فصل پنجم

FIVE

Mare

The dropjet feels sluggish on the air, heavier than usual. I sway against my safety restraints, eyes lidded. The motion of the craft paired with the comforting buzz of electricity has me half asleep. The engines chug calmly, despite the extra weight. More cargo, I know. The hold is filled to the brim with the spoils of Corvium. Munitions, guns, explosives, weapons of every kind. Military uniforms, rations, fuel, batteries. Even bootlaces. Half is going to Piedmont now, and the rest is on another jet, returning to Davidson’s mountains.

Montfort and the Scarlet Guard are not wasteful in their endeavors. They did the same thing after the Whitefire attack, stripping what they could from the palace in such limited time. Money, mostly, hauled out of the Treasury once it was clear Maven was beyond our reach. It happened in Piedmont too. It’s why the southern base seems empty, in the lodgings, in the administrative buildings once meant for grand war councils. No paintings, no statues, no fine plates or cutlery. None of the trappings great Silvers require. Nothing but what is necessary. The rest was pulled apart, sold, repurposed. Wars are not cheap. We can only maintain what is useful.

That’s why Corvium crumbles behind us. Because Corvium is no longer useful.

Davidson argued that leaving a garrison of soldiers was foolish, a waste. The fortress city was built to funnel soldiers into the Choke to fight Lakelanders. With that war ended, it has little purpose. No river to guard, no strategic resources. Just one of many roads to the Lakelands. Corvium had become little more than a distraction. And while we held the city, it was deep in Maven’s territory, and too close to the border. The Lakelands could sweep through without warning, or Maven could return in force. We might win again, but more would die. For nothing more than some walls in the middle of nowhere.

The Silvers opposed. Naturally. I think they must be honor-bound to disagree with anything someone with red blood says. Anabel argued the optics.

“How many dead, how much blood spent on these walls, and you want to give up the city? We’ll look like fools!” she scoffed, glaring across the council chamber. The old woman looked at Davidson like he had two heads. “Cal’s first victory, his flag raised—” “I don’t see his flag anywhere,” Farley interrupted, dry as bone.

But Anabel ignored her. She pressed on, seeming like she might obliterate the table beneath her fingers. Cal sat silent at her side, his eyes ablaze as he stared at his hands. “It will look like weakness to abandon the city,” the old queen said.

“I care very little for how things appear, only for how they are, Your Majesty,” Davidson replied. “You are very welcome to leave a garrison of your own to hold Corvium, but no soldier of Montfort or the Scarlet Guard will remain here.” Her lip curled at that, but any retort died in her throat. Anabel had no intention of wasting her own army in such a way. She slid back in her seat and turned away from Davidson, her eyes flitting toward Volo Samos. But he wouldn’t volunteer his own soldiers either. He kept silent.

“If we leave the city, we leave it in ruins.” Tiberias clenched his fist on the table. I remember that clearly, his knuckles bone-white beneath his skin. There was still dirt under his fingernails, and probably blood too. I focused on his hands so I wouldn’t have to look at his face. His emotions are too easily read, and I still want no part of them. “Special contingents from each army,” he said. “Lerolan oblivions, the newblood gravitrons and bombers. Anyone who can destroy. Strip the city of resources, then turn it to ash and wash away whatever’s left. Leave nothing Maven or the Lakelands can use.” He didn’t look up as he spoke, unable to hold any gaze. It must have been difficult to order the destruction of one of his own cities. A place he knew, a place his father had protected, and his grandfather before him. Tiberias values duty as much as tradition, both ideals planted bone-deep. But I had little pity for him then, and have even less now as we hurtle toward Piedmont.

Corvium was nothing more than the gate to a Red graveyard. I’m glad it’s gone.

Even so, I feel unease deep in the pit of my stomach. Corvium still burns behind my eyelids, its walls crumbling, torn apart by explosive bursts, the buildings ripped away by manipulated gravity, the metal gates twisting into snaking knots. Smoke races the streets. Ella, an electricon like me, used her own storm to strike the central tower, furious blue lightning cracking stone. Montfort nymphs, newbloods of great power, used the nearby streams and even a river to sweep rubble away to the distant lake. No part of Corvium escaped. Some of it even sank, collapsing into the tunnels beneath the city. The rest was left in warning, like ancient stone monoliths weathered by a thousand years instead of a few hours.

How many other cities will share the same fate?

First I think of the Stilts.

