قلب آهنی 4

FOUR

Elane

The bath takes longer to fill here. Either because the water has to be piped up from the lake below in the city, or because I still haven’t mastered the art of doing it alone. It feels silly to call for servants these days, especially for something I should be able to do without help. And I must admit, knowing I am able to perform the task myself—it’s a satisfaction I’ve never had before.

I sit in the water long after it’s gone cold and the soapy bubbles have melted away. There’s no reason to rush. Eve will be back soon, trying to hide her regret, already wishing she’d gone with her brother instead of remaining here. I heave a breath, gathering the energy I’ll need to calm her down and soothe her enough to sleep. For someone so accustomed to physical pain, she has absolutely no idea how to grapple with emotional turmoil. No matter how much I tell her to lean on me, she always resists, and it maddens me to no end.

Shifting, I tip my head back, letting my hair splay out in the magnificent bathtub. It’s smooth, rippled with stones like a riverbed, and the water looks dark in the waning light. I doubt we’ll be able to afford something so grand once our time in the palace runs out. I should enjoy it while I can.

But before I can reach for the faucet to pour more scalding water into the cold, I hear movement in my chambers. A door bangs open in the salon, then the bedroom. Evangeline—and a companion.

Annoying.

She’s harder to deal with in front of an audience. Too proud to show her cracks.

The air is colder than the water, and I shiver as I step out onto the tile floor, almost flailing for my robe. I tie the fur-and-silk garment around myself, wondering if Davidson will let me keep it. I have a weakness for fine things, particularly ones in this emerald shade of green.

The voices in our bedchamber are familiar. Eve, obviously, and my own former husband, Ptolemus Samos. His deep timbre is difficult to mistake, and I relax a little. We shared something, he and I. Something neither of us wanted. A marriage of convenience, yes, but a marriage against our hearts as well. We did what we could to make it easy for each other, and for that I’m grateful. My father could have given me to someone so much worse, and I have never forgotten how lucky I was.

Lucky, my mind echoes, a taunting sound. Another might find no luck at all in the life I’ve led, in being forced against my nature, cast out of my family, fleeing to a strange place with nothing but the clothes on my back and a noble name from another country. But I survived it all and, what’s more, so did Evangeline. I’m lucky to have her with me, lucky to have escaped the future we were doomed to.

When I emerge, I brace myself for their bickering. Ptolemus isn’t one to raise his voice, not with his sister, but he might for this. He knows she should be abdicating with him as much as I do.

“Tolly,” I say, greeting him with a wary smile. He nods in return.

Both of them look unkempt, with new bruises blooming over their exposed skin. “Sparring?” I muse, running a finger over the purple spotting at Evangeline’s temple. “Who won?” “Not important,” Evangeline says too quickly.

I smile in my soft way, squeezing her shoulder. “Congratulations, Tolly.”

Ptolemus doesn’t gloat. “She’s just eager for a rematch.”

“Always,” Evangeline huffs. She takes a seat on the edge of our bed and strips off her boots, leaving them discarded and dirty on the lovely carpet. I bite my tongue and refrain from scolding her about cleanliness again.

“And what exactly did you win?” I ask, looking between the two siblings. Both of them know exactly what I’m asking, no matter how much I dance around it.

Silence settles over us, thick as one of Carmadon’s huckleberry pies.

“Pride,” Ptolemus finally says, as if realizing that Evangeline isn’t going to speak. Or admit what she cannot face. “I should be going. I’m late as it is.” Even he can’t keep his voice from cracking with disappointment. “I’ll need the letter, Eve.” Still quiet, Evangeline nods her head toward the salon. And the envelope still waiting, a white square on polished wood. I haven’t touched it yet. I don’t think I ever will.

“Right, thanks,” Ptolemus mumbles. I half expect him to mutter his annoyance under his breath as he strides into the next room, wishing Evangeline would follow.

I watch her instead of him. In spite of all the glamour and shine of the Nortan court, Evangeline is more beautiful in Montfort. Without her painted makeup, her needle gowns, gems ablaze on every inch of her skin. She’s easier to see. The sharp nose, the familiar lips, cheekbones to die for. And everything she keeps locked inside, the anger and the want and the pain. She has no armor here.

So I recognize the shadow passing over her features, the darkness being chased. It isn’t resistance anymore. It is surrender. And relief.

