فصل هجدهم

EIGHTEEN

The thing with heat is, no matter how cold you are, no matter how much you need warmth, it always, eventually, becomes too much. I remember many winters spent with the window cracked open, letting in the blistering cold to combat the fire burning in the family room below. Something about the icy air helped me sleep. And now deep gasps of an autumn breeze help me to calm down, help me forget Cal alone back in the safe house. I should not have done that, I think, pressing a hand to my fevered skin. He is not only a distraction I can’t afford but a heartbreak waiting to happen. His allegiances are shaky at best. One day he will leave, or die, or betray me like so many others have. One day, he will hurt me.

Overhead, the sun has completely set, painting the sky in darkening streaks of red and orange. Maybe. I can’t trust the colors I see. I can’t trust in much of anything anymore.

The safe house is built into the crest of a hill, in the middle of a large clearing surrounded by forest. It overlooks a winding valley full of trees, lakes, and constant, swirling mist. I grew up in the woods, but this place is as alien to me as Archeon or the Hall of the Sun. There’s nothing man-made as far as the eye can see, no echo of a logging village or farm town. Though I suppose there’s a runway hidden nearby, if the jet can still be used. We must be deep into the Nortan backcountry, north and inland from Harbor Bay. I don’t know the Regent State well, but this looks like the Greatwoods region, dominated by wilderness, rolling green mountains, and a frozen tundra border with the Lakelands. It’s sparsely populated, gently governed by the shivers of House Gliacon—and a marvelous place to hide.

“You finished with him?”

Kilorn is little more than a shadow, leaning against the trunk of an oak with sky-splayed branches. There’s a water jug forgotten by his feet. I don’t need to see his face to know he’s upset. I can hear it just fine.

“Don’t be unkind.” I’m used to ordering him around, but this sounds like a request. As I expected, he ignores me, and keeps rambling.

“I guess all rumors do have a grain of truth. Even the ones that little snit Maven spits out. ‘Mare Barrow seduced the prince into killing the king.’ It’s shocking to know he’s half-right.” He takes a few prowling steps forward, reminding me very much of an Iral silk creeping in for a final blow. “Because the prince is most certainly bewitched.” “If you keep talking, I’m going to turn you into a battery.”

“You should get some new threats,” he says, smiling sharply. He’s gotten used to my big talk over the years, and I doubt I could scare him with anything, even my lightning. “He’s a powerful man, in every form of the word. Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad you’re holding his reins.” I can’t help but scoff aloud, laughing in his face. “Glad? You’re jealous, plain and simple. You’re not used to sharing. And you don’t like being useless.” Useless. The word stings. I can tell by the twitch in his neck. But it doesn’t stop him from towering over me, his height blocking out the stars winking to life above us.

“The question is, are you under a spell too? Is he using you the same way you’re using him?”

“I’m not using anyone.” A lie, and we both know it. “And you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re right,” he says quietly.

Surprise almost knocks me off my feet. In more than ten years of friendship, I have never heard those words from Kilorn Warren. He’s stubborn as a tree stump, too self-assured for his own good, a smarmy bastard most of the time—but now, on this hilltop, he is nothing he ever was. He seems small and dim, a glimmer of my old life steadily flickering into nothing. I clasp my hands together to keep from reaching out and touching him, to prove that Kilorn still exists.

“I don’t know what happened to you when you were Mareena. I wasn’t there to help you through that. I won’t tell you that I understand, or that I’m sorry for you. That’s not what you need.” But it’s exactly what I want, so I can be angry with him. So I don’t have to listen to what he’s about to say. Too bad Kilorn knows me better than that.

“The best thing I can do is tell you the truth, or at least, what I think is the truth.” Though his voice is steady, his shoulders rise and fall with deep, heaving breaths. He’s scared. “It’ll be up to you to believe me or not.” A twitch pulls at my lips, betraying a painful smile. I’m so used to being pushed and pulled, manipulated into thinking and doing by those closest to me. Even Kilorn is guilty of that. But now he’s giving me the freedom I’ve wanted for so long. A choice, small as it may be. He trusts that I have the sense to choose—even if I don’t.

“I’m listening.”

He starts to say something else, then stops himself. The words stick, refusing to come out. And for a second, his green eyes look strangely wet.

“What, Kilorn?” I sigh.

“What,” he echoes, shaking his head. After a long second, something snaps in him. “I know you don’t feel the same way I do. About us.” I’m seized by the urge to smash my head against a rock. Us. It feels stupid to talk about, a foolish waste of time and energy. But more than that, it’s embarrassing and uncomfortable. My cheeks flame red. This is not a conversation I ever wanted to have with him.

