فصل بیست و چهارم

Twenty-Four: Mare

It’s still dark outside when I wake, roused by shuffling across the room. I tense on instinct, ready to fight. For a second, I’m puzzled by the sight of Cal in the same chamber as me. Then I remember the events of yesterday. His near death, and the way it broke us both, shattering whatever resolve we’d had before.

He’s already dressed, looking regal in the soft light of a few candles. I watch for a second, seeing him without any kind of mask or shield. Despite his broad, tall form, he looks younger in his fine clothing. His jacket is a deep bloodred, trimmed in black, with silver buttons at the cuffs. The pants match, tucked into oiled leather boots. He hasn’t donned a cape or a crown yet, leaving both discarded on his desk. He moves slowly, fastening the buttons up his throat. Shadows ring his eyes. He looks more exhausted than he did last night, if that’s possible. I wonder if he slept at all, or if he spent the night tortured by the prospect of seeing Maven again.

When he realizes I’m awake, he straightens, shoulders squaring toward me. He fills the kingly mold quickly. The transformation is small but unmistakable. He puts up his guard, puts on a mask, even with me. I wish he wouldn’t, but I understand why. I do it too.

“We leave in an hour,” he says, finishing with his buttons. “I’ve had some clothes brought into the salon for you. Choose whatever you like. Or . . .” He stumbles, as if he’s said something wrong. “Whatever you want from your own wardrobe.” “I didn’t exactly bring my wardrobe to a battle, and I don’t think I can fit into one of your uniforms,” I reply, chuckling a little. With a reluctant groan, I stretch out of the blankets and shudder at the touch of cold air. I sit up, intensely aware of the tangled braid over my shoulder. “I’ll find something. Should I look a certain way?” A muscle feathers in his cheek. “However you wish,” he says, his voice oddly strained.

“Should I be distracting?” I ask, gingerly trying to work the knots out of my hair. He looks at my fingers, not at me.

“I think you’ll be distracting no matter what you wear.”

My chest tightens with warmth. “Flattery will get you nowhere, Cal.”

But he isn’t wrong. It’s been months since I last saw Maven in the flesh, his form retreating through the surge of a panicked crowd. Iris ran with him, defending her new husband from the attack on their wedding in the capital. It was a rescue mission, not just for me, but for dozens of newbloods manipulated into his service.

I could wear a potato sack and Maven would still devour me with his eyes.

Yawning, I pad across the room and into the bathroom for a quick, blistering-hot shower. Part of me wishes Cal would join in, but he stays behind, and I scrub the last of my aches away alone. After, I enter the salon to find a rainbow in the semidarkness. With a slight burst of concentration, I make the electric lights flicker to life overhead, illuminating the chamber full of various garments. I’m glad for the wide choice of clothing, but even more grateful for the emptiness of the salon. No maids to attend to my hair and face, no healers to work away the gnawing exhaustion or liven up my body. I’m given only what I need, and exactly what I want.

If only Cal could do that in all things.

I try not to think beyond this morning. He still hasn’t turned away from the crown, and I am still just as dedicated to my cause, if not more so. I can’t still be in love with a king, when everything I’m doing is to destroy his throne. Destroy all notions of kings and queens and the kingdoms at the mercy of their will. But the love just won’t go away, and neither will the need.

I wonder who laid out the variety of clothing, draping chairs and couches with a selection of gowns, suits, blouses, skirts, and pants, with no fewer than six different pairs of shoes on the floor beside them. Many of them are gold, either patterned in dusty yellow or trimmed with the colors of Cal’s mother. She was a thin woman, judging by the narrow waistlines of her dresses. Smaller than I would expect for the mother of the man in the room behind me. I avoid her clothing as best I can and search for something that doesn’t carry the weight of a dead woman.

I settle for a flowing dress belted at the waist, dyed a deep, rich navy blue. The colors of someone else’s mother. It’s velvet, and I’ll certainly sweat out of it later on, but the neckline, a gentle swoop below my collarbone, puts my brand on full display. Let Maven see what he’s done to me and never forget what kind of monster he is. I feel stronger as I pull it on, as if the dress is some kind of armor.

I can only imagine what kind of elegant monstrosity Evangeline will pull together for the meeting. Perhaps a gown of razor blades. I hope she does. Evangeline Samos excels in moments such as these, and I can’t wait to unleash her on her former betrothed, unbridled by any kind of etiquette or scheme.

When I finish, I comb out my drying hair, letting it fall loose about my shoulders. The gray ends gleam in the lamplight, sharp in contrast to the brown. I am a strange-looking person, I think as I examine myself in a mirror. A Red girl in Silver finery never ceases to surprise me. My skin glows golden with the low light, stubbornly alive and stubbornly Red. I’m less haggard than I thought, my brown eyes luminous with both fear and determination.

I draw some comfort from knowing that Cal’s mother, though she was Silver, wasn’t fitted to this life either. It’s written so clearly in the portrait of her, which lies against the far wall, nestled next to a pair of ornate chairs.

I wonder where Cal will hang her. Out of sight, or always in reach?

