فصل سی و ششم

Thirty-Six: Maven

After so many days in captivity, smothered by Silent Stone and separated from my bracelets, the burst of flame is more quenching than water to a thirsty man. I let it lick up inside me, trailing like a lover’s kiss, and explode along my skin, powerful and furious enough to throw back that wretched electricon. He falls and Mare falls too, both of them slamming backward onto the hard tile of Caesar’s Square.

I don’t spare a glance for her as I run, leaving fire in my wake, a wall to defend my escape. I keep another burst of flame close, coiling in my fist, using all my energy to keep it burning. My feet carry me over the Square and I sprint like never before. I’m not Cal, I’m not particularly fast or strong, but fear keeps me alert and daring. The chaos of Archeon works to my advantage, not to mention my intimate knowledge of the palace. Whitefire was my home, and I have not forgotten it.

The sudden arrival of hundreds of Scarlet Guard soldiers is more than enough to distract Cal’s troops, still trying to organize themselves against the Lakelander assault. Nevertheless, I keep my head down, black hair falling forward to obscure my all-too-recognizable face.

These soldiers were mine. Should still be mine.

The voice in my head shifts from my own to hers.

Fools, all of them, my mother sneers. I can almost feel her hands ghosting along my shoulders, keeping me upright as I run. Replacing you with that wretched, spineless boy. He will be the end of a dynasty. The end of an age.

She isn’t wrong. She was never truly wrong.

If only Father could see you now, Cal. See what you’ve become, and what you’ve done to his kingdom.

Of all my many wishes and regrets, that one cuts deepest. My father is dead, but he died loving Cal, trusting Cal, believing in Cal’s greatness and perfection. I wonder if I should have let things run their course. If somehow I could have simply made him see how flawed the perfect son was.

But Mother had her reasons. She knew best.

And that is simply another path untaken. A dead future, as Jon would say.

Another missile explodes nearby, and as before, I use the resulting explosion to my advantage. It breaks around me, harmless, allowing me to escape through a bloom of smoke and fire. I can’t return to the Treasury tunnels, not with those Red rats still crawling around. But there are other ways down to the tracks, other ways to get out of Archeon undetected. The ways I know best are in Whitefire itself, and I beat a path to the palace as quickly as I can.

That damn train. I curse whoever stole it, whatever sniveling weasel is now riding along, safe and sound. At least I can still walk the track. I’m well accustomed to darkness by now. What’s a few more miles?

Nothing at all. I’ve always felt darkness all over me, stubborn as a stain. It follows wherever I go.

And where will I go? Where can I go?

I’m a fallen king, a murderer, a betrayer. A monster to anyone with eyes and a modicum of sense. They’ll kill me in the Lakelands, in Montfort, in my own country. I deserve it, I think as I run. I should be dead a thousand times, executed in a hundred different ways, each one more painful than the last.

I think of Mare behind me, sprawled across the tiles of the Square. Picking herself up again, ready to give chase. My brother too, leading some stupidly valiant effort to defend the city and his ill-gotten throne. I scoff at the thought as I vault up the steps of Whitefire, flying over familiar stone. The flame in my palm gutters, reducing to a flicker before I push it back to life, letting it envelop my hand.

The interior is just as empty as the Square is full. Whatever nobles and courtiers aren’t out fighting must be deep within the palace, barricaded in their rooms, or perhaps they’ve fled too. Either way, my footsteps are the only sound as I cross the entrance hall, my path familiar as my own heartbeat.

Even though it’s midday, the halls are dark and cold, with the windows clouded by fog and smoke. Electricity flickers as the power grid reacts to the battle outside, turning the lights on and off in patternless bursts. Good, I think. In my gray clothing, I can blend into the shadows of Whitefire. I used to do it as a boy, hide in alcoves or behind curtains. Spying and listening, not for my mother then, but for my own curiosity.

Cal used to spy with me, when he had the time. Or cover for me at Lessons, telling tutors I was sick or otherwise detained. Odd, that I can remember all that, but that the emotion behind it, the connection we must have had, is almost entirely gone. Severed or surgically removed by my mother. And no one can ever make it grow back.

