فصل دوازدهم

Twelve: Evangeline

Even though Montfort is beautiful, I’m keenly glad to be leaving so soon after our arrival. What’s more, I’m going home. To Ridge House, to Ptolemus, to Elane. I’m so happy I barely notice that I have to pack up my things myself.

It’s the smart move. Even the Reds know it. The Rift is closer to Montfort than the Piedmont base, not to mention it isn’t surrounded by Bracken’s territory. And the kingdom is a place of strength, well defended. Maven won’t order an assault on our lands, and we’ll have time to gather our resources and our armies.

Still, my skin prickles with discomfort all afternoon. I can hardly stomach Cal’s grin as we step out into the courtyard of Davidson’s palace. Sometimes I wish he had just an ounce of Maven’s cunning, or even sense. Then he might understand what happened this morning in the People’s Gallery. But no, he’s too trusting, too good, and much too pleased with his little speech to realize how well Davidson maneuvers.

The vote was already decided. It must have been. The politicians of Montfort already knew what Davidson would request, and they already knew how they would answer. The army was decided before we even arrived. Everything else, the entire visit to the city, was a performance, and a seduction.

It’s what I would do.

Just as Davidson’s own words to me were a seduction of their own. Another small thing we allow here, he said to me when I first arrived. He knows about Elane, and he knows exactly what to say to make me falter. Make me wonder. Make me think, even for an instant, about throwing my life away for a place here.

The premier is a good salesman, to say the least.

Cal crosses the courtyard to bid good-bye to Davidson and his husband, Carmadon. Looking at the couple, I feel the familiar surge of jealousy and then nausea. I turn away, if only to look somewhere else.

My eyes land on another despicable public display of emotion. Another nauseating round of farewells before this troop of dancing monkeys heads to the Rift.

I don’t understand why Mare couldn’t have said her good-byes inside, where the rest of us didn’t have to see such a performance. As if she is original in her grief. As if Mare Barrow is the only one here who has ever had to leave someone behind.

She hugs her family one by one, each embrace longer than the last. Her mother cries; her father cries; her brothers and her sister cry. She does her best not to, and fails. Their half-hidden sniffles echo across the mountain jetway, and the rest of us are forced to act as if we aren’t waiting for the weeping family.

It’s all very Red, I suppose. They don’t have to worry about what showing weakness might do, because, for the most part, they’re already weak. Someone should talk to Barrow about that. She should know by now how important maintaining an image is.

The tall Red boy, Barrow’s tan, blond pet, follows alongside, hugging her family as if they were his own. I suppose he’s still tagging along.

Cal finishes with Davidson, pulling back from their whispered conversation. The premier isn’t coming back with us, not yet. Now that his government has agreed to fully aid us, he has much to organize, and he pledges to follow us back to the Rift in a week or so. But I don’t think that’s what they’re talking about. Cal is too fervent, too on edge, his grip on Davidson tight and unyielding. His eyes are soft, though. He’s asking for something, something small and unimportant to anyone but him.

When the prince walks away, he passes by Mare with long, quick strides. Her brothers watch him go, eyes trailing in the prince’s wake. If they were Calore burners, I think they might set him on fire. The sister is less hostile, but more disappointed. She frowns at his retreating form, lip between her teeth. She looks more like Mare when she does that, especially when her frown deepens into a sneer.

Cal stops at my right, settling into a wide-legged stance, crossing his arms over a plain black uniform.

“You need a better mask, Calore,” I mutter to him. He only scowls. “And she needs to keep to our schedule.” “She’s leaving her family behind, Evangeline,” he growls in reply. “We can spare the minutes.” I heave a sigh and examine my nails. No claws today. No need for them on the journey back home. “So many allowances where Barrow is concerned. I wonder where that line is, and what happens when she inevitably crosses it.” Instead of snarling back, as I expect, he chuckles low in his throat. “Try to spread your misery all you want, Princess. It’s the only thing you have left.” Gritting my teeth, I clench a fist. And I wish I’d donned my claws.

“Don’t pretend I’m the only one miserable here,” I snap.

That cows him into silence, the tips of his ears flushing a stubborn gray.

With a last embrace, Mare finally finishes all her hysterical nonsense. She turns tightly, shoulders squared away from her brood. Their faces vary, but they all have a likeness. Similar coloring, dark eyes and golden-toned skin. Dark brown hair but for the sister and the graying parents. There’s a common roughness to them, born in their blood. As if they were shaped from earth and we were shaped from stone.