Coriane Jacos had soft blue eyes, if the painting is a good likeness. Like a sky before dawn, the haze of blue upon a horizon. Almost colorless, drained of a deeper shade. She looks more like Julian than like her son. Both have the same chestnut hair, hers curling artfully over one shoulder, well dressed with creamy pearls and gold chain. Their faces are similar too. Drawn, older than their years. But while Julian’s strain has always seemed pleasant, the accepted frustration of a scholar constantly working a puzzle, Coriane’s looks bone-deep. She was a sad woman, I’m told, and it shows even in her portrait.

“Elara killed her,” Cal says from the doorway to his bedchamber. He adjusts the cape draped over one shoulder, clasped in silver and glinting chips of black gemstones. In his other hand, he holds a black crown, half hidden like an afterthought. A sword hangs from the belt at his waist, tucked into a sheath jeweled in ruby and jet. It’s for fashion at best. No one would choose a sword to fight. “She drove my mother deeper into her sorrows, whispered in her head until she had no other escape. I know that now.” His lips curve downward, frowning, while his eyes go far away. In his sadness, I see a bit of his mother. The only resemblance I can draw between the two of them.

“I wish I could have known her.” I say.

“So do I.”

We leave Cal’s rooms together, walking the halls of Ocean Hill down to the grander, more public receiving chambers in equal step. Last night, I brushed off any worry of gossip, feeling brazen and bold. The discomfort catches up to me now. I wonder if we’ll enter to a rash of murmurs—smirks from the Silvers, judgment from the Reds and newbloods. Will Farley sneer at me for wavering? Will she turn her back entirely?

I can’t stand the thought.

Cal senses my unease. His fingers brush the inside of my arm, careful to stay away from the sensitive points of my wrists.

“We don’t have to enter together,” he murmurs as we descend a flight of stairs, growing closer and closer to the point of no return.

“It doesn’t matter now,” I answer.

Up ahead, his guards await. Members of House Lerolan, cousins of his grandmother’s blood. They stand unmasked, unlike Sentinels, but just as dangerous and silent.

Anabel stands with them, hands clasped at her waist, belted with flaming jewels: rubies and yellow citrine. She proudly wears her rose-gold crown, the simple band fitted across her brow and smooth, gray hair. Her eyes land on me first.

“Good morning,” she says, drawing Cal into a quick embrace. He accepts it quickly and dwarfs her.

“Morning,” he replies. “Is everyone ready?”

“They should be,” she says, waving a wrinkled hand. “But I assume we’ll have to wait for the Rift princess to don every piece of metal she can get her hands on. Remind me to make sure she hasn’t stolen the doorknobs.” All nerves, Cal doesn’t smile, but a corner of his mouth lifts. “I’m sure we can spare them,” he says.

“You look well, Miss Barrow,” Anabel adds, her eyes flicking to mine.

I don’t feel it, I think to myself. “As well as can be expected, for the circumstance.” I’m careful not to use any kind of title, but she doesn’t seem to notice or care.

Judging by the way her face changes, softening, I must have said the right thing. To my surprise, Anabel has no enmity for me this morning. She draws a slow breath. “Ready or not,” she mutters, spinning around, “here we come, Maven.” The receiving hall at the bottom of the grand stairs is vast, feeding into various ballrooms and the throne room of Ocean Hill, as well as the banquet hall and a smaller, less official version of the council chambers in Whitefire. Built to suit a working court of Silvers, and house the moving government of Norta. Now Reds scatter among the rooms, busy as servants, but noticeably not servants. The green of Montfort uniforms contrasts harshly with the white marble, ocean-blue trimmings, and many gold banners still hung from the walls and ceilings. I note red among them, the crimson of Cal’s uniform. Marking his position as the rightful king, and conqueror of nearly half of Norta.

As in Ascendant, before we addressed the Gallery, Davidson wears his fine suit of dark green. Farley has her dress uniform as well, and is still just as uncomfortable in it. I’m glad I don’t have to wear one. The gown is soft against my skin as I walk, my feet tight inside fine blue boots.

Anabel leaves us to stand next to Julian, while Farley watches us approach. She looks between me and Cal as we move closer to the center of the room. Her brow furrows and I brace myself for a scowl, if not a snarl. Instead she blinks, her expression thoughtful. Almost accepting.

“Calore,” she says, dipping her head to the king.

He grins at her deliberate use of such an informal greeting. “General Farley,” he replies, all propriety. “I’m glad you agreed to join us.” She adjusts her stiff collar, forcing it to lie flat. “The Scarlet Guard is a valuable part of this coalition, and Command should be represented when we negotiate for Maven’s surrender.” While Cal nods his head in gentle agreement, I sigh to myself. “I wouldn’t be so sure of any deal,” I warn her, voice low. I’m getting sick of repeating myself.

Farley only scoffs. “Of course, nothing in this life is that easy. But a woman can dream, can’t she?”

I glance over her shoulder, at her various officers hanging back. None of their faces are familiar. “How’s Kilorn?” I ask, frowning as shame claws up my spine. I wring my hands together, trying to hide their twitching. At my side, Cal flinches, one hand hanging free. I wish I could take it, but we both refrain from such a naked display of affection.

