فصل سی ام

Thirty: Cal

A coronation has always been in my future. The ceremonial crown is not a surprise. I turn it over in my hands, feeling the formidable weight of iron, silver, and gold. In less than an hour, my grandmother will put the monstrosity on my head. My father wore it too. He was already a king when I was born, with a different queen from the only one I recall.

I wish I could remember her. I wish the memories I had of my mother were my own, and not stories from Julian. Not the brush of oil paint instead of living flesh.

The diary copy is still locked away, hidden in a drawer at my bedside in my Archeon chambers. I’ll have to move it soon, once the king’s rooms are prepared, washed clean of Maven’s presence. I shudder at the thought. I don’t know why I’m so hesitant to lay hands on such a small and terrible thing. It’s just a book. Just a jumble of scrawled letters pieced together. I’ve faced down execution squads and armies. Fought lightning and storm. Dodged bullets. Fallen through the sky more than once.

And, somehow, my mother’s diary scares me more than anything else. I could barely get through a few pages, and even those I had to read with my flamemaker bracelet far away. Her words set me so on edge, I didn’t want to risk turning the pages to ash in my hands. The last pieces of Coriane Jacos, carefully preserved by my uncle. The original is long gone, but he was able to save this much of her.

I don’t know what her voice sounded like. I could find out, if I really wanted to. There are many recordings of her, and photographs too. But like my father did, I stay away from them. From a ghost I never knew.

Part of me doesn’t want to get up from the table here in this room. It’s quiet, peaceful, the inside of a bubble about to burst. I feel as if I’m standing on a threshold. The windows look out on Caesar’s Square, offering a full view of the chaos to come. Silvers in their house colors stream back and forth over the plaza, most of them heading for the Royal Court. I can barely look at the structure, one of many ringing the Square.

My father was crowned there, beneath a glittering dome. And Maven was married in the court some months ago.

Mare was with him then.

She won’t be here now.

The loss of her still hurts, a deep wound, but it’s missing the same edge as before. We both knew what we were doing, what our choices would be when the time came to choose. I only wish we’d had a few more days, a few more hours.

Now she’s gone. With Maven again.

I should be angry. It’s a betrayal by any other name. She stole a valuable prisoner from me. His execution would have been an easy and almost bloodless way to reunite my kingdom. But somehow I can’t feel anything but annoyance. Partly because I’m not surprised. And mostly because Maven is far beyond my reach.

He’s her problem now.

At least I won’t have to be the one to kill him.

It’s the thought of a coward, something I was never allowed to be. I think it anyway.

I hope he dies without pain.

The knock at the door gets me up faster than I want, my legs unfolding beneath me. I wrench it open before Julian or Nanabel steps inside, hoping to do just one last thing on my own. I’m not a fool. I know what they are to me, besides my last remaining family. Advisers, mentors. Rivals to each other. I only hope they haven’t come together, to poison my peace with their competition.

It’s just Julian waiting, to my relief.

He offers a twitch of a smile and spreads his arms wide, showing off his new clothing, specially made for the coronation. His colors dominate, the dusty yellow-gold of House Jacos forming the base of his trim jacket and pants. But his lapels are bloodred, my own color. Displaying his allegiance not just to House Calore, but to me.

It forces me to think of what he’s done in my name. Traded a man’s life for my brother, and maybe another life too. I haven’t forgotten. His scheming, as well as my grandmother’s, is never far from my mind. It makes me wary, even of him.

Is this what being king is? Trusting no one?

I force a laugh to disguise my unease. “You look good,” I tell him. It isn’t like Julian to be so put together, nearly handsome in his lean form.

My uncle steps inside. “This old thing?” he offers with a dry smile. “What about you? Are you ready?” I gesture to my own clothes. The now-familiar bloodred suit edged in black, with silver adornments and enough medals to sink a Lakelander ship. I haven’t donned the matching cape yet. It’s too heavy, and kind of stupid-looking.

“I’m not talking about the clothes, Cal,” Julian says.

