قلب آهنی 6

SIX

Evangeline

I don’t move as my brother gives his speech, which is a little rushed but otherwise perfect, in short, decisive words. He looks straight ahead, unblinking, sitting at a plain desk drawn up before our old steel thrones. I remain at his side, the two of us alone before the broadcast. The rest of the throne room is deathly quiet, watching history unfold before them.

“My name is Ptolemus Escarian Samos, King of the Rift and Lord of House Samos. Son of the late King Volo Samos of the Rift, and Queen Larentia of House Viper. I hereby abdicate the throne of the Kingdom of Rift and renounce any claim I, or my descendants, might have on this country or land. It is my solemn wish that the Kingdom of the Rift be dissolved, as it was created by illegal secession from the former Kingdom of Norta, and be absorbed back into the boundaries of the Nortan States. I hope I live to see this land thrive beneath a free government and an equality of all blood.” Though he is throwing away his crown, Ptolemus has never looked or sounded more like a king. He stares down the whirring camera for a long moment. Letting the broadcast spread across our country, into video screens in all our cities, so that everyone—Red and Silver and newblood—might know. It won’t stay within the borders of our country for long. The Lakelands will know within minutes, and Piedmont too. The Nortan States are already rumbling with abdication after Cal stepped down. Another broken throne could spark celebrations or riots.

Elane stays as close to me as she can, just out of the camera’s line of sight. I don’t look at her directly, but her red hair, glowing in the morning light, is difficult to mistake at the edge of my vision. Her father and his Silver supporters are more obvious. They position themselves directly in my eye line, clustered behind the camera in the middle of the long throne room. I stare through them, the way my mother taught me.

The Scarlet Guard brass keep to the sidelines, some leaning against the wall. General Farley looks rigid and tense, her eyes on her feet. She either can’t or won’t watch my brother speak, and for that I am grateful. The less attention she gives him, the safer he’ll be.

Ptolemus doesn’t flinch when he bends his head, raising the pen to sign the official declaration of abdication. His signature is sparse and sharp, impossible to miss. He leaves space below his name, enough for me to write my own.

I am queen now, for a few strange, stretching seconds. I feel different, and also the same. In between, hovering at the threshold of two very different doors. In an instant, I see inside both and what they hold for me. What heartaches and triumphs there could be, in the lives of a commoner or a queen. I tremble as I look at Elane, letting myself find refuge in her. The choice is crystal clear.

When Ptolemus stands up from his chair, the Silver supporters’ attention shifts as one, and every eye lands on me. I feel each of them, a needle in my skin. I don’t need to be a whisper to know what they’re begging me to do.

Refuse to kneel.

I find Cal, half obscured by the sunlight pouring in from the windows. He leans up against the glass, arms crossed over his jacket. I feel a pull of kinship to him, a weight we both know and share. Slowly, he dips his chin an inch. As if I need his encouragement.

I sit slowly, gracefully, my face schooled into a cold mask of content. My mercurial cape drapes over one shoulder, pooling at my feet.

“My name is Evangeline Artemia Samos, Queen of the Rift.” In spite of all my courtly training, I can’t keep the tremor from my voice when I say those words. Queen. Without a king, without a father, without a master. Without any rules but the ones I would make for myself.

A fantasy. A lie. There are always rules and always consequences. I want no part of this. No crown is worth the price I would pay. I steady myself with thoughts of Elane, and the flash of red in the corner of my eye.

“Lady of House Samos. Daughter of the late King Volo Samos of the Rift, and Queen Larentia of House Viper. I hereby abdicate the throne of the Kingdom of Rift and renounce any claim I, or my descendants, might have on this country or land.” In the end, our speeches had to be nearly identical. Very little can be left to chance or interpretation here. Neither of us can allow any room for misunderstanding, willful or otherwise.

“It is my solemn wish that the Kingdom of the Rift be dissolved, as it was created by illegal secession from the former Kingdom of Norta, and absorbed back into the boundaries of the Nortan States. I hope I live to see this land thrive beneath a free government and an equality of all blood.” Slowly, I take up the pen, still warm from my brother’s grip. The page on the desk is crisp, a sheet of white printed with the same words we just spoke. The colors of House Samos, black and silver, are stamped at the bottom. I stare at it, feeling unfinished. Then I look up again, finding the eye of the camera, one of thousands of eyes now watching me.

Something flutters in the window, catching my attention for a split second.

The moth is small, its wings gleaming between green and black like a pool of oil. It shouldn’t be out in daylight. Moths are nocturnal creatures, better accustomed to islands of light amid darkness. They also have remarkable hearing. All this passes through my mind in an instant, and the pieces click together neatly.

My mother is watching.

The wolf is at my throat again, its teeth sharp and digging. It threatens to rip me in two. Only the camera, the audience, the eyes of so many keep me rooted to the spot. The familiar fear and shame claw up my spine, poisoning my insides, but I cannot let them see. I cannot let her stop me now. There is still more to say and more of her dreams for me to ruin.

Under the desk, my hand curls into a fist. For once it isn’t rage driving me, but resolve.

I have only ever thought the words I speak next. Never even whispered them. Let alone spoken them to an audience, of ten or ten thousand. Let alone said them to my mother. That woman is always listening, and perhaps now she will finally hear me.

“Hereafter, I shall be known as Evangeline Samos of Montfort, and I swear my allegiance to the Free Republic, where I can live and love freely. I renounce my citizenship in the Rift, in Norta, and in any country where people are caged for the circumstances of birth.” The pen scratches across the page, nearly ripping it in two with the force of my flourishing signature. Heat bleeds over my cheeks, but my makeup is thick enough to hide any flush that might betray my thundering heart. A buzzing sound rises around me, drowning out the whir of machines. I keep steady and do as I was told. Hold eye contact. Stare. Wait for the signal. The lens of the camera seems to swallow the world; the edges of my vision go soft.

