Farley turns back to her work. “Just tell him what I said. He’ll know what to do.”
I can only nod, shutting the door as she tries and fails to hide a yawn.
“Have to recalibrate the video receivers, Captain Farley’s orders—”
The two Guardsmen flanking the door to central control step back before I even finish my sentence, my usual lie. Both look away, avoiding my gaze, and I feel my face burn with an ashamed flush.
Newbloods scare people as much as Silvers do, if not more so. Reds with abilities are just as unpredictable, just as powerful, just as dangerous, in their eyes.
After we first got here and more soldiers arrived, the whispers about me and the others spread like disease. The old woman can change her face. The twitchy one can surround you with illusions. The techie girl can kill you with thought alone. It feels terrible to be feared. And worst of all, I can’t blame anyone for it. We are different and strange, with powers not even Silvers can claim. We are frayed wires and glitching machines, still learning ourselves and our abilities. Who knows what we might become?
I swallow the familiar discomfort and step into the next room.
Central control usually buzzes with screens and communication equipment, but for now the room is oddly quiet. Only a single broadcaster whirs, spitting out a long strip of correspondence paper printed with a decrypted message. The Colonel stands over the machine, reading as the strip lengthens. His usual ghosts, Mare’s brothers, sit close by, both of them jumpy as rabbits. And the fourth occupant of the room is all I need to know about whatever report is coming in.
This is news of Mare Barrow.
Why else would Cal be here too?
He broods, as usual, his chin resting on interlocked fingers. Long days underground have taken their toll, paling his already-pale skin. For a prince, he really lets himself go in times of crisis. Right now he looks like he needs a shower and a shave, not to mention a few well-aimed slaps to wake him out of his stupor. But he’s a soldier still. His eyes snap to mine before the others’.
“Cameron,” he says, doing his best not to growl.
“Calore.” He’s an exiled prince at best. No need for titles. Unless I really want to piss him off.
Like father, like daughter. Colonel Farley doesn’t look up from the communication, but he acknowledges me with a dramatic sigh. “Let’s save ourselves some time, Cameron. I have neither the manpower nor the opportunity to attempt rescuing an entire legion.”
I mouth the words along with him. He says them to me almost every day.
“A legion of barely trained children who Maven will slaughter once given the opportunity,” I counter.
“So you keep reminding me.”
“Because you need to be reminded! Sir,” I add, almost wincing at the word. Sir. I’m not oathed to the Guard, no matter how much they treat me like a member of their club.
The Colonel’s eyes narrow in on part of the message. “She’s been interrogated.”
Cal stands so quickly he knocks over his chair. “Merandus?”
A tremor of heat pulses through the room, and I feel a ripple of sickness in me. Not because of Cal, but because of Mare. Because of the horrors happening to her. Upset, I knit my hands together behind my head, pulling the curly dark hair at the nape of my neck.
“Yes,” the Colonel replies. “A man named Samson.”
The prince curses quite colorfully for a royal.
“What does that mean?” Bree, Mare’s burly eldest brother, dares to ask.
Tramy, the other surviving Barrow son, frowns deeply. “Merandus is the queen’s house. Whispers—mind readers. They’ll pull her apart to find us.”
“And for sport,” Cal murmurs with a low rumble. Both Barrow brothers flush red at the implication. Bree blinks back fierce, sudden tears. I want to take his arm, but I stay still. I’ve seen enough people flinch away from my touch.
“Which is why Mare knows nothing of our operations outside Tuck, and Tuck has been thoroughly left behind,” the Colonel says quickly. It’s true. They abandoned Tuck with blinding speed, casting off anything that Mare Barrow knew of. Even the Silvers we captured from Corros—or rescued, depending on who you ask—were left at the coast. Too dangerous to keep hold of, too many to control.
I’ve only been with the Scarlet Guard a month, but I already know their words by heart. Rise, red as the dawn, of course, and know only what you need. The first is a battle cry, the second a warning.
“Whatever she gives them will be peripheral at best,” he adds. “Nothing important about Command, and little about our dealings outside Norta.”