I haven’t seen the place where I grew up in almost a year. Not since my name was Mareena, and I stood on the deck of a royal ship, eyeing the banks of the Capital River with a ghost at my side. Elara was alive then, and the king too. They forced me to watch as we passed my village, its people gathered at the water’s edge under the open threat of a whipcrack or a cell. My family stood among them. I focused on their faces, not on the place. The Stilts was never my home. They are.

Would I care now if the village disappeared? If no one was harmed, but the stilt houses, the market, the school, the arena—if it was destroyed? Burned, flooded, or simply gone?

I really can’t say.

But there are certainly places that should join Corvium in ruins. I name the ones I want to destroy, cursing them.

Gray Town, Merry Town, New Town. And all the rest of their like.

The techie slums remind me of Cameron. She sleeps across from me, jostled in her restraining belts. Her head lolls, her snore almost indistinguishable over the sound of the jet engines. From underneath her collar, her tattoo peeks out. Black ink against dark brown skin. She was marked with her profession, or rather her prison, a long time ago. I only saw a tech town from a distance, and the memory still makes me gag. I can’t imagine growing up in one, bound to a life in smoke.

The Red slums must be ended.

Their walls must burn too.

We land at the Piedmont base in a late-morning downpour. I’m drenched after three steps across the runway, heading for the line of waiting transports. Farley outpaces me easily, eager to get back to Clara. She has a mind for little else, bypassing the Colonel and the rest of their soldiers as they move to greet us. I work to keep at her heels, forced to move at an uneasy trot. I try not to look back at the other jet, the Silver one. I hear them over the rain, trooping out onto the paved field in all their style. The rain darkens their colors, muddying Lerolan orange, Jacos yellow, Calore red, and Samos silver. Evangeline smartly abandoned her armor. Metal clothes aren’t exactly safe in a thunderstorm.

At least King Volo and the rest of his Silver lords haven’t followed us here. They’re on the way back to the Kingdom of the Rift, if they haven’t arrived already. Only the Silvers going on to Montfort tomorrow made the journey to Piedmont. Anabel, Julian, their various guards and advisers—as well as Evangeline and, of course, Tiberias.

When I get into my transport, sliding into the dry interior, I catch a glimpse of him, brooding like a storm cloud. Tiberias stands apart, the only one of them familiar with the Piedmont base. Anabel must have brought more courtly clothes for him. It’s the only explanation for his long cloak and polished boots, and the finery underneath. At this distance, I can’t tell if he has a crown. Despite the royal clothing, no one would mistake him for Maven. Tiberias’s colors are reversed. The cloak is bloodred, as are his clothes, all trimmed with black and royal silver. He glows through the rain, bright as any flame. And he stares, dark brows furrowed, unmoving as the storm opens above us.

I feel the first crack of lightning before it splits across the sky. Ella was holding it back to let the jets land. She must have let it go.

I turn from the transport window and lean against the glass. As we speed off, I try to let go of something too.

The row house ceded to my family looks the same as it did when I left a few days ago, albeit very wet. Rain lashes the windows, drowning flowers in their window boxes. Tramy won’t like that. He dotes on those flowers.

He can grow as many as he likes in Montfort. He can plant an entire garden, and spend his life watching it bloom.

Farley gets out of the transport before it fully stops, her boots splashing through a puddle. I hesitate, for many reasons.

Of course I have to talk to my family about Montfort. And hope they agree to stay there, even when I leave again. We should be used to it by now, but walking away never gets easier. They can’t stop me from doing it, but I can’t stop them either. If they refuse to go. I shudder at the thought. Knowing they’re safe is the only sanctuary I have left.

But that inevitable argument is a dream compared to what else I have to admit.

Cal chose the crown. Not me. Not us.

Saying it makes it real.

The puddle outside the transport is deeper than I thought, splashing up the sides of my short boots, sending a cold chill over my legs. I welcome the distraction, and follow Farley up the steps to an opening door.

A blur of Barrows pulls me inside. Mom, Gisa, Tramy, and Bree whirl around me. My old friend Kilorn joins the mix as well, stepping in to give me a short but firm squeeze. I feel a burst of relief at the sight of him. He wasn’t ready to fight in Corvium, and I’m still glad he agreed to stay behind.