One of the Red technicians fusses with the camera, flicking switches while motioning for Ptolemus and me to remain still. I feel the vibrations of the machine cease as the broadcast ends, cutting to black everywhere but here. The Red lowers his finger and we are released, exhaling in unison.

It’s over and done with.

With a burst of concentration, I shred the steel chair behind me, letting my throne collapse into a pile of needles. It doesn’t take much energy—steel is familiar to me—but I feel exhausted afterward and lean forward on my elbows.

The Reds and the Scarlet Guard shrink back a little, wary of the outburst. The Silver nobles look only disgusted, though none would dare say so to our faces. With a sneer, Jerald makes for his daughter, but Elane avoids him neatly.

She is quick to take my shoulder, and her hand trembles against my skin, quivering.

“Thank you,” she breathes, so only I can hear. “Thank you, my love. My iron heart.”

The lights of the room seem to collect in her skin. She is dazzling, glowing, a beacon calling me home.

It wasn’t just for you, I want to say, but my mouth won’t open. It was for me.

In the window, the moth is gone.

And for her.

Like the rest of the estate, the sculpture garden is abandoned, and somewhat overgrown without a greenwarden’s touch. Carmadon could do wonderful things here. One side offers a commanding view of the valley, down to the Allegiant. Every statue seems bigger and more foreboding than I remember, frozen in arcs of steel and chrome, resolute iron, proud copper, even polished silver and gold. I draw my fingers along them as I walk, rippling each one. Some dance at my command, re-forming into swooping curves or spindles thin as thread. Using my ability for artistry is cathartic, a release of tension that I can usually only find in the training arena. I spend long minutes alone, molding everything to my liking. I need to relax as much as I can, if the next obstacle is to be hurdled.

I must face her alone. Without any crutch. Not Elane, not Ptolemus. It would be too tempting to let them fight this battle for me. And that is not a habit I want to make.

She is waiting for me in a place I love. To taint it. To hurt me. She looks small without her usual creatures, almost hidden in the shadows of a steel arch. No panther, no wolf. Not even the moth. She wants to face me alone. Even her clothes seem dull, an echo compared to the jewels, silks, and furs I remember. Now her dress is simple, a fine dark green, and I glimpse leggings beneath her skirts. Larentia Viper is on the move. I imagine she’s allied with Jerald and the other Silvers, opposing us in sentiment but unable to do so openly.

The wind rustles through her black hair, and I glimpse streaks of gray I’ve never seen before.

“You knew what they were going to do to him.”

The accusation hits like a sledgehammer. I keep my distance.

“You knew that woman, and that weakling, that coward of a librarian, were going to kill your father.” Her teeth gleam, a predator’s snarl. Without her animals to control, my mother is quite vulnerable. Powerless against me, in a garden brimming with my own weapons. It doesn’t deter her in the slightest. She moves swiftly, almost hissing as she stops inches from my face. “Do you have anything to say for yourself, Evangeline?” My voice rasps. “I gave you both a chance.”

It’s the truth. I told them I was leaving. Told them I wanted no part of their schemes anymore. That my life was my own and no one else’s. And my own mother sent a pair of wolves to hunt me down. My own father sneered at my heartache. No matter how much I loved them both, or how much they loved me, it wasn’t enough.

My mother’s lips quiver and her eyes dart. She searches me down to the bone. “I hope the shame follows you into your grave.” It will, I think. It always will.

“But that grave will be far away,” I whisper. I’m taller than she is, but she still makes me feel small. “On a mountaintop you will never see. With Elane right beside me.” Her green eyes snap with fury. “And your brother too.”

“His choices are his own.”

For a moment, her voice breaks. “You couldn’t even leave me my son.” I wish I couldn’t hear her, or see into her eyes so clearly. There’s so much anger, so much pain. And realization too. My mother is alone in the world now, cut off from the pack. Forever. Despite all she’s done and all the hurt she has caused me, I can’t help but feel pity.

“One day, I hope you might see things differently.” My offer is shaky at best. Without any guarantee. “And there will be a place for you.” I couldn’t imagine her in Montfort if I tried.

She finds the notion just as preposterous as I do. “Not in that cursed place you call home,” she sneers, turning away. Her shoulders rise with tension, bony and sharp beneath her gown. “Not the way you are, without pride or honor or even your name. Living so openly. Where is your shame?” I’ve lost count of how many times my mother has mourned my flaw. The person I was born as, the inclinations I cannot change and will never deny again. Still, hearing her disappointment never gets easier. To know she sees what I am as a failure—it is so difficult to bear.

I swallow around the lump in my throat, unable to speak for fear of crying. I won’t do that in front of her. She doesn’t deserve my tears or my pity or my love, small as it may be.

Larentia raises her head, her back still turned. Her body shudders as she heaves a delicate breath. “This is the last time you will ever see me.” Never have I heard a voice so empty. “I wash my hands of you both. My children are dead.” In my hand, my bracelet twists and trembles, running lazy ripples over my pale skin. The distraction helps me think straight. “Then stop chasing ghosts,” I murmur. And turn away.

I don’t sleep again until I’m home, in the mountains, in Montfort, with Elane’s arms around me and the red light of sunset washing over my face. Thoughts of war and of our future drift and pass me by. They can wait. We’ll tackle them together, Elane and I. Find the middle ground and compromise.

For now I can rest, and heal my iron heart.