She looks on me with pity. “Fully healed yesterday, but he’s taking some time,” she says. I try to picture him whole and healthy, not dancing at the brink of death as he was before I left. It doesn’t work. “We’ve commandeered the barracks at the Security Center, and he’s there with the rest of the wounded.” “Good,” I push out, unable to say anything more. Farley doesn’t prod. Still, I feel the embarrassment of my choices as sharply as a knife wound. Kilorn almost died. Cal almost died. And you ran to Cal.

Next to me, the true king looks away, his own face flushed with implication. Even though we both decided not to make choices, we know that choices were made all the same.

“And Cameron?” I add, if only to stem the bleeding of such thoughts.

Farley scratches her chin. “Organizing in New Town. She’s a valuable asset there, as is her father. The tech towns have their own underground networks, and word is going out to the rest. Maven’s Silvers might be preparing for more attacks, but so are they.” That swells me with pride, as well as trepidation. Certainly Maven will retaliate for what we did in New Town and try to prevent the same from happening again. But if the Red slums rise up, if the tech towns go dark, his war effort will all but grind to a halt. No more resources. No more fuel. We can effectively starve him into surrender.

“I notice we’re waiting for Princess Evangeline again,” Davidson says as he joins us. His own contingent of advisers hangs back, giving us space.

I tip my head back and sigh. “The only constant in this world.”

The premier crosses his arms. If he’s nervous, he certainly doesn’t show it. “A peacock needs time to groom its feathers, even steel ones.” “We lost a lot of magnetrons yesterday,” Cal says, his voice low and stern. Almost reprimanding. “House Samos paid a high price for Harbor Bay.” Farley stiffens, setting her jaw. “I doubt they’ll let us forget it. Or fail to make us repay their sacrifice.” “That’s a bridge to be crossed,” Cal replies.

Despite our history, I feel the strange need to . . . defend Evangeline. “If it has to be crossed,” I say. “But we can discuss that later,” I add, nodding to the far archway, where Evangeline has just appeared with Ptolemus at her side.

The pair of them wear matching clothes of pearly white and bright silver. He has a jacket, tightly fitted and buttoned up to his throat, pants, and black boots similar to Cal’s, and a gray sash fastened across his chest from shoulder to hip. The pattern on it is strange, but as he approaches, I realize that the black diamond shapes dotting the sash aren’t a pattern at all, but knives fixed directly into the fabric. Weapons, should he need them.

His sister is equally outfitted, the folds of her long gown slashed to show fine white leather leggings beneath. Should this meeting end in blood, she won’t find herself restricted by a skirt. I wish I’d thought of that. Her hair is tightly braided back, the silver strands studded with starry glints of pearl metal. Razor-edged. Good for cutting flesh. Her arms are bare, no sleeves to impede her movement or catch on the jewelry on her hands. A ring winks on every finger, white stones and black, and fine strands of chain wrap around each wrist. Garrotes for strangling or slicing. Even her earrings look deadly, long and tapering to a wicked point.

I find myself glad Evangeline took so much time. She’s wearing an arsenal.

“Shall I have the clocks adjusted in your rooms, Your Highnesses?” Anabel crows from where she stands next to Julian.

Evangeline answers with a smile as sharp as her knives. “Our clocks are exactly on time, Your Majesty.” Her skirt billows around her legs as she passes the old queen, making for us. I shudder as she turns that smile on me. “Good morning, Mare. You seem well rested,” she says. Then she runs her eyes over Cal, teeth still bared. “And you don’t.” “Thank you,” I say stiffly, through gritted teeth. I quickly regret any kind feeling I ever had toward her.

She revels in my sharp reply, and in the flush spotting Cal’s cheeks. Behind her, Ptolemus crosses his arms behind his back, puffing out his chest. Displaying the daggers proudly. Farley notes each one, her eyes wide and angry.

“A pity this meeting could not be held in the evening,” Ptolemus murmurs. His voice is deeper than Cal’s and infinitely less kind. He’s brave to speak here, especially to Farley and me.

I wonder if she sees Shade, as I do, speared by a blow from Ptolemus Samos. Even standing in his presence feels like a betrayal.

Farley has more restraint than me. While I can only keep my mouth firmly shut, she tosses her head with a sneer. “So your sister could have more time to paint her face?” she snaps, gesturing to the intricate makeup sculpting Evangeline.

The Samos princess shifts, if only a little, putting herself between her brother and us. Protective to the last. I almost expect her to shoo him off and out of our reach.

“So my father could attend,” she explains with a proud toss of her head. “King Volo will be here by sunset.” Cal narrows his eyes. He sees the threat as clearly as I do. “With reinforcements?”

“More Samos-sworn to die for you? Hardly,” Evangeline sneers. “He’s come to oversee the final push against Maven.” Oversee. Her storm-gray eyes darken, if only for a moment, shadowed by meaning. It isn’t hard to puzzle out the spaces between her words, what she means against what she says.

He’s coming to clean up our mess.