My cheeks flush. I turn quickly, trying to hide any sign of weakness or trepidation. “I figured you weren’t.” “Well?” he asks, taking a step closer.

I do as I’ve always been taught. I hold my ground. “Father told me once there’s no such thing as being ready. If you think you are, you aren’t.” “Then I guess it’s a good thing you look like you might escape out a window.”

“Comforting.”

“Your father was nervous too,” Julian says softly. Tentative, he puts a hand on my shoulder, his touch a soft weight.

My tongue sticks in my mouth, unable to form the words I want to say.

But Julian is smart enough to know what I want to ask. “Your mother told me,” my uncle explains. “She said he’d wished he had more time.” More time.

I feel like Julian just hit me in the chest with a hammer.

“Don’t we all?”

He shrugs in his usual, frustrating way. Like he knows more than I do, which I suspect he does. “For different reasons, I think,” he says. “Strange, isn’t it? No matter how different we might be, we all end up wanting the same thing.” I avoid his eyes when they rise to mine. They look far too much like the eyes in my mother’s painting. “But for all the wanting, all the hoping, all the dreaming we might do—” All I can do is nod, cutting him off. “I don’t have the luxury of that anymore.” “Dreaming?” He blinks, perplexed. But also intrigued. My uncle Julian delights in puzzles, and he looks on me as one. “You’re about to be a king, Cal. You could dream with your eyes open, and build what you wish.” Again I feel the hammer blow. My chest aches with the force of his words, as well as the judgment behind them. And of course because I’ve heard that same damned sentiment so many times. “I’m tired of telling people that isn’t true.” Julian narrows his eyes and I cross my arms instinctively, shielding myself. “Are you sure?” he asks.

“If you’re talking about Mare . . . she’s already halfway across the continent. And she won’t—” Almost smiling, Julian holds up a hand, showing long, thin fingers. Soft hands, better suited to book pages. Never used in war. Never needed in battle. I envy those hands.

“Cal, I’m a romantic, but I’m sorry to say, I’m not talking about her or your broken heart. That is . . . incredibly low on my list of worries. You have my sympathy, but there are many, many other things to be considered right now.” Again heat flares on my cheeks, and even the tops of my ears. Julian takes it in stride and, thankfully, looks away.

“When you’re ready to go, I’ll be outside the door.”

But time is up. I can’t hide any longer.

“Like Father said,” I murmur. With a will, I sling the cape around my shoulders, fastening it in place. “I’ll never be ready.” I walk around him and pull open the door. Stepping out of the protection of my private chambers feels like running a mile. Sweat prickles down my back, rolling along my spine. With every fiber, I fight the urge to run away, to go back, to stand still.

Julian keeps pace at my side, like a crutch.

“Chin up,” he warns. “Your grandmother is around the corner.”

I shoot him the best grin I can muster. It feels weak and false. Like so many things these days.

The crystal dome of the Royal Court is a masterwork of Silver craftsmanship. As a boy, I thought it was made of stars stolen from the night sky, each one molded to glittering perfection. It still gleams today, but not as brightly as it should. Red servants are few, many having elected to leave their posts rather than accept better pay and treatment. They aren’t around to make the capital gleam and shine the way it should for a coronation. I can’t even look the part, I think bitterly. My reign begins in ashes.

Such is the way across the capital, and across my new kingdom. Reds pursuing a new place in the world, and Silvers scrambling to understand what it means for the rest of us. The tech towns are almost empty, and rolling power outages plague many cities, Archeon included. Our manufacturing capabilities will follow quickly, with stores and supplies already strained. I can barely fathom the effect this will have on our war effort, and our military might. I expected this, of course. I knew this would happen.

At least the Lakelander War is over. Or, I should say, the first Lakelander war. Another is certainly about to start. It’s only a matter of time before Iris and her mother return, their armies in tow.

Murmurs follow me down the long aisle of the court, until I reach the center of the floor beneath the dome. The massive hall echoes, as if filled with hissing ghosts, all sneering about my failure, my betrayal, my weakness.