No one cares, Colonel. I bite my tongue to keep from snapping at him. Mare is a prisoner. So what if they don’t get anything about the Lakelands, Piedmont, or Montfort?
Montfort. The distant nation ruled by a so-called democracy, an equal balance of Reds, Silvers, and newbloods. A paradise? Maybe, but I have long since learned that paradise does not exist in this world. I probably know more about the country than Mare now, what with the twins, Rash and Tahir, always squawking about Montfort’s merits. I’m not stupid enough to trust their word. Not to mention it’s pure torture holding a conversation with them, always finishing each other’s thoughts and sentences. Sometimes I want to use my silence on them both, to sever the ability that binds their thoughts into one. But that would be cruel, not to mention idiotic. People are already wary of us without watching newbloods ability-bicker.
“Does what they get out of her really matter right now?” I force through gritted teeth. Hopefully the Colonel understands what I’m trying to say. At least spare her brothers this, Colonel. Have some shame.
He just blinks, one good eye and one destroyed. “If you can’t stomach intelligence, then don’t come to control. We need to know what they got out of her in interrogation.”
“Samson Merandus is an arena fighter, though he has no reason to be,” Cal says in a low voice. Trying to be gentle. “He enjoys using his ability to inflict pain. If he is the one to interrogate Mare, then . . .” He stumbles over the words, reluctant to speak. “It’ll be torture, plain and simple. Maven has given her to a torturer.”
Even the Colonel looks disturbed by the thought.
Cal stares at the floor, silent for a long, stoic moment. “I never thought Maven would do that to her,” he mutters finally. “She probably didn’t either.”
Then you’re both stupid, my brain screams. How many times does one wicked boy have to betray you people before you learn?
“Did you need something else, Cameron?” Colonel Farley asks. He rolls up the message, spooling it like a circle of thread. The rest is clearly not for my ears.
“It’s about Corvium. Farley says it’s on the edge.”
The Colonel blinks. “Those were her words?”
“That’s what I said.”
Suddenly I’m no longer the focus of his attention. Instead, his eyes sweep to Cal.
“Then it’s time to push.”
The Colonel looks eager, but Cal could not seem more reluctant. He keeps still, knowing that any twitch might betray his true feelings. The lack of movement is just as damning. “I’ll see what I can come up with,” he finally forces out. That seems to be enough for the Colonel. He ducks his chin in a nod before turning his attention to Mare’s brothers.
“Best let your family know,” he says, putting on a show of being gentle. “And Kilorn.”
I shift, uncomfortable watching them digest the painful news of their sister and accept the burden of carrying it to the rest of their family. Bree’s words stick, but Tramy has strength enough to speak for his older brother. “Yes, sir,” he replies. “Though I don’t know where Warren gets to these days.”
“Try the newblood barracks,” I offer. “He’s there more often than not.”
Indeed, Kilorn spends most of his time with Ada. After Ketha died, Ada took on the arduous task of teaching him to read and write. Though I suspect he sticks with us because he has no one
else. The Barrows are the closest thing he has to family, and they are a family of ghosts now, haunted by memories. I’ve never even seen her parents. They keep to themselves, deep in the tunnels.
We take our leave of the Colonel together, four of us trooping out of the control room in awkward, stilted single file. Bree and Tramy peel away quickly, stomping their way toward their family’s quarters on the other side of the base. I do not envy them. I remember how my mother screamed when my brother and I were taken away. I wonder what hurts more—to hear nothing of your children, knowing they are in danger, or to be fed news of their pain piece by piece.
Not that I’ll ever find out. There is no place for children, especially children of mine, in this stupid, ruined world.
I give Cal space, but quickly think better of it. We’re nearly the same height, and catching up to his harried stride is no problem.
“If your heart’s not in this, you’re going to get a lot of people killed.”
He whirls, almost knocking me on my ass with the speed and force of his movement. I have seen his fire firsthand, but never so strongly as the flame blazing in his eyes.