I shiver. The Samos children are formidable, violent, and dangerous, but they are tools at the end of it all. Weapons wielded by an even more powerful man.

“Good, saves me the time of summoning him here,” Cal says, resting a hand on the hilt of his bejeweled sword. He grins easily, as if the prospect of Volo Samos were his own idea. “I’m sure you’ll give him a happy welcome, Evangeline.” The look she throws at him could poison rivers.

“Let’s get this nonsense over with,” she snarls under her breath.

Dawn streaks along the waves, bleeding from the horizon in shimmers of pink and paling blue. I keep my forehead braced against the cool glass of the dropjet window to watch our descent. As each second passes, my body tightens, my pulse a rising thrum, until I fear I might explode. It takes all my energy to keep my lightning at bay and the jet safe from my electric fits. Across from me, Farley stares at me, her hands ready at the buckles of her safety belts. To unfasten them and jump out the door if I happen to lose control.

Cal has more faith. He puts on a show of casual disregard, one leg stretched out in front of him, with the left side of his body braced against my side. He radiates soothing warmth, and his fingers brush mine every few seconds, a firm reminder of his presence.

If his grandmother is disgruntled or surprised by our closeness, she doesn’t show it. She sits quietly with Julian, his face shadowed like never before.

Davidson rounds out the rest of our jet, and thankfully, Evangeline and her brother are in the other craft, following along. I can see the reflection in the water, their small, whirring jet a blurring shadow among the waves. Dropjets are loud, horrendously so, and for once I’m glad for it. No one can talk right now, or scheme, or snipe. I try to lose myself in the constant hum.

Province Island comes too soon, a circle of green edged in a pale ribbon of sand. From above, it seems like one of Julian’s maps. Simply drawn, the village at the edge of the water a small grid of a few streets. The harbor is empty, but almost a dozen warships anchor about a half mile from shore. Maven could shoot us out of the air if he wanted, I think, imagining the distant rumble of artillery fire.

But we land without incident. The turning, tightening sensation in my chest grows, moving far beyond my tolerance. I grate my teeth together, feeling as if my jaw might shatter from the force of it, and hop out of the jet as quickly as I can, if only to suck down the fresh air.

And perhaps run right into the sea.

Instead I move away from the circling engines of the dropjet, one hand raised to keep my hair from the worst of the roaring wind. Farley follows, shoulders hunched.

“You okay?” she says over the noise, so only I can hear.

Mouth tight, I shake my head slightly. No.

I search the tall grass covering the dunes of the beach, half expecting a contingent of Sentinels to spring out and surround us. Force our surrender, force me back into manacles. Bile rises in my throat, the taste almost making me retch. The sensation of Silent Stone against my skin returns with smirking vengeance. I can’t go back there. I turn my face away, hiding in my whipping hair. Trying to breathe and take the precious seconds I need to stabilize.

Farley’s hand clasps my shoulder, her grip firm but soft. “I’m not going to tell you to get over it,” she whispers in my ear. “But you have to get through it. Just for now.” Get through it.

I grit my teeth and turn back to her, my eyes mercifully clear. “Just for now,” I echo. I’ll fall apart later. After all this is done.

Behind her, Cal hangs back, watchful but hesitant to interrupt. I hold his gaze over her shoulder and give him the slightest nod. I can do this. I have to do this.

We look strange, a contingent of Silver royals, a Red general, and two newbloods, all flanked by guards in our varying colors. While no one is willing to trust Maven to obey the rules of war, we know that the Lakelander queen probably will. Still, I keep close to Farley and her two Scarlet Guard officers. I trust their guns and their loyalty.

Evangeline and Ptolemus step down from their own jet, looking merely inconvenienced by the meeting. As if they have something more important to do. It’s an act, of course. Evangeline wants to see Maven as much as I don’t. She would never pass up the chance to sneer in his face. The dropjet engines rustle her hair as she stands, eyes sharp and keen on the grass around us.

We agreed to meet at the interior of the island. A chance for the Lakelander nymphs to show good faith. It is a short but silent walk through the dunes toward a sparse forest of gnarled, stubborn trees. I’m reminded of Tuck, now abandoned to the waves. Shade is buried there, with no one to watch over him.

Cal leads us, with Davidson at one shoulder and Farley at the other. To present a united front of our coalition. Red blood allied with Silver. Evangeline and Ptolemus follow at his heels, surprisingly unbothered by their secondary position.

I’m glad so many walk in front of me, giving me a few extra seconds to gather every ounce of bravery I can find. My best comfort is my lightning, webbing beneath my skin, known only to me. I imagine it behind my eyes, the forked, blinding lines of purple and white. It isn’t going away and no one can take it from me, not even him. I’ll kill him if he tries.

Months ago, I watched Maven make peace with the Lakelanders in a similar fashion. Even though the scenery was vastly different, the endless minefields of the Choke instead of a grassy island between a brightening sky and a calm blue sea, it feels the same. We march toward the unknown, toward people of great and terrible power. At least now I won’t be sitting on Maven’s side of the table. I’m not his pet anymore.

