نور آتش 3

THREE

Mare

Before I open my eyes, I forget myself for a moment. Where we are, what we’re doing here. But it comes back to me. The people around us—and the person who wouldn’t speak to me last night. He saw me; I know he did. He was out on the balcony just like me, looking at the stars and the mountains.

And he didn’t say a word.

The ache hits me like a hammer to the chest. So many possibilities blur through my head, too fast for my waking mind to fathom. And they all come back to his silhouette, a shadow against the night sky as he walked away. He didn’t say a word.

And neither did I.

I force my eyes open, yawning and stretching for show. My sister worries about me enough. She doesn’t need my heartache added to her list of concerns. We still share a room, at my request. I haven’t tried sleeping alone in months and don’t intend to start now.

For once, she’s not fussing over me. Instead Gisa is standing over her sewing supplies, contemplating them with a stern glare.

“Has the thread offended you somehow?” I say around a true yawn.

She turns the glare on me. It scares the worry right out of me.

“I’m getting a head start,” she says. “The gala will take up most of my time, what with Bree and Tramy and Kilorn and you and Farley and half the people I’ve ever met begging for something to wear.” In spite of myself, I grin. I knew she wouldn’t really leave Bree out in the cold. Gisa is all bark, no bite.

“Fine, tell me how to help,” I say, swinging my feet out of bed. The wood floor is cold beneath my toes, and I immediately set to hunting down the socks buried in my blankets.

We aren’t moving to our permanent home for another week or so, but Gisa already insists on packing. Or rather, on rearranging the meager amount of what’s already packed.

Gisa hums as she shakes her head. “You’re not exactly known for your skills in organization.” I sputter, but Gisa doesn’t bother to argue. She simply points to my mismatched socks. One is green and threadbare; the other is thick black wool. My mouth shuts with a click of teeth.

“Besides,” she says, still smirking at my feet. I wiggle a toe in her direction. “You have your own things to worry about, and a much busier schedule than I do. I don’t envy you your meetings,” she adds, nodding to the messy pile of papers at my bedside.

I fell asleep reading the overview of the delegation arrangements and agenda, my head spinning with details on Montfort trade, Scarlet Guard movements, the Nortan reconstruction, and the inner workings of the alliance. I try not to think about it now. I don’t need a headache this early in the day, though I’ll certainly have one by the end of the first meeting this morning.

“Leave the clothing and moving arrangements to the rest of us.” Gisa gestures to the apartment at large. Her message is clear. The Barrows will take care of everything they can here and give me the space I need to get through the next few days unscathed.

Little does she know the worst has already begun.

With a sweater half over my head, I pull my sister into a tight hug. She fights it weakly, grinning.

“Can we trade?” I whine. “I’ll make shirts and you suffer through hours of debate?”

“Absolutely not,” she snaps, pushing away from me. “Now try and dress yourself properly. Farley’s waiting for you out in the sitting room, by the way. She’s got a uniform on and everything.” “Fat chance of that.” I pull on a pair of dark pants instead, not even bothering to hunt for whatever uniform might be buried in our closet. My memories of tight, stiff red fabric are punishment enough. Not to mention, I think I looked downright stupid in it. Hardly what I want to be wearing when I come face to face with Cal again. If he even wants to see me at all.

Gisa isn’t a mind reader, but my thoughts aren’t difficult to discern. She looks me over with an eyebrow raised, then waves me forward. “No, no, no. The premier left you some clothes precisely so you wouldn’t go back to looking like a river rat.” I bark a laugh, knowing exactly what a river rat actually looks like. I am far from that girl now. “Gisa, this sweater doesn’t even have any holes in it!” She doesn’t bat an eye, pulling garments from our shared closet with swirling motion. To my relief, the outfits are plainer than I expected, and there are no dresses in sight. While I’m excited to dress up for a gala, spending all day in meetings while squeezed into a ball gown certainly isn’t something I care to suffer.

Gisa peruses the clothing with a seamstress’s eye, looking over ensembles in dark shades of red, green, blue, purple, and gray. When she chooses for me, I wonder if my sister wouldn’t also be suited to politics.

“Purple is neutral,” she says, handing over the corresponding outfit. “Shows you’re allied to everyone, and you belong to none.” It’s the perfect selection. Though I’m still oathed to the Scarlet Guard, I have cause to support both Montfort and the Nortan States. My new home and the old.

