نور آتش 2

TWO

Cal

It’s just past sunset in the mountains; the snowy peaks are still painted blood red. A fitting color for this place. I watch through the jet window as we fly in, weaving toward the now-familiar valley outside Ascendant. As one of the representatives going between the Nortan States and the Republic, I feel like I’ve done this a thousand times. There’s always a great deal of movement within the alliance, and Montfort is always at its center. I’ve been back and forth so much by now, enough to know what to expect from approach. The craft rattles, hitting pockets of turbulence over the peaks. It hardly registers. The updrafts of mountain air make the landing bumpy, and I jostle against my buckles when we touch down onto the runway.

Even though we land safely, my heart rate climbs and my hands tremble as I unfasten myself. It takes more willpower than it should not to sprint from the jet.

Nanabel certainly takes her time getting off the craft. She plays up the charade of an old woman, leaning on the seat backs for support as she walks down the aisle. “Can’t imagine how you do this so much, Cal,” she grumbles to me. Her voice is louder than it needs to be, even over the drone of the airjet. “I’m stiff all over.” I roll my eyes behind her back. It’s all an act—I know firsthand how spry she is. My grandmother is no wilting flower. She just wants to slow me down, keep me from looking overeager. Like a puppy hoping for a treat, she hissed to me when I volunteered to go to the Samos abdication. Not to see Evangeline or Ptolemus, not even really to show my support to royal Silvers making the same choice I did. She knew I thought Mare might be there. And just the chance was enough for me.

But she never showed, to my disappointment.

Don’t be unfair, I tell myself. She had no reason to go to the Rift. She’s had more than her fill of Silvers struggling to give up their crowns.

Uncle Julian is good enough to take Nanabel by the arm, helping her along at a quicker step. She offers a bloodless smile in thanks, clutching at him with strong, lethal hands. He pales under her grasp, knowing exactly how deadly the hands of an oblivion can be.

Thank you, I mouth to him, and he nods in reply.

Julian is excited to be here too, albeit for very different reasons. He enjoys the Republic as only a scholar can, and my uncle is eager to show the country to Sara. She walks in front of him, setting a good pace in quiet determination. Like me, Julian and Sara have ceased wearing house colors. I’m still not used to seeing my uncle in anything but faded gold, or Sara in colors that aren’t red and silver.

Nanabel, of course, keeps to the old tradition. I don’t think she owns anything that isn’t red, orange, or black. Her long silk coat trails as she walks down the jet, displaying explosive red brocade set with chips of black stone. No one would ever know we aren’t royal anymore if they looked in her closet.

And she isn’t the only one to still dress like the old days. Today, the Nortan States delegation has four other Silvers in it, two of them from the High Houses. One is from House Laris, a representative for us as well as the now-returned Rift. Her yellow clothing seems garish in wartime. The other, Cyrus Welle, is a former governor and an old man, run ragged and thin by war. His green robes are clean, but they seem faded. His medallion, a jeweled tree, barely reflects the lights inside the jet as he walks. He catches my glance and offers a smile weaker than his chin. At least he’s here, I remind myself.

The other two Silvers aren’t nobles at all, but selected from the many merchants, craftsmen, career soldiers, and other professionals who volunteered from the lower houses. Naturally, they’re less opposed to restructuring than any noble would be.

The rest of the Nortan States delegation files off the jet with us, some of them already stamping their feet against the chill. It isn’t quite this cold at home, and most of the delegation, the Reds especially, have never been to such high altitude.

Ada Wallace weaves among them, speaking in a low voice. Probably explaining exactly how high we are, why the air is so thin, and what that does to the human body. She keeps telling them to drink more water, with an encouraging smile. Though I’ve only known her a year, Ada feels like an old friend, and a relic of a different life. Like Mare, she’s a newblood, one of the many we recruited so many months ago. She’s more valuable than ever now, perhaps the most valuable member of the States’ reconstruction effort. And a real comfort. Someone who knows me as more than an abdicated king.