The Red boy keeps pace as Mare walks toward us, tugged along on an invisible leash. He looks over his shoulder to wave back at the family, but Mare doesn’t. I respect that instinct, at least. Her dogged and sometimes ill-advised habit of pressing forward at all costs.

Cal looks up as she passes, stomping her way into the jet. His hand flexes, fingers grazing her arm as she goes. His skin is pale against the sleeve of her rust-colored jacket. But she doesn’t stop and he doesn’t stop her. He only stares at her disappearing form, throat bobbing with the words he can’t find it in himself to say.

Part of me wants to prod him after her with a sharp knife. The rest wants to cut out that heart of his, since he insists on ignoring it and subjecting me to a similar pain.

“Shall we, my future husband?” I growl, offering him my arm. The spikes of my metallic coat lie flat, glistening against one another in invitation.

Cal eyes me darkly, his teeth clenched into a forced grin. Dutiful to the last, he slips his arm around mine, resting his hand below my wrist. His skin blazes with heat, almost too hot to touch. I feel sweat prickle on my neck and fight the urge to shiver in disgust. “Of course, my future wife.” How I used to want this, I don’t know.

Any revulsion I feel is quickly swallowed by excitement as we board the jet, our steps matched as we climb into the iron hulk. All that stands between me and a reunion with the ones I love most is a few short hours of flight. Squeezed alongside Cal and Mare and whatever dramatic sighs and meaningful stares they might toss at each other, yes, but I can handle it. Ptolemus is waiting.

Elane is waiting.

Even thousands of miles away, I feel the cool balm of her presence, a cold towel on fevered skin. White skin, red hair, all the stars in her eyes, the moon in her teeth.

When I was thirteen, I cut Elane to ribbons in the Training ring. For Father, for even the chance of his approval. I cried for a week afterward, and spent another month apologizing. She understood, of course. We know what our families are, what they demand, what we must be for them. And as the years wore on, such things became expected. Ordinary. We fought daily, hurting each other, hurting ourselves. In Training, with healers at the ready. We desensitized ourselves to the necessary violence of our days. But I wouldn’t do it to her now. Wouldn’t hurt her for anyone on this earth, even with the best healers in the world waiting to attend her. Not for my father, or for my crown. If only Calore felt as strongly for Mare. If only he loved her as I love Elane.

As soon as we’re safely in the belly of the jet, the curved walls lined with cushioned seats and restraints, bolted-down tables and thick-glassed windows, Cal peels away from me. He eases himself down next to his grandmother, holding solitary court at one of the few tabled areas.

“Nanabel,” I hear him mumble in greeting, using the utterly ridiculous and unbecoming pet name.

She looks weary for the first time I can remember. She offers her grandson a kind, private smile as he sits.

I find a seat of my own, favoring a window and a table at the corner, where I can sleep without much disturbance. Our jet is more comfortable than the military transports, though also commandeered from the Piedmont Air Fleet. The inside is white and cheery, accented with yellow and tiny bursts of purple stars along the interior. Prince Bracken’s colors and symbols.

I’ve never met the prince, only his various diplomats through the years, and of course his envoys, Prince Alexandret and Prince Daraeus. They’re both dead now. I watched Alexandret die in Archeon, shot through the skull during the first attempt on Maven’s life. The memory turns my stomach.

An Iral lord stood up, pointed a gun, and fired a bullet at the king sitting two feet to my left. Fired and missed, of course, forcing us to act like the allies we pretended to be.

He should have died that day. I wish he’d died that day.

I can still taste the iron tang of his blood, mercurial upon the stones, gushing in an open river at my feet.

The assassination attempt failed. The rebelling houses fled, retreating to their lands and strongholds. Elane is no warrior and she was already gone, fleeing before the attack. But House Samos had to keep our cover. I still had to stand at Maven’s council—stand because the weasel denied me the courtesy of a single chair—and watch him interrogate her sister. Watch his Merandus cousin spill out her memories before they executed her for treason.

Elane never speaks of it, and I won’t push. I can’t imagine what I would do if Ptolemus met the same fate. No, that’s not true. I can imagine a thousand things. A million different forms of violence and pain. And not one would fill the void. The bonds of Silver blood, when strong, are unbreakable. Our loyalty to the few we love runs bone-deep.

What will Bracken do for his children, then?

I didn’t ask after them, or their treatment in Montfort. It’s easier not to. One less worry in a world full of worries.

My pursuit of silent privacy is interrupted by a hurricane of muscular limbs and cropped blond hair. The Scarlet Guard general sits with a collapsing thump, shuddering the floor beneath my feet.

