فصل ششم

SIX

Evangeline

The air is strange. Thin. Oddly clean, as if removed from the rest of the world.

I smell it around the edges of my iron, my silver, my chrome. And of course the metallic tang of the jets, their engines still hot from the journey. The feel of them is overpowering, even after long hours cramped in the belly of a Laris carrier. So many plates and pipes and screws. On the flight, I spent longer than I care to admit counting rivets and tracing metal seams. If I tore there, or there, or there, I could send Cal or Anabel or anyone I wished plummeting to their death. Even myself. I had to sit near a Haven lord for much of the trip, and his snore rivaled thunder. Jumping out of a jet almost seemed like a better choice.

Despite the time of year, the air is colder than I expected, and goose bumps rise beneath the sheer silk draped around my shoulders. I took care to dress as a princess should, even though now I suffer the chill for it. This is my first state visit, both as a representative of the Rift and as the future queen of Norta. If that cursed future comes to pass, I must look the part, impressive and formidable down to my painted toes. I have to be prepared. I am well beyond the bounds of the world I understand. I inhale again, sucking down an oddly shallow breath. Even breathing here is unfamiliar.

It isn’t late enough for sunset, but the mountains are so tall, and already the light wanes. Long shadows race across the landing field cut deep into the valley. I feel as if I could touch the sky. Run my jeweled claws across the clouds and make the sky bleed red starlight. Instead I keep my hands at my sides, my many rings and bracelets hidden beneath the folds of my skirt and sleeves. Decoration only. Pretty, useless, silent things. Just like my parents want me to be.

At the far end of the jet runway, the land drops away in a cliff. The carved edges of the mountainsides frame the horizon like a window. Cal stands silhouetted, looking eastward, where evening falls in shades of hazy purple. The mountain range casts shadows of its own, and all the world seems to fade in a darkness of Montfort’s making.

Cal isn’t alone. His uncle, the infinitely odd Jacos lord, stands at his side. He jots something in a notebook, moving with the excited, nervous energy of a tiny bird. Two guards, one in Lerolan colors, orange and red, with the other in Laris yellow, flank them from a respectful distance. The exiled prince stares out, still but for the wind in his scarlet cape. Reversing his house colors was a smart decision, to distance himself from everything King Maven is.

I shudder at the memory of that white face, those blue eyes, how every part of him seemed to burn with an all-consuming flame. There is nothing in Maven but hunger.

Cal doesn’t turn around until Mare is off her jet with her family, hustled to a waiting escort of Montfort attendants. The Barrows’ voices echo off the stone walls of the high mountain valley. That family is quite . . . vocal. And for someone so short and compact, Mare has surprisingly tall brothers. The sight of her younger sister turns my stomach. The girl has red hair. Darker than Elane’s, without any of her bright gleam. Her skin doesn’t glow, not with ability or some inner charm I can’t explain. She isn’t pale or alluring either. Her face is plainly pretty, more golden, an average sort of beauty. Common. Red. Elane is singular, in appearance and mind. She has no equal in my eyes. But still, the Barrow girl reminds me of the person I want most, the person I can never truly have.

Elane isn’t here, and neither is my brother. That is the price. For his safety, for his life. General Farley will certainly kill him if given the opportunity, and I don’t intend to let her have it. Not even for my own heart.

Cal turns around to watch Mare disappear, his eyes on her back as the escorts lead her and her family away. My lip curls at his idiocy. She’s right in front of him, and he still pushes the girl away with both hands. For something so fragile and fickle as a crown. Even so, I envy him. He could still choose her if wanted. I wish I had the opportunity to do the same.

“You think my grandson is a fool, don’t you?”

I turn to see Anabel Lerolan watching me, her lethal fingers knitted in front of her, a rose-gold tiara winking on her head. Like the rest of us, she made an effort to look her best.

Gritting my teeth, I dip into a shallow but perfect curtsy.

“I have no idea what you mean, Your Majesty.” I don’t bother trying to sound convincing. I see little consequence to it, for good or ill. It makes no difference what she thinks of me. She controls my life either way.

“You’re attached to the Haven girl, yes? Jerald’s daughter.” Anabel takes a daring step closer to me. I want to cut Elane’s face right out of her head. “If I’m not mistaken, she’s married to your brother, a future queen as much as you are.” The threat laces through her words like one of my mother’s snakes.

I force a laugh. “My passing fancies are not your business.”