I try not to think about such things as I kneel before the eyes of dozens, my neck bare and vulnerable. We attacked Maven after a ceremony in this very place. Who’s to say someone else wouldn’t repay the favor?

Try not to think about that either.

I focus instead on the floor beneath my knees, bone-white marble swirled with charcoal gray. The absence of color in the room is supposed to look striking next to a crowd of the multicolored High Houses. White and black against the rainbow. The court seats a thousand comfortably, but less than a hundred are here today. Many houses were decimated by the civil war, lost in battle on both sides, for both sons of House Calore. My grandmother’s house stands out proudly in their flaming colors, as do the surviving members of Evangeline’s family, Samos and Viper both. Allies like House Laris and Iral are easy to pick out. There are others too, families who were loyal to Maven before, but no longer. Rhambos, Welle, Macanthos sit in their colors. Red-brown, green and gold, silvery blue. But others are missing entirely. The Osanos nymphs are nowhere to be seen. The same can be said of Eagrie, Provos, and, to my chagrin, many Skonos skin healers and every Arven silent. They aren’t the only ones. I’m sure Julian and Nanabel are taking stock of who refused to come, carefully noting who is an ally—and who is still an enemy.

Not enough of one, too many of the other.

Above me, Nanabel is careful not to look bothered by the obvious absences in the court. Her face is still and proud, her bronze eyes nearly aflame as she holds my father’s crown.

“Long live the true king, Tiberias the Seventh!” she says firmly, her voice echoing around the chamber.

Even though the circle of iron is cold on my brow, I don’t startle or flinch. I’m trained not to bat an eye at gunshots or flame. But when the Silver nobles around me repeat her words, I start to shiver. They say it again and again. The true king. It resounds like a heartbeat. It’s real. This is happening.

I am a king, the king. Finally, I’m where I was born to be.

On the one hand, I feel the same as I did this morning. I’m still Cal. Still plagued by aches old and new, bruises seen and unseen. Still terrified of what is to come, and what I might have to do in order to protect my weak kingdom. Terrified of who this crown will turn me into.

Has the transformation already begun?

Perhaps. In small parts of me, forgotten corners, I may be changing. I already feel apart, alone. Even with Julian and my grandmother looming close, my own flesh and blood. But too many people are missing.

My mother.

My father.

Mare.

And Maven too. The brother I thought I had, the person who barely existed.

Never existed.

We grew up knowing I would be king and he would stand at my side. My strongest ally, my most fervent supporter. My best adviser, a shield and a crutch. A second opinion. A sanctuary. Not once did I question the arrangement, and I never thought he did either. How wrong I was.

The loss of him hurt before, but now, with a crown on my head, with no one to take his place?

Suddenly it’s very difficult to breathe.

I have to look at Nanabel, to hopefully find whatever solace I can in my grandmother.

She smiles just for me, bracing her hands on my shoulders. I try to see my father in her. A flawed king, a flawed parent. And I miss him terribly, especially right now.

I would hug her if she’d let me, but she keeps me at a distance, her elbows locked. Forcing me to stand up straight, on display. On parade. A vision for the nobles, a message.

Tiberias Calore is king, and he will never kneel again.

Not even to Volo Samos.

We approach him first, Nanabel on my arm, one king to another. I bow my head and so does Volo.

He looks me over slowly, his expression stony but vague.

“Congratulations, Your Majesty,” he says, eyeing my crown.

I do the same, nodding at the naked steel across his forehead. “Thank you, Your Majesty.” At his side, the Viper queen stiffens, one hand firm on her husband’s arm. As if to hold him back. But Volo does nothing, and neither do I. My grandmother and I manage to pass without incident, nodding in turn to the Samos royals.

Evangeline catches my eye, looking small at her brother’s side. She is more subdued than usual, her gown and jewelry dull in comparison to the rest of her family. Silver silk so dark it might be black, better suited to attending a funeral instead of a coronation. After what she said a week ago, she very well could be. If her suspicions are correct, her father is living on borrowed time, and she won’t raise a finger to stop it.

