قلب آهنی 5

FIVE

Evangeline

I should sleep.

The flight to the Rift is several hours long, over the flat, empty fields of Prairie and then the winding borders of the Disputed Lands. It’s too dark to see anything out the jet window, and even the stars seem distant and dull. I won’t be able to tell when we cross into my father’s former kingdom, the land I grew up in. It’s been months since I last set foot in Ridge House, my family’s ancestral home. Before my father died, before Archeon fell. Before I was free to love who I chose and go where I wanted. The Ridge was beautiful, a sanctuary away from the razor-edged life of court, but it was a prison too.

Elane dozes on my shoulder, her cheek pressed against the soft leather of my coat. When she’s asleep, her abilities disappear, leaving her bare of her usual glow. I don’t mind. She looks lovely either way. And I like being able to glimpse behind her shield of soft light and perfect complexion. She’s vulnerable in those moments, and it means she feels safe.

That’s why I’m doing this, more than any other reason. To keep her safe.

And to bargain.

We’ll talk soon.

The premier’s words still echo.

I should focus on my speech, the broadcast, and denying my blood tomorrow, but I can’t get rid of Davidson’s words.

When Elane told me about his offer, I thought about packing our things. We wouldn’t need much. Fine gowns and pretty clothing have no use in the wilderness. All I needed was a good stockpile of metals, some training gear. Rations, of course. I still think about it sometimes, ticking off the list of what to bring if we have to run. A force of habit, I think, after the months of war and risk. It isn’t in me to trust anyone outside my small circle. Not yet, at least.

“Please don’t,” I asked her, holding her hands in mine. The sun was bright through the windows in our salon, but I remember feeling cold.

“It’s just a job, Eve,” she said, almost scolding me. “He wants me to be an aide. To accompany him like those newbloods. Watch his back, keep my ears open. He knows I have experience in Silver courts—I’ll be good at dealing with the Silvers here in Montfort. I know what they come from, how they think. It’s not like I haven’t done the same before.” For you. I hear it in the spaces between her words. Yes, she’s spied for me in the past. Yes, she’s risked her life for mine, to help me and my family push pieces along. She spied on Maven more than once, and that was certainly a death sentence if she was caught.

“It’s not the same, Elane.” He doesn’t value your life the way I do. “You’ll sit in the corner at first, quiet and invisible. Then he’ll ask you to go places he can’t, or won’t. To watch, report back. You’ll spy on his political opponents, his military generals, his allies—and maybe his enemies too. Each assignment more dangerous than the last.” I tightened my grip on her, already feeling her slip away. Already I could picture Davidson convincing her to check up on a raider camp or the court of a Prairie warlord. “You’re a shadow, my love. Just think of what he’ll use you for.” Her fingers ripped from mine. “Some of us are more than just our ability, Samos.”

I remember the sting of her voice, so sharp and so final. I expected her to march down to the premier’s office and accept the position on the spot. But she didn’t then, and she hasn’t yet. It’s been a long month since he offered her a place in Montfort, a permanent one. No matter how much she wants to fit in the mountains, she still waits.

For you.

I tip my head back, leaning against the wall of the jet. It isn’t fair, to hold her back. We will both need to pull our weight soon, and she’s right: she’s done this before. In more dangerous places, with worse consequences. Surely the premier will protect her?

Don’t be so naive, Evangeline.

Montfort isn’t Norta, but Montfort isn’t without its dangers either.

“You should rest,” Ptolemus whispers across the aisle, pulling me out of my thoughts. He doesn’t look up from the papers in front of him, scraps covered in his untidy scrawl. Our speeches won’t be long by any account, but he agonizes over his anyway. His tiny lamp illuminates the otherwise dark interior of the jet, punctuated only by the low lights along the ceiling and in the cockpit.

The Montfort delegates are all dozing, clustered at the back of the craft to give us space.