Dad hangs back again, waiting to hug me properly without anyone else worming in. He might have to wait a long time, since Mom doesn’t seem too concerned with letting me go. She drapes an arm across my shoulders, pulling me close. Her clothes smell fresh, clean, like a dewy morning and soap. Nothing like home in the Stilts. My status in the army, whatever it is, affords my family a level of luxury we were never accustomed to before. The row house itself, a former officer’s quarters, is opulent compared to our old stilt home. Though it is sparsely decorated, the essentials are all finely made and well cared for.

Farley only has eyes for Clara. While I’m barely through the front door, Farley already holds Clara against her chest, letting the baby girl rest her head on her shoulder. Yawning, Clara nuzzles, trying to return to her interrupted nap. When she thinks no one is looking, Farley dips her neck, pressing her nose against Clara’s tiny head of brown hair. She shuts her eyes and inhales.

Meanwhile, Mom plants another of a dozen kisses on my temple, grinning. “Home again,” she murmurs.

“So they really did it,” Dad says. “Corvium is gone.” I untangle myself from Mom long enough to give him a proper hug. We’re still unaccustomed to touching this way, without my father huddled in his wheelchair. Despite his long months of recuperation with the aid of Sara Skonos, as well as the healers and nurses of the Montfort army, nothing can erase the years we all remember. The pain is still there, sitting in his brain. And I suppose it should. Forgetting doesn’t feel right.

He leans on me, not as heavily as he used to, and I lead him into the sitting room. We share a bitter smile, a private one that passes only between us. My father was a soldier once too, longer than any of us. He understands what it is to see death and return from it. I try to imagine who he was, beneath the wrinkles and the scraggly whiskers fading into gray, behind his eyes. We had few photographs at home. I don’t know how many made it to the refuge on Tuck Island, then to the other base in the Lakelands, and then here. One of them sticks out in my memory. An old scrap of a picture, worn at the edges, fuzzy and faded in the image. My mother and father posed for it a long time ago, before even Bree was born. They were teenagers, kids of the Stilts like I was. Dad must not have been eighteen. He wasn’t conscripted yet, and Mom was just an apprentice. Dad used to look so much like Bree, my oldest brother. Same grin, his mouth almost too wide, framed by dimples. Thick, straight eyebrows across a high forehead. Ears that could be a little too big. I try not to think of my brothers aging like my father has, subjected to the same pains and worries. I can make sure they don’t share our father’s fate—or Shade’s.

Bree flops into an armchair near us, crossing his bare feet on the simple rug. I wrinkle my nose. Men do not have lovely feet.

“Good riddance to that heap,” Bree says, cursing Corvium.

Tramy bobs his head in agreement. His dark brown beard continues to fill in. “Won’t miss it,” he agrees. Both of them were conscripted like Dad. Both of them know the fortress well enough to hate its memory. They trade smiles, as if they’ve won some kind of game.

Dad is less celebratory. He eases himself down into another chair, stretching out his regrown leg. “Silvers will just build another. It’s their way. They don’t change.” His eyes flash, finding mine. My stomach drops when I realize what he’s trying to say. My cheeks burn at the implication. “Do they?” Shamed, I look back at Gisa, searching her quickly. Her shoulders droop and she sighs, barely nodding. She picks at the sleeve of her shirt, avoiding my eyes.

“So you’ve heard,” I say, my voice flat and empty.

“Not everything,” she replies. Her eyes dart to Kilorn, and I’m willing to bet he tipped everyone off, relaying the less painful parts of my message last night. Nervous, Gisa twists a lock of hair around her finger. The dark red strands gleam. “But enough to figure it out. Something about another queen, a new king, and Montfort, of course. Always Montfort.” Kilorn’s lips twist, pursing together. He runs a hand through his choppy blond hair, mirroring Gisa’s discomfort. There’s anger too. It simmers in him, lighting up his green eyes. “I can’t believe he said yes.” I can only nod.

“Coward,” Kilorn snaps. He clenches a fist. “Idiot coward. Wasteful, spoiled-brat bastard. I should break his jaw.” “I’ll help,” Gisa mutters.

No one scolds them. Not even me, though Kilorn certainly expects it. He glances my way, surprised by my silence. I hold his gaze, trying to speak without saying the name. Shade gave his life for our cause, and Tiberias can’t even give up the crown.

I wonder if Kilorn knows my heart is broken in two. He must.

Is this what it felt like, when I pushed Kilorn away? When I told him I didn’t feel the same? That I couldn’t give him what he wanted?

His gaze softens with pity. I hope he doesn’t know what this feels like. I hope I didn’t put him in this much pain. It’s just not in you to love me, he said once. Now I wish that weren’t true. I wish I could save us both from this agony.

