فصل هشتم

Eight: Mare

The Montfort escort leads us toward a palatial compound set high on a ridge overlooking the central valley, where the rest of Ascendant clings to the slopes. Everywhere, dark green banners drift in the sweet evening breeze, bearing the mark of the white triangle. A mountain, I realize, feeling silly for not having figured out their symbol sooner. Their uniforms have the same marking.

My own clothes are plain, not even a uniform, just items cobbled together from stores in both Corvium and Piedmont. Probably owned by a Silver, judging by the fine make of the jacket, pants, boots, and shirt. Farley tromps along in her version of a uniform, with Clara swaddled on her hip. She wears red all over, with three metal squares at her collar. The mark of a Command general.

The Silvers behind us are more flashy, and I expect nothing less from their kind. They cut a rainbow of vibrant, sharp colors against the white walkways of Ascendant that wind through the city. Cal is difficult to ignore in his burning red cloak, but I certainly try. He walks with Evangeline, and I half expect her to shove him off one of the more treacherous terraces or stairways.

I keep close to my father’s side, listening to him breathe. The steps of Ascendant are many, and he is an old man with a regrown leg, not to mention his repaired lung. The thin air can’t be helping either.

He works hard not to stumble, his red face the only hint of how much effort this takes. Mom flanks him on the left, sharing my thoughts. Her hands trail behind him, fingers splayed to help him if he falters.

I would call for some kind of aid, a strongarm maybe, or even just Bree and Tramy, if Dad asked. But I know he won’t. He forges ahead, touching my arm once or twice. Grateful for my presence, and equally grateful for my restraint.

The steps level eventually, carrying us through an archway carved to look like tree trunks and leaves. We pass through into a central plaza, its stonework a checkered spiral of hewn green granite and milky limestone. Pines of every kind line the arches bounding the place, some of them tall as towers and just as thick. I’m struck by the overpowering swell of birdsong, chittering against the purpled sky.

Behind me, Kilorn lets loose a low whistle. He stares through the trees to a long, pillared building set into and up the cresting slope. It’s a strange mix of tumbled stone, like the bottom of a riverbed, with lacquered timber and marble detail. Balconies dot its many wings, some bursting with wildflowers. All of them face into the valley, to watch over Ascendant.

This is the premier’s house, I’m certain of it. A palace in all but name. It makes me uneasy, while the rest of my family is rightfully dazzled. I’ve had enough of palaces to know I shouldn’t trust what lingers behind sculpted beauty and gleaming windows.

There are no walls around the palace, and no gates. There don’t seem to be any surrounding Ascendant either. Or at least not the kind I can see. I get the feeling the geography of this city, this country, is its own kind of boundary. Montfort is strong enough not to need walls. Or stupid enough not to build them. Judging by Davidson, I doubt the latter very much.

Farley must be thinking the same thing. Her eyes pass over the arches, the pines, the palace, noting each one with focused precision. Then she looks back at the Silvers as they troop in after us, all of them trying not to seem impressed by Davidson’s home.

The premier only waves us forward, deeper and deeper into the heart of his country.

As in Piedmont, the Barrow family is given much nicer living quarters than we’re used to. The apartments within Davidson’s home are vast, large enough to give each of us our own bedroom. Kilorn and Gisa busy themselves with exploring, poking around the various rooms. Bree is less inclined to move, taking over one of the velvet couches in the long salon. I can hear him snoring now, from where I stand on our terrace. This is temporary, until more permanent lodging can be procured in the city.

Everyone leaves me alone, either unknowingly or on purpose. I don’t mind either way.

Ascendant glitters below, a constellation on the mountainside. I can feel the electricity in it, distant and constant, winking in the many lights. It all looks like a reflection of the sky above. The stars seem impossibly clear here, close enough to touch. I breathe deep, sucking in the wild freshness of the mountains. This is a good place to leave them. The best place I could ask for.

Along the balcony edge, flowers bloom from pots and boxes, in all colors. The ones before me are purple and strangely shaped, with odd petals like a tail.

“They call them elephant flowers.”