“Eve—there are two.” Ptolemus returns quickly, the open envelope in one hand. Two pieces of paper in the other. His eyes dart between us in confusion. “Two letters.” She keeps her eyes on her bare feet, as if counting her toes. “Because I wrote two. It’s not a complicated scenario.” Her haughty tone sends me spiraling through time, and suddenly I’m sitting at a gala luncheon, watching her shred some poor suitor to pieces. But she smiles at her brother in a way she would never smile at another man. “I like to be prepared for multiple outcomes.” One of the letters is obvious. Her own abdication, to read before her country after Ptolemus refuses the throne of the Rift. But the other? I can’t say.

“Go ahead,” she urges. “Read it.”

Brow furrowed, Ptolemus does as she asks. He raises the second letter, covered in fluid handwriting, and opens his mouth to recite her words.

“’Dear Iris.’”

My mouth falls open in shock, and Ptolemus hesitates, just as taken aback as I am. “You’re writing to Iris Cygnet? To the Lakelands?” he hisses, his voice suddenly dropping in volume. “Are you insane?” “Eve, they’re our enemies. Montfort is funding and fighting a war against them right now. You could—you could jeopardize everything we have here.” I find myself sitting on the bed next to her, already clutching her hands in mine. “They’ll throw us out, send us into Prairie. Or worse, Evangeline, this could be seen as treason.” And I know what Montfort does with traitors. What any country would do. “Please, my love—” “Read it,” she says again, her teeth clenched.

This time, her voice takes me to a different memory. A worse one. My marriage to Ptolemus, small and private as it was. Quieter than a union of the High Houses should have been. Probably because my parents knew I would spend the entire ceremony crying, and that Ptolemus would refuse to spend the night with me. Evangeline stood by my side through it all, as required. Sister to the groom, friend to the bride. We can bear it, she said then, her words coiling with desperation. As they are now.

Ptolemus glances at the windows, and even the door, as if expecting to see one of Davidson’s spies listening in. To satisfy him, I flare up, filling the room with blinding light for a second. Illuminating every corner and shadow.

“There’s no one here, Tolly,” I say. “Do as she asks.”

“Very well,” he whispers. I can tell he isn’t convinced, and probably thinks we’re both lunatics.

Dear Iris,

I will not bore you with the overdone greeting as befitting your rank. I’m a commoner now, and I’m allowed to take such liberties. I’m writing to you not as a friend or an enemy. Not even as one former princess to another. Though I hope my expertise on this subject, as well as my experience with the loss of kingdoms, can be of use to you if you haven’t burned this letter already. Or would you drown it? Who’s to say, really.

Our paths crossed before, and I promise you, as they stand now, our paths will cross again. If your mother keeps up her campaign, if she holds to this war still ripping between your country and my own, I swear to you, we will meet again. Either on the battlefield or across the negotiating table. If you survive long enough to see it. Norta fell to the Scarlet Guard, to Montfort, to the Red tide now sweeping across your own borders. Even you will not be able to weather it, no matter how strong you are. The Nortan States might seem ripe for the taking, but you will find no greater opposition than Tiberias Calore, the Scarlet Guard, and the delegation government now in place.

The pieces on this board we share are already in place, and it isn’t difficult to guess the game. Piedmont has been your proxy with the raiders of Prairie, to keep Montfort preoccupied with their own borders and give the Lakelands time to regroup. After all, you were sorely beaten at Archeon, and I imagine your own nobles have been at your mother’s throat over the entire affair. You’ve found opposition in the Rift, not because the Silver nobles are against you, but because they feared and respected my father. He ended up dead on your ship, did he not? What a terrible misunderstanding. Rumors really can get away from us, can’t they? And your own country, the pious, proud, bountiful Lakelands—you are steadily moving into winter. Your harvest is soon. And I suspect there are a great deal of Red workers missing, aren’t there? Who can blame them, when they can simply cross the border to seek a better life for their children?

You are a nymph, Iris. You can read the tides; you can change currents. But this current, this swift course, cannot be changed. Well I know metal, Princess. And I know that any steel that does not bend is fated to break.

If you value your throne, your crown, and your lives, you will consider what can be done to protect all three. Blood equality, new laws, as fast as you can write them, are the only way you survive this—and survive it with some power still in your grasp.

Evangeline Samos of Montfort

While Ptolemus stares, wide-eyed, at his sister’s bold strategy, the world goes hazy around me. A buzzing sounds in my ears, drowning him out as he rereads select pieces of her advice to the Lakelander princess. Evangeline Samos of Montfort. I knew she wouldn’t have the titles any longer, but to hear it, to see that name written so plainly. Of Montfort. She truly has let go of what she was, and—she’s embracing what we can be.

Tears prick my eyes, and her hand tightens in my own.

