The Montfort people seem most interested in the Piedmont visit. They perk up at the mention of Daraeus and Alexandret, and I walk them through their visit step by step. Their questioning, their manner, down to what kind of clothes they wore. When I mention Michael and Charlotta, the missing prince and princess, Davidson purses his lips.
As I speak, spilling more and more of my ordeal, a numbness washes over me. I detach from the words. My voice drones. The house rebellion. Jon’s escape. Maven’s near death. The sight of silver blood gushing from his neck. Another interrogation, mine and the Haven woman’s. That was the first time I saw Maven truly rattled, when Elane’s sister pledged her allegiance to a different king. To Cal. It resulted in the exile of many members of court, possible allies.
“I tried to separate him from House Samos. I knew they were his strongest remaining ally, so I played on his weakness for me. If he married Evangeline, I told him, she would kill me.” Pieces move into place as I speak them. I flush at the implication that I am the reason for such a deadly alliance. “I think it may have convinced him to look to the Lakelands for a different bride—”
Julian cuts me off. “Volo Samos was already searching for an excuse to detach from Maven. Ending the betrothal was just the final straw. And I assume the Lakelander negotiations were in play much longer than you think.” He quirks a thin smile. Even if he’s lying, it makes me feel a bit better.
I race through my memories of the coronation tour, a glorified parade to hide his dealings with the Lakelanders. Maven’s revocation of the Measures, the end of the Lakelander War, his betrothal to Iris. Careful moves to buy goodwill from his kingdom, to get credit for stopping a war without stopping its destruction.
“Silver nobles came back to court before the wedding, and Maven kept me alone for most of the time. Then there was the wedding itself. The Lakelander alliance was sealed. The storm—your storm—followed. Maven and Iris fled to his escape train, but we were separated.”
It was only yesterday. Still, this feels like recalling a dream. Adrenaline fogs the battle, reducing my memories to color and pain and fear. “My guards dragged me back into the palace.”
I pause, hesitating. Even now, I can’t believe what Evangeline did.
“Mare?” Cal prods, his voice and the brush of his hand gentle. He’s just as curious as the rest.
It’s easier to face him than the others. He alone understands how strange my escape was. “Evangeline Samos cut us off. She killed the Arven guards and she . . . she freed me. She set me loose. I still don’t know why.”
A silence descends over the table. My greatest rival, a girl who threatened to kill me, a person with cold steel instead of a heart, is the reason I’m here. Julian doesn’t try to hide his surprise, his thin eyebrows almost disappearing into his hairline. But Cal doesn’t look surprised at all. Instead, he draws a deep breath, his chest rising with the motion. Could that be—pride?
I don’t have the energy to guess. Or to detail the way Samson Merandus died, playing Cal and me off each other until we both burned him alive.
“You know the rest,” I finish, exhausted. I feel like I’ve been talking for decades.
Premier Davidson stands, stretching. I expect more questions, but instead he opens a cabinet and pours me a glass of water. I don’t touch it. I’m in an unfamiliar place run by unfamiliar people. I have very little trust left in me, and I won’t waste it on someone I just met.
“Our turn?” Cal asks. He leans forward, eager to begin his own interrogation.
Davidson inclines his head, lips tugged into flat, neutral line. “Of course. I assume you’re wondering what we’re doing here in Piedmont, and on a royal fleet base to boot?”
When no one stops him, Davidson launches ahead.
“As you know, the Scarlet Guard began in the Lakelands, and filtered down into Norta this past year. Colonel Farley and General Farley were integral to both endeavors, and I thank them for their hard work.” He nods at them in turn. “At the orders of your Command, other operatives undertook a similar campaign in Piedmont. Infiltrate, control, overthrow. Here, in fact, is where agents of Montfort first encountered agents of the Scarlet Guard, which, up until last year, seemed a fiction to us. But the Scarlet Guard was very real, and we certainly shared a goal. Like your compatriots, we seek to overthrow oppressive Silver rulers and expand our democratic republic.”
“It seems you’ve done so already.” Farley indicates the room.
Cal narrows his eyes. “How?”
