فصل سوم

THREE

Mare

My laughter echoes down the eastern walls and over the dark fields. I double over, hands pressed against the smooth parapet, gasping for breath. I can’t control it. True laughter, the deep kind from the pit of my stomach, takes over. The noise is hollow, harsh, and dusty from disuse. My scars bite, stinging along my neck and spine, but I can’t hold it back. I laugh until my ribs hurt and I have to sit down, putting my back against the cold stone. It doesn’t stop, and even when I bite my lips closed, little bursts still make it through.

No one can hear me but the patrols, and I doubt they care about a single girl laughing alone in the darkness. I’ve earned the right to laugh or cry or scream as I see fit. Little pieces of me want to do all three. But laughter wins out.

I sound deranged, and maybe I am. I certainly have an excuse, after today. People are still clearing bodies from the other side of Corvium. Cal chose his crown over everything I thought we were fighting for. Both are still bleeding wounds no healer can fix. Wounds I have to ignore right now, for my own sanity. The only thing I can do is put my face in my hands, clench my teeth, and fight my infernal, idiotic laugh.

This is complete and total lunacy.

Evangeline, Cal, and me, all headed to Montfort. What a terrific joke.

I said as much in my message to Kilorn, still safe back in Piedmont. He would want to know about everything, as much as I could say. After I convinced him to stay behind, it’s only fair to keep him in the loop. And of course, I want him in the loop. I want someone else to laugh with me, and curse over what’s to come.

I chuckle darkly again, tipping my head back against the stonework. The stars above me are pinpricks, dimmed by the city lights of Corvium as well as the rising moon. The stars seem to watch, looking down at the fortress city. I wonder if Iris Cygnet’s gods are laughing with me. If they even exist.

I wonder if Jon is laughing too.

The thought of him chills my blood, killing whatever manic giggle I have left. That wretched, prophesizing newblood is out there somewhere, having escaped us. But to do what? Sit on a hill and watch? Let his red eyes tick back and forth as we all kill each other? Is he some kind of game master, content to nudge us into position and play out whatever future he chooses? If it were remotely possible, I would try to find him. Force him to protect us from lethal fate. But that’s absurd. He’ll see me coming. We can only find Jon if he wants to be found.

Frustrated, I scrub my fingers over my face and scalp, letting my nails drag across my skin. The sharp sensation brings me back to reality, little by little. So does the cold. The stone beneath my body loses warmth as night wears on. The thin fabric of my uniform does little to keep me from shivering, while the sharp, solid edges of the wall are hardly comfortable. Still, I don’t move.

Moving means sleep, but it also means going back down. To the others, to the barracks. Even if I don my best scowl and run, I’ll have to face Reds and newbloods and Silvers too. Julian, certainly. I can just imagine him waiting on my cot, ready with another lecture. What he could possibly say, I don’t know.

He’ll side with Cal, I think. At the end of all this. When it becomes clear we won’t let Cal keep his throne. Silvers are nothing if not loyal to blood. And Julian is nothing if not loyal to his dead sister. Cal is the last piece of her left. He won’t turn his back on that, even for all his talk of revolution and history. He won’t leave Cal alone.

Tiberias. Call. Him. Tiberias.

It even hurts to think the name. His real name. His future. Tiberias Calore the Seventh, King of Norta, Flame of the North. I picture him on his brother’s throne, safe in a cage of Silent Stone. Or would he drag out the diamondglass inferno his father sat? Destroy every shred of Maven, erase him from history? He’ll rebuild his father’s palace. The Kingdom of Norta will return to the way it was. Except for the Samos king in the Rift, everything will go back to what it was meant to be the day I fell into the arena.

Making everything that has occurred since that day be for nothing.

I refuse to let that happen.

And, luckily, I’m not alone in this endeavor.