“You move with the grace of one of those bison,” I sneer, hoping to chase her out of the seat opposite mine.

She doesn’t flinch or reply. The woman just glares at me with a flash of anger, her eyes galaxy blue. Then she turns to the window, leaning her forehead against the glass with a low huff of breath. She isn’t crying. Not like Barrow, who enters the jet with hiccups and red-rimmed eyes.

There is no such display of sorrow on General Farley. Still, I can see the agony rolling off her like a tide. Her face goes blank, empty without the usual stony expression and obligatory disgust she tosses at Silvers, especially me.

I know she has a daughter, an infant, stowed away somewhere.

Not here. Not on this craft.

Barrow follows the Red woman, taking the seat beside her, and I snarl to myself. We traveled here with two jets, enough to keep the Reds and Silvers apart, as well as carry the bounty of Corvium. I find myself wishing that were still the case, and we weren’t all crammed together for the journey to the Rift.

“There are approximately sixty other seats on this plane,” I mutter.

Mare cuts her own glare at me, torn between anger and heartache. “You’re welcome to move if you want,” she replies. “But I doubt you have somewhere better to sit.” She gestures with her chin, indicating the rest of the plane as it fills with various representatives of those loyal to Cal and the Scarlet Guard.

I sink back into the plush seat, almost huffing. She isn’t wrong. I hardly want to spend the hours donning a court mask, wielding a smile like a shield to trade information and veiled threats with the other Silvers. Nor do I have any desire to shut my eyes among Reds who would rather slit my throat. No, strangely, Mare Barrow is my safest haven here. Our bargain protects us both.

Mare shifts her attention, moving so her body is squared to the general. They don’t speak, and Diana Farley doesn’t look at Barrow. Her focus on the window is perfect, enough to shatter the glass. She doesn’t seem to notice when Mare takes her hand.

As the jet purrs to life, its engines humming to a roar, she doesn’t move. Her teeth clench, the muscles in her jaw jumping as she grinds them together.

Only when we take off, climbing into the clouds, leaving the mountains behind, does she shut her eyes.

I think I hear her whisper good-bye.

I’m the first down the steps of the jet, gulping the fresh scent of the Rift in summer. I smell dirt and river and leaves and damp heat, undercut with the distant hint of iron beneath the hills. The sun is strong, bright in a hazy, humid sky. It makes everything gleam in odd contrast. The ridges march off into the distance, lush and green against the flat, hot black of the paved runway. If I were to lay a palm to the ground, it would burn my skin. Waves of heat distortion rise from the pavement, wobbling the world around me. Or that could just be me, trembling with want. I try not to run. Try to hold on to some sense of propriety.

My relationship with Elane Haven is an open secret now, and a small one in comparison to the myriad of alliances and betrayals that seem to tangle our lives in so many webs.

A small secret, but a shameful one. An obstacle. A difficulty.

In Norta. In the Rift, a voice says in my head. Not so elsewhere.

She won’t be waiting out here for all to see. It’s not her way. Still, my heartbeat hammers, pounding at my pulse points.

Ptolemus is not so restricted. He stands on the runway, sweating stubbornly in a summer uniform of gray linen and reserved regalia. The only metal on him winks at his wrists. Thick-braided iron rope, more weapon than jewelry. A caution, especially alongside the dozen or so guards in Samos colors. A few are cousins, marked by their silver hair and black eyes. The rest are pledged to our house, to my father’s crown, in the same way Maven’s guards were. I don’t bother noting their colors. They don’t matter.

“Eve,” he says, opening his arms to me. I return the gesture, holding him around the middle, letting all the muscles in my body release for one long moment of relief. Ptolemus is safe and whole beneath my fingertips. Solid. Real. Alive.

Now, more than ever, I won’t take that for granted.

“Tolly,” I breathe in reply, pulling back to look up at him. The same relief I feel flashes in his stormy eyes. We despise being parted. It’s like separating a sword from a shield. “I’m sorry I left.” No, you didn’t leave him. That denotes choice. You had no choice in this. My fingers tighten on my brother’s upper arm. Father sent me to Montfort. To send a message. Not just to our coalition, but to me. He is my king and lord of my house. It is my duty to obey him. To go where he wishes, do as he says, and marry who he commands. Live as he wills.

But I see no other way, no other path than the one he sets.

“Sad to miss the chaos?” Ptolemus says, pushing me back softly. “Father’s gone a bit wild making up a proper court. Silver all over the place. And he can’t decide on a throne.” “What about Mother?” I ask, tentative.

Despite the heat, Ptolemus tucks my arm under his, leading me toward our transport. Behind us, others fall in line, but I have little regard for them.