Thankfully, Mom puts a hand on my arm. A light touch, but enough to guide me to the long sofa. She doesn’t say anything about the Calore prince, and the glare she shoots around the room communicates her point. Enough.

“We got your message,” she says, her voice a little too loud and bright as she forces the change in subject. “From that other newblood, with the beard—” “Tahir,” Gisa offers as she sits down next to me. Kilorn hovers behind us both. “You’ve decided on resettlement for us.” Even though it’s what she wanted, I don’t miss the sharp edges to her tone. My sister blinks at me, one eyebrow raised.

I sigh aloud. “Well, I’m not making decisions for you. But if you want to go, there’s a place for you all. The premier said you’ll be welcomed with open arms.” “What about everyone else?” Tramy asks. He narrows his eyes as he perches on the arm of Bree’s chair. “We’re not the only ones evacuated here.” He catches an elbow in the side and doubles over as Bree snickers. “Thinking about that clerk? What’s-her-name, with the curly hair.” “No,” Tramy grumbles back, his golden cheeks flaming beneath his beard. Bree tries to poke at his flushed face but gets swatted away. My brothers have a terrific talent for acting like children. It used to annoy me, but not anymore. The normalcy of them is soothing.

“It will take time.” I can only shrug. “But for us . . .”

Gisa scoffs aloud. She tosses back her head, exasperated. “For you, Mare. We’re not silly enough to think the leader of the Republic wants to do us a favor. What does he get in return?” With nimble fingers, she grabs my hand, tightening her grip. “What does he get from you?” “Davidson isn’t Silver,” I say. “What he wants, I’m willing to give.”

“And when do you get to stop giving things?” she snaps back. “When you die? When you end up like Shade?” The name drops a hush over the room. At the door, Farley turns her face, hiding in shadow.

I stare at Gisa, searching my sister’s pretty face. She’s fifteen now, settling into herself. Her face used to be rounder, her freckles less numerous. And she didn’t have the cares she has now. Just the usual worries. It used to be little Gisa we relied on. Her skill, her talent. Her ability to save our family. Not anymore. She doesn’t begrudge the loss of that weight. But her concern is clear. She doesn’t want it on my shoulders either.

Too late.

“Gisa,” Mom says, her voice a low warning.

I recover as best I can, pulling my hand away. My spine turns to steel. “We need to request more troops, and Premier Davidson’s government has to approve before they can be sent. I’ll help present our coalition, show them who we all are. Make a convincing argument for the war against Norta and the Lakelands.” My sister is unconvinced. “I know you’re good at arguing, but you aren’t that good.”

“No, but I’m the crossroads,” I say, dancing around the truth of it. “Between the Scarlet Guard, the Silver courts, the newbloods, and Reds too.” I’m not lying, at least. “And I’ve had enough practice putting on a good show.” Farley balances her baby in one arm, putting her other hand on her hip. She drums a finger against the holster of the pistol glued to her side. “Mare’s trying to say she’s a good distraction. Where she goes, Cal follows. Even now, when he’s trying to win back his throne. He’s coming with us to Montfort, and so is his new betrothed.” Behind me, I hear Kilorn suck in a hissing breath.

Gisa is just as disgusted. “Only they would stop to arrange marriages in the middle of a war.” “For another alliance, right?” Kilorn sneers. “Maven did it already. Locked up the Lakelands. Cal needs to do the same. So who is it? Some girl from Piedmont? Really cement what we’re doing down here?” “It doesn’t matter who she is.” My fist clenches in my lap as I realize that I’m lucky it’s Evangeline. A girl who wants nothing to do with him. Another chink in his flaming armor.

“And you’re just going to let this happen?” Kilorn paces out from behind the sofa, his long limbs making even strides. He glares between Farley and me. “No, excuse me, you’re going to help? Help Cal fight for a crown no one should have? After everything we’ve done?” He’s so upset, I almost expect him to spit on the floor. I keep my face still, impassive, letting him fume. I can’t remember him ever being so disappointed in me. Angry, yes, but not like this. His chest rises and falls rapidly as he waits for my explanation.

Farley does it for me. “Montfort and the Scarlet Guard won’t fight two wars,” she says evenly, emphasizing the words. Conveying a message. “We have to take on our enemies one at a time. Do you understand?” My family seems to tighten in unison, their eyes going dark. Dad especially. He runs a thumb along his jaw, thoughtful, as his lips press into a thin line. Kilorn is less subdued. Green fire sparks behind his eyes. “Oh,” he murmurs, almost smiling. “I see.” Bree blinks. “Uh, I don’t?”