“We concentrated our efforts on Piedmont due to its precarious structure. Princes and princesses rule their territories in shaky peace beneath a high prince elected from their ranks. Some control large tracts of land, others a city or simply a few miles of farms. Power is fluid, always changing. Currently, Prince Bracken of the Lowcountry is the high prince, the strongest Silver in Piedmont, with the largest territory and the greatest resources.” With a sweep of his hand, Davidson brushes his fingers against the seal on the wall. He traces the purple star. “This is the grandest of the three military fortresses in his possession. It is now ceded to our personal use.”
Cal sucks in a breath. “You’re working with Bracken?”
“He’s working for us,” Davidson replies proudly.
My mind spins out. A Silver royal, operating on behalf of a country looking to take everything away from him? For a moment, it sounds ludicrous. Then I remember exactly who’s sitting next to me.
“The princes visited Maven on Bracken’s behalf. They questioned me for him.” I narrow my eyes at the premier. “You told them to do that?”
General Torkins shifts in her seat and clears her throat. “Daraeus and Alexandret are sworn allies to Bracken. We had no knowledge of their contact with King Maven until one of them turned up dead in the middle of an assassination attempt.”
“Thanks to you, we know why,” Salida adds.
“What about the survivor? Daraeus. He’s working against you—”
Davidson blinks slowly, his eyes blank and unreadable. “He was working against us.”
“Oh,” I murmur, thinking of all the ways the Piedmont prince could have been killed.
“And the others?” The Colonel presses on. “Michael and Charlotta. The missing prince and princess.”
“Bracken’s children,” Julian says, his voice tight.
A sick feeling washes over me. “You took his children? To make him cooperate?”
“A boy and girl for control of coastal Piedmont? For all these resources?” Torkins scoffs, her white hair rippling as she shakes her head. “An easy trade. Think of the lives we would lose fighting for every mile. Instead, Montfort and the Scarlet Guard have real progress.”
My heart clenches at the thought of two children, Silver or not, being held captive to make their father kneel. Davidson reads the sentiment on my face.
“They’re well taken care of. Provided for.”
Overhead, the lights flicker like the beating of moth’s wings. “A cell is still a cell, no matter how you dress it up,” I sneer.
He doesn’t flinch. “And a war is a war, Mare Barrow. No matter how good your intentions may be.”
I shake my head. “Well, it’s too bad. Save all those soldiers here, but waste them on rescuing one person. Was that an easy trade too? Their lives for mine?”
“General Salida, what was the last count?” the premier asks.
She nods, reciting from memory. “Of the one hundred and two Ardents recruited to the Nortan army in the last few months, sixty were present as special guards to the wedding. All sixty were rescued, and debriefed last night.”
“Due in large part to the efforts of General Salida, who was embedded with them.” Davidson claps a hand on her meaty shoulder. “Including you, we saved sixty-one Ardents from your king. Each will be given food, shelter, and a choice of resettlement or service. In addition, we were able to raid a large amount of the Nortan Treasury. Wars are not cheap. Ransoming worthless or weak prisoners
only gets us so far.” He pauses. “Does that answer your question?”
Relief mixes with the undercurrent of dread I can never seem to shake. The attack on Archeon was not just for me. I have not been freed from one dictator only to be taken by another. None of us knows what Davidson might do, but he isn’t Maven. His blood is red.
“One more question for you, I’m afraid,” Davidson pushes on. “Miss Barrow, would you say the king of Norta is in love with you?”
In Whitefire, I smashed too many glasses of water to count. I feel the urge to do it again. “I don’t know.” A lie. An easy lie.
Davidson is not so easily swayed. His wild eyes flicker, amused. Catching the light, they seem gold then brown then gold again. Shifting as the sun on a field of swaying wheat. “You can take a well-educated guess.”
Hot anger licks up inside me like a flame.
“What Maven considers love is not love at all.” I yank aside the collar of my shirt, revealing my brand. The M is plain as day. So many eyes brush my skin, taking in the raised edges of pearly scar tissue and burned flesh. Davidson’s gaze traces the lines of fire, and I feel Maven’s touch in his stare.