“More of the same,” he says. “Prodding after grandchildren. She escorts Elane to my rooms every night. I think she might even stand guard outside the door.” Bile rises in my throat, but I force it down.

“And?” I try to keep my voice from wavering. His grip tightens.

“We do as we all agreed.” His breath catches. “What has to be done, for this to work.” Hot, green envy roars in my chest.

I thought I wouldn’t be jealous. Months ago, when all three of us came to this decision. When we decided to go through with Elane’s betrothal to my brother. At first, the betrothal was simply meant to protect her. Take her out of consideration for any other houses until we could figure something out. It would not do to have her married off to some simpering Welle greenwarden or boorish Rhambos strongarm. Both out of my reach and out of my control. She is a beautiful girl, a talented shadow. Her house is of great value. And Ptolemus is the heir to House Samos. It was an equal match, understandable, predictable. Useful for a time. When the three of us thought there were no other options. I was still betrothed to Maven, doomed to be his queen. But Ptolemus was near as his right hand, close to court. A marriage would keep Elane close too.

We didn’t know what machinations our father had in store. Not really. Not the details.

If I knew then what I know now . . . what decisions would have been different?

Ptolemus would be unwed, an eligible prince. And Elane free to follow you, her princess, wherever you may go. To marry whatever courtier you chose. Not chained to your brother, in another kingdom, another country, another bedroom, for the rest of all your lives.

Father could have stopped us, but he didn’t. He let us make this mistake. I bet he enjoyed it, knowing I was separating myself from the one person I wanted more than any crown.

“Eve?” Ptolemus whispers, bending down. He’s at least six inches taller than me. Broader, too. The firstborn, four years my elder. The son of Volos Samos, the heir to the Kingdom of the Rift. I love my brother, but his life will always be easier than mine. And I’m allowed to resent him for it, in my small way.

“It’s fine,” I force out between clenched teeth. It’s a good thing I’m not wearing my usual metals, or they all might crush to dust. Out of the corner of my eye, I note Tolly adjusting his bracelets as they tighten on his skin. “We chose this. We have to live with it.” The odd, faraway voice rises again.

Do you?

In my mind, I see a flash of a white suit and a green one, two men, their hands different colors, fingers interlaced. They cloud across my vision, and I rely on Ptolemus to lead me the last few steps. He almost has to lift me into the transport.

The vision of Davidson and Carmadon is replaced with another. My brother and Elane in a familiar bedroom. My own wretched mother’s shadow at the door. There’s only one way to erase the vision threatening to burn itself onto my eyes.

While the rest make for the newly fashioned throne room, to greet my father as a king deserves, I do the opposite. I know Ridge House as well as my own face, and it isn’t difficult to slip away in the receiving courtyard, disappear into the regimented trees and flowers. The servants’ garden connects to the kitchens, and I barely notice the Reds as I pass. They shrink from my presence, well accustomed to my moods. Currently, I feel like a storm cloud, dark and brooding, threatening to burst.

Elane waits in my room. Our room, the windows clear, curtains open. She knows I like the sun, especially on her. She perches in one of the window seats, leaning back against a pillow, one leg dangling free, bare to her upper thigh beneath a sheer black gown. She doesn’t turn to look at me when I walk in, allowing me the time I want to adjust to her presence.

My eyes trace her leg before jumping to her hair, red and gleaming, loose around her pale shoulders. It looks like liquid fire. Her skin seems to glow, because it does. This is her ability, her art. She manipulates the light just so, accentuating herself without any need for makeup or finery. Rarely do I feel ugly. I’m a beautiful girl, by design and nature. But after the long flight, without my usual armor of an intricate dress and painted face, I feel diminished next to her. Unworthy. I fight the urge to duck into my bathroom and sweep a little makeup on.

Finally she turns, giving me full view of her face. Again I feel a little bit of shame in coming to her so disheveled. But want quickly chases away any other sensation. She laughs as I kick the door shut and cross the room to take her face in my hands. Her skin is smooth and cool beneath my fingers, a perfect alabaster. Still, she doesn’t speak, letting me look over her features.

“No crown,” she says, raising her hand to my temple.

“No need for it. They all know who I am.”

Her touch brushes lightly, sweeping down my cheekbone as she tries to smooth away my cares. “Did you sleep on your journey back?” I huff, running my thumbs along the underside of her jaw. “Is that your way of saying I look tired?” Her fingers continue over my face, down to my neck. “I’m saying you can sleep if you want.” “I’ve slept enough.”

