For a split second, I try to remember. Stupid. “Too many times to count,” I tell her with a shrug. “First Elara, then Samson. I can’t decide who was worse. I know now that the queen could look into my mind without me even knowing. But he . . .” My voice falters. The memory is a painful one, drawing out a drilling pressure at my temples. I try to massage away the ache. “Samson, you feel every second he’s in there.”
Her face grays. “So many eyes in this place,” she says, glancing first at my guards and then at the walls. At the security cameras looking over every inch of the open chamber, watching us. “They are welcome to watch.”
Slowly, she removes her jacket and folds it over her arm. The shirt beneath is white, fastened high at her throat, but backless. She turns, under the guise of examining the throne room. Really, she’s showing off. Her back is muscular, powerful, carved of long lines. Black tattoos cover her from the base of her scalp, down her neck, across her shoulder blades, all to the base of her spine. Roots, I think first. I’m wrong. Not roots, but whorls of water, curling and spilling over her skin in perfect lines. They ripple as she moves, a living thing. Finally she roves back to face me. The smallest smirk plays on her lips.
It disappears in an instant as her gaze shifts past me. I don’t have to turn around to know who approaches, who leads the many footsteps echoing off the marble and into my skull.
“I would be happy to give you a tour, Iris,” Maven says. “Your father is settling into his apartments, but I’m sure he won’t mind if we get to know each other better.”
The Arvens and Lakelander guards drop back, giving the king and his Sentinels space. Blue uniforms, white, red-orange. Their silhouettes and colors are so ingrained in me I know them out of the corner of my eye. None so much as the pale young king. I feel him as much as I see him, his cloying warmth threatening to engulf me. He stops a few inches from my side, close enough to take me by the hand if he wants to. I shudder at the thought.
“I would like that very much,” Iris replies. She dips her head in an oddly stilted manner. Bowing does not come easily to her. “I was just remarking to Miss Barrow about your”—she searches for the right word, glancing back at the stark throne—“decorations.”
Maven offers a tight smile. “A precaution. My father was assassinated, and attempts have been made on me as well.”
“Could a chair of Silent Stone have saved your father?” she asks innocently.
A current of heat pulses through the air. Like Iris, I feel the need to shed my jacket too, lest Maven’s temper sweat me out of it.
“No, my brother decided that cutting his head off was his best option,” he says bluntly. “Not much defense against that.”
It happened in this very palace. A few passages and rooms away, up some stairs to a place with no windows and soundproofed walls. When the guards dragged me there, I was in a daze, terrified that Maven and I were about to be executed for treason. Instead, the king ended up in two pieces. His head, his body, a rush of silver splattered in between. Instead, Maven took the crown. My fists clench at the memory.
“How horrible,” Iris murmurs. I feel her eyes on me.
“Yes, wasn’t it, Mare?”
His sudden hand on my arm burns like his brand. My control threatens to snap, and I glare at him sidelong. “Yes,” I force out through clenched teeth. “Horrible.”
Maven nods in agreement, clenching his jaw to make the bones of his face tighten. I can’t believe he has the gall to look morose. To seem sad. He is neither. He can’t be. His mother took away the pieces of him that loved his brother and father. I wish she’d taken the part that loves me. Instead, it festers, poisoning us both with its corruption. Black rot eats at his brain and at any bit of him that might be human. He knows it too. Knows there’s something wrong, something he cannot fix with ability or power. He is broken, and there is no healer on this earth who can make him whole.
“Well, before I take you through my home, there’s someone else who would like to meet my future bride. Sentinel Nornus, if you would?” Maven gestures over his soldier. At his command, the Sentinel in question blurs into a blaze of red and orange, racing to the entrance and back again in a blistering second. A swift. In his robes, he seems a fireball.
Figures follow in his wake, their house colors familiar.
“Princess Iris, this is the ruling lord of House Samos, and his family,” Maven says, waving a hand between his new betrothed and the old one.