Pride for my sister swells in my chest. I run a finger over the soft velvet of the long purple jacket edged in gold. “I have a history with this color,” I mumble, remembering Mareena Titanos and the mask of a Silver house.

Gisa nods, her eyes darting between me and the clothes. “Well, it’s a good thing it suits you.” My sister works quickly, helping me into the tailored velvet pants, boots, and high-collared shirt before slipping the jacket onto my arms. She tsks at the length of the sleeves, a bit too long for my frame, but otherwise finds no other flaw. Finally, she brushes out and braids my hair into a long plait that fades from brown to purple and gray.

When she licks her thumbs and smooths my eyebrows, I have to jump back.

“Okay, I think you’ve done all you can do, Gisa,” I tell her, putting a hand between us. Gisa isn’t as bad as what the Nortan court used to demand, but she isn’t pleasant either. Especially when I feel like I might vibrate out of my skin with nerves and fear.

She pouts, holding out a palette of colored powders. “No makeup?”

“Is Farley wearing any?” I sigh, crossing my arms in defense.

Gisa doesn’t miss a beat. “Does Farley need any?”

“No—” I start, remembering how pretty she is, until the implication hits me. “Hey!”

Gisa doesn’t flinch and simply points to the bedroom door. She must be eager to get me out of her hair. “Fine, get moving. You’re already late.” “Well, I wouldn’t be if you allowed me to dress myself,” I snipe, darting around her.

She leers after me. “What kind of sister would I be if I let you face down an abdicated king looking like Stilts alley trash?” With a hand on the doorknob, I feel a familiar tug in my stomach. “Our lives would be very different if he didn’t secretly like Stilts alley trash,” I shoot back without thinking.

But he didn’t say a word.

My face falls. Luckily Gisa misses it, too busy smothering her laughter.

In the sitting room, Farley jumps to her feet, one hand tugging her uniform into place. She still hates it, favoring body armor over tight collars.

“We’re late,” she clips, her first words to me since we went north. She’s written plenty of letters, but this is our first time seeing each other since we left. To my delight, her cold manner doesn’t reach her eyes, which crinkle with a hidden smile. “Or are you trying to skip out on what will prove to be a riveting and relaxing day?” I cross to her in a few short strides and she stretches her arms out to embrace me. Her grip is firm and strong, a comfort as much as anything in this world. I lean into her a little, drawing resolve from her dogged strength.

“Is skipping an option?” I ask when I pull back, running my eyes over the young general. She looks the same as I remember, beautiful and fierce. Maybe even more determined than usual.

“I’m sure you could beg off if you wanted,” she replies, calling my bluff. “But I doubt you do.” I flush. She’s right, of course. A wild bison couldn’t keep me from the delegation meetings.

Her hair is long enough now for a single braid that runs tight across her scalp, like a crown. It makes her look softer, but no less intimidating. As Gisa said, she doesn’t bother with makeup, nor does she need to. Diana Farley cuts a striking figure, on the battlefield and in my sitting room.

“No Clara today?” I ask, looking around her for my niece. My heart sinks a little when I see neither hide nor hair of the little girl.

“I would have carted her to the meetings, but I doubt even I’ll stay awake through them, let alone a baby. Besides, your parents would gut me if I didn’t hand her off. They took her down to the gardens after breakfast.” “Good.” My body floods with warmth at the thought of my parents playing with Shade’s daughter. Leading her through the autumn trees, letting her rip up Carmadon’s meticulous flower beds.

“The Colonel is with them too, I think,” Farley adds, her voice quiet. But also firm. That is as much as she’s willing to say.

And it isn’t my place to push. Her relationship with her father is not my business until she wants it to be. He must be making a monumental effort, that much is clear, if he’s choosing time with his granddaughter over the delegation meetings.

“Should we go?” I breathe, gesturing for the door. Already I feel the familiar burst of nerves, my stomach fluttering at the prospect of this day.

Farley is good enough to lead. She doesn’t know how to do anything else. “We should.”

The first meeting is the largest, and can hardly be called a meeting at all. It’s more like a circus.