The moonlight glows on the black stone, making the gold accents of every tower and parapet gleam silver. Patrols wind below me, guards in red and green uniforms keeping watch. Scarlet Guard and Montfort. Their counterparts, Silvers in house colors, are less frequent, and they clump together. Yellow Laris, black Haven, red and blue Iral, red and orange Lerolan. No Samos colors. They’re royal now, thanks to Volo’s ambition and opportunity. No need to waste their time on something as ordinary as the nightly rounds.

I wonder what Maven thinks of that. He fixated on Tiberias so much, I can only imagine the weight of another rival king like Volo. Everything revolved around his brother, even though Maven seemingly had everything he could want. The crown, the throne, me. He still felt that shadow. Elara’s doing. She coiled and curled him into what she needed, cutting away and building up in equal measure. His obsession helped fuel his need for power, and enabled her own. Will it extend to King Volo? Or are Maven’s darkest and most dangerous desires restricted to us? Kill Tiberias, keep me?

Only time will tell. When he strikes again, and he will, I’ll know.

I only hope we’re ready.

Davidson’s troops, the Scarlet Guard and our spreading infiltration—we’re enough. We have to be.

But that doesn’t mean I can’t take precautions.

“When do we leave?”

It took some dreaded social interaction, but I managed to ask my way to Davidson’s quarters. He commands some larger offices in the administrative sector, forming a suite currently filled with Montfort brass. And Scarlet Guard too, although Farley isn’t here. The officers take my entrance in stride, giving way to the person they still call lightning girl. Most busy themselves with packing. Papers, folders, charts, mostly. Nothing that actually belongs to anyone here. Intelligence for smarter people than me to devour. Probably left over from whatever Silver officers used this space last.

Ada, one of my newblood recruits, is at the center of the activity. Her eyes run over every scrap of paper before someone else packs it away. She’s memorizing it all, using her ability of perfect memory. I catch her eye as I pass, and we share a nod. When we go to Montfort, Ada will be dispatched to Command at Farley’s orders. I don’t suppose I’ll see her again for a long time.

Davidson looks up from his bare desk. The corners of his angled eyes crinkle, the only indicator of a smile. Despite the harsh, unforgiving light of the office, he looks handsome as ever. Distinguished. Intimidating. A king in power if not title. When he waves me over, I swallow hard, remembering what he looked like in the siege. Bloody, exhausted, afraid. And determined. Just like the rest of us. It calms me a little.

“You did well up there, Barrow,” he says. With a toss of his head, he gestures in the vague direction of the core tower.

I blink, scoffing. “You mean I kept my mouth shut.”

At the window, someone laughs. I glance over to see Tyton leaning against the glass, arms crossed, his usual lock of white hair drooping over one eye. He has a clean forest-green uniform too, though a little short at the wrists and legs. No lightning insignia to mark him for what he is: an electricon like me. Because it isn’t his uniform. The last time I saw him, he was painted eyebrows to ankles in silver blood. He drums his fingers against his arm, brandishing them like the weapons they are.

“Is that possible?” he says without looking at me, his voice deep.

Davidson surveys me, shaking his head a bit. “Actually, I’m pleased with what you told the others, Mare. About accompanying me home.” “Like I said, I’m curious about—”

The premier puts up his hand, palm out, to stop me short. “Save it. I think Lord Jacos is the only person here who does anything simply for the sake of curiosity.” Well, he isn’t wrong. “What do you really want from Montfort?” At the window, Tyton’s eyes flicker in the light as he finally deigns to look at me.

I raise my chin. “Only what you promised.”

“Resettlement?” For once, Davidson looks truly startled. “You want to—”

“I want my family safe.” My voice never wavers. I push a little of what I remember from a dead Silver and her etiquette rules into my bearing. Straight spine, squared shoulders. Hold eye contact.

“We are truly at war,” I say. “Norta, Piedmont, the Lakelands, and your Republic too. Nowhere is safe, from either side. But you’re farthest away, and you seem to be the strongest, or at least the most defended. I think it will be best if I can take my family there myself. Before I come back to finish what better people started.” “The promise was for newbloods, Miss Barrow,” Davidson says quietly. The flurry of activity around us almost drowns him out.