“Enough,” I breathe, pushing the shirt back in place.
The premier nods. “Fine. I will ask you to—”
“No, I mean I’ve had enough of this. I need . . . time.” Heaving a shaky breath, I push back from the table. My chair scrapes against the floor, echoing in the sudden silence. No one stops me. They just watch, eyes full of pity. For once, I’m glad of it. Their pity lets me go.
Another chair follows mine. I don’t need to look back to know it’s Cal.
As on the airjet, I feel the world start to close and suffocate, expand and overwhelm. The halls, so like Whitefire, stretch into an endless line. Lights pulse overhead. I lean into the sensation, hoping it will ground me. You’re safe; you’re safe; it’s over. My thoughts spiral out of control, and my feet move of their own volition. Down the stairs, through another door, out into a garden choked by fragrant flowers. The clear sky above is a torment. I want it to rain. I want to be washed clean.
Cal’s hands find the back of my neck. The scars ache beneath his touch. His warmth bleeds into my muscles, trying to soothe away the pain. I press the heels of my hands to my eyes. It helps a little. I can’t see anything in the darkness, including Maven, his palace, or the bounds of that horrible room.
You’re safe; you’re safe; it’s over.
It would be easy to stay in the dark, to drown. Slowly, I lower my hands and force myself to look at the sunlight. It takes more effort than I thought possible. I refuse to let Maven keep me prisoner one second longer than he already has. I refuse to live this way.
“Can I take you back to your house?” Cal asks, his voice low. His thumbs work steady circles at the space between neck and shoulders. “We can walk, give you some time.”
“I’m not giving him any more of my time.” Angry, I turn around and raise my chin, forcing myself to look Cal in the eye. He doesn’t move, patient and unassuming. All reaction, adjusting to my emotions, letting me set the pace. After so long at the mercy of others, it feels good to know someone will allow me my own choices. “I don’t want to go back yet.”
“Fine.”
“I don’t want to stay here.”
“Me neither.”
“I don’t want to talk about Maven or politics or war.”
My voice echoes in the leaves. I sound like a child, but Cal just nods along. For once, he seems a child too, with a ragged haircut and simple clothing. No uniform, no military gear. Only a thin shirt, pants, boots, and his bracelets. In another life, he might look normal. I stare at him, waiting for his features to shift into Maven’s. They never do. I realize he isn’t quite Cal either. He has more worry than I thought possible. The last six months have ruined him too.
“Are you okay?” I ask him.
His shoulders droop, the slightest release of steel tension. He blinks. Cal is not one to be taken off guard. I wonder if anyone has bothered to ask him that question since the day I was taken.
After a long pause, he heaves a breath. “I will be. I hope.”
“So do I.”
This garden was tended by greenwardens once, its many flower beds spiraling in the overgrown remnants of intricate designs. Nature takes over now, different blossoms and colors spilling into one another. Blending, decaying, dying, blooming as they wish.
“Remind me to trouble both of you for some blood at a more opportune moment.”
I laugh out loud at Julian’s graceless request. He idles at the edge of the garden, kindly intruding. Not that I mind. I grin and cross the garden quickly, embracing him . He returns the action happily.
“That would sound strange coming from anyone else,” I tell him as I pull back. Cal chuckles in agreement at my side. “But sure, Julian. Feel free. Besides, I owe you.”
Julian tips his head in confusion. “Oh?”
“I found some books of yours in Whitefire.” I don’t lie, but I’m careful with my words. No use hurting Cal more than he’s already been. He doesn’t need to know that Maven gave me the books. I won’t give him any more false hope for his brother. “Helped pass the . . . time.”
While the mention of my imprisonment sobers Cal, Julian doesn’t let us linger in the pain. “Then you understand what I’m trying to do,” he says quickly. His smile doesn’t reach his darkening eyes. “Don’t you, Mare?”
“‘Not a god’s chosen, but a god’s cursed,’” I murmur, recalling the words he scrawled in a forgotten book. “You’re going to figure out where we came from, and why.”
Julian folds his arms. “I’m certainly going to try.”