Not like the Silvers. Though I’m glad to have some nobles of the High Houses working with us, I never let my guard down around them. Not Welle, not Laris, not Rhambos or any of the others. Not even my cousins of House Lerolan. I’d be stupid to think they’re here because they believe in blood equality, and not because they know they’ll lose any effort to return Norta to her former self. Not because this is the only way to keep their heads above water.

The same cannot be said of the Secession, the Silvers of both Norta and the Rift refusing reconstruction. A familiar ache twists behind my eyes when I think of them, so many powerful nobles lined up against us. They might not be well organized yet or have a numbers advantage, but they’re strong, they have resources, and they have the Lakelands to back them up. Their danger can only grow, and I know it certainly will if they unite properly.

This war is far from over, and my job is far from done.

The hard truth exhausts me, even after my nap on the flight. Despite the chance of seeing Mare again, I suddenly want nothing more than to collapse in whatever room they give me and sleep until morning. Not that I’ll even be able to do that.

I don’t sleep well, and haven’t since my father died. Died. I still have to remind myself to say he died instead of I killed him. It was Elara, not me. I know that, but it doesn’t change what I see in my head at night. There’s no cure for what ails me. I’m not like Mare. Having another person in the room doesn’t settle me down. It doesn’t matter who’s in my bed—the nightmares still come.

This was the last place I saw her, my mind whispers. I try not to remember. Mare said good-bye to me here on this runway. She told me not to wait, told me she needed time. And while I understand what she meant, it still cuts me up to think about.

Luckily, the welcoming party from the Republic approaches, giving me an easy distraction from the haunting memories.

One glance tells me the premier isn’t here at the airfield to greet us. I’m not surprised. The Scarlet Guard representatives are already in the city, and he’ll be deep in council with whoever they sent. Farley is certainly one of them. I don’t expect she’d miss all the action over the next few days. She fights with words as well as guns these days.

Instead of Davidson, Representative Radis, one of the Silver Montfortans, waits by the transports ready to take us into the city. He’s accompanied by a half dozen others from the People’s Assembly, both Red and Silver and probably newblood too.

He greets me with a firm handshake, and I’m reminded of his sharp nails. As one of the former lords of Montfort, before their own monarchies were overthrown to create the Republic, his influence holds great sway over the Silvers from my own country. I’m careful to introduce him around, and let him charm the others. Let them see the future is not as bleak as they think.

It’s been this way for months now. Forcing smiles and pleasantries, coaxing men and women who would rather die than feel inferior into some kind of understanding. Somehow, the posturing is more tiresome than battle. I used to spar to stay sharp, stay focused and in shape. Now I do it as a relief, and a rare one these days. Stupid as it may be, I find myself almost wishing everything would boil over and go back to outright battle. I understand war, at least.

I should be good at diplomacy. I was raised to be a ruler. I was a king. But most of this is simply beyond my grasp or desire.

As the introductions go around, Julian must notice my eyes glazing over and my energy waning. He puts a hand to my shoulder, taking over to give me a break. And permission to check out.

I hang back, listening occasionally, smiling when needed. When my stomach growls, seemingly as loud as a jet engine, we trade easy, forced chuckles. Even the Reds, still understandably wary around us, crack smiles.

“I’m afraid you’ve missed Carmadon’s dinner parade for the evening,” Radis says. His wispy, white-blond hair gleams beneath the lights of the airfield.

The thought of Carmadon’s cooking reminds me of exactly how famished I am. I don’t get to eat as much as I like, not because of rations, but because there simply seems to be no time. “I’m no stranger to raiding kitchens, sir,” I answer with a false smile.

Radis dips his head and gestures toward the waiting transports. “Then shall we? I’m sure you’re all eager to settle in.” He looks over my shoulder, speaking to the others. “Tomorrow morning, we’ve arranged a tour of the city for those of you interested, followed by council . . .” I tune him out. This part of the performance isn’t for me. A tour. Like Radis himself, a tour is another convincing argument to make, especially to the Silvers. The Montfortans want to show what reconstruction can look like. What beauty can come out of a few difficult years.