One of her fingers ticks, tapping against a wizened knuckle. She purses her lips and the wrinkles around her mouth deepen. “They are very much my business. Especially when you lie so quickly to keep Elane Haven from any kind of scrutiny. A passing fancy? Hardly, Evangeline. You are clearly smitten.” She narrows her eyes. “I think you’ll find you and I have more in common than you believe.” I smirk in her face, flashing my teeth in a veiled snarl. “I know old court gossip as much as anyone else. You speak of consorts. Your husband had one, a man named Robert, and you think that gives us what—an understanding?” “I married a Calore king and sat by his side while he loved another. I think I know how this”—she dances two fingers in front of me—“might work. And let me tell you, it works best when all parties involved are in agreement, and in the know. Whether you like it or not, you and my grandson need to be allies in all things. It’s the best way to survive.” “Survive in his shadow, you mean,” I snap, unable to help myself.

Anabel blinks at me, her face pulled in rare confusion. Then she smiles and dips her head. “Queens cast shadows too.” Her demeanor changes in an instant. “Ah, Premier.” She turns to my left, toward the man standing behind me.

I do the same, watching as Davidson steps forward. He nods at both of us, though he never breaks his gaze. His angled eyes, oddly gold, dart from Anabel to me. They are the only part of him that seems alive. The rest, from his empty, bland expressions to his still fingers, seems schooled by restraint.

“Your Majesty, Your Highness,” Davidson says, bobbing his head again. Over his shoulder, I glance at his Montfort guards in green, as well as his officers and soldiers with their insignia. There are dozens of them. Some accompanied him from Piedmont, but most were already here waiting for his arrival.

Did he always have so many guards at his back? So many guns? I feel the bullets in their chambers. I count them off, a force of habit, and thicken the pools of iron in my dress, covering my most sensitive organs.

The premier gestures with one hand, sweeping his arm. “I hoped to escort you both into our capital, and be the first to bid you welcome to the Free Republic of Montfort.” Though he still does his best to remain emotionless, I sense a pride in him. Pride in his home, his country. I understand that, at least.

Anabel surveys him with a look that would level noble Silvers, men and women of terrible power and even worse arrogance. The premier doesn’t even flinch. “This,” she sniffs, eyeing the naked cliffs on either side of us, “is your Republic?” “This,” Davidson replies, “is a private runway.”

I spin a ring on my finger, distracting myself with the braid of jewels to keep from laughing.

Buttons gleam at the edge of my awareness. Heavy iron, well formed, forged into the likeness of flame. They approach, fastened to my betrothed’s clothing. He stops at my side, radiating a low but constant heat.

Cal says nothing to me, and I’m glad for it. We haven’t truly spoken in months. Not since he escaped death in the Bowl of Bones. Before, when he was my betrothed for the first time, our conversations were few and dull. Cal has a mind for battle and Mare Barrow. Neither interests me much.

I sneak a look at him and can tell his grandmother has seen to his appearance well. Gone is the rough-cut hair and the uneven stubble across his jaw. His cheeks are smooth, his black hair neat and glossy, brushed back from his forehead. Cal looks like he just stepped out of Whitefire, ready for his own coronation, instead of a six-hour flight on a jet carrier with a siege behind him. But his eyes are dull, hard bronze, and he doesn’t wear a crown. Either Anabel could not procure one for him, or he refused to put it on. I assume the latter.

“A private runway?” Cal asks, looking down at Davidson.

The premier doesn’t seem bothered by the height discrepancy. Maybe he is without the infinitely male preoccupation with size.

“Yes,” Davidson says. “This airfield is at higher altitude, and has easier access to the city of Ascendant than the fields on the plains or the valleys deeper in the mountains. I thought it best to take us here, although the eastern ascent up the Hawkway is considered a splendid sight.” “When the war is over, I’d like to see it,” Cal replies, trying to be polite. It does little to hide his naked disinterest.

Davidson doesn’t seem to mind. “When the war is over,” he echoes, his eyes glittering.

“Well, we wouldn’t want to make you late for your address to your government.” Anabel puts her arm through Cal’s, ever the doting grandmother. She leans on him more than she needs to. A fitting and calculated picture.

“I wouldn’t worry about that,” Davidson says with one of his easy, languid smiles. “I’m scheduled to speak before the Montfort assembly in the morning. I’ll make our case then.” Cal jolts. “Tomorrow morning? Sir, you know as well as I do that time—”

“The assembly convenes in the morning. Tonight I hope you’ll join me for dinner,” Davidson says placidly.

“Premier—” Cal begins, gritting his teeth.

But the newblood is forceful and stern, albeit as apologetic as he can be. “My colleagues already agreed to hold a special session, out of season. I assure you, I’m doing what I can within the bounds of my country’s laws.” Laws. Can they even exist in a country like this? With no throne, no crown, no one to make the ultimate decision while all the rest squabble over details? How can Montfort hope to survive? How can they hope to move forward with so many pulling in different directions?