I shake my head, unwilling to speak and disturb Elane. Wren is out cold too, sprawled across the seats facing Ptolemus, curled beneath a fur-lined blanket, her face buried against the cool air.

My brother glances at me sideways, his eyes catching the weak light. He looks me over for too long, but I have nowhere to run. I can only let him look.

I wonder if the Ridge is still standing. With my father dead, I can only imagine what disarray our home has fallen into. Silver nobles fighting to fill the hole he left. Reds rising up to join the Guard, or the Nortan States, or carve out their own place. Part of me hopes the sprawling estate has been burned to the ground. The rest aches to see those rooms of steel and glass, looking out on marching hills and valleys.

My chest tightens as my mind dances around the inevitable question. I try to avoid it, edging the center of a whirlpool. It never fails to pull me under.

“Do you think she’ll be there?” I rasp, and Elane shifts, but doesn’t wake.

Ptolemus’s gaze sharpens, one eyebrow raised.

The words almost stick in my mouth. “Our mother?”

He doesn’t answer.

He doesn’t know.

I expect shame. Regret. Relief. Fear. But when I set foot on the airfield tarmac and breathe my first gasp of Rift air, the only thing I can think of is teeth. Wolf’s teeth. Pressing into my neck, not breaking skin but holding me down, pinning me in place.

I only made it a few feet.

For a split second, I’m on the floor again, my cheek pressed against cold tile. My parents loom over me, their faces pulled in matching scowls of disgust. I betrayed them. I attacked my father. I tried to run. I didn’t get far. My mother’s wolves made sure of that. She could have made them tear me apart if she’d wanted. Larentia Viper is no woman to trifle with, though I certainly tried.

Ptolemus is the only reason she didn’t drag me home by my ankles, wolves snapping at me all the way. If not for his interference—if he hadn’t knocked my father out cold, and killed the wolf holding me in place—I don’t want to imagine where I’d be now.

Back here, I think, looking at the hills rising around the airfield.

Autumn has come to the Rift as well, dappling the green forests with orange and red. A breeze shudders the leaves, making the morning sunlight dance across the treetops. In the distance, I can just make out Ridge House sprawled across the crest of a hill. It looks small and unimportant, a dark smudge against brighter color.

Elane steps down from the jet after me, following my gaze. She heaves a heavy sigh and nudges me toward the waiting transports, her hand a gentle guide. Ptolemus and Wren are already there, clambering into the first vehicle. The rest of the Montfort delegates and guards head for the second transport, allowing us time alone. I expected at least one of them to follow, if only to observe. After all, we are the heirs to this kingdom, the surviving children of Volo Samos. For all they know, we could be planning to take up our birthright before the eyes of a continent.

It’s almost insulting, that no one sees us as threats anymore.

Wren is still yawning when I climb up and into the transport, sliding onto the seat across from her. Her Skonos colors look darker this morning, her gown a bloodred scarlet and iron gray. She’s ready to stand and watch, resolute in her support of Tolly’s choice to abdicate. Elane will do the same with me. She favored the lovely blue-and-gold dress yesterday, and now she wears a gown beaded with rose and blush pearls. Her own message is clear. The old house ways, the colors, the alliances and stratifications of nobility, are no more to her. House Haven is not her family or her future.

The same cannot be said of me, or Ptolemus. House Samos abdicates a throne in an hour, and we must look like House Samos to do so. Our armored clothing is polished mirror and chrome, matching our silver hair and storm-cloud eyes. I clatter every time I move, disturbing the many rings, bracelets, earrings, and necklaces dangling off my body. I was raised to such pageantry, and this might be my very last parade.

“Will you rehearse?” I ask my brother, raising my chin. He finished the speech on the flight but never read it aloud.

Ptolemus nearly rolls his eyes. With his hair slicked back, he still looks like a prince. Or a king. “Will you?” Smirking, I settle back in my seat, hands folded neatly in my lap. My sharp rings click together as the transport roars over the tarmac. “I’m glad I get to go second. You’re an easy act to follow.” “Is that a challenge?” he replies.