As in the meeting with the Lakelanders, a platform has been constructed in the middle of a field. Wooden planks, smoothly fit together. There’s a circle of chairs on it, half of them occupied. I almost vomit into the grass at my feet.

The person closest to me touches my hand. Julian.

I glance up at him, quietly begging. For what, I don’t know. I can’t turn around. I can’t run away. I can’t do anything my body is screaming at me to do. All he offers is a kind look and a nod of understanding.

Get through it.

Two Sentinels plant themselves in our path, their faces inscrutable behind their masks. The sea breeze plays through their flaming robes.

“We request that you discard your weapons before approaching His Majesty, the king of Norta,” one says, gesturing to Farley and her officers. None of them move. Farley doesn’t even blink.

Queen Anabel tosses her head back with a sneer. She peers around Cal, barely taller than his shoulder. “The king of Norta is standing right here, and he doesn’t fear Red weapons.” At that, Farley laughs outright, her disdain directed at the Sentinels. “Why do you care about our guns?” she crows. “These people are more dangerous than anything we might have.” With one hand, she gestures around at us, the newbloods and the Silvers. Armed with abilities much more destructive than any guns. “Don’t tell me your little king is afraid of a few Reds with pistols?” Next to her, the two Scarlet Guard officers shift a little, as if they can somehow distract from the automatic machine guns clasped in their hands.

But Cal doesn’t laugh, or even smile. He senses something amiss and it chills me. “I assume,” he says slowly, deliberately, “that we’re going to enter a Silent Circle. Is that right, Sentinel Blonos?” My blood seems to freeze and the air goes clean out of me. No.

Julian slowly puts an arm out, giving me something to grab.

The Sentinel flinches, reacting to Cal’s use of his house name. I focus on him, if only to keep myself from spiraling out. It’s no use. My heart rams a thundering beat and air catches in my throat. A Silent Circle. I want to tear my skin off. My fingers twitch on Julian’s arm as I tighten my grip past the point of comfort. The whites of my knuckles stand out sharply.

He covers my hand with his own, trying to stem some of my fear.

In front of us, Cal doesn’t turn around, but he does angle his chin, eyes flashing. As if he wants to look at me. With pity? With frustration? Or with understanding?

“That’s correct,” the Sentinel replies, his voice muffled. “King Maven has provided Silent Stone to ensure the meeting is without any harsher disagreements.” A muscle twitches in Cal’s cheek as he tightens his jaw. “That isn’t protocol,” he grinds out. The growl in him seems to ripple on the air, like the warning of a beast. Part of me wants him to snap and burn these two, burn the island, burn Maven and Iris and her mother. Remove every obstacle in our way with a destructive, devouring fire.

The Sentinel straightens and fists both hands in his robes. He’s taller than Cal, but nowhere near as imposing. His partner does the same, standing shoulder to shoulder to block our path. “That is the king’s wish. It is not a request. Sir,” he adds, sounding awkward and stilted. They used to protect Cal, as they protected his father and protect Maven now. I suppose confronting their former charge is one of the few things they aren’t trained for.

Cal looks back and forth, searching both Farley and Davidson. My teeth grit together, bone on bone, as I suck in tiny gasps of air through my nose. I can almost feel the Silent Stone again, threatening to drown me. Not if we refuse. If we turn around. Or if Maven bows, allowing us to pass without suffering.

Of course he won’t. Because that’s why he brought the Stone in the first place. Not to protect himself. The rules of war are protection enough, especially with his horribly noble brother leading one side. He did this to hurt us. To hurt me. He knows what kind of prison he trapped me in for six months of my life. How I spent every day wasting, dying so slowly, cut off from half of myself. Trapped behind glass that would never break, no matter how hard I fought.

My stomach sinks when Farley nods begrudgingly. At least she won’t feel it. Silent Stone has no effect on her or any other Reds without abilities.

Davidson is decidedly less keen, his spine straight and shoulders tight when he looks at Cal. But he nods with a jarring motion, agreeing to the terms.

“Very well.” I barely hear Cal say it, as a roaring rises in my ears.

The ground beneath me spins in a dizzying circle. Only my grip on Julian’s arm keeps me steady. At the front of the line, Farley and her officers loudly discard their weapons, making a show of their guns and knives. I flinch as each one drops, useless, disappearing into the dune grass.

“Come on,” Julian whispers so only I can hear, as we move.

He forces me to take a step. My limbs tremble, threatening to give out. And I lean on him as surreptitiously as I can, letting him guide me forward.

Get through it.

I raise my eyes as best I can, trying not to shake or fall or run away.

Iris stands out brightly, her armored gown a glowing, radiant blue like cornflower. It spreads around her, artfully draped over her seat. She is the perfect balance between warrior and queen, even in comparison to Evangeline. Her gray eyes track us as we approach, narrowed to predatory slits. She was never unkind to me, by Silver standards. Still, I feel hatred for her, and for what she’s done. With the Stone looming close, I have to fill myself with rage. It’s the only thing to block out the fear.