As for me, tomorrow I get to look forward to meetings, meetings, lunch during another meeting, meetings, dinner, and passing out. The Scarlet Guard, the Republic, the Nortan States. Premier Davidson and the People’s Assembly, Farley and her officers. Presentations and pleas from all, myself included. I’m imagining my previous visits, where we lived on coffee and furtive glances across an oak table. Argued over everything from refugee aid to newblood training. Now multiply that by how many dozens are here now. And add Mare to the equation.

A headache explodes in full force as my stomach drops.

Food first, Calore. One step at a time.

It’s fully dark by the time our transports reach the estate, having taken a circuitous route to the premier’s home above Ascendant. I’m sure Radis and the transport staff were instructed to show off the city as night fell—the lights, the lake, the mountains cutting high against brilliant stars. Compared to Norta, with its cities ringed by tech towns smothered in pollution, Silver estates separated from the world, and dirt-poor Red villages, this must look like a dream. The Red delegates in particular are wide-eyed as the transports come to a halt in the estate courtyard, looking up at the palace of columns and white stone. Even the noble Silvers look impressed, though Nanabel keeps her eyes firmly in her lap. She’s doing her best to behave.

When I step out, the cold air is a welcome slap to the senses. It keeps me from grabbing the first person I see to ask about a certain electricon who may or may not be inside. This time I take Nanabel by the arm, not to speed her up, but to slow myself down.

She pats my hand softly. For all I’ve done, all the disappointment I’ve brought, she still loves me. “Let’s feed you,” she says under her breath. “And let’s get me a drink.” “Yes to both,” I mutter back.

The receiving hall of the estate buzzes with activity, and it’s no wonder. The premier’s home will be full to the rafters housing the delegations from the Scarlet Guard, the States, and everyone in between. I assume some will have to be housed in the city as well. The estate isn’t as large as Whitefire Palace, and even that couldn’t house the full Nortan court if necessary.

The sudden memory of my former home stings, but not as badly as it used to. At least now I’m doing something more important than maintaining a monarchy.

Another representative from the People’s Assembly joins Radis in the center of the hall, her suit so deep green it could be black. Her hair is bone white, her skin is dark brown, and her blood is red, judging by the warm flush beneath her cheeks. While she introduces herself as Representative Shiren, and apologizes for the premier’s late meeting, I try to remember the quickest way to Carmadon’s kitchen.

Servants begin showing our delegation to their rooms, leading them away in very specific groups. I frown when I realize the Reds and Silvers are being separated, and obviously so. A foolish maneuver, in my opinion. If reconstruction is to work, if blood equality is going to stick in Norta, we have to do everything we can to make it the norm among ourselves. Perhaps the Montfortans think this separation will be less jarring to my nobles, but I couldn’t disagree more. I swallow the urge to object. It’s been too long a day. I’ll find someone to argue with later.

“Officer Calore, ma’am.” One of the servants nods at my grandmother and me. The title, new as it is, doesn’t bother me at all. I’ve been called far worse. Tiberias, for example. And it has a nice ring to it. It suits me better than Your Majesty ever did.

I nod in acknowledgment to the servant. He responds in kind. “I’d be happy to show you to your rooms.”

I duck my head to the older man in his neat gray-green uniform. “If you tell me where, I can manage. I was hoping to find something to eat—” “That won’t be necessary,” he says, smoothly cutting me off in a way that is skillfully polite. “The premier and his husband have arranged for dinner to be brought up when you’re settled. Mr. Carmadon isn’t one to let his fine meals go to waste.” “Ah, of course.” Of course they don’t want any of us snooping around. Even me.

Nanabel stiffens next to me, raising her chin. I half expect her to refuse. No one orders around a queen, former or otherwise. Instead she presses her lips together into a grim, lined smile. “Thank you. Lead on, then.” The servant nods his thanks and gestures for us to follow, looping Julian and Sara along. I expect my uncle to protest as I did, wanting to visit the vast library instead of the kitchens. To my surprise, he hesitates only a second before following in step with the rest of us, Sara’s arm tucked into his own. Her eyes dart, taking in the vast mansion around her. This is her first visit, and she keeps her opinions to herself, perhaps to share with Julian later. Long years of silence are a hard habit to break.