I shrug, enjoying our game. Anything to distract from the familiar land speeding by in the window. “Just an observation.” Wren puts a hand to Tolly’s shoulder, letting her long fingers drape against his armor. She brushes away an invisible piece of dust.

“It won’t take very long,” she says. Her eyes tick over my brother, looking for any sign of imperfection or flaw. Her touch is soft and familiar when she turns his face, running both thumbs over the gray circles under his eyes. Her black skin is dark against his as she wipes away any physical sign of exhaustion. The circles disappear beneath her ability. Suddenly he looks as if he spent the night in a palace instead of a cramped jet. “Especially since the others won’t be speaking.” “Others?” My jaw tightens, as does my chest. Next to me, Elane draws in a sharp breath, and her eyes dart to mine. She looks as confused as I feel. “Tolly, I don’t like surprises. Especially today.” He doesn’t look away from Wren. “Don’t worry—it’s no one you haven’t fought before.”

“That doesn’t exactly narrow it down,” I mutter. My brain spins through the possibilities.

Mare comes to mind first, but she is far away, still recuperating in a Montfort valley where no one can reach her. When she returns to civilization, the entire country will know it.

Before I can possibly begin to list the many, many people I’ve sparred with, fought, and maimed, the answer quite literally flies by. Two air transports buzz us as we begin the climb up the hills, drowning out all conversation for a moment. I press my forehead to the window, feeling the heavy drone in my teeth as well as with my ability. The aircraft aren’t carrying any heavy weaponry that I can sense.

“Scarlet Guard,” I breathe, noting the torn crimson sun stamped on the side of the lead craft. The other might as well be dripping fresh paint. Its tail is marked with a new emblem. Three circles linked together—one red, one silver, one white. For each kind of blood. Woven as equals. “And the Nortan States.” I know exactly who will be waiting for us at Ridge House, standing in the shell of my old life.

Normally the drive from the airfield to the estate is too long, but today I wish it wouldn’t end. We summit the rolling hills in what feels like a few seconds, with the familiar gates of the old palace looming through the trees. I lower my eyes as we pass through, unable to glance at the imposing façade of glass and steel.

I could shut my eyes if I wanted, and navigate the halls without any difficulty. It would be easy to walk to the throne room without even looking up. A coward would do it.

Instead I barely blink, and let everyone see me as I step down into the wide, leafy courtyard. A stream runs through, winding beneath fluid iron bridges as it tumbles from the spring near the center of Ridge House. The flowers and trees are the same as I remember, unchanged but for the brush of autumn’s fire. I glimpse familiar walls through the plant life, and instinctively remember the rooms looking down on the receiving courtyard. Guest chambers, the servant halls, galleries, guardrooms, a statuary. Nothing looks amiss. War has not reached the Ridge. It seems we have stepped back in time.

But that isn’t true. Before my father died, there were only Silvers flanking the doors. Warriors loyal to House Samos. Now there is only Scarlet Guard. Their crimson and cardinal scarves hang proudly, impossible to ignore. They watch, hard-eyed, as we approach.

The Montfort delegates are first to enter Ridge House, leading us all in their white or forest-green clothing. Their own guards are meant for us as well, and they are attentive as we walk. Some are Reds; some are newbloods; some are Silvers. All are armed in their own way, ready to fight should the need arise. I pity anyone who decides to attack Ptolemus and me here, in a place we know so well. There is no sense in fighting a magnetron in a palace made of steel. Even my Samos cousins would not try. They might be stupid enough to attempt a coup in my name, but they aren’t suicidal.

The air inside Ridge House tastes stale and old, shocking me from my ruminations. While the Ridge itself is intact, I immediately see the decay all around us. Even in a few months’ time so much has changed. Dust coats the usually pristine walls. Most of the rooms branching off the entrance hall are dark. My home, or this part of it, is abandoned.