Tramy sidles next to me, planting an elbow on the railing. He leans out to stare at the city below. Despite the season, a deep chill settles with the night. I must be shivering, because he offers a shawl with one hand.

As I take it, wrapping the knitted fabric around my shoulders, he furrows his brow. “I don’t know what elephant means.” The word rings a distant bell, but I shake my head and shrug. “Neither do I. It could be an animal, I think. Julian would know.” I speak his name without thinking, and I almost wince. A twinge of pain snaps in my chest.

“You can ask him tonight at dinner,” my brother says, thoughtful as he runs a hand through his scratchy beard.

I shrug again, trying to brush off all mention of Julian Jacos. “You need to shave, Tramy,” I snicker. Inhaling the sweet air again, I turn back to the city lights. “And ask Julian yourself at dinner tonight.” “No.”

Something in his voice gives me pause, a low tremor of resolve. Boldness. Tramy isn’t the kind to refuse any of us. He’s too used to following Bree around, or smoothing over family troubles. He is a peacemaker, far from the kind to plant his feet and dig in.

I glance up at him, expecting an explanation.

He clenches his jaw, dark brown eyes boring into mine. He has Mom’s eyes, like I do. “It’s no place for us.” Us.

His meaning is clear. This is as far as we go. The Barrows aren’t politicians or warriors. They have no reason to share the spotlight, or the danger I live with. But the prospect of standing alone, without them—the fear is endless and selfish and sudden.

“It can be,” I say too quickly, taking his wrist. Tramy quickly covers my hand with his own. “It should be your place. All of you. You’re my family—” A door creaks open onto the terrace, then shuts behind Gisa and Kilorn. My sister surveys us, eyes shining. “How many people have power they shouldn’t simply because their family gives it to them?” she asks.

She means the Silvers. The royals and the nobles who hand power to their children, no matter how unsuited they might be. The obsession with blood, with dynasty, is the reason Maven is on the throne in the first place. A twisted boy king ruling a country when he can’t even rule his own mind.

“That’s different,” I mutter back, though my retort is halfhearted. “You’re not like them.” Gisa reaches out to me, adjusting my shawl. She dotes on me the way a big sister should, even though I’m years older. The flower is still tucked behind her ear, pale as dawn. Slowly, I touch the petals, then run a lock of her hair through my fingers. The flower suits her. Will Montfort?

“Like Tramy said,” she replies, “your meetings, your councils, the war you’re fighting, that’s no place for us. And we don’t want it to be.” Gisa stares back at me, eye to eye. We’re the same height for now, but I hope she keeps growing. She doesn’t deserve to see the world the way I do.

“Okay,” I breathe, pulling her close. “Okay.”

“They agree,” she mumbles against me.

Mom. And even Dad.

Something in me releases, letting go of a great weight. But is it an anchor pulling me down, or an anchor keeping me steady? It could be both in equal measure. Without my parents or siblings hanging in the balance, who will I become?

Who I must.

With my head tucked on Gisa’s shoulder, it’s hard not to look at Kilorn standing behind her. His face is dark, a storm cloud as he watches us both. We lock eyes when he feels my gaze, and I see determination in him. He joined the Scarlet Guard long ago, and he won’t take the opportunity to break that pledge. Not even to stay here, in safety, with the only family he knows.

“Now,” Gisa says, pulling back. “Let’s get you ready for this mess of a dinner party.”

Months of life on rebel bases has only sharpened my sister’s keen eye for color, fabric, and fashion. Somehow she scares up a few different outfits from the palace to choose from, all of them relaxed but formal, in a range of styles. None of the gemmed monstrosities the Nortan Silvers wear, of course, but still suitable for a table of kings and leaders. I have to admit, I like dressing up in this way. Running my fingers over cotton or silk. Deciding how to wear my hair. It’s a good distraction. And necessary.

Tiberias will certainly be sitting at the table with me, glowering in his crimson clothes. Pouting because I held to my principles, while he spit on them. Let him see exactly what he turned his back on, and who. I get a sick, but satisfying, pleasure from the thought.