Though my grandmother and I are no longer royals of another nation, and I’m barely more than a soldier, the premier houses us all in the main structure of the estate, in a proud suite of green-and-gold rooms branching off a private salon. I expect he means to charm Nanabel with finery, and keep her happy over the next few days. Like me, she’s integral to maintaining a relationship with the Silver nobles tentatively helping the reconstruction. If a nice view and silk-upholstered couches help her along, so be it.

Truthfully, I’d rather be housed down in the barracks, tucked into a bunk with a mess hall nearby. But I won’t say no to a feather bed either.

“Dinner will be served in a few minutes’ time,” the servant says before shutting the door behind him, leaving us to our own devices.

I cross to the window and draw aside the curtains to find that we face out over a terrace and up the mountainside, into the pitch-black forest of pine trees. The roar of transports whines in my ears as the memory of climbing up and over the peak rushes through me.

Nanabel looks approvingly at the decor, and especially at the neat, well-stocked bar set along the far wall beneath a gilt-framed mirror. Wasting no time, she sets to pouring herself a heavy dram of caramel-colored whiskey. She takes a drink before preparing three more glasses.

“I’m surprised your friend wasn’t here to greet us,” she says, handing the first glass to Sara and the next to Julian. Her gaze lingers on the latter. “You two exchanged so many letters, I thought he’d at least take the time to say hello.” My uncle is difficult to bait, and he just smiles into his drink. He takes a seat on the long sofa, folding himself in next to Sara. “Premier Davidson is a busy man. Besides, there will be plenty of time for scholar talk after the gala.” I turn from the window, brow furrowed. My stomach swoops at the prospect of leaving Julian behind, even for a short while. I reach for the last drink on the bar and sip carefully. It tastes like liquid smoke.

“How long do you intend to stay on here afterward?” I ask, drumming a finger on the crystal glass.

Next to him, Sara shifts and sips her liquor. She’s had her fair share of domineering Silver queens, and doesn’t tremble beneath my grandmother’s imperious stare. “We haven’t decided,” she replies.

Nanabel sniffs, wrinkling her nose. “It’s an odd time to be taking a vacation.”

“I believe the term is honeymoon,” Julian says. With a deliberate motion, he reaches for Sara’s free hand, and their fingers intertwine. “We’d like to be married here, quietly and soon. If that suits everyone.” If that suits everyone. At first my grandmother scoffs, and then her lips spread into a true smile.

As for me, I feel like my face might split in two. It almost hurts to smile like this, so broadly and without abandon. Happiness hasn’t been familiar to me in the last few months, but it courses through me now. Quickly, I cross the room and hug them both, nearly spilling all our drinks.

“It’s about time,” I snicker in Julian’s ear.

“I agree,” Sara murmurs, her eyes shining.

When dinner comes, it is unsurprisingly marvelous, and another display of the bountiful Free Republic. There’s bison steak, of course, as well as fresh trout, salmon, fried potatoes, three kinds of greens, a cheesy soup, and fresh-baked bread, followed by huckleberries and cream for dessert and a honeysuckle tea. The food must have been brought in from every corner of the Republic, from here in Ascendant to the northwest coast strewn with mountains and a foreign ocean. Everything is perfectly prepared. Certainly the rest of the Nortan delegation have received the same treatment in their rooms, especially the Silver nobles. On the flight they openly complained about the state of their kitchens at home now, what with Reds being free to pursue work where they please, as well as the war shortages. A few good meals in the Republic might be just the kind of convincing they need.

Between the whiskey and the hearty meal, Julian, Sara, and Nanabel are quick to retire to their bedrooms, leaving me to stare over the table that’s now in disarray. It’s a battlefield of empty plates, bread crumbs, and drained teacups, with knives and forks stained with sauce like swords in blood. It makes my hair stand on end. Though a servant will certainly clear away the scraps sometime in the night, I can’t stop myself from gathering it all together into some form of order. I try to be quiet as I stack plates and cups, and it makes the process slow going.

It gives my hands something to do, my mind something to focus on that isn’t her.