“No one is surprised,” Tramy mutters under his breath.

I lean forward, eager to make them all understand. “We aren’t going to give the throne to another Silver king. At least not for long. The Calore brothers are at war, spending their forces fighting each other. When the dust settles . . .” Dad drops his hand on his knee. I don’t miss the tremble in his fingers. I feel it in mine too. “It will be easier to deal with the victor.” “No more kings,” Farley breathes. “No more kingdoms.”

I have no idea what that world could look like. But I might soon, if Montfort is everything I’ve been promised.

If only I still believed in promises.

We don’t bother trying to sneak out. Mom and Dad snore like trains, and my siblings know better than to stop me. The rain hasn’t let up, but Kilorn and I don’t mind. We walk down the row-house street without speaking, the only noise coming from our feet squelching through puddles as the storm rumbles in the distance. I can barely feel it anymore, as the lightning and thunder spiral away toward the coast. It isn’t that cold, and the well-illuminated base keeps out the darkness. We don’t have any real destination. No direction but forward.

“He’s a coward,” Kilorn mumbles. He kicks at a loose pebble. It skitters away, spreading ripples across the wet street.

“You said that already,” I reply. “Along with a few other things.”

“Well, I meant it.”

“He deserves every word.”

Silence drags over us like a heavy curtain. We both know this is strange territory. My romantic entanglements aren’t exactly his favorite subject, and I don’t want to inflict any more pain than I already have on my closest friend.

“We don’t have to talk—”

He cuts me off, putting a hand on my arm. His touch is firm but friendly. The lines between us are clearly drawn, and Kilorn values me enough to never cross them. He might not even feel the same as he did before. I’ve changed so much in the last few months. It’s possible the girl he thought he loved is gone. I know what that’s like too, to love someone who doesn’t really exist.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I know what he means to you.”

“Meant,” I growl, trying to push past him.

But his grip tightens. “No, I didn’t make a mistake. He still means something to you, even if you won’t admit that.” It isn’t worth the argument. “Fine. I admit it,” I force through clenched teeth. It’s dark enough that he might not notice my face turning scarlet. “I asked the premier,” I mumble. Kilorn will understand. He has to understand. “I asked to keep him alive. When the time comes, when we turn. Is that weakness?” Kilorn’s face falls. The harsh streetlights illuminate him from behind, giving him a halo. He’s a handsome boy, if he isn’t already considered a man. If only my heart fell to him instead of someone else.

“I don’t think so,” he says. “Love can be exploited, I guess, used to manipulate. It’s leverage. But I would never call loving someone else a weakness. I think living without love at all, any kind of love, is weakness. And the worst kind of darkness.” I swallow thickly. The tears don’t feel so immediate anymore. “When did you become so wise?” He grins, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I read books now.”

“Do they have pictures?”

Barking a laugh, he starts walking again. “You’re such a kind person.”

I match his pace. “That’s what I hear,” I reply, glancing up at his lanky form. His hair is soaked through now, darker in the wet. Almost brown. Kilorn could be Shade if I squinted. Suddenly I miss my brother so much I can barely breathe.

I won’t lose anyone else the way I lost Shade. It’s an empty promise, with no guarantees. But I need some kind of hope. I need some kind of hope, however small it may be.

“Will you come to Montfort?” The words blurt out of me, and I can’t bite them back. It’s a selfish request. Kilorn doesn’t have to follow me around everywhere I go. And it’s not my place to demand anything of him. But I don’t want to leave him behind again.

His responding grin erases any trepidation I might have. “Am I allowed? Thought it was some kind of mission.” “It is. And I’m allowing it.”

“Because it’s safe,” he replies, eyeing me sidelong.

I purse my lips, searching for an answer he might accept. Yes, it is safe. Or the closest thing we have to safe. It isn’t wrong to want him out of danger.

Kilorn brushes my arm. “I get it,” he continues. “Listen, I’m not about to storm a city or shoot jets out of the sky. I know what my limitations are, and how many I have compared to the rest of you.” “Just because you can’t kill someone with a snap of your fingers doesn’t make you less than anyone else,” I fire back, almost electrified with sudden indignation. I wish I could list all the wonderful things about Kilorn. All the important things he is.

His expression sours. “Don’t remind me.”