Though Gisa favors the more complex outfits for me, we eventually settle on a dress both of us like. Simple, a deep plum red, long-sleeved with a trailing skirt. No jewelry but my earrings. Pink for Bree, red for Tramy, purple for Shade, green for Kilorn. The final red stone, scarlet as fresh blood, is tucked away in my things. I won’t wear the earring Tiberias gave me, but I can’t throw it away either. It sits, undisturbed but not forgotten.

Gisa quickly sews some gold braid, an intricate piece of already-made embroidery, to the cuff of each sleeve. I don’t know where she swiped a sewing kit from, or if Davidson’s staff knew to leave her one. Her nimble fingers are equally skilled at fixing my hair, twisting my mud-brown locks into something like a crown. It hides my gray ends nicely, even though they’ve spread so much. The strain of the days has certainly taken its toll on me, something I don’t miss in the mirror. I look washed out, sunken, my eyes circled by bruise-like shadows. I have scars of every kind, from Maven’s brand, from wounds not properly healed, from my own lightning. But I am not a ruin. Not yet.

The premier’s palace is vast, but the layout is simple enough, and it takes little time for me to descend to the ground floor, where the public rooms are. Eventually I can just follow the smell of food, letting it lead me through room after room of grand salons and galleries. I pass a dining area the size of a ballroom, dominated by a table big enough for forty, as well as a massive stone fireplace. But the table is bare and no flame crackles in the grate.

“Miss Barrow, isn’t it?”

I turn to the kindly voice, finding an even kinder face. A man beckons from one of the many arched doorways leading out onto another terrace. He is perfectly bald, with midnight skin, almost purple in hue, and his smile flashes like a white crescent above an even whiter silk suit.

“Yes,” I reply evenly.

He grins wider. “Very good. We’ll be eating out here, under the stars. I thought it best to do so, on your first visit.” The man gestures and I follow, crossing the grand dining room to meet him. With smooth motions, he takes my arm, locking his elbow with mine as he leads me out into the cool night air. The smell of food intensifies, making my mouth water.

“So tense,” he chuckles, moving his arm a little to contrast my own tight muscles. His air is easy, so much so that I want to mistrust him. “I’m Carmadon, and I cooked the dinner. So if you have any complaints, keep them to yourself.” I bite my lip, trying to hide a smirk. “I’ll do my best.”

He only taps his nose in reply.

The spider veins in his eyes are gray, branching across white. His blood is silver. I swallow around a sudden lump in my throat.

“May I ask what ability you possess, Carmadon?”

His response is a thin smile. “Is it not obvious?” He gestures to the many plants and flowers, both on the terrace and dangling from the many balconies and windows. “I am but a humble greenwarden, Miss Barrow.” For the sake of appearance, I force a smile of my own. Humble. I’ve seen corpses with roots curling from their eyes and mouths. There is no such thing as a humble Silver, or a harmless one. They all have the ability to kill. But then, I suppose, so do we. So does every human on earth.

We walk across the terrace, toward the smell and soft lights and the low murmur of stilted conversation. This part of the palace juts out over the ridge, allowing an unobstructed view over the pines, the valley, and the snowy peaks in the distance. They seem to glow under the light of a rising moon.

I try not to look eager or interested or even angry. Nothing to hint at my emotions. Still, I feel my heart jump, adrenaline pumping, at the sight of Tiberias’s familiar silhouette. Again he stares out at the landscape, unable to face anyone else around him. I feel my lip curl in distaste. Since when are you a coward, Tiberias Calore?

Farley paces back and forth some yards away, still wearing her Command uniform. Her hair has been freshly washed, and it gleams beneath the lamps strung over the terrace table. She gives me a nod before moving to sit.

Evangeline and Anabel are already in their chairs, on either side of one end of the table. They must intend to flank Cal and trumpet their importance at his right and left. While Anabel seems comfortable in her gown from earlier, the heavy red and orange silk, Evangeline nuzzles into a collar of smooth black fox fur. She watches me as I approach the table, eyes glittering like two devious stars. When I sit, taking my place diagonal from her, as far as possible from the exiled prince, her lips twist into what could be a smile.

