Julian doesn’t notice my unease, probably because he’s elbow deep in a pile of newly bound books. Each one is about an inch thick and neatly labeled with a year, but nothing else. What they could possibly be, I don’t know.
“What are these?” I ask, picking up one. Inside it’s a mess of lists: names, dates, locations—and causes of death. Most just say blood loss, but there’s also disease, suffocation, drowning, and some more specific and gruesome details. My blood runs cold in my veins as I realize exactly what I’m reading. “A death list.”
Julian nods. “Every person who ever died fighting in the Lakelander War.”
Shade, I think, feeling my meal churn in my stomach. Something tells me he won’t get his name in one of these. Deserters don’t get the honor of a line of ink. Angry, I let my mind reach out to the desk lamp illuminating my reading. The electricity in it calls to me, as familiar as my own pulse. With nothing more than my brain, I turn it on and off, blinking in time with my ragged heartbeat.
Julian notes the flashing light, lips pursed. “Something wrong, Mare?” he asks dryly.
Everything is wrong.
“I’m not a fan of the schedule change,” I say instead, letting the lamp be. It’s not a lie, but it’s not the truth either. “We won’t be able to train.”
He only shrugs, his parchment-colored clothes shifting with the motion. They look dirtier somehow, like he’s turning into the pages of his books. “From what I hear, you need more guidance than I can give you.”
My teeth grind together, chewing on the words before I can spit them out. “Did Cal tell you what happened?”
“He did,” Julian replies evenly. “And he’s right. Don’t fault him for it.”
“I can fault him for whatever I want,” I snort, remembering the war books and death guides all over his room. “He’s just like all the others.”
Julian opens his mouth to say something, but thinks better of it at the last moment and turns back to his books. “Mare, I wouldn’t exactly call what we do training. Besides, you looked very good in your session today.”
“You saw that? How?”
“I asked to watch.”
“Wha—?”
“It doesn’t matter,” he says, looking straight through me. His voice is suddenly melodic, humming with deep, soothing vibrations. Exhaling, I realize he’s right.
“It doesn’t matter,” I repeat. Even though he isn’t speaking, the echo of Julian’s voice still hangs in the air like a calming breeze. “So, what are we working on today?”
Julian smirks, amused with himself. “Mare.”
His voice is normal again, simple and familiar. It breaks apart the echoes, wiping them away from me in a lifting cloud. “What—what the hell was that?”
“I take it Lady Blonos hasn’t spoken much about House Jacos in Lessons?” he says, still smirking. “I’m surprised you never asked.”
Truly, I’ve never wondered about Julian’s ability. I always thought it would be something weak, because he doesn’t seem as pompous as the others—but it looks like that isn’t true at all. He’s much stronger and more dangerous than I ever realized.
“You can control people. You’re like her.” The thought of Julian, a sympathizer, a good person, being at all like the queen makes me shake.
He takes the accusation in stride, shifting his attention back to his book. “No, I’m not. I have nowhere near her strength. Or her brutality.” He heaves a sigh, explaining. “We’re called singers. Or at least we would be, if there were any more of us. I’m the last of my house, and the last of, well, my kind. I can’t read minds, I can’t control thoughts, I can’t speak in your head. But I can sing—as long as someone hears me, as long as I can look into their eyes—I can make a person do as I wish.”
Horror bleeds through me. Even Julian.
Slowly, I lean back, wanting to put some distance between him and myself. He notices, of course, but doesn’t look angry.
“You’re right not to trust me,” he murmurs. “No one does. There’s a reason my only friends are written words. But I don’t do it unless I absolutely need to, and I’ve never done it with malice.” Then he snorts, laughing darkly. “If I really wanted, I could talk my way to the throne.”
“But you haven’t.”
“No. And neither did my sister, no matter what anyone else might say.”
Cal’s mother. “No one seems to say anything about her. Not to me, anyways.”