“And that’s fine,” he presses on before I can stop him. “You never saw me the way I see you, not even at home, before all this happened. I thought you might one day, but—” He shrugs his shoulders. “It’s just not in you to love me.” When I was Mare Barrow of the Stilts, I thought the same way. I wondered what would happen if I survived conscription, and saw what that future held. A friendly marriage to the fish boy with green eyes, children we could love, a poor stilt home. It seemed like a dream back then, an impossibility. And it still is. It always will be. I do not love Kilorn, not the way he wants me to. I never will.

“Kilorn,” I murmur, taking a step toward him. But he takes two back. “Kilorn, you’re my best friend, you’re like family.”

His smile bleeds sadness. “And I will be, until the day I die.”

I do not deserve you, Kilorn Warren. “I’m sorry,” I choke out, not knowing what else I can say. I don’t even know what I’m apologizing for.

“It’s not something you can control, Mare,” he replies, still standing so far away. “We can’t choose who we love. I wish, more than anything, that we could.” I feel cracked open. My skin still runs hot from Cal’s embrace, remembering the feel of him only moments ago. But in the deepest part of me, in spite of every fiber of my being, I think beyond the clearing, to ice-colored eyes, an empty promise, and a kiss aboard a boat.

“You can love him all you want, I won’t stop you. But for my sake, for your parents, for the rest of us, please don’t let him control you.” Again, I think of Maven. But Maven is far away, a shadow on the sharp edges of the world. He might be trying to kill me, but he can’t control me, not anymore. Kilorn can only mean the other royal brother, the fallen son of House Calore. Cal. My shield against the scars and the nightmares. But he’s a warrior, not a politician or a criminal. He doesn’t have the ability to manipulate anyone, least of all me. It’s just not in his nature.

“He’s Silver, Mare. You don’t know what he’s capable of, or what he really wants.”

I doubt Cal does either. The exiled prince is even more adrift than I am, without any allegiance or allies beyond a temperamental lightning girl. “He’s not what you think he is,” I say. “No matter what color his blood may be.” A sneer razors across his face, thin and sharp. “You don’t really believe that.”

“I don’t believe,” I say sadly. “I know. And it makes everything harder.”

Once, I thought blood was the world entire, the difference between dark and light, an irrevocable, impassable divide. It made the Silvers powerful and cold and brutal, inhuman compared to my Red brethren. They were nothing like us, unable to feel pain or remorse or kindness. But people like Cal, Julian, and even Lucas have shown me how wrong I was. They are just as human, just as full of fear and hope. They are not without their sins, but neither are we. Neither am I.

If only they were the monsters Kilorn believes them to be. If only things were that simple. Quietly, in the deepest part of my heart, I envy Kilorn’s narrow anger. I wish I could share in his ignorance. But I’ve seen and suffered too much for that.

“We’re going to kill Maven. And his mother,” I add with chilling assurance. Kill the ghost, kill the shadow. “If they die, the newbloods will be safe.” “And Cal will be free to reclaim his throne. To make everything as it was.”

“That won’t happen. No one would let him back on the throne, Red or Silver. And from what I can tell, he doesn’t want it.”

“Really?” I immediately hate the smirk twisting Kilorn’s lips. “Whose idea was it? To kill Maven?” When I don’t answer, the smirk grows. “That’s what I thought.” “Thank you for your honesty, Kilorn.”

My gratitude takes him aback, surprising him as much as he surprised me. We have both changed in the past few months, no longer the girl and boy from the Stilts ready to tussle over any topic—and every topic. They were children, and they are gone forever.

“I’ll keep what you said in mind, of course.” My Lessons have never felt so close, helping me know how to dismiss Kilorn without hurting him. As a princess would a servant.

But Kilorn is not so easily cast aside. His eyes narrow into dark green slits, seeing right through my mask of courtesy. He looks so disgusted I expect him to spit. “One day soon you’re going to get lost,” he breathes. “And I won’t be there to lead you back.” I turn my back on my oldest friend. His words sting, and I don’t want to hear them, no matter how much sense he makes. His boots crunch over the hard earth as he stalks off, leaving me to stand and stare at the woods. In the distance, an airjet hums, returning to us.

I fear being alone more than anything else. So why do I do this? Why do I push away the people I love? What is so very wrong with me?

I don’t know.

And I don’t know how to make it stop.