She smirks, lips twisting in the split second before I kiss her.

It breaks my heart to know she isn’t really mine.

A fist collides with my door, pounding directly on the entrance to my bedroom. Not even the salon outside, where visitors are meant to wait. My bedroom, our bedroom, directly. I shoot up from my pillows, untangling myself from the sheets with fury. With a flick of my wrist, I draw a knife from the chest across the room and make quick work of the silk twisting around my legs.

Elane doesn’t blink when the blade passes within an inch of her bare skin. She just yawns, my lazy cat, and rolls over to cradle a pillow. “So rude,” she murmurs, meaning both me and whatever idiot decided to interrupt us.

“Practicing for that foul creature,” I reply, cutting the last sheet. “What an unlucky messenger.” I stand, naked, before tying a soft robe around myself with the blade still in hand.

The knocking continues, followed by a muffled voice. I recognize it, and some of my delicious, righteous anger evaporates. No scaring the colors out of anyone right now. Annoyed, I throw the knife at the wall. It sticks, blade sinking into the woodwork.

“What, Ptolemus?” I sigh, wrenching open the bedroom door. He looks similarly disheveled, his hair messy and his eyes burning. I suspect he was interrupted as I was. He and Wren Skonos like their afternoon trysts.

“We’re needed in the throne room,” he says firmly. “Right now.”

“Is Father that upset I haven’t kissed his feet yet? It’s only been a few minutes.”

“It’s been two hours,” Elane calls, not bothering to raise her head. “Hello, Husband,” she adds, tipping a dainty hand. “Be a dear and call for some lunch?” I tighten the robe, annoyed. “So, what am I walking into? A public lashing? Will he finally make good on the promise to spike our heads to the gate?” I sneer, chuckling darkly.

“Strangely, this isn’t about you,” my brother replies, his voice sharp and dry. “There’s been an attack.” Quickly, I look over my shoulder. Elane lies sprawled, partially covered by the sheets. She isn’t glowing now, without any reason to concentrate as she drifts back to sleep. She is defenseless, vulnerable. Even to words. “Out here,” I mutter, pushing my brother into the adjoining salon. I can protect her from this, at least, if nothing else.

I lead him to one of the couches, a cool green to match the hilly vista in the window. Rough river stone paves the floor, strewn with soft blue carpets. “What happened? Attack where?” For some reason, I picture Montfort, and my heart plunges in my chest.

Ptolemus doesn’t sit. He paces instead, hands on his hips. The tendons in his forearms flex. “Piedmont.” I can’t help but scoff. “Maven’s a fool,” I snarl. “He’s only hurting Bracken’s resources, not ours. I didn’t think he was this stupid—” “Maven didn’t hit Bracken,” my brother snaps. “Bracken hit us. The Piedmont base. Two hours ago, but we just got the call for help.” “What?” I blink, admittedly confused. I raise a hand, clutching the collar of my robe, pulling it shut. As if silk can save me from anything.

“He cut off the base, stormed it with his own army and an alliance of the other Piedmont princes. He’s taking it back. Killing anyone they could get their hands on. Nortan Red, Montfort Silver. Newbloods.” Ptolemus prowls to the window, putting a hand to the glass. He stares east, at the haze of a hot afternoon. “We suspect Maven and the Lakelands are helping behind the scenes.” I look at the floor, my bare feet on the carpet. “But his children. Montfort will have to kill them.” What a trade. Your children for your crown. I wonder if my own father would make the same choice.

Slowly, Ptolemus shakes his head. “We received word from Montfort too. The children—they’re gone. Replaced with Red corpses healed to look like Princess Charlotta and Prince Michael. Someone got to them, and got them out.” He growls low in his throat. “Montfort idiots don’t know how it happened. How anyone got into their precious mountains and out again.” I wave a hand, dismissing the point. It doesn’t matter right now. “So Piedmont is finished?” His jaw tightens. “Piedmont is with Maven now.”

“And what can we do?” I suck in a dragging breath. My mind whirls. There was a garrison left back in Piedmont, soldiers from the Scarlet Guard and Montfort. Red, newblood, and Silver, people we need for our armies. I grit my teeth, wondering how many might have survived.

At least my father’s own army is here in the Rift, having returned after we destroyed Corvium. The same can be said of Anabel’s alliance. Our Silver strength is preserved, but the loss of the base—and Piedmont—will have devastating consequences.

I swallow hard, my voice shaking as I speak again. “What can we do against the Lakelands, Maven’s Norta, and Piedmont?” My brother’s look is grim, and I shiver to my core.

“We’re about to find out.”