forward, walking a quickly thinning line. Even with her father and brother so close, I don’t think anyone could save her from Maven’s wrath if he felt inclined to unleash it. “No, why would I?” she says airily, examining her clawlike nails.
“Because she was your brother’s betrothed and your whore,” the king replies, matter-of-fact.
If she’s ashamed or even apologetic, Evangeline does not show it. “Oh, that.” She even scoffs, taking the accusation in stride. “How could she learn much of anything from me? You conspire so well to keep me from councils and politics. If anything, she did you a favor in keeping me pleasantly occupied.”
Their bickering reminds me of another king and another queen: Maven’s parents, fighting after the Scarlet Guard attacked a party at the Hall of the Sun. Each ripping at the other, leaving deep wounds to be exploited later.
“Then submit to interrogation, Evangeline, and we’ll see,” he fires back, pointing with one jeweled hand.
“No daughter of mine will ever do such a thing,” Volo rumbles, though it hardly seems a threat. Merely a fact. “She had no part in this, and she defended you with her own life. Without Evangeline’s and my son’s quick action—well, even to say it is treason.” The old patriarch pulls a frown, wrinkling his white skin, as if the thought is so disgusting. As if he wouldn’t celebrate if Maven died. “Long live the king.”
In the center of the floor, the Haven woman snarls, trying to shove off Trio. He holds firm, keeping her on her knees. “Yes, long live the king!” she says, glaring at us. “Tiberias the Seventh! Long live the king!”
Cal.
Maven stands, slamming his fists against the arms of his seat. I expect the room to burn, but no fire springs to life. It can’t. Not while he sits on Silent Stone. His eyes are the only thing aflame. And then, slowly, with a manic grin, he begins to laugh.
“All this . . . for him?” he says, smirking. “My brother murdered the king, our father, helped murder my mother, and now he tries to murder me. Samson, if you would continue”—he inclines his head in his cousin’s direction—“I have no mercy or remorse for traitors. Especially stupid ones.”
The rest turn to watch the interrogation continue, to listen to the Haven woman as she spouts secrets of her faction, their goals, their plans. To replace Maven with his brother. To make Cal king as he was born to be. To return things to the way they were.
Through it all, I stare at the boy on the throne. He maintains his mask. Jaw clenched, lips pressed into a thin, unforgiving line. Still fingers, straight back. But his gaze wavers. Something in his eyes has gone far away. And at his collar, the slightest gray flush rises, painting his neck and the tips of his ears.
He’s terrified.
For a second, it makes me happy. Then I remember—monsters are most dangerous when they’re afraid.
ELEVEN
Cameron
Even though it would have turned me into an icicle, I wanted to stay behind in Trial. Not out of fear, but to prove a point. I’m not some weapon to be used, not like Barrow allowed herself to be. No one gets to tell me where to go or what to do. I’m done with that. I’ve lived my entire life that way. And every instinct in me tells me to stay away from the Guard’s operation in Corvium, a fortress city that swallows every soldier and spits out their bones.
Except that my brother, Morrey, is only a few miles away now, still firmly stuck in a trench. Even with my ability, I’ll need help to get to him. And if I want anything from this stupid Guard, I’m going to have to start giving them something in return. Farley made that clear enough.
I like her, more now after she apologized for the “utilizing” comment. She says what she means. She doesn’t mope, though she has every right. Not like Cal, who broods around every corner, refusing to help and then relenting when he feels like it. The fallen prince is exhausting. I don’t know how Mare could stand him or his inability to choose a damned side—especially when there’s only one side he can possibly pick. Even now he blusters, wavering between wanting to protect the Silvers of Corvium and wanting to tear the city apart.
“You need to control the walls,” he mutters, standing before Farley and the Colonel. We’re operating from our headquarters in Rocasta, a less-defended supply city a few miles away from our objective. “If you control the walls, you can turn the city inside out—or take the walls down entirely. Render Corvium useless. To everyone.”