“People don’t like to talk about dead queens,” he snaps, turning away from me in a smooth motion. “But they talked when she was alive. Coriane Jacos, the Singer Queen.” I’ve never seen Julian this way, not once. Usually he’s quiet, calm, a little obsessed maybe, but never angry. Never so hurt. “She wasn’t chosen by Queenstrial, you know. Not like Elara, or Evangeline, or even you. No, Tibe married my sister because he loved her—and she loved him.”
Tibe. Calling Tiberias Calore the Sixth, King of Norta, Flame of the North, anything with less than eight syllables seems preposterous. But he was young once too. He was like Cal, a boy born to become a king.
“They hated her because we were from a low house, because we didn’t have strength or power or any other silly thing those people uphold,” Julian rails on, still looking away. His shoulders heave with each breath. “And when my sister became queen, she threatened to change all that. She was kind, compassionate, a mother who could raise Cal to be the king this country needed to unite us all. A king who wouldn’t be afraid of change. But that never came to be.”
“I know what it’s like to lose a sibling,” I murmur, remembering Shade. It doesn’t seem real, like maybe everyone is just lying and he’s at home now, happy and safe. But I know that isn’t true. And somewhere, my brother’s decapitated body lies as proof of that. “I only found out last night. My brother died at the front.”
Julian finally turns back around, his eyes glassy. “I’m sorry, Mare. I didn’t realize.”
“You wouldn’t. The army doesn’t report executions in their little books.”
“Executed?”
“Desertion.” The word tastes like blood, like a lie. “Even though he never would.”
After a long moment of silence, Julian puts a hand on my shoulder. “It seems we have more in common than you think, Mare.”
“What do you mean?”
“They killed my sister, too. She stood in the way, and she was removed. And”—his voice drops—“they’ll do it again, to anyone they have to. Even Cal, even Maven, and especially you.”
Especially me. The little lightning girl.
“I thought you wanted to change things, Julian.”
“I do indeed. But these things take time, planning, and too much luck to count on.” He stares me up and down, like somehow he knows I’ve already taken the first step down a dark path. “I don’t want you getting in over your head.”
Too late.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
SIXTEEN
After a week of staring at my clock, waiting for midnight, I begin to despair. Of course Farley can’t reach us here. Even she is not so talented. But tonight, when the clock ticks, I feel nothing for the first time since Queenstrial. No cameras, no electricity, nothing. The power is completely out. I’ve been in blackouts before, too many to count, but this is different. This isn’t an accident. This is for me.
Moving quickly, I slip into my boots, now broken in by weeks of wear, and head for the door. I’m barely out in the hallway before I hear Walsh in my ear, speaking softly and quickly as she pulls me through the forced darkness.
“We don’t have much time,” she murmurs, hustling me into a service stairwell. It’s pitch-black, but she knows where we’re going and I trust her to get me there. “They’ll have the power back on in fifteen minutes if we’re lucky.”
“And if we aren’t?” I breathe in the dark
ness.
She hustles me down the stairs and shoulders open a door. “Then I hope you’re not too attached to your head.”
The smell of earth and dirt and water hits me first, churning up all my memories of life in the woods. But even though it looks like a forest, with gnarled old trees and hundreds of plants painted blue and black by the moon, a glass roof rises overhead. The conservatory. Twisting shadows sprawl across the ground, each one worse than the next. I see Security and Sentinels in every dark corner, waiting to capture and kill us like they did my brother. But instead of their horrific black or flame uniforms, there’s nothing but flowers blooming beneath the glass ceiling of stars.
“Excuse me if I don’t curtsy,” a voice says, emerging from a grove of white-spangled magnolia trees. Her blue eyes reflect the moon, glowing in the dark with cold fire. Farley has a real talent for theatrics.
Like in her broadcast, she wears a red scarf across her face, hiding her features. But it doesn’t hide a ruinous scar that marches down her neck, disappearing beneath the collar of her shirt. It looks new, barely beginning to heal. She’s been busy since I last saw her. But then, so have I.