I step into the circle of Silent Stone, the unnatural sensation falling over me like a curtain. I bite my lip closed to keep from screaming. My gut turns again when the old, aching weight lands hard on my shoulders. I falter in my step, my eyelids flickering, the only outward show of my intense pain. Inside, my body screams, every nerve alight. Instinct tells me to run, to leave this circle of torture. Sweat trickles down my spine as I force one footstep after another, trying to keep pace with everyone else. If not for the Stone, I would explode in a burst of electric fury to set all my storms to shame. Lightning has no mercy. Neither do I.

I glare, eyes narrowed against the need to weep.

I look at anyone but Maven. Iris’s mother, Queen Cenra, is more subdued, a smaller woman than her daughter, with the same coloring but a plain face. Like Iris’s, her armored dress is deep blue, banded with gold to match the crown on her own brow. They lean together, tucked close, in each other’s confidence as only mother and daughter can be. I want to rip them apart.

The fourth royal isn’t someone I’ve seen before, but I can guess his identity easily enough. Prince Bracken towers in his chair, his skin the polished, flawless blue-black of a precious gemstone. His robes are amethyst-edged purple, artfully draped across a breastplate of solid gold. His dark eyes rest not on Cal or me, but on Davidson. The prince looks as if he might turn the premier inside out, clearly craving revenge for his children.

Along with Iris, he flanks Maven.

I try not to look at him at first, but he is impossible to ignore. Even though the sight of him sends hot knives along my skin, so sharp I expect to start bleeding.

Get through it. Hold on to the anger.

My heart stops when I glance to him and find him already staring, a familiar, cursed smirk twisting on his pale lips.

Maven bobs his head as we take our seats, his eyes sweeping between me and Cal, as if no one else exists. Premier Davidson sits between us, a firm divide. Maven seems to enjoy that immensely, grinning at the buffer between his brother and me. The sea breeze ruffles his hair, still longer than Cal’s and curling softly beneath the weight of his wretched black-iron crown.

I want to kill him.

His uniform is familiar, raven black, hung with the usual ill-gotten medals of state. He smirks at Cal’s jacket, noting the reversed colors with glee. Probably happy to have chased his brother out of their symbols. He regards us with cool and open delight, eager to make this as painful as possible. The mask of the cruel king is firmly set in place.

I must loosen it.

Leaning toward Davidson, I put my elbow on the arm of my chair and jut my collarbone forward. The brand is clear for all to see, burned into my skin. M for Maven. M for monster. His gaze snags on the ruined flesh, faltering for a moment. Those ice eyes go blank and faraway. It’s like pushing him off a path, or sending him down a long, dark, hallway.

He recovers, blinking at the rest of our coalition, but it’s a good start.

Our seating was arranged, so everyone falls in without incident. To my surprise and discomfort, Farley has Cal on one side and none other than Ptolemus on the other. I grimace. If she doesn’t fly across the platform to strangle Maven, she might just kill one of her own allies instead.

Farley’s glare burns as much as any Calore as she stares down the boy king. They’ve met before, long ago in the summer palace, when Maven fooled us all with an easy lie, the one we all wanted to believe. He tricked her as much as he tricked me.

“It’s truly fascinating to see how high you can rise, General Farley,” Maven says, addressing her first. I know what he’s trying to do. Put cracks in us before we’ve barely even sat down. “I wonder where you thought you would be now, if I were to ask you a year ago. What a journey.” His eyes tick between Farley and Ptolemus, the implication clear.

When I was his prisoner, he cracked my head open, looking through my memories with the help of a Merandus cousin. He saw Shade die at Ptolemus’s hands, and he knows what he meant to Farley. How much my brother left behind. It isn’t difficult for him to poke and prod at that open wound.

Farley bares her teeth, a predator even without her claws, but Cal answers before she can toss back acid. “I think all of us find ourselves in strange places,” he says, his voice stern and even. Diplomatic to the bone. I can’t imagine the effort it must require. “It isn’t often a Nortan king sits next to Lakelander queens.” Maven only sneers. He’s far better at this than Cal will ever be. “It isn’t often firstborn sons sit anywhere but the throne. Eh, Brother?” he shoots back, and Cal shuts his mouth with an audible click. “What do you think of all this, Grandmother?” Maven adds, glaring daggers at Anabel. “Your own flesh and blood, warring with each other.” She responds with equal venom. “You’re no blood of mine, boy. You lost the right when you helped kill my son.” Maven just clucks, as if pitying her. “Cal raised that sword, not me,” he says, tipping his chin at the similar sword at Cal’s hip. “Such an imagination. Old women are so prone to their fancies.” At his side, Queen Cenra arches a single, smooth eyebrow. She says nothing, letting Maven spin his web—or knot his own noose.

“Well,” he says, clapping his hands together. “I did not request this meeting. I believe that means you present whatever terms you came to offer. Surrender, perhaps?” Cal shakes his head. “Yes. Yours.”

Laughter from Maven is an odd sound. Forced. The air pushed out, the sound calculated and formed, an imitation of what he thinks a laugh should sound like. It rankles his brother, and Cal shifts in his seat, uncomfortable.