Carmadon doesn’t seem to notice or care that his dinner guests are hell-bent on hating one another. He sits gracefully in the chair across from mine, at the right hand of where I assume Davidson will be. A servant springs from the shadows to fill his intricately etched wineglass.

I watch with narrowed eyes. The servant has red blood, judging by the flush in her cheeks. She is neither old nor young, but she smiles as she works. I’ve never seen a Red servant smile like that, unless commanded.

“They’re paid, and paid fairly,” Farley says, sitting down beside our host. “I’ve already checked.” Carmadon swirls the wine in his glass. “Poke and prod at whatever you like, General Farley. Check behind the curtains, for all I care. There are no slaves in my house,” he says, his voice taking on a stern edge.

“We haven’t been properly introduced,” I say, feeling more rude than usual. “Your name is Carmadon, but—” “Of course, excuse my manners, Miss Barrow. Premier Davidson is my husband, and he is currently very late. I would apologize if the dinner goes cold waiting for him”—he waves a hand at the table of food nearby, holding our first course—“but his punctuality is neither my fault nor my problem.” His words are harsh, but his manner friendly and open. If Davidson is difficult to read, his husband is an open book. And so is Evangeline right now.

She stares at the man with such naked envy I think she might turn green. And no wonder. Their lives, a marriage such as this, are impossible in our country. Forbidden. Considered a waste of silver blood. But not here.

I fold my hands in my lap, trying not to fidget despite the nervous energy settling over the table. Anabel has not spoken, either because she disapproves of Carmadon or because she disapproves of eating alongside Reds. It could be both.

Farley barely nods her head in thanks when Carmadon fills her glass with rich, almost black wine. She drinks deep.

I stick to ice water, speckled with slices of bright lemon. The last thing I need is a spinning head and blurred thoughts with Tiberias Calore anywhere nearby. I glance at him as he enters, running my eyes over his familiar shoulders thrown wide beneath the edges of a red cape. It seems more like flame in the warm lights of the terrace.

When he turns around, I drop my gaze. I can only listen as he approaches, his presence heavy on the air. A wrought-iron chair scrapes against the stone terrace, its movement agonizingly slow and deliberate. I almost jolt when I realize exactly where he has decided to sit.

His arm brushes mine, just for a second, and his warmth settles around me. I curse the familiar comfort of it, especially against the mountain chill.

Finally I dare to look up, only to find Carmadon with his head tilted, chin resting on one fist. He seems infinitely amused. At his side, Farley looks more inclined to vomit. And I don’t have to see Anabel’s face to know she’s scowling.

I lock my hands together beneath the tabletop, knitting my fingers so tightly my knuckles turn white. Not with fear, but with anger. Next to me, Tiberias leans, one elbow on the arm of the chair closest to me. He could whisper in my ear if he wanted. I grit my teeth, resisting the instinct to spit.

Across the table, Evangeline almost purrs to herself. She runs a hand through her furs, her decorative claws gleaming. “How many courses does this meal have, my lord Carmadon?” Davidson’s husband doesn’t look away from me, and his lips twitch in what could be a smirk. “Six.” With a scowl, Farley knocks back the rest of her wine.

Grinning, Carmadon gestures to the servants in the shadows. “Dane and your lord Julian can catch up,” he says, calling for the first course with a flick of his fingers. “I hope you enjoy. We’ve taken great care to prepare some Montfort delicacies.” The service is smooth and quick, just as efficient but less formal than I’ve seen in the palaces of Silver kings. Carmadon presides as small plates of elegant bone china are laid out in front of us. I look down at a pink slice of fish the size of my thumb, topped with some kind of creamy cheese and asparagus.

“Fresh-caught salmon, from the Calum River in the west,” Carmadon explains, before popping the entire thing in his mouth. Farley quickly follows suit. “The Calum drains to the western coast, into the ocean.” In my head I try to picture what he’s talking about, but my knowledge of his lands is poor at best. There’s another ocean, yes, bordering the western edge of the continent, but that’s all I can grasp right now.