I grab his arm, nails digging into wet fabric. He doesn’t stop walking. “I’m serious, Kilorn,” I say. “So you’ll come?” “I’ll check my schedule.”

I dig my elbow into his side and he jumps away, forcing an exaggerated frown.

“Stop it. You know I bruise like a peach.”

I elbow him again for good measure, both of us laughing as much as we dare.

We continue on quietly, lapsing into an easy silence. This time it isn’t so stifling. My usual worries melt away, or at least step back for long moments. Kilorn is my home too, as much as my family. His presence is a pocket of time, a narrow place where we can exist without consequence. Nothing before, nothing after.

At the end of the street, a figure seems to materialize from the rain, shedding drops of dark and light. I recognize the silhouette before my body has time to react.

Julian.

The gangly Silver hesitates when he sees us, only for a second, but it’s enough time for me to know. His side is chosen, and it isn’t mine.

Cold bleeds through me, from fingers to toes. Even Julian.

As he approaches, Kilorn nudges me.

“I can head back,” he whispers.

I glance at him briefly, drawing strength from him. “Please don’t.”

His brows knit with concern, but he nods curtly.

My old tutor still wears his long robes, despite the rain, and he shakes water from the folds of his faded yellow clothing. No use in it. The rain keeps pelting down, smoothing out the slight curls of his gray-streaked hair.

“I was hoping to catch you at home,” he calls over the hissing downpour. “Well, honestly, I was hoping to catch you indisposed so I could do this in the morning. Instead of out in this infernal wet.” Julian shakes his head like a dog and pushes hair away from his eyes.

“Say what you came here to say, Julian.” I cross my arms. As the night falls, so does the temperature. I might catch a chill, even here in steaming Piedmont.

Julian doesn’t reply. Instead his eyes flick to Kilorn, one eyebrow raised in silent question. “He’s fine,” I say, answering before he can ask. “Speak up before we all drown out here.” My tone sharpens, and so does Julian. He isn’t a fool. His face falls, reading the disappointment etched on me. “I know you feel abandoned,” he begins, choosing his words with maddening care.

I can’t help but bristle. “Stick to history. I won’t let you lecture me on what I’m allowed to feel.” He only blinks, taking my response in stride. Again he pauses, long enough to let a raindrop roll down his straight nose. He does it to gauge me, to measure, to study. For the first time, his patient manner makes me want to seize him by the shoulders and shake some impulsive words out of him.

“Very well,” he says, his voice low and wounded. “Then, in the interest of history, or what will very soon be history, I am still accompanying my nephew on your journey west. I would like to see the Free Republic for myself, and I think I can be of use to Cal there.” Julian starts to take a step forward, toward me, but thinks better of it. He keeps his distance.

“Does Tiberias have some interest in obscure history that I don’t know about?” I scoff, the words coming out harsher than usual.

He looks torn; that much is very clear. He can barely look me in the eye. The rain plasters his hair to his forehead, clings to his lashes, pulls at him with tiny fingers. It smooths him out somehow, as if washing away his days. Julian seems younger than when I met him, almost a year ago. Less sure of himself. Full of worry and doubt.

“No,” he concedes. “While I normally encourage my nephew to pursue all knowledge he can, there are some things I’d like to steer him away from. Some stones he should not waste time trying to overturn.” I raise an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

Julian frowns. “I assume he mentioned his hopes for Maven. Before.”

Before he chose the crown over me. “He did,” I whisper, sounding small.

“He thinks there might be some way to fix his brother. Heal the wounds of Elara Merandus.” Slowly, Julian shakes his head. “But there is no completing a puzzle with missing pieces. Or putting a shattered pane of glass back together.” My stomach twists, tensing with what I already know. What I’ve seen firsthand. “It’s impossible.” Julian nods. “Impossible, and hopeless. A doomed pursuit, one that will only break my boy’s heart.” “What makes you think I still care about his heart?” I sneer, tasting the bitter lie.

Julian takes a wary step forward. “Go easy on him,” he murmurs.

I snap back without blinking. “How dare you say that to me?”