Bracken doesn’t smile either. His lips tug into a scowl. He rests his chin on one balled fist. I don’t know his ability, but I assume it is a powerful one, restrained only by the Stone slowly choking all of us. “I did not come all this way, at such haste, to entertain nonsense, Tiberias Calore,” the prince says.

“It isn’t nonsense, Your Highness,” Cal replies, with a shallow dip of his head. Showing deference and respect.

In his seat, Maven scoffs low and deep. “You see my allies here.” He spreads his white hands wide. “Both Silver royals, with the might of their entire nations sworn to our cause. I hold the capital, the wealthiest lands of Norta—” “You don’t hold the Rift,” Evangeline snaps, cutting him off. Despite the Stone, her metals are all in place. They’re truly made, locked into form, not held together by her ability alone. She prepared for this. As I should have. “You don’t hold Delphie. You lost Harbor Bay yesterday. You lose more, until all you have left are the people sitting next to you, with no way to repay what they give.” Her smile spreads, showing teeth capped with pointed silver. I think she would feast on his heart if she could. “You’ll be a king without a crown or a throne before long, Maven. Best give up while you still have something to bargain.” Maven raises his nose. It makes him look like a petulant child. “I will bargain for nothing.”

“Not even your own life?” I mutter, my voice small but firm enough to carry. I keep still as he turns his eyes on me, letting the ice pour over my flesh. No flinching, no blinking. Get through it.

He just laughs again. “Your bluff is entertaining, to say the least,” he chuckles. “I see what you have, who you’ve swayed to your side. State your terms, Cal. Or go back to Harbor Bay and force us to kill you all.” “Very well,” Cal replies. His fist clenches. If not for the Stone, he would probably burst into flame. “Step down, Maven. Step down, and I’ll let you live.” “This is ridiculous,” Maven sighs, rolling his eyes at Iris. She doesn’t return the gesture.

Cal forges on, undeterred. “The alliance with the Lakelands and Piedmont will stand. We’ll have peace on our coast, from the frozen shores to the islands of the south. Time to rebuild, regrow what this war has destroyed. Heal wounds and right wrongs that have plagued us for centuries.” “You speak of Red equality?” Iris says. Her voice is as I remember it. Calm, measured. She is a creature of self-control.

“I do,” Cal says steadily.

Bracken laughs deep and long, one hand pressed against the sculpted gold on his stomach. If not for the circumstance, I would think the sound comforting and warm. Cenra and Iris remain quiet, unwilling to betray their intentions or thoughts so easily.

“You’re ambitious, I’ll give you that,” Bracken says, pointing a finger at Cal. “And young. And distracted.” His dark eyes dart to mine, making his point clear. I squirm under his gaze. “You don’t know what you’re asking us to do.” Farley isn’t so easily cowed. She claws her hands on the arms of her chair, almost rising out of her seat. A flush tinges her cheeks. “Are you so threatened by the people you spit on that you can’t allow them simple freedom?” she sneers, looking from Bracken to Cenra and Iris. “Is that how tenuous your grip on power truly is?” The queen of the Lakelands widens her eyes, the whites a livid contrast to the bronze of her skin and the dark brown of her irises. She looks truly surprised. I doubt a Red has ever addressed her in such a way, and it shows. “How dare you speak to us—” she blurts out.

Dear Julian is the quickest, evenly speaking over her before she can bait Farley into something more drastic. “History favors the underfoot and the oppressed, Your Majesty,” he says. He sounds enchanting and methodic, wise, even beneath the weight of Silent Stone. The queen is reluctant, but shuts her mouth slowly to listen. “The years are long, but eventually, always, fortunes shift. The people rise. Such is the way of things. Either let change come willingly, help it along, or face the wrath of such force. It might not be you, or even your children. But the day will come when Reds storm the gates of your castles, break your crowns, and slit the throats of your descendants as they beg for the mercy you will not show now.” His words echo long after he is done speaking, as if dancing on the wind. They have a sobering effect on the Lakelander queens and Bracken, who exchange uneasy glances.

Maven is not subdued in the slightest. He leers at the Jacos lord, eyes alight. He has always despised Julian. “Did you rehearse that, Julian? I always wondered why you spent so much time alone in your library.” It’s too easy to throw the barb back in his face. “I doubt anyone spends more time alone than you do,” I say, again moving forward to display my brand.

The combination makes him go pale, his mouth slightly open. Breath whistles between his exposed teeth. He looks like he wants to kiss me or rip my throat out. I doubt he knows which.

“Careful, Maven,” I push on, pressing him closer to the edge of his tolerance. “That mask of yours might slip.” Cold fear flashes in his eyes. Then his face melts, brows creasing and lips pulling down, curling back to show more of his teeth. With the shadows under his eyes and beneath his cheekbones, he looks like a skull, white as moonlight. “I could kill you, Red,” he snarls, brazen in the empty threat.

“Funny, you had the chance for six long months.” I pat my hands over my arms and chest, letting my fingers brush the brand. “But here I am.” I look away before he can say more, addressing the allies at his side. “Maven Calore is unstable at best.” As I speak, I’m intensely aware of their attention, the weight of three crowns staring me down. As well as the weight of Silent Stone, a constant, squeezing pressure. I wish I could feel my lightning and draw a little strength from my ability. Instead I have only my wasted self. And that must be enough.