Gathering an army is the easy part. The records from Harbor Bay lead us to newbloods in towns and villages across the Beacon region, from Cancorda to Taurus to the half-flooded ports of the Bahrn Islands. Because of Julian’s list, we expand out, until every part of Norta is within our grasp. Even Delphie, the southernmost city in the kingdom, is just a few hours away by jet.

Every population center, no matter how small, has a new garrison of Silver officers meant to catch us and turn us over to the king. But they can’t guard every target at all times, and Maven is not yet strong enough in his reign to kidnap hundreds overnight. We strike randomly, without pattern, and we usually catch them off balance. Sometimes we get lucky, and they don’t even know we’re there at all. Shade proves his use time and again, as do Ada and Nix. Her abilities help us find our way around city walls—his help us go right through them.

But it always comes down to me. I am always the one to confront each newblood, to explain what they are and what kind of danger they pose to the king. Then they are given a choice, and they always choose to live. They always choose us. We give safe passage to their families, directing the ones left behind to the various sanctuaries and bases operated by the Scarlet Guard. To Command, as Farley says, her words more cryptic every time. A few are even sent to Tuck Island, to seek the safety of the Colonel. He might hate newbloods, but Farley assures me he won’t turn away true Reds.

The newbloods we find are afraid, some angry, but a few are surprised, usually the children. For the most part, they don’t know what they are. But some do, and they are already haunted by the mutations of our blood.

On the outskirts of the city of Haven, we meet Luther Carver. A young boy of eight with wispy black hair, small for his age, the son of a carpenter. We find him in his father’s workshop, excused from school to learn the trade. It takes very little convincing to get Mr. Carver to let us in, though he eyes Cal and even Nix with suspicion. And the boy refuses to look me in the eye, his tiny fingers twitching with nerves. He trembles when I speak to him, and insists on calling me lightning girl.

“Your name is on this list because you are special, because you are different,” I tell him. “Do you know what I’m talking about?” The boy shakes his head violently, his long bangs swiping to and fro. But his aptly named father stands like a guardian at his back. Solemnly, slowly, he nods his head.

“It’s all right, Luther, it’s nothing to be ashamed of.” I reach across the table, past intricate designs that are certainly Carver’s handiwork. But Luther’s fingers ghost away from my touch and he pulls his hands into his lap, squirming out of my reach.

“It’s nothing personal,” Carver says, putting a soothing hand on his son’s shoulder. “Luther’s not—he just doesn’t want to cause you any harm. It comes and goes—it’s getting worse, you see. But you’re going to help him, aren’t you?” The poor man sounds pained, his voice cracking. My heart goes out to him, and I wonder what my father would be like in such a position. Faced by people who understand your child, who can help—but must take him away from you. “You know why he is this way?” It’s a question I’ve asked myself many times, a question almost every newblood asks of me. But still I have no answer. “I’m sorry but I don’t, sir. We only know that our abilities come from a mutation, something in our blood that can’t be explained.” I think of Julian and his books, his research. He never got to teach me about the Divide, the ancient moment when silver blood split from red, only that it happened and resulted in the world now. I suppose a new Divide has begun, in blood like mine. He was studying me before his capture, trying to figure out the answer to this exact question. But he never got the chance.

Cal shifts at my side, and when he rounds the table, I expect to see the intimidating mask he keeps so close. Instead, he smiles kindly, so wide it almost reaches his eyes. Then he bends, kneeling down so he can look Luther in the eye. The boy is transfixed by the sight, overwhelmed not just by the presence of a prince but by his undivided attention.

“Your Highness,” he squeaks, even trying to salute. At his back, his father is not so proper, and his brow furrows. Silver princes are not his favorite guests.

Still, Cal’s grin deepens, and his eyes remain on the boy. “Please, call me Cal,” he says, and extends his hand. Again, Luther pulls away, but Cal doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, I’ll wager he expected it.

Luther flushes, his cheeks pulsing a dark and lovely red. “Sorry.”

“Not at all,” Cal replies. “In fact, I used to do the same thing when I was little. A bit younger than you, but then, I had very, very many teachers. I needed them, too,” he adds, winking. In spite of his fear, the boy smiles a little. “But you just have your dad, don’t you?” The boy swallows, his tiny throat bobbing. Then he nods.

“I try—” Carver says, again gripping his son’s shoulder.

“We understand, sir,” I tell him. “More than anyone.”

Luther nudges Cal with his shoe, his curiosity overcoming all else. “What could make you afraid?”