My stomach drops, but I harden my expression. “I don’t think so, Premier.”

He pulls that bland smile of his, retreating behind his usual mask. “Really, you think me so heartless?” A strange joke, but Davidson is nothing if not a strange man. He flashes even teeth. “Of course your family is welcome. Montfort would be proud to accept them as citizens. Ibarem, a word?” he adds, calling over my shoulder.

A man bustles in from one of the connecting rooms, and I can’t help but jump. He’s the spitting image of Rash and Tahir, the newblood twins. If I didn’t know Tahir was still in Piedmont and Rash embedded in Archeon, both relaying information for the cause, I would think he was one of the twins. Triplets, I quickly realize, and a bitterness fills my mouth. I don’t like surprises.

Like his brothers, Ibarem has dark brown skin, black hair, and a well-manicured beard. I can just glimpse a scar beneath the hair on his chin, a single white line of raised flesh. He’s marked too, cut by a Silver lord long ago to distinguish him from his identical siblings.

“Pleased to meet you,” I mutter, narrowing my eyes at Davidson.

He senses my unease. “Ah, yes, this would be the brother of Rash and Tahir.”

“Couldn’t tell,” I shoot back dryly.

Ibarem’s lips twist into a small smile as he nods his head in greeting. “Glad to make your acquaintance at last, Miss Barrow.” Then he turns to the premier, expectant. “What do you need, Premier?” Davidson eyes him. “Send word to Tahir. Have him inform the Barrow family that their daughter will be collecting them tomorrow. For resettlement in Montfort.” “Yes, sir,” he replies. His eyes glaze for a moment, as the message travels from his brain to his brother’s. It only takes a second, despite the hundreds of miles between them. He ducks his head again. “Relayed, sir. Tahir says congratulations and welcome, Miss Barrow.” I only hope my parents accept the offer. Not that they wouldn’t. Gisa wants to go, and Mom will follow her lead. Bree and Tramy will follow Mom. But Dad, I’m not sure. Not if he knows I won’t be staying with them. Please go. Please let me give you this.

“Tell him thanks,” I mumble, still disconcerted by him.

“Relayed,” Ibarem says again. “Tahir says you’re very welcome.”

“Thank you both,” Davidson cuts in, and for good reason. The brothers can go back and forth with maddening speed, although it’s worse when their linked brains are side by side. Ibarem nods, taking the dismissal, before shuffling away to continue his work elsewhere.

“Are there any more of them you’d like to tell me about?” I hiss, leaning forward to grit my teeth at the premier.

He takes my annoyance in stride. “No, though I wish I had more of their like at my disposal,” he sighs. “Funny, those brothers. Usually Ardents have Silver counterparts, but I’ve never seen their like beyond our blood.” “His brain feels different from any other,” Tyton mutters.

I eye him sharply. “The way you say that is very disconcerting.”

Tyton only shrugs.

I turn back to Davidson, still smarting, but unable to ignore what a gift he’s just given me. “Thank you for doing this. I know you lead the country, and it may not seem like much, but this means a great deal to me.” “Of course it does,” he replies. “And I hope to do the same for other families like yours, as soon as we are able. My government is currently debating how to face what is rapidly becoming a refugee crisis, as well as how to move already-displaced Reds and newbloods. But for you, for what you’ve done and continue to do, exceptions can be made.” “And what have I done? Really?” The words slip out before I can bite them back. Heat spreads across my cheeks.