The assembly of delegates from every corner of the alliance takes place in the grand library of the premier’s estate, the only room large enough to hold us all comfortably. Besides the People’s Gallery, of course, but Premier Davidson didn’t like the optics of using his government’s representative hall for this sort of meeting. I think he also didn’t want to intimidate the Silvers of the Nortan States. They’re a skittish bunch, according to the few reports I read. We have to be careful with the nobles, lest we drive them away and into the waiting arms of the Lakelands and the Silver Secession.

Indeed, I assume that will be the most pressing topic for the next few days—the precarious position of the Nortan States and the always looming threat of the nymph leaders Iris and Cenra. I didn’t think of them much at the cabin. It was easy to put those two, and their kingdom, out of my head while isolated in the wilderness. But not here. I can almost feel those women hanging over me, waiting for the chance to strike.

The library unsettles me as I enter. It’s only half full. We might be late, but so is everyone else. One glance tells me the delegation from the States isn’t here yet. Good. I want to be settled and ready when Cal arrives, my face schooled to neutral perfection. Right now, dozens of eyes rove over my skin, and whispers seem to follow me. I don’t bother trying to tune them out. Most are harmless, words I’m used to. Mare Barrow, the lightning girl, she’s back. The gallery ringing the floor above us is empty, unlike last time, when it brimmed with Scarlet Guard officers. Three months ago, the premier and the Command of the Guard planned our attack and defense of Archeon here.

They interrogated Maven in this room. It was one of the last times I saw him alive. I shiver as I walk over the spot on the carpet where he stood, spitting venom even under interrogation. I can still hear him in my head. You think I can’t lie through pain, he said when Tyton got too close. You think I haven’t done it a thousand times?

He meant the torture his mother inflicted on him. I knew that then and it haunts me now. Whatever his mother did to him whenever she entered his mind—it was torture. It was pain. And it twisted him beyond repair.

I think. Still, I wonder. If more could have been done for him. If I—if Cal—if someone could have saved him from the monster she made. Like always, the thought burns and leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. I clench my jaw. I refuse to vomit in front of so many people. With a will, I empty my face of expression and raise my eyes.

Across the room, one of the Montfortan officers is silent in his chair, his back to the window. His white hair glows in the morning light.

Tyton never takes his eyes off me as I pass, and I dip my head in greeting. The other electricons aren’t as high ranking as he is and won’t be here. I doubt Ella could even sit still through ten minutes of pleasantries, let alone an hour of stilted debate. I make a note to ask after them later. We have catching up to do, both in conversation and in training. No matter how much I exercised up at the cabin, I’ve certainly gone soft during my time away.

The library is set with three long tables, each angled to face the others in something like a triangle. Premier Davidson is already seated at his own, flanked by Montfortan officers and government officials. More arrive by the minute, fluttering into the library in groups of two or three. I get the feeling some have no real use, but are just curious to see the proceedings. Their numbers certainly make for an impressive sight, all aligned in their green military uniforms or politician’s robes. Aides and assistants speed through their ranks, handing out papers and packets of information. Most of the pages pile up in front of the premier, who arranges them carefully with a thin-lipped smile.

Representative Radis is close on Davidson’s right, whispering to him behind one long-fingered hand. I catch the premier’s eye as I pass him, and we exchange nods. He seems more serene than the last time I saw him, despite the chaos bubbling around us. I get the feeling that all-out war is not his field of expertise, despite his newblood ability. He likes to fight with a pen rather than gunpowder.

I won’t be sitting with the Montfort delegation, at least not today. Even though my family lives here, and I’ll probably become a citizen eventually, I’m Scarlet Guard first. I said my oath to Farley before I even knew Montfort existed, and I’m proud to take a seat next to her at the Guard table. Behind us, various officers and diplomats fill in, from all corners of the eastern continent. Four Command generals, Farley included, hold the center of the table, alike in uniform and stern bearing. They make for an intimidating sight.

With a swoop of unease, I wish I had just worn the damn red uniform.

A cold shiver runs through me at the sight of Evangeline Samos, sitting quietly in the second row, peacefully resigned to her place. I didn’t notice her at first. Even with the silver hair, she somehow manages to blend in with the rest of the Montfort delegation. Her clothes don’t glint or shine like they used to. Instead her uniform is dark green and unremarkable, with no medals or insignia. Her brother is the same, close at her side with his head bowed.