“Farley,” I say, tipping my head in greeting.
She doesn’t nod back, but then, I didn’t expect her to. All business. “And the other one?” she murmurs. Other one?
“Holland’s bringing him. Any second now.” Walsh sounds breathless, excited even, about whoever we’re waiting for. Even Farley’s eyes shine.
“What is it? Who else joined up?” They don’t answer me, exchanging glances instead. A few names run through my head, servants and kitchen boys who would support the cause.
But the person who joins us is no servant. He’s not even Red.
“Maven.”
I don’t know whether to scream or run when I see my betrothed appear from the shadows. He’s a prince, he’s Silver, he’s the enemy, and yet, here he is, standing with one of the leaders of the Scarlet Guard. His companion Holland, an aging Red servant with years of service behind him, seems to swell with pride.
“I told you, you’re not alone, Mare,” Maven says, but he doesn’t smile. A hand twitches at his side—he’s all nerves. Farley scares him.
And I can see why. She steps toward us, gun in hand, but she’s just as nervous as he is. Still, her voice does not shake. “I want to hear it from your lips, little prince. Tell me what you told him,” she says, tipping her head toward Holland.
Maven sneers at “little prince,” his lips curving in distaste, but he doesn’t snap at her. “I want to join the Guard,” he says, his voice full of conviction.
She moves quickly, cocking the pistol and taking aim in the same motion. My heart seems to stop when she presses the barrel to his forehead, but Maven doesn’t flinch. “Why?” she hisses.
“Because this world is wrong. What my father has done, what my brother will do, is wrong.” Even with a gun to his head, he manages to speak calmly, but a bead of sweat trickles down his neck. Farley doesn’t pull away, waiting for a better answer, and I find myself doing the same.
His eyes shift, moving to mine, and he swallows hard. “When I was twelve, my father sent me to the war front, to toughen me up, to make me more like my brother. Cal is perfect, you see, so why couldn’t I be the same?”
I can’t help but flinch at his words, recognizing the pain in them. I lived in Gisa’s shadow, and he lived in Cal’s. I know what that life is like.
Farley sniffs, almost laughing at him. “I have no use for jealous little boys.”
“I wish it was jealousy that drove me here,” Maven murmurs. “I spent three years in the barracks, following Cal and officers and generals, watching soldiers fight and die for a war no one believed in. Where Cal saw honor and loyalty, I saw foolishness. I saw waste. Blood on both sides of the dividing line, and your people gave so much more.”
I remember the books in Cal’s room, the tactics and maneuvers laid out like a game. The memory makes me cringe, but what Maven says next chills my blood.
“There was a boy, just seventeen, a Red from the frozen north. He didn’t know me on sight, not like everyone else, but he treated me just fine. He treated me like a person. I think he was my first real friend.” Maybe it’s a trick of the moonlight, but something like tears glimmer in his eyes. “His name was Thomas and I watched him die. I could’ve saved him but my guards held me back. His life wasn’t worth mine, they said.” Then the tears are gone, replaced by clenched fists and an iron will. “Cal calls this the balance, Silver over Red. He’s a good person, and he’ll be a just ruler, but he doesn’t think change is worth the cost,” he says. “I’m trying to tell you that I’m not the same as the rest of them. I think my life is worth yours, and I’ll give it gladly, if it means change.”
He is a prince and, worst of all, the queen’s son. I didn’t want to trust him before for this very reason, for the secrets he kept hidden. Or maybe this is what he was hiding all along . . . his own heart.
Though he tries his best to look grim, to keep his spine straight and his lips from trembling, I can see the boy beneath the mask. Part of me wants to embrace him, to comfort him, but Farley would stop me before I could. When she lowers her gun, slowly but surely, I let go of a breath I didn’t realize I was holding in.