But if Montfort cannot move, if Davidson cannot win Cal more troops, then this war may end the way I want. It may end sooner than I thought.

“To Ascendant, then?” I ask, hoping to get out of the settling cold. And get Cal closer to all the distraction this place can give. As Anabel has already claimed Cal, I offer my arm to Davidson instead. He takes it with a slight bow, his hand featherlight on my wrist.

“This way, Your Highness,” he replies.

I’m surprised to find that the touch of a newblood is not as revolting as the touch of my betrothed. He sets a good pace, leading us away from the jets and onto the paths leading into Ascendant.

The city is set high on the eastern edge of the massive mountain range, looking over the lower peaks and out over the borders. Prairie fades on the horizon, its edges known as raider country, where roving bands of Silvers aligned to no nation prey upon all who cross. The rest is empty plain, marred only by the cratered remains of what was once a city, long ago. I do not know its name.

Ascendant seems born of the mountains themselves, built upon slopes and into valleys, arching over gushing streams and the larger river picking its way back east through winding canyons. The few roads tunnel, and transports weave in and out of sight. There must be more beneath the surface, carved into the rock hearts of these mountains.

Most of the Ascendant city buildings are quarried stone—granite, marble, and rock quartz—cut and sculpted into impossibly smooth slabs of white and gray. Pine trees, some taller than spires, sprout up between buildings, their needles the same dark green as Montfort’s flag. The sunset and the mountains wash the city in alternating stripes of deep pink and darkening purple, light and shadow. Above us, marching into the western distance, snowy peaks stand triumphant beneath a sky that seems too big and too close. A few early stars pinprick the dusk. They are familiar, forming patterns I know.

I have never seen a city like this, and it worries me. I do not like surprises, nor do I like to be impressed. It means something is better than me, or my blood, or my homeland.

But Ascendant, Montfort, Davidson, they’ve done it.

I can’t help but be awed by this strange, beautiful place.

It’s less than a mile to the city, but the many steps make it seem longer. I think the premier wants to show off, so rather than stuff us all into transports, he forces us to walk and see the city fully.

If I were back in the court of a Calore king with some other noble on my arm, I wouldn’t bother making conversation. The presence of House Samos is well reputed. But here? I have to prove myself. I sigh, grit my teeth, and look to Davidson at my side.

“I understand you were elected to your position.” The word is foreign to me, rolling around my mouth like a smooth stone.

Davidson can’t help but chuckle, a small crack in his inscrutable mask. “Yes, indeed. Two years ago. The nation voted. And on the third year, next spring, we do so again.” “Who voted, precisely?”

His mouth tightens. “All kinds, if that’s what you mean. Red, Silver, Ardent. A ballot is color-blind.” “So you do have Silvers here.” They said as much before, but I doubted any Silver would condescend to a life alongside any Red, let alone to be ruled by one. Even a newblood. Still, it puzzles me. Why live here as an equal when they could live elsewhere as a god?

Davidson dips his chin. “We have many.”

“And they just allow this?” I scoff, not bothering to hold my tongue. I only do that around my parents, and they aren’t here, having thrown me to these red-blooded wolves.

“Allow our equal existence, you mean.” The premier’s voice takes on a sharper edge, hissing through the mountain air.

His eyes bore into mine, gold into charcoal gray. We continue walking, both of us sure over the many steps. He wants me to apologize. I do not.

Finally we reach a landing, a marble terrace overlooking a wide garden in full bloom. Unfamiliar flowers, purple and orange and pale blue, spiral out before us, wild and fragrant. Some yards ahead, Mare Barrow and her family pick their way through the garden, led by their own Montfort escorts. One of her brothers stoops to inspect the flowers more closely.

While the rest of our group takes in the expanse of the garden, Davidson draws closer to me, his lips almost brushing my ear. I resist the urge to slice him in two.

“Forgive me for my bluntness, Princess Evangeline,” he whispers, “but you have a female lover, don’t you? And you are forbidden to marry her.” I swear, I’m going to cut the tongues from the mouths of everyone here. Is no secret sacred?

“I don’t know what you mean,” I growl through a clenched jaw.

“Of course you do. She’s married to your brother. Part of an arrangement, yes?”

My hands tighten around a stone railing. The cool smoothness does nothing to sooth me. I dig in my fingers, and the sharp, jeweled points of my decorative claws scratch deep. Davidson keeps on, his words a tumult, low and fast and impossible to ignore.