Julian wants to get married here because everyone he values is here. Me, the premier, and Mare. Certainly he knows she’ll be back for the gala, if she isn’t already. Davidson must have mentioned it in his letters, between long-winded ruminations on the Montfort archives in Vale or Horn Mountain. And by the way, your former student will be back in town. Best catch her before she traipses off into the wilderness again.

The last plate clatters as I drop it an inch, but it doesn’t break.

I should go to sleep. I’m weary in my bones, and I need to be sharp for the days ahead. But instead of heading for my own bedchamber, I find myself standing on the terrace, watching my breath cloud in the cold. I naturally run hot, and my breath almost looks like steam.

If Davidson really wants to impress the nobles, he should just tell them to look up.

Indeed, the stars above the mountains are like nothing I’ve ever seen in my country or any other. Even with the light pollution from the city below, they are magnificent, brilliant, and vast. Leaning on the terrace balustrade, I crane my neck to see out and over the trees. The light from the estate doesn’t reach far into the forest, illuminating only the first few rows of pines before their branches blend into darkness. The sky looks even more striking against the peak, bald of vegetation, the early snows glowing beneath the starlight.

I understand why people want to stay here. Despite contributing so much to the war effort in the east, Montfort still looks untouched by any of the ravages I’ve seen. A paradise compared to the hell I came from. But a paradise bought with another war, with equal bloodshed, and more effort than I can comprehend. The Free Republic was not always so, and is still rife with its own flaws, hidden as they may seem.

If I were a Lakelander, it might be comforting to ask some distant god for guidance now, for a blessing, for the power to make everyone see what we can accomplish if given the will and the chance. But I believe in no gods, and I pray to nothing.

My bare hands start to go numb; the cold has that effect even on someone like me. I don’t bother clicking my bracelets to draw forth flame. I’ll go inside in a second and chase some sleep. I just need one more bracing gasp of cold air, and one more glance at the stars overhead, infinite as the future.

Two floors down and maybe twenty yards away, someone else has the same idea.

The door creaks slightly on old hinges as she steps out into the chilly air, already shivering. She’s careful to shut it softly behind her so as not to wake anyone. Her terrace is bigger than mine, wrapping around the corner to face down into the city. She keeps to the darker edges, staring into the trees as she tightens a blanket around her shoulders. Her frame is small and lean, her motions smooth with lethal grace. More warrior than dancer. The dim lights of a sleeping mansion aren’t enough to illuminate her face. I don’t need them to. Despite the distance and the darkness, I know.

Even without her lightning, Mare Barrow still manages to strike me through.

She raises her chin to the sky, and I see her as she was when we found her in that disgusting room, surrounded by blood, both silver and red. There was Silent Stone all around them. She was sprawled, her hair matted and wet, her eyes shut against the gloom. Next to her, Maven’s eyes were open. So blue, so wide. So empty. He was dead and I thought her gone too. I thought I’d lost them both, lost them to each other one last time. My brother would have liked that. He took her once before and he would have taken her forever if he could have.

I’m ashamed to say I reached for him first. His wrist, his neck, searching for a pulse that wasn’t there. He already felt cold.

She was alive, her breathing shallow, the rattle of it softer by the second.

I can tell that her breath is even now, clouding like my own in tiny, rhythmic puffs. I squint, hoping to see more of her. Is she well? Is she different? Is she ready?

The act is futile. She’s too far away, and the lights of the palace are too dim to do much more than outline her bundled figure. It isn’t too far to shout, and I don’t care about waking up half the estate. Still, my voice dies in my throat, my tongue weighted down. I keep silent.

Two months ago, she told me not to wait. Her voice broke when she said it, broke like my heart when I heard it. I wouldn’t have minded her leaving if she’d done it without telling me that. Don’t wait. The implication was clear. Move on, if you want. To someone else, if you want. It stung then as it stings now. I could never fathom saying such a thing to a person I loved and needed. Not to her.

The balustrade warms beneath my hands, now clenched tightly and flooding with heat.

Before I can do something foolish, I spin and wrench open the door, only to close it softly behind me, making no noise at all.

I leave her to the stars.