“You’ve made cracks in the impenetrable.” Davidson speaks like he’s pointing out the obvious. “Put dents in armor. You loosened the proverbial jar, Miss Barrow. Let us break it open.” His grin is true, wide and white and stretching. I’m reminded of a cat. “And it’s no small thing that, because of you, a claimant to the throne of Norta will be coming to the Republic.” That sends a jolt through me. Is that a threat? I move quickly, leaning over his desk, my palms braced against the wood, my voice low, in warning. “I want your word he won’t be harmed.” He doesn’t hesitate. “You have it,” he says, matching my tone. “I won’t touch a hair on his head. Nor will anyone else, not while Calore is in my country. You have my solemn promise. That’s not how I operate.” “Good,” I reply. “Because it would be ridiculously stupid to remove the buffer between our alliance and Maven Calore. And you aren’t a stupid person, are you, Premier?” That cat smile widens. He nods.

“Won’t it be good for the little prince to see something different?” Davidson cocks one manicured gray eyebrow. “A country without a king?” See that it’s possible. That the crown, the throne—they aren’t his duty. He doesn’t have to be a king or a prince. Not if he doesn’t want to be.

But I think he wants to be.

“Yes” is all I can say. And all I can hope for. After all, didn’t I first meet Tiberias in a dark tavern, where he pretended to be someone else so he could see what the world really looked like? See what should change?

Davidson leans back, clearly finished with me. I do the same. “Consider your request granted,” he says. “And consider yourself lucky we have to return to Piedmont first anyway, or else I might not be so amenable to retrieving a metric ton of Barrows.” He almost winks.

I almost smile.

Halfway to the barracks, I realize I’m being followed through the fortress city. Footsteps trail close behind, nimble and even along the winding street. The fluorescent lights cast two shadows, mine and someone else’s. I tense, uneasy, but not afraid. Corvium is crawling with coalition soldiers, and if any of them are stupid enough to wish me harm, they’re welcome to try. I can protect myself. Sparks ripple beneath my skin, easy to unleash. Ready to loose.

I turn on my boot heel, hoping to catch whoever it is off guard. It doesn’t work.

Evangeline stops smoothly, expectant, her arms crossed and dark, perfect eyebrows raised. She still wears her opulent armor, the kind better suited to a king’s court than a battleground. No crown, though. She used to spend her free time fashioning tiaras and circlets from whatever metal she could get her hands on. But now, when she has every right to wear one, her head is bare.

“I trailed you through two sectors of the city, Barrow,” she says, tossing back her head. “I thought you were supposed to be some kind of thief?” My incessant laugh from earlier tugs again, and I can’t help but smirk, huffing out a breath. Her bite is familiar, and anything familiar feels like comfort right now. “Never change, Evangeline.” Her smile flashes, quick as a knife. “Of course not. Why change perfection?”

“Well, please don’t let me keep you from your perfect life, Your Highness,” I tell her. Still smirking, I step aside, clearing the way for her. Calling her bluff. Evangeline Samos did not seek me out to trade insults. Her behavior in the council chamber made her motives very clear.

She blinks, and a bit of her boldness melts. “Mare,” she says, softer now. Pleading. But her pride won’t let her do much more than almost beg. That damn Silver spine. She doesn’t know how to bend. No one ever taught her, and no one would ever allow her to try.

Despite everything between us, a sliver of pity arrows through my heart. Evangeline was raised in the Silver court, born to scheme and climb, made to fight as fiercely as she guards her mind. But her mask is far from perfect, especially compared to Maven’s. After months of reading shadows in his eyes, I see Evangeline’s thoughts reflected in hers clear as daylight. Pain radiates from her. Longing. She has the feel of a predator in a cage with no chance of escaping. Part of me wants to leave her trapped. Let her realize exactly what kind of life she used to want. I want to believe I’m not that cruel. And I’m not stupid. Evangeline Samos would make a powerful ally, and if I have to buy her with whatever she wants, so be it.

“If you’re looking for sympathy, keep walking,” I mutter, gesturing again to the empty street. A useless threat, but she bristles anyway. Her eyes, already black, darken. The gibe works, pushing her into a corner, forcing her to speak.