Even though he tried. He searched. He wanted to save you. The thought almost makes me vomit, and I push it away.

The doors of the throne room are heavier than I expected. Funny to think I’ve never opened them myself. There’s always been a guard or a Sentinel, usually a telky. I feel weak as I drive my shoulder into one, pushing it ajar enough to slip through.

My throne is gone, the Silent Stone dragged away to only Cal knows where. Our father’s seat is returned, the inferno carved from diamondglass. I sneer at the sparkling monstrosity, a symbol of our father, his crown, and everything he lacked. Other chairs flank Cal’s throne, one for Julian Jacos and one for our grandmother. The thought of both makes my lip curl. Without them, Cal would never have made it this far. And that snake Iris would have never handed me over.

I hope she drowns on the river, suffocated by her own ability.

No, better yet, I hope she burns. Isn’t that the punishment of her gods, to suffer forever beneath an opposing element? Maybe Iris and Cal will manage to kill each other. They came so close last time.

A boy can certainly hope.

The door to the left of the throne is smaller, leading to the king’s private rooms, including a study, meeting areas, and the council chamber. As I step into the long room lined with shelving, the lights switch off again, plunging me into semidarkness. The windows in here are tall, looking out on a gray, empty courtyard. I pass them quickly, counting. One, two, three . . .

After the fourth window, I stop and count shelves. Three up . . .

Thankfully, Cal hasn’t had time to rearrange the books in here. Or else he would have discovered the mechanism attached to a leather-bound tome regarding economic fluctuations during the last decade.

It glides forward with the lightest pull, activating rotating gears behind the lacquered wood. The entire shelf swings forward, revealing a narrow stairwell cut into the exterior wall.

Using my still-burning flame as a torch, I plunge downward, letting the shelf swing into place behind me.

The darkness is thick with damp and the air is stale. I suck it down anyway, careful on the steps as I descend. This is an old servants’ stair, long out of use, but it still connects to the other passages beneath the palace. From there I can get to the Treasury, War Command, the courts, or any other place of value around Caesar’s Square. My ancestors built these passages for use during war and siege. I’m glad for their foresight, as well as my own.

The steps empty out into a wider hall lined with rough stone, the floor beneath sloping at a gentle decline. I plod along, daring to breathe a bit deeper and slower. There’s a battle raging above my head, but I’m long gone. The only people who know about these tunnels are otherwise preoccupied.

I might actually survive this.

Then something flickers ahead, a reflection of fire, but distorted somehow, rippling. I slow my pace, shuffling my feet to muffle the sound of my steps. Another deep breath, and I smell water.

Those fucking Lakelanders.

The path ahead of me slopes into black water, its surface reflecting my flaming hand. I feel like punching a wall. Instead I curse against gritted teeth. In spite of the wet, I take a few steps forward, until the water laps over my ankles, chilling me to the bone. It only gets deeper. Furious, I trudge back out, kicking at the dirt floor. A few bits skitter, plopping into the inscrutable flood. I bite back another curse and turn, hurrying back the way I came.

My body burns with frustration, and heat spreads over my cheeks. Another stair, another tunnel, I tell myself, even though I know exactly where that will lead.

Another flooded passage. Another barred escape.

The walls suddenly feel too close, pressing down from every side. I quicken my pace, the fire in my hand waning as I begin to stumble. My fingers graze the stone within reach, brushing over the uneven surface as I reach the steps again. I’m almost sprinting when I reach the top and spill out again into the fresh air of the adjoining chamber.

If I can’t get into the tunnels, I’ll have to go over the walls. Somehow get up and down, and head west, avoiding the slums upriver, the vast estates ringing the land around the capital. I’ll need to disguise my face somehow. Instead of focusing, my mind spirals out, paralyzed by fear. I need to stay on the task at hand—get out of the city—but everything blurs. I need food, a map, supplies. Every step aboveground is a step toward danger. They’ll hunt me down and kill me. Mare and my brother, if they manage to survive.