“Mare, do you remember what you found in those books?” he asks, pulling his robes tight around himself. His voice takes on a pleading edge. “Do you remember the words?” I shiver, and it isn’t because of the rain. “’Not a god’s chosen, but a god’s cursed.’” “Yes,” he replies, nodding along with fervent motion. It reminds me of the way he used to teach, and I brace for a lecture. “This is not a new concept, Mare. Men and women have felt that way, in some capacity, for thousands of years. Chosen or cursed, fated or doomed. Since the dawn of sentience, I suspect, and long before Silver and Red or any type of ability. Did you know kings and politicians and rulers of every kind used to think they were blessed by the gods? Ordained to their place in the world? Many thought themselves chosen, but a few, of course, saw the duty as a curse.” Next to me, Kilorn puffs out a low scoff. I’m more obvious, rolling my eyes at Julian. When I shift, so does the collar of my shirt, sending a steady drip of rainwater down my spine. I clench my fists to keep from flinching.

“Are you saying your nephew is cursed to his crown?” I sneer.

Julian hardens, and I feel a tinge of regret for being so callous. He shakes his head at me, like I’m a child to be scolded. “Forced to choose between the woman he loves and what he thinks is right? What he thinks he must do, because of everything he’s been taught to be? What else would you call that?” “I call it an easy decision,” Kilorn growls.

I bite down hard on the inside of my cheek, trying to gnaw back a dozen rude responses. “Did you really come here to defend what he did? Because I’m certainly not in the mood for it.” “No, of course not, Mare,” Julian replies. “But to explain, if I can.”

My stomach churns at the thought of Julian of all people explaining his nephew’s heart to me. With his dissections and ruminations. Will he boil it down to simple science? An equation to show that the crown and I are not equal in the prince’s eyes? I simply can’t stand it.

“Save your breath, Julian,” I spit. “Go back to your king. Stand at his side.” I look him dead in the eye. So he knows I’m not lying. “And keep him safe.” He sees the offer for what it is. The only thing I can do.

Julian Jacos bows low. He sweeps out his soaking robes in an attempt at courtly manner. For a second, we could be back in Summerton, just him and me in a classroom piled with books. Back then, I lived in terror, forced to masquerade as someone else. Julian was one of my only refuges in that place. Alongside Cal and Maven. My only sanctuaries. The Calore brothers are gone. I think Julian might be too.

“I will, Mare,” he tells me. “With my life, if I must.”

“I hope it doesn’t come to that.”

“So do I.”

Our words are warnings to each other. And his voice sounds like a good-bye.

I think Bree keeps his eyes closed for the entire flight. Not to sleep. He just really despises flying, so much so he can hardly look at his own feet, let alone peek out the window. He doesn’t even respond to Tramy’s and Gisa’s gentle teasing. They sit on either side of him, content to poke and prod. Gisa stage-whispers to Tramy, leaning across Bree to say something about jet crashes or engine malfunctions. I don’t join in. I know what a jet crash feels like, or at least close to it. But I won’t spoil their fun either. We get so little of it these days. Bree keeps still in his seat, arms tightly crossed, his lids glued shut. Eventually his head lolls forward, chin resting on his chest, and he sleeps the rest of the way.

It’s no small accomplishment on his part, considering the route from the Piedmont base to the Free Republic of Montfort is one of the longest flights I’ve ever taken. Six hours of flying at least. Too long a journey for a dropjet, so we’re on a larger carrier, a transport more like the Blackrun. But this isn’t the same craft, thankfully. The Blackrun was torn apart last year, by a contingent of Samos warriors and Maven’s own fury.

I glance down the fuselage to the silhouettes of two pilots working the jet. Men of Montfort. I don’t know either of them. Kilorn hangs at their backs, watching them fly.

Like Bree, Mom isn’t keen on the flight, but Dad twists with his forehead glued to the glass, eyes on the land as it sprawls out below. The rest of the Montfort escort—Davidson and his advisers—spend the time sleeping. They must intend to hit the ground running when they get home. Farley sleeps too, her face pressed up against her seat. She took a spot without a window. Flying still makes her ill.

She is the only representative from the Scarlet Guard. Even in sleep, she curls her arms around Clara, rocking with the motion of the jet to keep her settled. The Colonel is back at the base, and probably ecstatic about it. With Farley gone, he’s the highest-ranking member of the Scarlet Guard left behind. He can play Command all he likes, while his daughter relays information back to the organization.

On the ground, the verdant green of Piedmont, braided with muddy rivers and rolling hills, steadily gives over to the floodplain of the Great River. The disputed lands line both banks, their borders strange and always changing. I know little about them, except the obvious. The Lakelands, Piedmont, Prairie, and even Tiraxes farther south fight over this stretch of mud, swamp, hill, and tree. For control of the river, mostly. I hope. Silvers fight for nothing most of the time, spilling red blood for less than dirt. They control this land too, but not as tightly as they do Norta and the Lakelands.