“If all were as you wished, if you were not a bargaining chip in a crown, and she were not wed, could you marry her? Under the best of circumstances, would the Silvers of Norta allow what you desire?” I turn to him, teeth bared. The premier is far too close. He doesn’t flinch, or step back. I can see the tiny imperfections in his skin. Wrinkles, scars, even pores. I could claw his eyes right out of his head if I wanted to.

“Marriage has nothing to do with desire,” I snap. “Marriage is for heirs and nothing else.” For reasons I can’t fathom, his golden eyes soften. I see pity. I see regret. I hate it. “So you are denied what you want because of what you are. A choice you never made, a piece of yourself you cannot change—and do not want to change.” “I—”

“Look down on my country all you want,” he murmurs, and I see a shadow of the temper he works to keep hidden. “Question the way things are. Perhaps the answers will be to your liking.” Then he steps back a little, returning to the picture of a politician. An ordinary man of ordinary charm. “Of course, I hope you enjoy our dinner this evening. My husband, Carmadon, has been busy enough preparing for you all.” What? I can only blink. Of course not. I misheard. My cheeks flush with heat, turning gray with shame. I can’t deny that my heart leapt in my chest, a burst of adrenaline coursing through me only to die in a heartbeat. It’s no use wishing for impossible things.

But the premier moves his head, the slightest nod.

I didn’t mishear and he didn’t misspeak.

“Another small thing we allow here in Montfort, Princess Evangeline.”

He drops my arm without ceremony, quickening his pace to put some distance between us. I feel my heart hammer in my chest. Is he lying? Is what he said even possible? To my bewilderment, sharp tears prick at my eyes and my chest tightens.

“Diplomacy was never your strong suit.”

Cal glowers at my shoulder, his grandmother hanging back to whisper with one of the Iral lords.

I turn my head, hiding for a moment in a curtain of silver hair. Just long enough to regain some semblance of control. Luckily he’s decidedly occupied with staring after Mare, tracking her movements with pitiful longing.

“Then why did you pick me?” I finally sneer back at him, hoping he feels every ounce of my rage and pain. “Why make someone like me a queen when all I’ll be is a thorn in your side?” “Playing dumb isn’t your strong suit either, Evangeline. You know how this works.”

“I know you had a choice, Calore. Two paths. And you chose the one that leads right through me.” “Choice,” he barks. “You girls love that word.”

My eyes roll in my skull. “Well, you seem to be a stranger to it. Blaming everyone and everything else for a decision you made.” “A decision I had to make.” He turns to me, eyes flashing. “Or what? You think Anabel and your father and the rest would have allied with the Reds anyway? Without getting something in the bargain? You think they wouldn’t find someone else to back, someone worse? At least, if it’s me, I can—” I step neatly in front of him, putting us chest to chest. My shoulders square, ready for battle. A lifetime of Training hardens beneath my skin. “What? Make things better? When all the fighting is done, you think you can sit on your new throne and wave your stupid flames and change the way the world is?” With a sneer, I size him up, my eyes ripping a path from his boots to his forehead. “Don’t make me laugh, Tiberias Calore. You’re a puppet as much as I am, but at least you had a chance to cut your strings.” “And you don’t?”

“I would if I could,” I whisper, and I think I mean it. If Elane were here, if there were some way we could stay . . .

“When—when the time comes, when we have to marry . . .” He stumbles over the words. It isn’t like a Calore to stammer. “I’ll try to make things as easy as I can. State visits, meetings. You and Elane can do as you like.” A chill runs through me. “As long as I hold up my end of the bargain.”

The prospect disgusts us both, and we look away from each other. “I’m not doing anything without your consent,” he mutters.

Even though I’m not surprised, a tiny burst of relief blooms in my heart. “I’d cut something off if you tried.” Cal offers a weak laugh, little more than an expulsion of air.

“What a mess,” he mumbles, so low he might not expect me to hear.

I suck in a shaky breath. “You can still choose her.”

The words hang in the air, torturing us both.

He doesn’t reply, now glaring at his booted feet. In the garden, Mare keeps her back to him, following close at her sister’s heels. Despite their differing hair colors, I see the resemblance. They move in the same way. Careful, quiet, deliberate, like mice. The sister picks a flower as they go, a pale green bloom with vibrant petals, then tucks it into her hair. As I watch, the tall Red boy, the one Mare insists on dragging everywhere, does the same. The flower looks silly behind his ear, and both Barrow sisters double over. Their laughter echoes over us, a taunt more than anything.

They are Red. They are lesser. And they are happy. How can this be?

“Stop moping, Calore,” I grind out through gritted teeth. The advice is for both of us. “You forged this crown yourself—now wear it. Or don’t.”