“My uncle Julian will be eager to learn more of your country,” Tiberias replies. He speaks slowly, with conviction. It ages him a decade. “I suspect his questions are what delay both him and the premier now.” “Perhaps. My Dane does delight in his library.”

And so would Julian. I wonder if the premier is trying to form ties of his own, perhaps make an ally of a friendly Nortan Silver. Or maybe Davidson is just enjoying time with another scholar, eager to share word of his country.

After the salmon comes a hot vegetable soup, steaming in the chilly air, and then a salad of fresh greens and wild huckleberry grown on this very mountain. Carmadon doesn’t seem to mind that no one else is speaking. He fills the silence with his own chatter, pleasantly comfortable as he details every bit of the meal he prepared. The particulars of a salad dressing, the best time to pick berries, how long the vegetables must cook, the size of his personal garden, and so on. I doubt Evangeline, Tiberias, or Anabel has ever cooked a day in their life, and I wonder if Farley’s ever eaten anything that wasn’t stolen or rationed.

I do my best to seem polite, although I have little to say. Especially with Tiberias so close, inhaling everything on his plate. I glance at him here and there, hoarding brief flashes of his face. His jaw clenched, his throat working. He never shaved so closely before. If I didn’t have my pride or conviction, I might run my knuckles over his cheek, close against smooth skin.

This time, he catches my eye before I can look away.

My instinct is to blink, break the stare. Turn back to my plate or maybe even excuse myself from the table. But I hold my ground. If the would-be king wants to put me on edge, knock me back on my heels, then fine. I can do that too. I set my shoulders, straighten my spine, and, most important of all, remember to breathe. Tiberias is just one more Silver who will leave my people enslaved, no matter what he preaches. He is an obstacle and a shield. A delicate balance must be kept.

He blinks first, returning to his food.

I do the same.

It burns to be near him, so close to a person I used to trust. A body I know so well. One choice, one word, and things would be so different. This dinner would be spent trading glances, communicating in our way about Evangeline or Anabel or Davidson’s absence. Or they wouldn’t be here at all. It would be us on this terrace, under the stars, surrounded by a new kind of country. An imperfect one, maybe, but a goal just the same. Carmadon is Silver, his husband a Red newblood. The servants are not slaves. I’ve seen little of Montfort, but enough to know this place might be different. And we could be different in it. If only he would let us.

Tiberias still wears no crown, but I see it on him just the same. In his shoulders, in his eyes, in his slow, firm manner. He is a king as much as anyone can be. To the blood. To the bone.

When the servants clear the salad plates, Carmadon glances at the door, as if expecting Davidson to join us. He frowns a little when no one appears but gestures for the next course anyway. “This is a particular Montfortan treat,” he says with a pasted smile.

A plate slides onto the table in front of me. It looks like a particularly thick and juicy cut of steak, flanked by golden fried potatoes and mushrooms, onions, and leafy greens cooked in sauce. In a word, delicious.

“Steak?” Anabel asks, leaning forward with an unkind smile. “I promise, my lord Carmadon, we do have steak in our country.” But our host ticks one dark finger. It incenses the old queen as much as his disregard for titles does. “On the contrary. You have cattle. This is bison.” “What is bison?” I ask, eager to try it for myself.

His knife scrapes the plate as he slices a cut. “A different species, albeit close in relation to the cattle you know. Bigger by far, better in taste. Much stronger and hardier, with horns and shaggy coats and enough muscle to knock over a transport if they so choose. Most here are wild, though some farms exist. They roam the Paradise Valley, the hills, and the plains as well. They thrive even in winters that could kill man or beast. You’d never look a live bison in the face and call her cattle, that I can assure you.” I watch, fascinated, as his blade cuts through such strange meat. Red juice bleeds across his meal, staining the white china. “An interesting thing, the bison and the cow. So similar. Two branches of the same tree, though entirely different from one another. And separate as they are, divided as the two species can be, they can live alongside each other just fine. Mingle their herds. They can even breed.” Next to me, Tiberias coughs, almost choking on a piece of food.