I raid the study first, searching in vain for anything that might be of use. Bracelets especially. Flamemakers. Cal might keep a spare somewhere, but there’s nothing in the many drawers and compartments of the fine desk that was once mine. I contemplate a particularly sharp letter opener for a moment, holding the daggerlike piece of metal up to a ray of weak light. With a swipe of my hand, I draw a slice across a painting of my father. Even mangled, his face still taunts me, eyes burning from the ripped canvas. I tighten my grip on the letter opener as I turn away, unable to face his stare for very long.

The royal bedchamber is next. I blink and I’m there, nearly kicking the doors off their hinges. But I stop short, perplexed. Instead of a luxurious suite fit only for the king of Norta, I find empty rooms stripped of furnishings and even paint. No curtains, no rugs. Nothing but a haphazard collection of cleaning supplies.

Cal isn’t sleeping here. Not while bits of me still linger. Coward.

This time I really do punch a wall, leaving my knuckles raw and smarting.

I have no way of knowing which room might be his. The residence wings are home to dozens of bedrooms, and I hardly have time to search them all. I’ll have to settle for stealing what I can outside the city. Flint and steel make sparks as easily as any bracelet. I can acquire that. Somehow.

My vision blurs at the edges, an odd haze that pulses in time with my rapidly increasing heartbeat. I shake my head, trying to make the sensation dissipate, but it stays put. A pain springs up in my skull, digging into the bone. I suck down another breath, forcing myself to take big gasps of air in an attempt to calm down. As in the tunnel, the walls feel too close and like they’re getting closer by the second. I wonder if the windows are about to shatter all over me, cutting my flesh to ribbons.

I trip on the stairs as I make my way back down to the throne room. No choice, Maven, Mother croons to me as I slip in again. That’s all I get. She was never one to advise retreat or surrender. Elara Merandus gave no ground in life, and she instilled the same instinct in me. My headache spreads, arcing across my skull in a web of sharp pain.

Above me, the lights kick on again, so brightly they whine in their bulbs. The electricity surge is too strong.

One by one, they pop, raining smashed glass along the polished floor behind me. I manage to dodge as the bulb directly above me shrieks apart.

The filaments continue to burn, sparking white.

And purple.

Stoic, calm and deadly, Mare Barrow stands firm, silhouetted in the narrow opening. Without blinking, she slides through and shuts the door behind her. Locking us both in. Together.

“It’s over, Maven,” she whispers.

This time, I sprint for the other side of the throne and burst into another set of rooms usually reserved for the queen. I made my own modifications to them. Modifications that would disagree with most.

Mare is faster than I am, but she follows at a languid pace. Haunting me. Teasing me. She could run me down at any second. Electrocute me with one well-aimed bolt of lightning.

Good, I think. Keep on coming, Barrow.

I feel the telltale twinge up ahead. The empty ache that plagues all Silvers and newbloods. One more door to push open. One last chance to survive where so many others would die.

I will not fail, Mother.

Grinning, I turn around, letting her watch me as I back farther into the dark chamber. The single window is small, and a weak light fills the space. Illuminating the dark walls, patterned like a checkerboard of gray and black. The gray bits gleam dully, showing ribbons of liquid silver. Arven blood, Silence blood.

She hesitates at the threshold, feeling the press of Silent Stone. I watch it ruin her.

The color drains from her face, and she almost looks Silver in the cold, gray light. I keep walking, back and back. To the next door. The next passage. My chance.

She doesn’t stop me.

Her throat bobs as she swallows around the fear clawing at her. I gave her this wound. I locked her away in chains, drained her ability, made her live like a wasting ghost. If she steps forward, she’ll have no weapons at all. No shield. No guarantee.

The letter opener in my hand feels suddenly heavy.

I could drop it. Leave the blade and run.

I could let her live.

Or I could kill her.

The choice is easy. And so very difficult.

I hold my ground.

My grip tightens on the iron.