Evangeline stands out in sharp contrast to the simply clothed Iris. I wonder how long it took her to create the molten, metal liquid hugging every curve of her body like glistening tar. No more crowns and tiaras for her, but her jewelry more than makes up for it. She wears silver chains at her neck, wrists, and ears, fine as thread and studded with diamonds. Her brother’s appearance is different too, absent his usual armor or fur. His rippling silhouette is still threatening enough, but Ptolemus looks more like his father now, in flawless black velvet with a sparkling silver chain. Volo leads his children, with someone I don’t recognize at his side. But I can certainly guess who she is.
In that instant, I understand a bit more of Evangeline. Her mother is a frightful sight. Not because she’s ugly. On the contrary, the older woman is severely beautiful. She gave Evangeline her angular black eyes and flawless porcelain skin, but not her slick, straight raven hair and dainty figure. This woman looks like I could snap her in two, manacles and all. Probably part of her facade. She wears her own house colors, black and emerald green, alongside Samos silver to denote her allegiances. Viper. Lady Blonos’s voice sneers in my head. Black and green are the colors of House Viper. Evangeline’s mother is an animos. As she gets closer, her shimmering dress comes into better focus. And I realize why Evangeline is so insistent on wearing her ability. It’s a family tradition.
Her mother isn’t wearing jewelry. She’s wearing snakes.
On her wrists, around her neck. Thin, black, and moving slowly, their scales gleaming like spilled oil. Equal parts fear and disgust jolt through me. Suddenly I want to sprint to my room, lock the door, and put as much distance as I can between myself and the wriggling creatures. Instead, they get closer with her every footstep. And I thought Evangeline was bad.
“Lord Volo; his wife, Larentia of House Viper; their son, Ptolemus; and their daughter, Evangeline. Well-regarded and valuable members of my court,” Maven explains, gesturing to each in turn. He smiles openly, showing teeth.
“I’m sorry we were not able to properly meet you sooner.” Volo steps forward to take Iris’s outstretched hand. With his silver beard freshly trimmed, it’s easy to see the resemblance between him and his children. Strong bones, elegant lines, long noses, and lips permanently curled into a sneer. His skin looks paler against Iris’s as he brushes a kiss to her bare knuckles. “We were called away to attend matters in our own lands.”
Iris dips her brow. A picture of grace now. “No apology is required, my lord.”
Over their clasped hands, Maven catches my eye. He quirks an eyebrow in amusement. If I could, I would ask him what he promised—or what he threatened House Samos with. Two Calore kings have slipped through their fingers. So much scheming and plotting, for nothing. I know Evangeline didn’t love Maven, or even like him, but she was raised to be a queen. Her purpose was stolen twice. She failed herself and, worse, failed her house. At least now she has someone other than me to blame.
Evangeline glances in my direction, her lashes dark and long. They flutter for a moment as her eyes waver, ticking back and forth like the pendulum of an old clock. I take a small step away from Iris to put some distance between us. Now that the Samos daughter has a new rival to hate, I don’t want to give her the wrong impression.
“And you were betrothed to the king?” Iris pulls her hand back from Volo and knits her fingers together. Evangeline’s eyes move away from me to face the princess. For once, I see her on an even field with an equal opponent. Maybe I’ll get lucky and Evangeline will misstep, thre
aten Iris the way she used to threaten me. I have a feeling Iris won’t tolerate a word of it.
“For a time, yes,” Evangeline says. “And his brother before him.”
The princess is not surprised. I assume the Lakelands are well informed of the Nortan royals. “Well, I’m glad you’ve returned to court. We will require a good amount of help in organizing our wedding.”
I bite my lip so hard I almost draw blood. Better that than laughing out loud as Iris pours salt into so many Samos wounds. Across from me, Maven turns his head to hide a sneer.
One of the snakes hisses, a low, droning sound impossible to mistake. But Larentia quickly curtsies, sweeping out the fabric of her shimmering gown.
“We are at your disposal, Your Highness,” she says. Her voice is deep, rich as syrup. As we watch, the thickest snake, around her neck, nuzzles up past her ear and into her hair. Revolting. “It would be an honor to aid you however we can.” I half expect her to elbow Evangeline into agreeing. Instead, the Viper woman turns her attention on me, so quickly I don’t have time to look away. “Is there a reason the prisoner is staring at me?”