“I don’t want an inch of it from you,” Evangeline snaps. The needle edges of her armor sharpen with her anger. “And I know I don’t deserve it either.” “Definitely not,” I snort. “So you want help, then? An excuse not to go to Montfort with the rest of our happy crew?” Evangeline’s face twists into another biting smile. “I’m hardly idiotic enough to owe you anything. No, I’m talking about a trade.” I keep my face still, my eyes locked on hers. I channel a little bit of Davidson’s serene, unfathomable blankness. “I thought you might be.” “Good to know you aren’t as dense as people seem to think.”

“So, what do you have?” I ask, wanting to hurry this along. We’re leaving for Piedmont, and then Montfort, tomorrow. We don’t have the luxury of our usual barbs. “What do you want?” The words stick in her throat. She drags her teeth across her lips, scraping away a bit of the purple stain. In the unforgiving light of the Corvium street, her makeup seems harsh, more like war paint. I suppose it is. The purple shadows below her cheekbones, meant to sculpt her features into impossible sharpness, seem sickly in the dark. Even the shimmering white powder on her skin, smoothing her moonbeam complexion, has flaws. Tear tracks. She tried to cover them up, but the evidence is still there. Uneven color, a hint of black paint from her lashes still leaving their mark. Her walls of beauty and lethal magnificence have deep cracks.

“But that’s easy, isn’t it?” I answer my own question, taking a step closer. She almost flinches. “All this time, all your scheming. You have Tiberias. You have a third chance to marry a Calore king. Become queen of Norta. Achieve everything you’ve ever worked for.” Her throat bobs, swallowing a probably rude response. We don’t have much practice being civil each other.

“And you want out,” I whisper. “You don’t want to be what you were born for. Why the sudden revelation? Why throw away what you used to want so much?” Her restraint breaks. “I don’t have to explain myself or my reasons to you.”

“Your reason has red hair and answers to Elane Haven.”

Evangeline tenses, fists clenching, and the scales of her armor tighten, responding to her sudden emotions. “Don’t talk about her,” she snaps, revealing her weakness, the easy leverage we can use.

She closes the distance between us. Evangeline is several inches taller than me, and she wields this slim advantage well. With her hands on her hips, eyes glaring, her shoulders square against the city lights, I’m entirely in her shadow.

I blink up at her, tilting my head. “So you want to go back to her. And what, you think I can stop Tiberias from marrying you?” “Don’t flatter yourself,” she snaps back, rolling her eyes. “You’re a good distraction for Calore kings, yes. But I’m not delusional. Cal won’t break our betrothal. Maven, maybe. You certainly influenced his decision to cast me aside.” “As if you were ever really going to marry Maven,” I tell Evangeline slowly. I saw more than she realizes, back in Maven’s court. Her family took the monumental slight too well. The Kingdom of the Rift was planned long before I nudged Maven in any direction.

Evangeline shrugs. “I was never going to be his queen after Elara died. Excuse me, after you killed her,” she says quickly. “She could hold his leash, at least. Keep him in check. I don’t think anyone alive can do that now, not even you.” I nod in agreement. There is no controlling Maven Calore.

Though I certainly tried. Bile rises in my throat at the memory, my attempts to manipulate the boy king, playing on his weakness for me. And then Maven traded House Samos for peace, for the Lakelands, for a princess just as deadly and probably twice as cunning as Evangeline. I wonder if he met his match in Iris Cygnet, the quiet, calculating nymph.

I try to picture him now, fleeing Corvium for the Lakelands. His white face above a uniform of black and red, blue eyes sparking with quiet fury. Retreating to a strange kingdom and a strange court, without the protection of his Silent Stone. With nothing to show but the corpse of the king of the Lakelands. It comforts me a bit, to know he failed so spectacularly. Perhaps the queen of the Lakelands will kill him outright, to punish him for wasting her husband’s life on the siege.

I couldn’t drown Maven when I had the chance. Maybe she will.