The moment shudders between us, born of a mutual secret and an understanding that neither of us wants what comes next.

Now that I’m officially the king of Norta, there’s nothing standing in the way of my marriage to Evangeline. It’s been a long time coming, and yet somehow nowhere near long enough.

We have no more illusions where this betrothal is concerned. Evangeline’s face falls, melting from detached apathy to disgust. She turns away, using the bulk of her brother’s body to hide her face.

The next few hours blur together in a swirl of color and pleasantries. I’m no stranger to royal celebrations. It’s easy to slip back into the rhythm, playing an easy game of conversation. Saying much and still saying nothing at all. Nanabel and Julian stay with me through it, and we make a formidable team. If only the two of them weren’t so obvious at their game. With Maven defeated and a war momentarily ended, their alliance is shaky at best. There’s nothing to unite them besides me, and I feel like little more than a bone tugged between two hounds. My grandmother is more vicious, more daring, a queen of many years who knows how to navigate both a court and a battlefield.

But Julian knows my heart better than she does.

I do my best to enjoy the food at dinner. It’s edible, but nothing compared to the feasts we used to have. Somehow I find myself missing Carmadon and Premier Davidson’s dinner. While this is infinitely less awkward, what they prepared was delicious.

I’m not the only one who notices the quality. Evangeline doesn’t touch a single course, and her mother doesn’t even condescend to feed her meat to the panther curled around her ankles.

Like the electricity, like the servants, like the factories grinding to a halt all over Norta, good food seems to be growing scarce. In the fields, the deliveries, the preparation. I’d wager most of the palace chefs are gone too.

Nanabel cleans her plate like nothing is amiss.

“We’re going to lose this war,” I can’t help but murmur, leaning to my left so only Julian can hear me.

A muscle flexes in his cheek and he drains his glass of wine. “Not here, Cal,” he replies, hiding his mouth with the rim of his glass. “Would the king like to retire?” “The king would.”

“Very well,” my uncle mutters, putting his glass back down.

For a second, I don’t know what to do. I realize I’m waiting to be dismissed, but no one here can do such a thing. This is my throne and my palace. I need only stand.

I do so quickly, clearing my throat to excuse myself. Nanabel is quick to recognize the signal. I need to be done with this.

“Our thanks for your presence today, and your loyalty,” she says, her hands spread wide to better command the attention of the chamber. The nobles in front of us fall silent, their murmurs and conversations sliding to a graceful halt. “We have all journeyed through the storm, as it were, and I speak for the royal family when I say how grateful we are to have you with us. And to have Norta made whole again.” It’s a naked lie, plain as the food forgotten on so many plates. Norta is far from whole. The half-empty banquet hall is proof of that. And while I don’t want to be a king like Maven, building my throne on deceit and dishonesty, I see no other option now. We need to be strong, even if it is only an illusion.

I put a hand to Nanabel’s shoulder, a careful gesture. She obliges, angling back to let me speak. “One storm has passed, yes. But I would be a fool to pretend another is not gathering on the horizon,” I say, speaking as clearly as I can. So many eyes look back at me. Their clothes and colors vary, but not their blood. Everyone seated here is Silver, and I shudder at the implication. Our Red allies are gone for good. When war comes again, we will be fighting alone. “The Lakelands will not be satisfied behind their borders. Not when they came so close to ruling Maven through their princess.” Some of the nobles murmur, their heads drawn together. Volo doesn’t move, staring at me from his seat farther down the high table. I feel pierced by his glare.

“When the storm breaks, I’ll be ready. I promise you that.”

Ready to fight. To lose. And probably die.

“Strength and power!” someone shouts from the crowd, cheering the old refrain of my father and his father before him. An emblem of Silver Norta. Others echo the call. I should too.

But I can’t. I know what those words mean. Who exactly we have strength and power over. My jaw remains firmly shut.