My cheeks flame hot.

Evangeline laughs into her hand.

Farley finishes the bottle of wine.

“Have I said something impertinent?” Carmadon glances between us, his black eyes dancing. He knows exactly what he said and what it means.

Anabel cuts in before anyone else can, under the guise of easing her grandson’s embarrassment. She surveys the palace over the lip of her glass. “Your husband’s lateness is quite rude, my lord.” The smiling Carmadon doesn’t miss a beat. “I agree with you. I’ll make sure his punishment is swift.” The bison is lean, and Carmadon is right. Better than beef. I don’t bother with manners, as Carmadon seems quite at ease eating potatoes with his hands. It only takes a minute for me to devour half the bison steak, and all the browned onions. I’m so focused on cleaning my plate with my fork, scraping together the perfect bite, that I barely notice the door open again behind us.

“Apologies, of course,” Davidson says, his pace even but quick, as he walks toward the table. Julian trails him closely. Side by side, I’m struck by how similar Julian and Davidson look. In air, not appearance. They both have a hunger about them, the intellectual kind. Otherwise they could not be more different. Julian is too slim, his graying hair thinning and wispy, his eyes watery and brown. Davidson is a picture of health, his gray hair neatly cut and gleaming, and despite his age, he is all lean muscle. “What have we missed?” he asks, taking the seat beside his husband.

With some awkward glances, Julian surveys the table and claims the only open seat. The one meant for Tiberias, if Tiberias weren’t so hell-bent on annoying me.

Carmadon sniffs. “Discussion of the menu, the breeding habits of bison, and your lack of punctuality.” The premier’s laugh is open, honest. He either feels no need to perform or he performs perfectly in his own home. “Normal dinner conversation, then.” At the far end of the table, Julian leans forward, looking sheepish. “The fault is mine, I’m afraid.” “The library?” his nephew offers with a knowing grin. “We heard.”

My heart twists at the warmth in Tiberias’s voice. He loves his uncle, and any reminder of the person Tiberias is beneath his bad choices makes me ache.

A corner of Julian’s mouth lifts. “I’m the predictable kind, aren’t I?”

“I prefer predictable,” I mutter. But loud enough for the table to hear.

Farley smirks at her plate. And Tiberias scowls, turning to me with a quick, even snap of his neck. His mouth opens, as if he’s about to say something rash and stupid.

His grandmother speaks before he can, eager to protect him from himself. “And what makes this library so . . . interesting?” she asks, her disdain evident.

I can’t help myself. “Probably the books.”

Farley barks out a laugh with little regard while Julian tries to hide a smirk in his napkin. The rest are more demure. But Tiberias’s low chuckle stops me cold. I glance at him to see him smiling, eyes crinkled at the corners as he looks down at me. I realize that, for a moment, he has forgotten where we are—and who we are. His laughter dies in an instant, his face falling back into a more neutral expression.

“Ah yes,” Julian pushes on, if only to distract us all. “The volumes are quite extensive. Not just regarding science, but history as well. I’m afraid we lost track of ourselves.” He bobs his head and samples the wine. Then he tips his glass toward Davidson. “Or the premier obliged me, at least.” Davidson raises his glass in reply. A watch ticks on his wrist. “Always happy to share books. Knowledge is a rising tide. Lifts all boats, as it were.” “You should visit the Vaults of Vale,” Carmadon puts in. “Or even Horn Mountain.”

“We do not intend to be here long enough for sightseeing,” Anabel says with a sniff. Slowly she lays her silverware on her plate of half-eaten food. Indicating how supremely finished she is with all this.

In her furs, Evangeline lifts her head. Like a cat, she surveys the old queen. Weighing something. “I agree,” she says. “The sooner we’re able to return, the better.” Return to someone, she means.