“You all know it. Whatever the benefits of his rule, you know they don’t outweigh the risks. He will be overthrown, either by us directly or by the crumbling of his country. Look around. How many High Houses sit with him? Where are they?” I gesture to the Sentinels, their own guards, but no one else of Norta. Not House Welle or House Osanos or any other. I don’t know where they are, but their absence speaks volumes.

“You are his shields. He’s using you and your countries. He’ll turn on you one day, when he has the strength to cast you both off. He has no loyalties, and no love in his heart. The boy who calls himself king is a shell, empty, a danger to everyone and everything.” In his seat, Maven examines his hands, adjusting the cuffs of his jacket. Anything to seem unaffected and unperturbed. It’s a terrible act, especially for someone as talented as he is.

I hold my head high. “Why entertain this madness any longer? For what?”

To my left, Farley shifts, her chair creaking. She stares with all the fire the Calores can’t muster. “Because they’d rather bleed themselves than be equal to any blood that isn’t the right color,” she hisses.

“Farley,” Cal mutters.

To my surprise, Evangeline takes on that mess, drawing attention to herself instead. She purses her lips and smooths her dress conspicuously.

“It’s infinitely clear what’s happening here. You say Maven’s using them as shields?” she says, almost cackling. “Where are your armies, Queen Cenra? And yours, Prince Bracken? Who really bleeds in this war? If anyone is a shield here, it’s Maven. They’re using the little boy against his big brother, to play them off each other until they’re confident they can destroy what’s left. Isn’t that it?” They don’t deny it, or don’t want to give oxygen to such a claim. Iris tries another tactic, leaning forward toward the Samos princess with an easy, tight-lipped smile. “I must assume the same of you, Evangeline. Or is Tiberias Calore not a weapon of the Rift?” Maven waves her back. He looks from Cal to Farley. She is the weak spot here, or at least he thinks she is. Good luck. “No, not Cal,” he says, purring. “The Reds. The Montfort mongrels. I know Volo and the other Silvers in open rebellion. They won’t tolerate any kind of Red acceptance beyond what they need. Will you, Anabel?” he adds, tossing a grin at his grandmother.

She merely turns away, refusing to so much as look at him. Despite all his posturing, Maven’s smile falls a little.

Farley doesn’t rise to the bait this time. She keeps still, and Davidson slowly claps his hands, inclining his head toward the false king. “I have to applaud you, Maven,” he says. The blank calm of the premier is a welcome respite from so much bile. “I admit, I didn’t expect such deft manipulations from someone so young. But I assume that’s how your mother built you, didn’t she?” he adds, looking to me.

That incenses Maven more than anything. He knows that it means I’ve told them all I could about him, about what his mother did.

“Yes, he is what she made him,” I murmur. It feels like twisting a knife in his gut. “No matter who he was meant to be. That person is completely gone.” Cal’s voice is soft in response, landing the final blow. “And he is never coming back.”

If not for the Stone, Maven would burn. He slams a fist down, knuckles like exposed bone. “This conversation is pointless,” he snaps. “If you don’t have real terms, then leave. Fortify your city, gather your dead, prepare for a true war.” His brother doesn’t flinch. He has nothing else to fear from Maven. A transformation, a tragic one, has come over Cal, and he slides into the role he’s best at. A general, a warrior. Facing an opponent he can defeat. Not a brother he wants to save. There is no blood left between them, only the blood Maven made him spill.

“True war is here,” he replies, his calm manner sharply contrasts with Maven’s sudden temper. “The storm has broken, Maven, whether you want to admit it or not.” I try to do as Cal has done. Try to let go. The false masquerade of the kind, forgotten boy is already gone. Not even his ghost remains. There is only the person in front of me, with his hatred and his obsession and his twisted love. Get through it, I hiss in my head. Maven is a monster. He branded me, imprisoned me, tortured me in the worst way. To keep me at his side, to feed whatever beast prowls around inside his skull. But as much as I try, I can’t help but see some of myself reflected in him. Trapped by a storm, unable to break free, unable to walk away from what I’ve already done and will continue to do.

This world is a storm I helped create. We all did, in ways big and small. With steps we could not fathom, paths we never thought to walk.

Jon saw it all. I wonder which second put this in motion. Which choice. Was it Elara, looking into my head for an opportunity to strike the Scarlet Guard? Was it Evangeline, making me fall into the arena of Queenstrial? Was it Cal, his hand closing on mine when I was just a Red thief? Or Kilorn, his master dead, his fate decided, the doom of conscription looming before him? Maybe this didn’t even start with any of us. It could be Farley’s mother and sister, drowned by the Lakeland king, their deaths sparking her father, the Colonel, to action. Or Davidson fleeing death in the legions, escaping to Montfort to build a new kind of future? Perhaps someone even further away, a hundred years ago, a thousand. Someone cursed or chosen by a distant god, doomed and blessed to make this all real.

I suppose I’ll never know.