Before our eyes, Cal’s outstretched palm bursts into hot, roiling flame. But it is strangely beautiful, a slow burn of languid, dancing fire. Yellow and red, lazy in movement. If not for the heat, it would seem an artistry instead of a weapon. “I didn’t know how to control it,” Cal says, letting it play between his fingers. “I was afraid of burning people. My father, my friends, my—” His voice almost sticks. “My little brother. But I learned to make it do as I wished, to keep it from hurting the people I wanted to stay safe. So can you, Luther.” While the boy stares, transfixed, his father is not so certain. But he is not the first parent we’ve faced, and I am prepared for his next question. “What you call newbloods? They can do this too? They can—control what they are?” My own hands web with sparks, each one a twisting purple bolt of perfect light. They disappear into my skin, leaving no trace. “Yes, we can, Mr. Carver.” With surprising speed, the man retrieves a pot from a shelf, and sets it in front of his son. A plant, maybe a fern, sprouts from the dirt within. Any other would be confused, but Luther knows exactly what his father wants. “Go on, boy,” he prods, his voice kind and gentle. “Show them what needs fixing.” Before I can bristle at the turn of phrase, Luther holds out one trembling hand. His finger grazes the edge of the fern leaf, careful but sure. Nothing happens.

“It’s okay, Luther,” Mr. Carver says. “You can let them see.”

The boy tries again, his brow furrowing in concentration. This time, he takes the fern by the stem, holding it in his small fist. And slowly, the fern curls beneath his touch, turning black, folding into itself—dying. As we watch, transfixed, Mr. Carver grabs something else from the back shelf and sets it in his son’s lap. Leather gloves.

“You take good care of him,” he says. His teeth clench, shutting tight against the storm inside his heart. “You promise me that.” Like all true men, he doesn’t flinch when I shake his hand.

“I give you my word, Mr. Carver.”

Only when we’re back at the safe house, which we’re starting to call the Notch, do I allow myself a moment alone. To think, to tell myself the lie was well made. I cannot truly promise this boy, or the others like him, will survive what is to come. But I certainly hope he does, and I will do everything I can to make it so.

Even if this boy’s terrifying ability is death itself.

The newbloods’ families aren’t the only ones to flee. The Measures have made life worse than ever before, driving many Reds into the forests and frontiers, seeking a place where they won’t be worked to death or hanged for stepping out of line. Some come within a few miles of our camp, winding north toward a border already painted with autumn snow. Kilorn and Farley want to help them, to give them food or medicine, but Cal and I overrule their pleas. No one can know about us, and the Reds marching on are no different, despite their fate. They will keep heading north, until they meet the Lakelander border. Some will be pressed into the legions holding the line. Others might be lucky enough to slip through, to succumb to cold and starvation in the tundra rather than a bullet in the trenches.

My days blend into each other. Recruitment, training, repeat. All that changes is the weather, as winter grows closer. Now when I wake up, long before dawn, the ground is coated in thick frost. Cal has to heat the airjet himself, freeing wheels and gears coated in ice. Most days he comes with us, flying the jet to whatever newblood we’ve chosen. But sometimes he stays behind, electing to teach rather than fly. Ada replaces him on those days, and is just as good a pilot as he is, having learned with lightning speed and precision. And her knowledge of Norta, of everything from drainage systems to supply routes, is astounding. I can’t begin to fathom how her brain can hold so much, and still have room for so much more. She is a wonder to me, just like every newblood we find.

Almost everyone is different, with strange abilities beyond what any known Silver can do, or what I could even imagine. Luther continues his careful attempts to control his ability, shriveling everything from flowers to saplings. Cal thinks he can use his power to heal himself, but we’ve yet to find out. Another newblood, an old woman who has everyone call her Nanny, seems to be able to change her physical appearance. She gave us all quite a fright when she decided to waltz through the camp disguised as Queen Elara. Despite her age, I hope to use her in recruitment soon enough. She proves herself as best she can in Cal’s training, learning to fire a gun and use a knife with the rest. Of course, this all makes for a very noisy campsite, and would certainly draw notice, even deep in the Greatwoods—if not for a woman named Farrah, the first recruit after Ada and Nix, who can manipulate sound itself. She absorbs the explosive blasts of gunfire, smothering each round of bullets so that not even an echo ripples across the valley.

As the newbloods expand their abilities, learning to control them as I did, I begin to hope. Cal excels at teaching, especially with the children. They don’t have the same prejudices as the older recruits, and take to following him around the camp even when their training lessons are over. This in turn ingratiates the older newbloods to the exiled prince’s presence. It’s hard to hate Cal when he has children milling around his ankles, begging for another lesson. Even Nix has stopped glaring at him, though he still refuses to do anything more than grunt in Cal’s direction.