“Well, that isn’t up to us, is it? Excuse me,” Farley adds as she leans across the table. Anabel’s eyes almost bug out of her head as she watches a Red rebel grab her abandoned plate and scrape the leftovers onto her own. With sure hands, Farley slices up the extra cut of bison, the knife dancing through meat. I’ve seen her do worse to human flesh. “It’s up to the Montfort government,” she says, “and whether or not they decide to give us more soldiers. Eh, Premier?” “Indeed,” Davidson says. “Wars cannot be won on familiar faces alone. No matter how bright the flag, how high the standard.” His gaze flickers from Tiberias to me. What he means is clear. “We need armies.” Tiberias nods. “And we’ll get them. If not from Montfort, then from anywhere we can. The High Houses of Norta can be swayed.” “House Samos tried.” Evangeline gestures for more wine with a lazy, familiar twist of her fingers. “We aligned who we could, but the rest? I wouldn’t rely on them.” Tiberias blanches. “You think they’ll stay loyal to Maven when—”

“When they have you to choose?” the Samos princess scoffs, cutting him off with an imperious glare. “My dear Tiberias, they could have chosen you months ago. But in the eyes of many, you’re still a traitor.” Across from me, Farley scowls. “Are your nobles so stupid as to still think Tiberias killed his own father?” I shake my head, knife in hand. “She means because he’s with us. Allied to Reds.” The blade slices through the rest of the meat on my plate. I cut with vicious force, tasting bitterness in my mouth. “Trying so desperately to find balance between our peoples.” “That is what I hope to do,” Tiberias says, his voice oddly soft.

I pull my gaze away from the cooked flesh to stare at him again. His eyes meet mine, wide and disgustingly gentle. I harden myself to his charms.

“You have an interesting way of showing it,” I sneer.

Anabel is quick, barking a retort. “Enough, both of you.”

My jaw tightens, and I look past Tiberias to his grandmother, now glaring at me. I meet her gaze with equal fire. “This is Maven’s strength, one of his many strengths,” I say. “He divides so easily, without even trying. He does it to his enemies, and to his allies.” At the head of the table, Davidson steeples his fingers. He surveys me over his knuckles, unblinking in his focus. “Go on.” “Like Evangeline said, there are noble families who will never abandon him, because he won’t change the way things are. And he’s good at ruling, winning over his subjects while keeping the nobles satiated. Ending the Lakelander War earned him a great deal of respect among the people,” I point out, remembering how even Reds cheered him when he toured the countryside. It still turns my stomach. “He plays on that love, just as he plays on fear. When I was his prisoner, he was careful to keep many children in court, heirs to different houses, hostages in all but name. It’s an easy way to control a person, seizing what they hold most dear.” I know that firsthand.

“And on top of everything else,” I add, swallowing around the lump in my throat, “there is no predicting Maven Calore. His mother still whispers in his head, pulling his strings, even though she lies dead and cold.” A low current of heat ripples at my side. Tiberias stares at the tabletop, looking as if he might burn a hole through his plate. His cheeks are drained of color now, pale as bone.

With her eyes still on me, watching me devour the last bites of steak, Anabel curls her lip. “Prince Bracken in Piedmont is under our control,” she says. “He will give us whatever we need.” Bracken. Another one of Montfort’s schemes. The ruling prince of Piedmont is under our thumb as long as Montfort still holds his son and daughter captive. I wonder where they are, who they are. Are they young? Are they just children? Are they innocent in all this?

The temperature begins to rise, a small but steady increase. Next to me, Tiberias tightens. He fixes his grandmother with a firm stare. “I don’t want soldiers who haven’t agreed to fight for me. Especially Bracken’s Silvers. They can’t be trusted. Neither can he.” “We have his children,” Farley says. “That should be enough.”

“Montfort has his children,” Tiberias replies, his voice deepening.

Before, on the base, it was easy to ignore the price someone paid. The evils done for good reasons. I look to Davidson, who glances at his watch. This is war, he said once, trying to justify what must be done.

“If they were returned, could we convince Piedmont to stand aside?” I ask. “Remain neutral?” The premier turns his empty wineglass around in his hands, letting the many facets catch the soft light of lanterns. I think I see regret in him. “I doubt that very much.” “Are they here?” Anabel asks the question with a calm so forced I almost expect her to pop a vein in her neck. “Bracken’s children?” Davidson doesn’t reply, moving only to refill his glass.