“None,” I respond, teeth clicking together.
Larentia takes my eye contact as a challenge. Like an animal. She steps forward, closing the distance between us. We’re the same height. The snake in her hair continues hissing, coiling and twisting down onto her collarbone. Its jewel-bright eyes meet mine, and its forked black tongue licks the air, darting out between long fangs. Even though I stand my ground, I can’t help but swallow hard, my mouth suddenly dry. The snake keeps watching me.
“They say you are different,” Larentia mutters. “But your fear smells the same as that of every vile Red rat I’ve ever had the misfortune to know.”
Red rat. Red rat.
I’ve heard that so many times. Thought it about myself. From her lips, it cracks something in me. The control I’ve worked so hard to maintain, that I must keep if I want to stay alive, threatens to unravel. I take a dragging breath, willing myself to keep still. Her snakes continue hissing, curling over one another in black tangles of scale and spine. Some are long enough to reach me if she wills it so.
Maven sighs low in his throat. “Guards, I think it’s time Miss Barrow was returned to her room.”
I spin on my heel before the Arvens can jump to my side, retreating into the so-called safety of their presence. Something about the snakes, I tell myself. I couldn’t stand them. No wonder Evangeline is horrific, with a mother like that to raise her.
As I flee back to my rooms, I’m seized by an unwelcome sensation. Relief. Gratitude. To Maven.
I crush that vile burst of emotion with all the rage I have. Maven is a monster. I feel nothing but hatred toward him. I cannot allow anything else, even pity, to creep in.
I MUST ESCAPE.
Two long months pass.
Maven’s wedding will be ten times the production that the Parting Ball, or even Queenstrial, was. Silver nobles flood back into the capital, bringing entourages with them from all corners of Norta. Even the ones the king exiled. Maven feels safe enough in his new alliance to allow even smiling enemies through his door. Though most have city houses of their own, many take up residence in Whitefire, until the palace itself seems ready to burst at the seams. I’m kept to my room mostly. I don’t mind. It’s better this way. But even from my cell, I can feel the impending storm of a wedding. The tangible union of Norta and the Lakelands.
The courtyard below my window, empty all winter long, flourishes in a suddenly warm and green spring. Nobles walk through the magnolia trees at a lazy pace, some arm in arm. Always whispering, always scheming or gossiping. I wish I could read lips. I might learn something other than which houses seem to congregate together, their colors brighter in the sunlight. Maven would have to be a fool to think they aren’t plotting against him or his bride. And he is many things, but not that.
The old routine I used to pass my first month of isolation—wake, eat, sit, scream, repeat—doesn’t serve anymore. I have more useful ways to pass the time. There are no pens and paper, and I don’t bother to ask. No use leaving scraps. Instead, I stare at Julian’s books, idly turning pages. Sometimes I latch on to jotted notes, annotations scrawled in Julian’s handwriting. Interesting; curious; corroborate with volume IV. Idle words with little meaning. I brush my fingers along the letters anyway, feeling dry ink and the press of a long-gone pen. Enough of Julian to keep me thinking, reading between lines on the page and words spoken aloud.
He ruminates on one volume in particular, thinner than the histories but densely packed with text. Its spine is badly broken, the pages cluttered with Julian’s writing. I can almost feel the warmth of his hands as they smoothed the tattered pages.
On Origins, the cover says in embossed black lettering, followed by the names of a dozen Silver scholars who wrote the many essays and arguments within the small book. Most of it is too complex for my understanding, but I sift through it anyway. If only for Julian.
He marked one passage in particular, dog-earing the page and underlining a few sentences. Something about mutations, changes. The result of ancient weaponry we no longer possess and can no longer create. One of the scholars believes it made Silvers. Others disagree. A few mention gods instead, perhaps the ones that Iris follows.
Julian makes his own position clear in notes at the bottom of the page.