Elane grips my hand tightly, her touch cool against mine. I’m suddenly aware of the flush crawling beneath my skin, making me sweat. I squeeze back, grateful for her presence.

Cords of wire almost blend into the stonework beneath our feet, winding through the shadows at the base of the wall to my left. It leads to the throne room, already prepared for what we must do and what we must say. The Sunset Stretch was our receiving hall once, before my father decided to call himself a king. It still holds our thrones now, along with a great deal else. I can feel the machinery from here. Cameras, broadcasting equipment, lightning. Aluminum, iron, edged with absences that can only be plastic or glass.

I don’t hesitate, as much as I want to. There are too many eyes, Montfort and Scarlet Guard. Too much risk in appearing weak. And the pressure of an audience has always made me a better performer.

Unlike the rest of the Ridge, my father’s throne room is pristine. The windows have been cleaned, offering a clear view over the valley and the Allegiant River. Everything gleams beneath the too-bright lights the broadcast crew has assembled, now pointed at the raised platform where my family once sat. Whoever cleaned was very thorough, scouring everything from floor to ceiling. I assume it was the Scarlet Guard. Reds have more practice with such things.

The Nortan States didn’t send much of a delegation. I only count two of them. They don’t have uniforms, not like Montfort or the Guard. But it’s easy to tell who represents the new country to the east, still rebuilding itself from the ashes of the old. And these two are even easier to recognize. While the Guard busies themselves arranging cameras and perfecting their lightning, the two Nortans hang back. Not to avoid the work, but to avoid getting in the way.

I don’t blame them. Julian Jacos and Tiberias Calore are useless here, reduced to spectators. They look even more out of place than the armed Reds scuffing up my mother’s floors.

I haven’t seen Cal since his last visit to Montfort. And that was brief, only a few days. Barely enough time to shake hands with the premier and exchange pleasantries at one of Carmadon’s dinners. He’s been busy shoring up alliances and relationships, acting as a go-between for the Silver nobles of his former kingdom and the new government taking shape. Not an easy job, by any means. He’s exhausted—anyone can see that—his burning eyes ringed by dark shadows. Sometimes I wonder if he’d rather be at the head of an army instead of the negotiating table.

He catches my eye and the corner of his mouth twitches, the best smile he can muster.

I do the same, ducking my head.

How far the two of us have come from Queenstrial.

Cal isn’t my future anymore, and for that I am eternally grateful.

It’s the uncle who worries me, making my stomach swoop.

Jacos stands as he always does, looking small at Cal’s shoulder. The singer stares at the floor, unwilling to meet my gaze or my brother’s. I can’t tell if it’s guilt or pity guiding him. After all, he killed our father. Sometimes Jacos is in my nightmares, his teeth fanged, his tongue like a snake. So different from the bookish, unassuming reality.

When we approach, Julian is good enough to excuse himself, head still bowed. Only Wren gives him a smile as we pass, small as it is. One of her cousins is his companion, and even with the Nortan court in ruins, the bonds of the old nobility still hold tight.

Ptolemus reaches Cal first, clasping his hand firmly as he offers the warmest smile he can muster. No mean feat for my brother. Cal responds in kind, lowering his chin.

“Thank you for doing this, Ptolemus,” he says, one abdicated king to another. Cal looks odd in his plain jacket, without a uniform dripping with medals. Especially in comparison to my brother, all dressed up in his colors and armor.

Tolly releases his grip. “And thank you for coming. It wasn’t necessary.”

“Of course it is,” Cal replies, his tone light. “It’s an exclusive club you’re joining. I have to be on hand to welcome you into the Abdicators.” My lip curls. All the same, I take Cal’s arm, pulling him into a stiff but quick embrace. “Please don’t start calling us that,” I growl.

“I think it has a nice ring to it,” Elane interjects. She tips her head, finding the light. Everyone else looks skeletal or garish beneath the harsh fluorescent of the lighting gear, but of course she doesn’t. “Good to see you, Cal.” “And you, Elane. All of you,” he adds, his eyes sweeping over me to Wren. They keep moving, searching the room. Hunting for someone else.