I sit idly by in the sparse room, listening to the back-and-forth from my place next to Ada. Farley’s idea. We’re two of the more visible newbloods, well known to both kinds of Reds. Including us in these meeting sends a strong message to the rest of the unit. Ada watches with wide eyes, memorizing every word and gesture. Usually Nanny would sit with us, but Nanny is gone. She was a small woman, but she leaves a very large hole. And I know whose fault that is.
My eyes burn into Cal’s back. I feel the itch of my ability, and fight the urge to bring him to his knees. He’ll kill us for Mare, and he won’t kill his own for the rest of the world. It was Nanny’s choice to infiltrate Archeon on her own, but everyone knows it wasn’t her idea.
Farley is just as angry as I am. She can barely look at Cal, even when speaking to him. “The question now is how to effectively dispatch our own. We can’t focus everyone on the walls, important as they are.”
“By my count, ten thousand Red soldiers occupy Corvium at any given time.” I almost laugh at Ada’s humbleness. By my count. Her count is perfect, and everyone knows it. “Military protocol dictates one officer to every ten, giving us at least one thousand Silvers inside the city, not accounting for command units and administration. Neutralizing them should be our objective.”
Cal crosses his arms, unconvinced even by Ada’s perfect, inarguable intelligence. “I’m not so sure. Our goal is to destroy Corvium, to strike Maven’s army at its heart. That can be done without”—he stumbles—“without a massacre on both sides.”
As if he cares what happens to our side. As if he cares if any one of us dies.
“How do you plan to destroy a city with a thousand Silvers looking on?” I wonder aloud, knowing I won’t get much of an answer. “Will the prince ask them to sit quietly and watch?”
“Of course we fight those who resist,” the Colonel breaks in. He stares at Cal, daring him to argue. “And they will resist. We know this.”
“Do we?” Cal’s tone is quietly smug. “Members of Maven’s own court tried to kill him last week. If there’s division in the High Houses, then there’s division in the armed forces. Attacking them outright will only serve as a unifier, in Corvium at least.”
My scoff echoes around the room. “So, what, we wait? Let Maven lick his wounds and regroup? Give him time to catch his breath?”
“Give him time to hang himself,” Cal snaps back. He matches my scowl. “Give him time to make even more mistakes. Now he’s on thin ice with Piedmont, his only ally, and three High Houses are in open rebellion. One of them all but controls the Air Fleet, another a vast intelligence network.
Not to mention he still has us and the Lakelanders to worry about. He’s scared; he’s scrambling. I wouldn’t want to be on his throne right now.”
“Is that true?” Farley asks, her voice casual. But the words move through the room like knives. They sting him. Anyone can see that. His royal teachings are enough to keep his face still, but his eyes betray him. They flash in the fluorescent light. “Don’t lie to us and say you’re unconcerned with the other news out of Archeon. The reason Laris and Iral and Haven tried to kill your brother.”
He stares. “They attempted a coup because Maven is a tyrant who abuses his power and murders his own.”
I slam my fist against the arm of my chair. He’s not going to dance his way around this one. “They revolted because they want to make you king!” I shout. To my surprise, he flinches. Maybe he’s expecting more than just words. But I keep my ability in check, hard as it may be. “‘Long live Tiberias the Seventh.’ That’s what the assassins said to Maven. Our operatives in Whitefire were clear.”
He expels a long, frustrated sigh. He seems aged by this conversation. Brow furrowed, jaw tight. Muscles stand out at his neck and his hands curl into fists. He’s a machine about to break—or explode.
“It’s not unexpected,” he mutters, as if it makes anything better. “There was bound to be a succession crisis eventually. But there’s no feasible way anyone can put me back on the throne.”
Farley tips her head. “And if they could?” Silently, I cheer her on. She won’t let him off as easily as Mare used to. “If they offered the crown, your so-called birthright, in exchange for an end to all this—would you take it?”
The fallen prince of House Calore straightens to look her dead in the eye.
“No.”
He’s not as good a liar as Mare is.
“As much as I hate to admit it, he has a point about waiting.”
I almost cough up the tea Farley poured me. Quickly I set the chipped cup back down on her ramshackle table. “You’re not seriously saying that. How can you trust him?”