The old queen tips a finger, her eyes shining. “Ah. They are.” Her grin spreads. “Good leverage. We can bargain for more of Bracken’s soldiers. An entire army if we wish.” I look at the napkin in my lap, stained with fingerprints of grease and bits of lipstick wiped away. They could be in this palace. Looking down at us right now. Children at the window, trapped behind a locked door. Are they strong enough to require silent guards, or even the torture of chains like the ones I used to wear? I know what that kind of prison is like. Under the table, I touch both my wrists, feeling the empty skin there. Flesh instead of manacles. Electricity instead of silence.

Tiberias suddenly slams a closed fist on the table, making the plates and glassware jump. I jolt too, surprised. “We will do no such thing,” he snarls. “The resources are enough.” His grandmother scowls at him, deepening the lines of her face. “You need bodies to win wars, Tiberias.” “The discussion of Bracken is over” is all he says in reply. With finality, he cuts the last piece of steak in two, sawing with his knife. Anabel sneers, showing teeth, but says nothing. He is her grandson, but also a king by her own declaration. She has long passed the line of what is proper debate with a sovereign.

“So we must beg tomorrow,” I mumble. “It’s the only choice left.”

Frustrated, I signal for a glass of wine of my own, and don’t waste time gulping it down. The sweet red soothes enough that I can almost ignore the feel of eyes on my face. Bronze eyes.

“I suppose you could call it that,” Davidson says, his gaze faraway. He looks down, first at his watch again, then sidelong to Carmadon. Their glance speaks volumes I cannot fathom. It makes me envious, and again I find myself wishing things were different.

“What chance do we have?” Tiberias is blunt, forceful, and direct. All the things he’s been taught a king should be.

“For a full deployment of every soldier in our armies?” Davidson shakes his head. “No chance at all. We have borders of our own to guard. But half? A bit more? I could see the scales tipping in our favor. If.” If. I hate that word.

I brace myself in my seat, suddenly more on edge than usual. I feel like the terrace might crumble beneath me and send us all plunging into the valley.

Farley’s face mirrors my fear. She keeps her knife in hand, wary of our ally. “If what?” The bells sound before Davidson can answer. And while the rest of us jump, startled by the noise, he doesn’t move. He’s used to it.

Or he expected it.

This isn’t a chime to mark the hours on a clock. These bells ring deep and low, their voices trembling down the mountainside, echoing across Ascendant, calling to other bells throughout the city. The din spreads like a wave, running down this slope and back up the other. Lights spread with the noise. Bright, harsh lights. Floodlights. Security lights. The alarm that follows is mechanical, whining. It shatters the calm mountain valley with its wail.

Tiberias jumps to his feet, cloak swirling around his shoulders. He frees one hand, fingers wide, the flamemaker bracelet glinting beneath his sleeve. If he calls to fire, it will come. Evangeline and Anabel do the same, both of them lethal. Neither looks afraid, only determined to protect themselves.

I feel the lightning in me rise the same way, and my thoughts fly to my family in the palace behind us. Not safe. Not even here. But we have no time for one more of my heartbreaks.

Farley stands too, leaning hard on her hands. She glares at Davidson. “If what?” she snaps again, yelling over the alarm.

He looks up at her, oddly serene among the chaos. Soldiers replace servants in the shadows, flanking our table. I tense, fists clenching at my sides.

“If Montfort will fight for you,” the premier says, turning his eyes on Tiberias, “you must also fight for us.” Carmadon doesn’t seem startled by the bells. He only glances toward the palace before sighing in what could be annoyance. “Raiders,” he scowls. “Every single time I try to throw a dinner party.” “That’s hardly true.” Davidson cracks a grin, though he never breaks his gaze. His eyes remain on Tiberias, a challenge as much as anything.

“Well, it feels true,” says Carmadon, pouting.

As security lights blaze all around us, Davidson’s gaze flames gold. Tiberias’s burns red.

“They call you the Flame of the North, Your Majesty. Show us fire.”

Then the premier looks at me.

“And show us storm.”