Julian stays close on my heels as I escape the banquet hall, utilizing the serving passages instead of the main halls. My grandmother trails us, with her Lerolan soldiers bringing up the rear of our patchwork parade. I still don’t have Sentinels, as a king should, as I did when I was a prince and things still worked properly. We’re rightfully wary of the guards once oathed to protect Maven, even if many of them have pledged their loyalty with their houses. Finding guards of my own, people I can trust, is simply another item on an increasingly long list of things to be accomplished. Just the thought exhausts me.

I’m yawning by the time I reach the door to my temporary quarters, even though it’s barely past nightfall. At least I have a good excuse to be tired. It isn’t every day one becomes king. The crown is an infinite reminder.

Both Nanabel and Julian follow me into the adjoining salon, leaving the guards in the hall. I stop my grandmother with a look.

“If it’s all right, I’d like to speak to Julian.” I try to make it sound like an order. I shouldn’t be asking permission to talk with one of my closest advisers alone. Still, I feel tentative, and sound worse.

Her face falls, pulling into an affronted frown. Wounded, even. Like I’ve hurt her.

“Briefly,” I add, trying to undo the harm. Next to her, Julian clasps his hands together, his expression blank.

She stiffens. “Of course, Your Majesty,” she murmurs, ducking her head. Her iron-gray hair reflects the lamps like a flash of steel. “I’ll leave you to it.” With a rushing whirl of flame-colored clothing, my grandmother turns on her heel without another word. My fist clenches, keeping me from reaching out. It’s difficult balancing the love of family with the needs of a kingdom.

The door shuts behind her, sharper than it needs to. I wince with the sound.

Julian wastes no time, opening his mouth before he manages to take a seat on the plump sofa. I brace myself for the inevitable lecture.

“You shouldn’t speak that way in public, Cal.”

We’re going to lose this war.

He isn’t wrong. I grimace anyway, crossing to the arched windows overlooking the Bridge of Archeon, the river, and the star-dappled horizon beyond. From this distance, the ships on the water look like stars too. As with the crowd at the coronation, there are fewer ships than there should be. Less trade, less travel. I’ve been king for a day and my kingdom is already living on borrowed time. I can only guess what might happen to the people in it, should the rest collapse.

I lay a hand against the window glass. It steams beneath my touch. “We don’t have the manpower to turn back an invasion.” “Your decree puts our armies at forty-percent strength, if the current reports are accurate. Most Red soldiers have left the military or are leaving. New recruits, mostly. Those left behind are battle-hardened, at least,” he says.

“But spread too thin,” I mutter. “The Lakelander border is hostile again, not to mention Piedmont to the south. We’re surrounded and outnumbered. And with fall coming, what harvest can we expect with no farmers? How can we shoot the guns if no one is making the bullets?” My uncle brushes a hand under his chin, studying me. “You regret making your decrees.” He is one of only two people I would ever admit it to. “I do.”

“It was the right decision.”

“For how long?” I can’t help but snap. Flaring with heat, I turn away from the window, undoing the top buttons of my jacket as I move. The colder air hits my fevered skin, chilling and soothing. “When the Lakelands return, they’ll wipe away whatever I’ve tried to do.” “This is the way of things, Cal.” Julian’s calm tone only serves to rankle me further. “In the histories, great moments of upheaval, whole shifts in societies, they take time to rebalance. Reds will return to work, albeit with better pay and treatment. They need to feed and protect their families too.” “We don’t have that kind of time, Julian,” I mutter, exasperated. “I think someone will have to redraw your maps very soon. The Kingdom of Norta will fall.” He tracks me as I pace, never moving from his seat. “I suppose I should have asked this days ago, but is there a reason you’re so married to the idea of this kingdom? And that crown?” Instead of spinning out, my mind slows. My tongue feels heavy in my mouth, a stone weighing down whatever I might struggle to say. Julian continues on through my silence.