“And you can’t command Cal either. Not in any way that could achieve what I want.” Evangeline pushes on, her words a twisting knife. “He won’t put me aside for you, not if the crown hangs in the balance. Sorry, Barrow. He’s not the abdicating kind.” “I know what kind he is,” I sneer back, feeling her jab as keenly as she feels mine. If my life continues this way, with almost everything I do poking at this wound, I doubt it will ever have time to heal.

“He’s made his choice,” she says. Both to punish me and to make a point. “When he wins back Norta, and he will, I’ll marry him. Cement an alliance, ensure the Rift survives. Carry on the legacy of Volo Samos and his kings of steel.” Evangeline looks past me, down the dark street. A patrol walks the adjoining avenue ten yards away, their voices low and even as their footsteps. Scarlet Guard, judging by the rust-colored uniforms. Most are repurposed from the Red uniforms of the Nortan army, their insignia ripped off. I doubt Evangeline notices. Her eyes glaze, and she thinks of something far away. Something she doesn’t like at all, judging by her clenching jaw.

“And if you don’t marry him?” I prod, bringing her back.

It’s the easy, obvious thing to ask, but she blanches, perplexed by the suggestion. Her eyes widen, her mouth dropping open in shock. “Impossible,” she scoffs. “There’s no way around it. Short of running away to Tiraxes or Ciron or whatever backwater my father can’t invade,” she adds, laughing darkly at the idea. “Even that won’t work. He’ll find me wherever I go, drag me back, and use me as I was intended to be used. The only course I see, the only option I have, is very simple.” Of course it is, Evangeline.

Our objectives are the same, though our motivations differ. I let her talk, spooling out exactly what I want to hear. Things will be easier if she thinks this is all her own idea.

“There will be no marriage if Cal fails.” Evangeline stares through me. She forces the words. They’re a betrayal, of her house, of her colors, of her father, of her blood. It cuts her bone-deep. “If he isn’t king of Norta, my father won’t waste me on him. And if he loses his war for the crown, if we lose, Father will be too distracted keeping his own throne to sell me off to someone else. Or at least sell me somewhere far away.” From Elane. Her meaning is clear.

“So you want me to stop Cal from winning back his kingdom?”

She sneers, taking a step back. “You’ve learned many things in Silver courts, Mare Barrow. You’re smarter than you seem. I won’t underestimate you ever again, and you better not underestimate me.” As she speaks, her armor skitters, re-forming and twisting along her limbs. The scales shrink and crawl. Like the bugs of her mother’s control, each one a gleaming dot of black and silver. She re-forms her clothing into something more substantial, less grand. Real armor, meant for battle and nothing else. “When I say I want you to stop Cal, I mean your little circle. Although I don’t know how ‘little’ both Montfort and the Scarlet Guard can be considered. After all, they can’t really mean to prop up another Silver kingdom. Not without some serious strings attached.” “Ah.” My heart drops a little. There’s a card shown, one I would have liked to keep hidden.

“Yes, well. It doesn’t take a political genius to know that a Red and Silver coalition will be fraught with betrayal. I’m certain all the leaders know not to trust one another.” Her eyes flash as she turns, meaning to leave me behind. “Except for maybe one aspiring king,” she adds over her shoulder.

A fact I know too well. Tiberias is as trusting as a new puppy, easily led by the people he loves. Me, his grandmother, and most of all his dead father. He pursues the crown for that man, to serve some bond that hasn’t broken. While his confidence, his courage, and his dogged focus make him strong, they also make him blind everywhere but the battlefield. He can predict surging armies, but not scheming people. He won’t see or can’t see the machinations around him. He didn’t before, and he won’t again.

“He’s certainly not Maven,” I mutter, if only to myself.

I hear an echo from Evangeline all the same, bouncing off the stone walls of Corvium.

“He’s certainly not,” she replies.

In her voice, I hear the same things I feel.

Relief. And regret.