We fly on, heading west over the flat grasslands and gentle hills of Prairie. Some is farmland. Wheat sprouts in golden waves, patchworked with corn in endless rows. The rest looks like open landscape, pocked by the occasional forest or lake. Prairie has no kings that I know of, no queens, no princes. Their lords rule by right of power, not blood. When a father falls, his son does not always take his place. It’s another country I never thought I’d see, but here I am, looking down at it.

It never goes away, this strange feeling bubbling up from the odd divide between who I was before and who I am now. A girl of the Stilts, of familiar mud, trapped in a small place until the doom of conscription. My future was so empty then, but was it easier than this? I feel detached from that life, a million miles and a thousand years ago.

Julian isn’t on our carrier, or else I might be tempted to ask about the countries beneath us. He’s on the other airjet, the Laris jet striped yellow, with the rest of the Calore and Samos representatives, as well as their guards. Not to mention their baggage. Apparently a would-be king and a princess require a good deal of clothes. They trail behind us, visible from the left-side windows, metal wings flashing as we chase the sun.

Ella told me she came from the Prairie lands before Montfort. The Sandhills. Raider country. More terms I don’t really understand. She isn’t here to explain, left behind at the Piedmont base with Rafe. Tyton is the only electricon coming with us. Besides me, of course. He’s Montfort-born. I suspect he has a family to visit, and friends too. He sits near the rear of the jet, sprawled across two empty seats, his nose buried in a tattered book. As I look at him, he feels my gaze, and he meets my eyes for a brief second. He blinks, gray orbs calculating. I wonder if he can feel the tiny pulses of electricity in my brain. Does he know what each one means? Can he distinguish between bursts of fear or excitement?

Could I, one day?

I hardly know the depth of my own abilities. It’s the same for all newbloods I’ve met and helped train. But maybe not in Montfort. Maybe they understand what we are, and how much we can do.

The next thing I know, someone nudges my arm, jolting me out of an uneasy sleep. Dad points at the rounded window between us, set into the curved wall behind our seats.

“Never thought I’d see anything like that,” he says, rapping the thick glass.

“What?” I ask, adjusting myself. He snaps the buckle on my belts, giving me full range of motion to turn and look out.

I have seen mountains before. In the Greatwoods, from the Notch. Green ranges fading into autumn’s fire and then winter’s barren, bone-branched chill. In the Rift, where hunched ridges ripple into the horizon, rising and falling like leafy waves. In Piedmont, deep in the backcountry, their slopes shifting into blue and distant purple, glimpsed only from the windows of a jet. All of them were part of the Allacias, the long line of ancient mountains marching from Norta to the Piedmont interior. But I have never seen mountains like the ones before us. I don’t think they can even be called mountains at all.

My jaw hangs open, eyes glued to the horizon as the jet arcs toward the north. The flat Prairie lands end abruptly, their western edge punctured by the wall of a vast and sheer mountain range, bigger than anything I’ve ever seen before. The slopes rise like knife edges, too sharp, too high, rows upon rows of jagged, gigantic teeth. Some of the peaks are bare, without trees. As if trees can’t grow up there. A few mountains in the distance are capped in white. Snow. Even though it’s summer.

I draw in a shaky breath. What kind of country have we come to? Do Silvers and Ardents rule so completely, with enough strength to build an impossible land like this? The mountains put a fear in me, but a little excitement too. Even from the air, this country feels different. The Free Republic of Montfort stirs something in my blood and bone.

Next to me, Dad puts a hand to the glass. His fingers brush over the silhouette of the range, tracing the peaks. “Beautiful,” he murmurs, so low only I can hear. “I hope this place is good to us.” It’s cruel to give hope where none should be.

My father said that once, in the shadow of a stilt house. He sat in a chair, missing a leg. I used to think he was broken. I know better now. Dad is as whole as the rest of us, and always has been. He just wanted to protect us from the pain of wanting what we could not have. Futures we would never be allowed. Our fates have been quite different. And it seems my father has changed with them. He can hope.

With a deep breath, I realize the same. Even after Maven, my long months of imprisonment, all the death and destruction I’ve seen or caused. My broken heart, still bleeding inside me. The unending fear for the people I love, and the people I want to save. It all remains, a constant weight. But I won’t let it drown me.

I can still hope too.