I’m not so gifted as the exile, and come to dread the morning and late-afternoon sessions. I want to blame my unease on exhaustion. Half my days are spent recruiting, traveling to the next name on our list, but that’s not it at all. I’m simply a poor instructor.

I work closest with a woman named Ketha, whose abilities are more physical and alike to my own. She can’t create electricity or any other element, but she can destroy. Like Silver oblivions, she can explode an object, blowing it apart in a concussive cloud of smoke and fire. But while typical oblivions are restricted to things they can actually touch, Ketha has no such limitation.

She waits patiently, eyeing the rock in my hand. I do my best not to shrink from her explosive gaze, knowing full well what it can do. In the short week since we found her, she’s graduated from destroying clumps of paper, leaves, even branches, to solid stone. As with the other newbloods, all they need is a chance to reveal their true selves. The abilities respond in kind, like animals finally let out of their cages.

While the others give her training a wide berth, leaving us to the far end of the Notch clearing, I can do no such thing. “Control,” I say, and she nods.

I wish I had more to offer her, but my guidance is woefully poor. I myself have only a month of ability training under my belt, much of it from Julian, who wasn’t even a proper trainer to begin with. What’s more, it’s incredibly personal to me, and I find it difficult to explain exactly what I intend to Ketha.

“Control,” she repeats.

Her eyes narrow, deepening her focus. Strange, her mud-brown eyes are unremarkable despite the power they hold. Like me, Ketha comes from a river village, and could pass for my much-older sister or aunt. Her tanned skin and gray-tipped hair are firm reminders of our humble, unjust origins. According to her records, she was a schoolteacher.

When I heave the rock skyward, tossing it as far up as I can, I’m reminded of Instructor Arven and Training. He made us hit targets with our abilities, honing our aim and focus. And in the Bowl of Bones, I became his target. He nearly killed me, and yet here I am, copying his methods. It feels wrong—but effective.

The rock pulverizes into dust, as if a tiny bomb went off inside it. Ketha claps for herself, and I force myself to do the same. I wonder if she’ll feel differently when her abilities are put to the test, against flesh instead of stone. I suppose I can have Kilorn catch us a rabbit so we can find out.

But he grows more distant with every passing day. He’s taken it upon himself to feed the camp, and spends most of his time fishing or hunting. If I were not so preoccupied with my own duties, recruiting and training, I would try and snap him out of it. But I barely have time to sleep, let alone coax Kilorn back into the fold.

By the first snowfall, there are twenty newbloods living at the camp, varying from old maids to twitching young boys. Luckily, the safe house is bigger than I first thought, stretching back into the hill in a maze of chambers and tunnels. A few have shafted windows, but most are dark, and we end up having to steal lanterns as well as newbloods from every place we visit. By the time the first snow falls, the Notch sleeps all twenty-six of us comfortably, with room for more. Food is plentiful, thanks to Kilorn and Farrah, who turns him into a silent, deadly hunter. Supplies come in with each wave of recruits, ranging from winter clothes to matches and even a bit of salt. Farley and Crance use their criminal ties to get us what we need, but sometimes we resort to good old-fashioned thievery. In a month’s time, we are a well-oiled, well-hidden machine.

Maven has not found us, and we keep tabs on him as best we can. Signposts and newspapers make it easy. The King Visits Delphie, King Maven and Lady Evangeline Review Soldiers at Fort Lencasser, Coronation Tour Continues through the King State. The headlines pinpoint his location, and we know what each of them means. Dead newbloods in Delphie, in Lencasser, in every place he visits. His so-called coronation tour is just another shroud of secrecy, hiding a parade of executions.

Despite all our abilities and tricks, we are not fast enough to save everyone. For every newblood we discover and bring back to our camp, there are two more hanging from gallows, “missing,” or bleeding into gutters. A few bodies show the telltale signs of death by magnetron, skewered or strangled by iron rods. Ptolemus no doubt, though Evangeline might be there too, basking in the glow of a king. She’ll be queen soon enough, and will certainly do best to keep Maven close. Once, that would infuriate me, but now I feel nothing but pity for the magnetron girl. Maven is not Cal, and he will kill her if it suits him. Just like the newbloods, dead to keep his lies alive, to keep us on the run. Dead, because Maven has miscalculated. He believes enough corpses will make me come back.

But I will not.