“The boy speaks true,” the manservant Holland says. He shifts to stand next to Maven, strangely protective of his prince. “He’s felt this way for months now, since he returned from the front.”
“And you told him of us after a few tear-filled nights?” Farley sneers, turning her fearsome gaze on Holland. But the man holds firm.
“I’ve known the prince since boyhood. Anyone close to him can see his heart has changed.” Holland glances sidelong at Maven, as if remembering the boy he was. “Think what an ally he could be. What a difference he could make.”
Maven is different. I know that firsthand, but something tells me my words won’t sway Farley. Only Maven can do that now.
“Swear on your colors,” she growls at him.
An ancient oath, according to my Lady Blonos. Like swearing on your life, your family, and your children to come, all at once. And Maven doesn’t hesitate to do it.
“I swear on my colors,” he says, dipping his head. “I pledge myself to the Scarlet Guard.” It sounds like his marriage proposal, but this is far more important, and more deadly.
“Welcome to the Scarlet Guard,” she finally says, pulling away her scarf.
I move quietly over the tile floor until I feel his hand in mine. It blazes with now familiar heat. “Thank you, Maven,” I whisper. “You don’t know what this means to us.” To me.
Any other would smile at the prospect of recruiting a Silver, and a royal at that, but Farley barely reacts at all. “What are you willing to do for us?”
“I can give you information, intelligence, whatever you might need to continue forward with your operation. I sit on tax councils with my father—”
“We don’t care about taxes,” Farley snaps. She casts an angry glance at me, as if it’s my fault she doesn’t like what he’s offering. “What we need are names, locations, targets. What to hit and when to cause the most damage. Can you give me that?”
Maven shifts, uncomfortable. “I would prefer a less hostile path,” he mutters. “Your violent methods aren’t winning you any friends.”
Farley scoffs, letting the sound echo over the conservatory. “Your people are a thousand times more violent and cruel than mine. We’ve spent the last few centuries under a Silver boot and we’re not going to get out by being nice.”
“I suppose,” Maven murmurs. I can tell he’s thinking of Thomas, of everyone he watched die. His shoulder brushes mine as he pulls back, retreating into me for protection. Farley doesn’t miss it and almost laughs out loud.
“The little prince and the little lightning girl.” She laughs. “You two suit each other. One, a coward, and you”—she turns to me, her steel-blue eyes burning—“the last time we met, you
were scrabbling in the mud for a miracle.”
“I found it,” I tell her. To cement my point, my hands spark up, casting dancing purple light over us.
The darkness seems to shift and members of the Scarlet Guard reveal themselves in menacing order, stepping out from trees and bushes. Their faces are masked with scarves and bandannas, but they don’t hide everything. The tallest one must be Tristan, with his long limbs. I can tell by the way they stand, tense and ready for action, that they’re afraid. But Farley’s face doesn’t change. She knows the people meant to protect her won’t do much against Maven, or even me, but she doesn’t look at all intimidated. To my great surprise, she finally smiles. Her grin is fearsome, full of teeth and a wild hunger.
“We can bomb and burn every inch of this country down,” she murmurs, looking between us with something like pride, “but that will never do the damage you two can do. A Silver prince turning against his crown, a Red girl with abilities. What will people say, when they see you standing with us?”
“I thought you wanted—” Maven starts, but Farley waves the words away.
“The bombings are just a way to get attention. Once we have it, once every Silver in this forsaken country is watching, we need something to show them.” Her gaze turns calculating as she measures us up, weighing us against whatever she has in mind. “I think you’ll do quite nicely.”
My voice trembles, dreading what she might say. “As what?”
“The face of our glorious revolution,” she says proudly, tossing her head back. Her golden hair catches the moonlight. For a second, she seems to wear a sparkling crown. “The drop of water to break the dam.”
Maven nods with fervor.
“So, where do we start?”
“Well, I think it’s time we took a page out of Mare’s book of mischief.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I don’t understand but Maven follows Farley’s line of thought easily.