“Cameron, my heart is quite literally in this,” he hisses through gritted teeth.
Swooning words. A romantic declaration. I can barely stop my eyes from rolling.
“Save it for when we get her back,” I grumble. When, not if. He nearly set the control room on fire when the Colonel denied his request to explore ways to get messages to Mare within the palace. I don’t need him melting the hallway over a poor choice of words.
He starts walking again, his pace doubled, but I’m not as easily left behind as the lightning girl.
“I just mean to say that the Colonel has strategists of his own . . . people at Command . . . Scarlet Guard officers who don’t have”—I search for the proper term—“conflicting allegiances.”
Cal huffs loudly, his broad shoulders rising and falling. Clearly any etiquette lessons he may have had took a backseat to military training.
“Show me an officer who knows as much as I do about Silver protocols and the Corvium defense system and I’ll gladly step back from this mess.”
“I’m sure there’s someone, Calore.”
“Who’s fought with newbloods? Knows your abilities? Knows how best to use you in a fight?”
I bristle at his tone. “‘Use,’” I spit. Use indeed. I remember those of us who didn’t survive Corros. Newbloods recruited by Mare Barrow, newbloods she promised to protect. Instead, Mare and Cal threw us into a battle we were not prepared for, and it became clear Mare couldn’t even protect herself. Nix, Gareth, Ketha, and others from the prison I didn’t even know. Dozens dead, discarded like pieces on a game board.
That’s how it’s always worked with the Silver masters, and that’s how Cal was taught to fight. Win at all costs. Pay for every inch in Red blood.
“You know what I mean.”
I snort. “Maybe that’s why I’m not exactly confident.”
Harsh, Cameron.
“Listen,” I continue, switching tactics. “I know I’d burn everyone here if it meant getting my brother back. And luckily, that’s not a decision I have to make. But you—you actually have that option. I want to make sure you don’t take it.”
It’s true. We’re here for the same reason. Not blind obedience to the Scarlet Guard, but because they are our only hope of saving the ones we love and lost.
Cal quirks a crooked smile, the same one I’ve seen Mare moon over. It makes him look like more of a fool. “Don’t try to sweet-talk me, Cameron. I’m doing everything I can to keep us out of another massacre. Everything.” His expression turns harsh. “You think it’s just Silvers who care only about victory?” he mutters. “I’ve seen the Colonel’s reports. I’ve seen correspondence with Command. I’ve heard things. You’re embedded with people who think exactly the same way. They’ll burn all of us to get what they want.”
Maybe true, I think, but at least what they want is justice.
I think of Farley, the Colonel, the oathed soldiers of the Scarlet Guard, and the Red refugees they protect. I’ve seen them ferry people across the border with my own eyes. I sat on one of their airjets as it screamed toward the Choke, intent on rescuing a legion of child soldiers. They have objectives with high costs, but they are not Silver. They kill, but not without reason.
The Scarlet Guard are not peaceful, but peace has no place in this conflict. No matter what Cal might think of their methods and their secrecy, theirs is the only way anyone can hope to fight Silvers and win. Cal’s people brought this upon themselves.
“If you’re so worried about Corvium, don’t go,” he says with a forced shrug.
“And miss the chance to paint my hands in Silver blood?” I snap at him. I don’t know if I’m making a poor attempt to joke or threatening him outright. My patience has worn through yet again. I already had to deal with the whining of a walking lightning rod. I’m not going to tolerate the attitude of a mopey matchstick prince.
Again his eyes blaze with anger and heat. I wonder if I’m fast enough with my ability to incapacitate him. What a fight that would be. Fire against silence. Would he burn or would I?
“Funny thing, you telling me not to be careless with human life. I remember you doing everything you could to kill back in the prison.”
A prison where I was kept. Starved, neglected, forced to watch the people around me wither and die because they were born . . . wrong. And even before I entered Corros, I was a prisoner of another jail. I am a daughter of New Town, conscripted to a different army since the day I was born, doomed to live my life in shadow and ash, at the mercy of the shift whistle and the factory schedule. Of course I tried to kill the ones who held me captive. I would do it again if given the choice.