Evangeline Samos of Montfort.

Elane Haven of Montfort.

“And the abdication letter?” I say thickly, trying to keep the tears at bay.

Her jaw tightens, but she dips her head in acknowledgment. “I’ll read it myself.” All the tension of the last few days unwinds, and a pressing weight lifts from my shoulders. I almost sigh in relief. Instead I jump to my feet, my robe swirling around me as I head for the closet.

“I guess it’s a good thing I’ve already packed.”

It’s sunset, red and cold, by the time we reach the airfield cut into the slopes of Ascendant. The pines seem to lean in, watching as the four of us clamber out of our transport and onto the tarmac. We are very much behind schedule, but no one seems to mind. Not Ptolemus, not our Montfort pilots and escort, not even Carmadon and Premier Davidson, who have come to see us off. They stand out sharply from their crowd of retainers—Carmadon in his white suit, and the premier with his familiar, inscrutable smile. Neither looks surprised by Evangeline’s presence, as if they knew she would change her mind.

Though Ptolemus will be the first to abdicate and is still the heir to the Rift, he walks behind Evangeline, letting her set our pace. She walks quickly, eager to be done with this already. Though she certainly looks the part of a princess. Her battered training suit has been discarded for black leather leggings, a matching jacket, and a silver cape that ripples like liquid mercury. It could be, for all I know. The rest of us are equally dressed. Ptolemus is in a uniform, with a cape to match Evangeline’s, while Wren wears a gown patterned in red and silver, the colors of House Skonos. I don’t favor my house colors tonight. Instead of black, my dress is pale blue and gold, like clouds at dawn. It sets off my eyes.

Evangeline likes it, and she isn’t trying to hide the sentiment. She glances back at me as we walk, running her eyes over my outfit with eager satisfaction.

Our escort of Montfort guards and diplomats wastes no time boarding the waiting jet, barely acknowledging the premier before disappearing up the steps. Evangeline tries to do the same, sidestepping Carmadon’s outstretched hand, but the premier is a difficult man to ignore. He doesn’t block her path and gives her the chance to avoid him.

She is wise enough not to.

Good, I think, watching as she clasps his arm. She begrudges the action but allows it just the same. The premier is the best ally we have here, and she needs to be civil. Even with his offer of employment hanging over my head.

They mutter to each other, dropping their voices so as not to be heard. I hope she tells him about her message to Iris. Not to get his permission, but to show her intentions. I have no doubt the letter will be intercepted and read, and I’d rather the premier know what Eve is up to beforehand.

Ptolemus and Wren are brief with Carmadon. He’s too talkative for their taste, but I quite enjoy his company. I grin when he takes my hands, surveying my brightly colored clothing with a genuine smile.

“You look like a winter sunrise, Lady Haven,” he says, kissing me on one cheek.

“Well, one of us had to bring a little color,” I reply, glancing at his white suit.

He wags a dark-skinned finger at me in jest. “You must be certain to visit us, after all this is done and you’re settled in the city.” “Of course. At the premier’s pleasure,” I add, sweeping into the curtsy I’ve performed since I could walk.

“Aren’t we all,” he mutters under his breath. He even winks, up to his old tricks. But there’s something beneath his usual jest. A deeper acknowledgment.

I wonder if he feels the same kinship I do. I’m a child compared to him—Carmadon is easily three decades older than me—but we were both born to different worlds from the one we live in now. And we both love people the old world told us we couldn’t. Great people, who cast long shadows. We’re both content, if not happy, to stand in their darkness.

That’s what Evangeline is. Greatness. Strong, proud—ruthless, even. And undeniably great. Not just on the battlefield, where she is formidable, to say the least. The letter is proof of that. Even in her weakest moments, I see it. The ability to push forward and through where most would admit defeat. Not for the first time today, I find myself staring at her, still locked in whispered conversation with the premier. Carmadon follows my gaze, but his eyes flicker to his husband quickly. We watch them both, staring down a winding path with no end in sight.

Where will these people lead us?

It doesn’t matter.

I’ll always go.

The premier merely takes my hand when I pass him. We exchange nods of greeting, but little more.

“We’ll talk soon,” he says quietly, and his meaning is clear.

The offer of work.

Evangeline doesn’t miss it, though she’s already climbing the stairs into the jet. She freezes momentarily, her back stiffening. Her metallic cape ripples like the surface of a disturbed pond.

“Soon,” I echo to the premier, if only to be polite.

Truthfully, I wish I could shove him for being so blatant.

The last thing I need is any more tension with Evangeline. This is going to be difficult enough.