But Mare Barrow isn’t here.

“Are you all the States sent to witness?” I ask, and he looks glad for the question. Happy to change the subject, happy for a distraction.

“No, the other representatives are with General Farley,” he replies. “Two Red organizers, the newblood Ada Wallace, and one of the former governor Rhambos’s children.” With a twist of his fingers, he points to the far side of the throne room. I don’t bother to turn. I’ll see them in a moment. And truthfully, I don’t want to look and find Diana Farley staring daggers at Ptolemus. My stomach twists the way it usually does whenever I’m near the Red general. Stop it, I tell myself. I’m already afraid of the cameras. I don’t have the energy to be afraid of her too.

“Wren said you wouldn’t be speaking . . . ?” I say, my voice trailing off.

“Correct.” Cal crosses his arms over his chest and settles into a stance I know well. He’s battle ready. “We won’t be on the broadcast either. Sends the wrong message.” His logic isn’t difficult to follow. “Ah. You want the country to see us do this of our own volition. No sword hanging over our heads.” I wince as soon as the words are out of my mouth, and so does Cal. I imagine he’s thinking of the moment a sword cut through his father’s neck. “Sorry, bad turn of phrase.” He waves me off, though his face pales. “We’re just here for support, mostly,” Cal mutters.

I blink at him, brow furrowed. “For us?” I scoff.

He shakes his head. “For them.” His eyes dart across the throne room, toward the far end, still empty of equipment. A small crowd waits by the windows, packed tightly together like a flock of brightly colored birds. Suddenly I feel like I might vomit, and I search for a familiar silhouette, a panther on her heels. But my mother isn’t with the Silver nobles.

Elane is not so lucky. She draws in a shaking breath when she spots her father.

Jerald Haven speaks quietly with the nobles of the Rift, and a few of old Norta too. None of House Samos that I can see, but I recognize Lord General Laris, an ally of my father’s and the former commander of the Nortan Air Fleet. None of them will look at us. They refuse. They don’t approve of what we’re doing, but they certainly can’t stop us either.

Elane looks away first, her face clear. No blush, no paling cheeks. As far as I know, she hasn’t seen her father in months. They’ve spoken only in a few letters, and those were short, terse, and on Jerald’s end downright insulting. He wanted her to come home, and she always refused. Eventually he stopped asking, and stopped writing.

The sight of him incenses me, knowing how much pain he caused her. As usual, Cal is woefully bad at reading women, and he mistakes my anger. The former king nudges my arm.

“It’s all right. Don’t let them scare you. The same was done to me, when I abdicated,” he says, his voice low and thick. “My grandmother couldn’t speak to me for days.” I resist the very familiar urge to roll my eyes at Tiberias Calore.

Wren raises an eyebrow. “But she came around?” The hope in her voice is small, and ill advised. I know enough of Anabel Lerolan to understand that.

Cal almost laughs. “Not really, no. She accepts it, though. She doesn’t have a choice. The Burning Crown dies with me, and there will be no other to rebuild the throne I broke.” Not while you live, I want to say. For such a brilliant military strategist, Cal can be terribly shortsighted. Pretenders will come. They’ll do it here, and they’ll do it in Norta. This won’t be over until long after we are dead.

Someone else might despair of such a notion. But somehow I find comfort in it. I’m choosing to step away because I can. And if someone else comes to claim the crown I throw away, so be it. That isn’t on my shoulders. I’ve done all I can to make sure of that.

“Our people need to see we’re united in this,” Cal murmurs. He still watches the Silvers, eyes alight as if he can burn them away. “That we’re ready to let go of the old world. Together.” As simple as his platitudes are, I certainly can’t argue with them. Or deny the surge of emotion deep in my chest.

My smile is true and wide. “Yes, we are.”