TWENTY-TWO
Mare
Every morning starts the same way. I can’t stay in the bedroom; the birds always wake me up early. Good that they do. It’s too hot to run later in the day. The Piedmont base makes for a good track, though. It is well protected, the boundaries guarded by both Montfort and Piedmont soldiers. The latter are all Reds, of course. Davidson knows that Bracken, the puppet prince, is likely quietly scheming and won’t let any of his Silvers past the gates. In fact, I haven’t seen any Silvers at all, except the ones I already know. All of the abilitied are newbloods or Ardents, depending on who you speak to. If Davidson has Silvers with him, serving equally in his Free Republic as he says they are, I haven’t seen any.
I lace my shoes tightly. Mist curls in the street outside, hanging low along the brick canyon. Unlatching the front door, I grin when the cool air hits my skin. It smells like rain and thunder.
As expected, Cal sits on the bottom step, legs stretched out on the narrow sidewalk. Still, my heart lurches in my chest at the sight of him. He yawns loudly in greeting, almost unhinging his jaw.
“Come on,” I chide him, “this is sleeping in for a soldier.”
“That doesn’t mean I don’t prefer to sleep in when I can.” He stands with exaggerated annoyance, all but sticking his tongue out.
“Feel free to go back to that little bunk room you insist on staying in at the barracks. You know, you’d get a bit more time if you moved to Officers Row—or stopped running with me altogether.” I shrug with a sly grin.
Matching my smile, he tugs on the hem of my shirt, pulling me toward him. “Don’t insult my bunk room,” he mutters, before dropping a kiss on my lips. Then my jaw. Then my neck. Each touch blooms, a burst of fire beneath my skin.
Reluctantly, I push his face away. “There is a real possibility my dad shoots you from the window if you keep this up here.”
“Right, right.” He recovers quickly, paling. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say Cal was actually scared of my father. The thought is comical. A Silver prince, a general who can raise infernos with a flick of his fingers, afraid of a limping old Red. “Let’s stretch.”
We go through the motions, Cal more thoroughly than I. He scolds me gently, finding something wrong with every move. “Don’t lunge into it. Don’
t rock back and forth. Easy, slow.” But I’m eager, thirsty to run. Eventually, he relents. With a nod of his head, he lets us begin.
At first the pace is easy. I almost dance on my toes, exhilarated by the steps. They feel like freedom. The fresh air, the birds, the mist brushing past with damp fingers. My even, steady breath and steadily rising heartbeat. The first time we ran here, I had to stop and cry, too happy to stop the tears. Cal sets a good clip, keeping me from sprinting until my lungs give out. The first mile passes well enough, getting us to the perimeter wall. Half stone, half chain link topped with razor wire, and a few soldiers patrol the far side. Montfort men. They nod to each of us, used to our route after two weeks. Other soldiers jog in the distance, running their usual training exercises, but we don’t join them. They drill in rows with shouting sergeants. It’s not for me. Cal is demanding enough. And thankfully, Davidson hasn’t pressed me on the whole “resettlement or service” choice. In fact, I haven’t seen him since my debriefing, even though he now lives on base with the rest of us.
The next two miles are more difficult. Cal pushes a harder pace. It’s hotter today, even this early, with clouds gathering overhead. As the mist burns off, I sweat hard and salt collects on my lips. Legs pumping, I wipe my face on the hem of my shirt. Cal feels the heat too. At my side, he just pulls his shirt off entirely, tucking it into the waistband of tight training pants. My first instinct is to warn him against sunburn. The second is to stop and stare at the well-defined muscles of his bare abdomen. Instead, I focus on the path before me, forcing another mile. Another. Another. His breathing beside me is suddenly very distracting.
We round the shallow forest separating the barracks and Officers Row from the airfield, when thunder rumbles somewhere. A few miles away, certainly. Cal puts out an arm at the noise, slowing me down. He snaps to face me, both hands gripping my shoulders as he leans down to my eye level. Bronze eyes bore into mine, looking for something. The thunder rolls again, closer.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, all concern. One hand strays to my neck to soothe the scars burning red hot with exertion. “Calm down.”