“You say now that you think we’ll lose, you’ll lose, because of the decrees and changes you’ve chosen to make. Because you have no allies.” On the sofa, he stretches, gesturing with one hand. He casts his fingers toward the window, meaning all things. “You did almost everything the Scarlet Guard and Montfort asked. Gave up everything they wanted. Except that.” He points at the crown still nestled on my head “Why? If you knew you would never be able to keep it?” My answer sounds foolish, like it comes from a child. I say it anyway. “This is my father’s crown.” “But the crown is not your father,” he says quickly, rising to his feet. In two strides he has me by the shoulder, and his voice softens. “It isn’t your mother either. And it won’t bring either of them back.” I can’t bear to look at him. He is too much like her, like the shadow of my mother I carry in my head. A wish and a dream, probably, not a real reflection of her. An impossibility. Maven was tortured by his mother who lived and breathed, but I am tortured too. Tortured by a woman taken away from me.

“This is who I am, Julian.” I try to keep my breathing even, try to sound like a king. The words make sense as I think them, but they come out wrong. Stumbling, unsure. “It’s everything I’ve ever known, the only path I’ve ever wanted or been made to want.” My uncle tightens his grip on my shoulders. “Your brother could say the same, and where did that lead him?” I bristle at that, glaring at him. “We’re not the same.”

“No, you aren’t,” he replies hastily. Then his attitude changes, a strange look coming over him. Julian narrows his eyes, lips pressing into a thin, grim line. “You haven’t read the diary, have you?” Again I drop my gaze. Ashamed of how afraid I am of a simple, small book. “I don’t think I can,” I whisper, barely audible.

Julian offers no quarter, no comfort. He stands back, crossing his arms. He doesn’t need many words to scold me.

“Well, you need to,” he says simply, taking on the air of a teacher again. “Not just for yourself. But for the rest of us. All of us.” “I don’t see how the diary of a dead woman can be any help right now.”

“Well, hopefully you summon the courage to find out.”

Reading it feels like pushing a stone through mud. Sluggish, difficult, foolish. The words pull at me with inky fingers, trying to hold me back. Each page is heavier than the last. Until they aren’t. Until the stone is rolling down a hill, and the voice I give my mother rings in my head, speaking as quickly as my mind allows. Sometimes my eyes blur. I don’t stop to wipe the tears from the pages, letting them mark the hours as the night passes. Sometimes I find myself smiling. My mother liked to tinker with things. Repair and build. Just like me.

Sometimes I even laugh. The way she talks about Julian, their kind rivalry, how he gave her books she would never read. I can almost trick myself into thinking she’s alive. Sitting next to me instead of trapped in a book.

But mostly I feel a deep ache. Hunger for her. Sorrow. Regret. My mother had her demons, just like the rest of us. Her own pains that began long before she became a queen. Before my father married her and put a target on her back.

Her entries grow scarcer as time wears on. As her life changes.

There are only a few pages dedicated to me.

He will not be a soldier. I owe him that much. Too long the sons and daughters of House Calore have been fighting, too long has this country had a warrior king. Too long have we been at war, on the front and—and also within. It might be a crime to write such things, but I am a queen. I am the queen. I can say and write what I think.

The Calores are children of fire, as strong and destructive as their flame, but Cal will not be like the others before. Fire can destroy, fire can kill, but it can also create. Forest burned in the summer will be green by spring, better and stronger than before. Cal’s flame will build and bring roots from the ashes of war. The guns will quiet, the smoke will clear, and the soldiers, Red and Silver both, will come home. One hundred years of war, and my son will bring peace. He will not die fighting. He will not. HE WILL NOT.

I run a finger over the letters, feeling the press of a faraway pen. This isn’t her handwriting but Julian’s. Her real diaries were destroyed by Elara Merandus, but Julian had the wherewithal to preserve something before they disappeared. He painstakingly copied each letter, even these. He nearly put a hole in the page writing those words.

They certainly put a hole through me.

Coriane Jacos wanted a different life for her son, entirely separate from how I was raised, and who my father made me into.

I have to wonder if there is some fate in between what each of my parents wanted for me, a path that is truly my own to choose.

Or is it simply too late?