She watches me, her lethal hands folded in her lap.

I almost smile at the sight of her fingers.

While her clothes are rather plain, her hands are laden with rings of all kinds, in every metal, sharp and ready to bend to her will. Knowing Evangeline, she has other metals hidden all over her body. Even here, in a meeting of diplomats, she’s prepared to cut throats if she has to.

I meet her charcoal eyes and she smirks, never bowing her head. Once, that look might have filled me with dread. Now I feel only assurance. Evangeline is a mighty ally, no matter what we started as. Though she will never return the gesture, I bend my neck toward her and nod. Ptolemus is good enough to keep his head bowed, eyes averted from me. I want nothing to do with my brother’s killer, even as he repents for that sin and so many others.

As I watch, Radis turns in his seat, looking over his shoulder to whisper something to Evangeline and Ptolemus. Their whispers hiss, the words inaudible. The three Silvers remain in close confidence, and it doesn’t bother the premier at all. Their alliance has been cemented—even I received word of the Samos abdication and Evangeline’s pledge to Montfort.

I’m still looking at them when the last delegation enters the library, all of them organized and moving as one. Ada Wallace leads, her eyes on the room. She glances back and forth, noting every face and committing it to her perfect memory. She looks the same as I remember. Skin like deep gold, dark brown hair, eyes too kind for all she has seen and all she remembers. As one of the States’ representatives, she wears a neat black uniform and a pin at her collar. The three interlocking rings are easy to decipher—red for Reds, white for newbloods, silver for Silvers. I can think of no one better to serve the Nortan States and their campaign. My hands close on the edge of the table, keeping me in place. If we were anywhere else, I would hug her.

Julian Jacos follows on her heels, his clothing spare but fine. The sight of him releases some tension in my chest. He looks odd without his colors, wearing black instead of his usual yellow. For once, he seems quite dashing, and younger somehow. Unburdened. Happy, even. It looks good on him.

The so-called common Silvers wear the suited uniform too, delineated from Reds and newbloods only by the cold undertone of their skin. To my pleasant surprise, they walk closely with their red-blooded counterparts. As merchants, tradesmen, soldiers, and craftsmen, the common Silvers are not as separate from Reds as the nobles are.

Of course, the nobles from the Nortan States are hardly so modern in their clothing, though they also wear the pin. I know their faces as well as their colors—green for Welle, yellow for Laris. Knowledge of their houses was drilled into me long ago, and I wonder what I’ve forgotten in order to remember such idiocy.

Their house colors are symbol enough. The nobles will not go quietly, or easily. They’ll hold on to their power—and pride—as much as they can.

Anabel Lerolan most of all. She must have cracked open her jewel box for this occasion. Her throat, wrists, and fingers gleam with flame-colored gems, each brighter than the last, easily overshadowing her States pin. I half expect to see a crown on her gray head. But her boldness only goes so far. Instead she clutches the closest thing to a crown she has left.

She walks with Cal on her arm, her elbow hooked in his.

Like Julian, his new appearance suits him. No cape, no crown, no riot of medals or insignia. Just the black uniform, the circle pin, and a red square on his collar to mark him as an officer. His black hair is close-cropped again, in the military style he likes best, and he must have shaved this morning. I can see a fresh cut on his neck, peeking out just over his collar. It’s barely scabbed over, still spotted with silver blood.

There are dark circles around his eyes. He’s exhausted, overworked, and, like Julian, somehow looks happy. I feel the jealous, impulsive urge to ask why.

He isn’t looking at me. And he didn’t say a word.

Under the table, Farley squeezes my wrist in a show of comfort.

I jump at the contact, almost sparking her in the process.

“Easy,” she says without moving her lips.

I mumble an apology, my words lost in the hubbub as the final delegation settles in.

Like me, Cal takes a seat at the table, in the center next to Ada. He always liked being on the front lines.

His grandmother and uncle are no different. The rest of the delegation is evenly split, a mix of Reds and Silvers, nobles I recognize and commoners I don’t. The latter gape at the room. The nobles are less easily impressed, and doing their best to show it.

The premier doesn’t mind either response.

He simply claps his hands together, a signal to us all.

“Shall we begin?”