“Proud of it,” I tell him, setting my jaw.
He despairs of me. That much is clear. Good. There’s no amount of speechmaking that will ever sway me to his thinking. I doubt anyone else will listen much either. Cal is a prince of Norta. Exiled, yes, but different from us in every way. His ability is to be used as much as mine, but he is a barely tolerated weapon. His words can only travel so far. And even then they fall on deaf ears. Mine especially.
Without warning, he sets off down a smaller passage, one of the many burrowing through the warren of Irabelle. It branches off from the wider hall, angling upward to the surface in a gentle slope. I let him go, puzzled. There’s nothing in that direction. Just empty passages, abandoned, unused.
Yet something tugs. I’ve heard things, he said. Suspicion flares in my chest as he walks away, his broad form getting smaller by the second.
For a moment, I hesitate. Cal is not my friend. We’re barely on the same side.
But he is nothing if not annoyingly noble. He won’t hurt me.
So I follow.
The corridor is obviously unused, cluttered with scraps and dark in places where the lightbulbs are burned out. Even from a distance, Cal’s presence warms the close air with every passing second. It’s actually a comfortable temperature, and I make a mental note to speak with a few other escaped techies. Maybe we can figure out a way to warm up the lower passages using pressurized air.
My eyes trail the cabled wires along the ceiling, counting them. More there than there should be, to feed a few lightbulbs.
I hang back, watching as Cal shoulders some wood pallets and scrap metal from a wall. He reveals a door beneath, with the cables running overhead and into whatever room it hides. When he disappears, pulling the door shut behind him, I dare to get a little closer.
The tangle of cables comes into sharper focus. Radio array. Now I see it, clear as the nose on my bleeding face. The telltale braid of black wires that means the room inside has the ability to communicate beyond the walls of Irabelle.
But who could he possibly be communicating with?
My first instinct is to tell Farley or Kilorn.
But then . . . if Cal thinks that whatever he’s doing will k
eep me and a thousand others from a suicide attack on Corvium, I should let him continue.
And hope I don’t regret it.
FIVE
Mare
I drift on a dark sea, and shadows drift with me.
They could be memories. They could be dreams. Familiar but strange, and something wrong with each. Cal’s eyes are shot with silver, bleeding hot, smoking blood. My brother’s face looks more skeleton than flesh. Dad gets out of his wheelchair, but his new legs are spindle thin, knobbled, ready to splinter with every shaking step. Gisa has metal pins in both hands, and her mouth is sewn shut. Kilorn drowns in the river, tangled in his perfect nets. Red rags spill from Farley’s slit throat. Cameron claws at her own neck, struggling to speak, trapped in a silence of her own making. Metal scales shudder over Evangeline’s skin, swallowing her whole. And Maven slumps on his odd throne, letting it tighten and consume him until he is stone himself, a seated statue with sapphire eyes and diamond tears.
Purple eats at the edge of my vision. I try to turn in to its embrace, knowing what it holds. My lightning is so close. If only I could find the memory of it and taste one last drop of power before plunging back into darkness. But it fades like the rest, ebbing away. I expect to feel cold as the darkness presses in. Instead, heat rises.
Maven is suddenly too close to bear. Blue eyes, black hair, pale as a dead man. His hand hovers inches from my cheek. It trembles, wanting to touch, wanting to pull away. I don’t know which I would prefer.
I think I sleep. Darkness and light trade places, stretching back and forth. I try to move, but my limbs are too heavy. The work of manacles or guards or both. They weigh me down worse than before, and the terrible visions are the only escape. I chase what matters most—Shade, Gisa, the rest of my family, Cal, Kilorn, lightning. But they always dance out of my grip or flicker to nothing when I reach them. Another torture, I suppose—Samson’s way of running me ragged even as I sleep. Maven is there too, but I never go to him, and he never moves. Always sitting, always staring, one hand on his temple, massaging an ache. I never see him blink.