Strange that so many thought themselves gods, or a god’s chosen, he wrote. Blessed by something greater. Elevated to what we are. When all evidence points to the opposite. Our abilities came from corruption, from a scourge that killed most. We were not a god’s chosen, but a god’s cursed.
I blink at the words and wonder. If Silvers are cursed, then what are newbloods? Worse?
Or is Julian wrong? Are we chosen too? And for what?
Men and women much smarter than me have no answers, and neither do I. Not to mention, I have more pressing things to think about.
I plan while I eat breakfast, chewing slowly as I run through what I know. A royal wedding will be organized chaos. Extra security, more guards than I can count, but still a good enough chance. Servants everywhere, drunk nobles, a foreign princess to distract the people usually focused on me. I’d be stupid not to try something. Cal would be stupid not to try something.
I glare at the pages in hand, at white paper and black ink. Nanny tried to save me and Nanny ended up dead. A waste of life. And I selfishly want them to try again. Because if I stay here much longer, if I have to live the rest of my life a few steps behind Maven, with his haunting eyes and his missing pieces and his hatred for everyone in this world—
Hatred for everyone but—
“Stop,” I hiss to myself, fighting the urge to let in the silk monster knocking at the walls of my mind. “Stop it.”
Memorization of the layout of Whitefire is a good distraction, the one I usually rely on. Two lefts from my door, through a gallery of statues, left again down a spiraling stair . . . I trace the way to the throne room, the entrance hall, the banquet hall, different studies and council chambers, Evangeline’s quarters, Maven’s old bedroom. Every step I’ve taken here I memorize. The better I know the palace, the better chance I have of escaping when the opportunity arises. Certainly Maven will marry Iris in the Royal Court, if not in Caesar’s Square itself. Nowhere else can hold so many guests and guards. I can’t see the court from my window, and I’ve never been inside, but I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.
Maven hasn’t dragged me to his side since we returned. Good, I tell myself. An empty room and days of silence are better than his cloying words. Still, I feel a tug of disappointment every night when I shut my eyes. I’m lonely; I’m afraid; I’m selfish. I feel emptied out by the Silent Stone and the months I’ve spent here, walking the edge of another razor. It would be so easy to let the broken pieces of me fall apart. It would be so easy to let him put me back together however he wishes. Maybe, in a few years, it won’t even feel like a prison.
/>
No.
For the first time in a while, I smash my breakfast plate against the wall, screaming as I do it. The water glass next. It explodes in crystal shards. Broken things make me feel a bit better.
My door bursts open in half a second as the Arvens enter. Egg is the first to my side, holding me back in my chair. His grip is firm, preventing me from getting up. Now they know better than to let me anywhere near the wreckage as they clean.
“Maybe you should start giving me plastic,” I scoff to no one. “Seems like a better idea.”
Egg wants to hit me. His fingers dig into my shoulders, probably leaving bruises. The Silent Stone makes the hurt bite bone-deep. My stomach twists as I realize I can barely remember what it’s like not to be in constant, smothering pain and anguish.
The other guards sweep away the debris, unflinching as glass drags over their gloved hands. Only when they disappear, their throbbing presence melting away, do I once again have the strength to stand. Annoyed, I slam shut the book I wasn’t reading. Genealogy of Nortan Nobility, Volume IX, the cover says. Useless.
With nothing better to do, I put it back on the shelf. The leather-bound book slides in neatly between its brothers, volumes VIII and X. Maybe I’ll pull the other books down and rearrange them. Waste a few seconds of the endless hours.
I end up on the floor instead, trying to stretch a bit farther than I did yesterday. My old agility is a faint memory, restricted by circumstance. I try anyway, inching my fingers toward my toes. The muscles in my legs burn, a better feeling than the ache. I chase the pain. It’s one of the only things to remind me I’m still alive in this shell.
The minutes bleed into one another and time stretches with me. Outside, the light shifts as spring clouds chase each other across the sun.
The knock on my door is soft, uncertain. No one has ever bothered to knock before, and my heart leaps. But the rush of adrenaline dies off. A rescuer would not knock.