She tightens her grip on my feet, her hands like pincers.
“Too bad you never finished Protocol.” Still carrying my legs, she rubs her face on her shoulder, trying to wipe away the silver blood on her cheek. “You could use some manners.”
It’s only been a few months since I last saw her. Standing with her grandmother Ara and Evangeline, dressed in mourning black for the king. She was one of many who watched me in the Bowl of Bones, who wanted to see me die. Her house is famed for their skill not just in body, but in mind. Spies all, trained to discover secrets. I doubt she believed Maven when he told everyone I was a trick, a Scarlet Guard creation sent to infiltrate the palace. And I doubt she’ll believe what’s about to happen.
“I saw your grandmother,” I tell her. A daring card to play.
Her flawless composure does not change, but I feel her grip on my legs weaken, if only a little. Then she dips her chin. Continue, she’s trying to say.
“In Corros Prison. Starved, weakened by Silent Stone.” Like I am now. “I helped free her.”
Another might call me a liar. But Sonya remains quiet, her eyes anywhere but me. To anyone else, she looks disinterested.
“I don’t know how long she spent in there, but she put up more of a fight than anyone else.” I remember her now, flashing across my memories. An old woman with the vicious strength of her namesake, the Panther. She even saved my life, plucking a razor-sharp wheel out of the air before it could take my head. “Ptolemus got her in the end, though. Right before he killed my brother.”
Her gaze falls to the floor, brow furrowed slightly. Every inch of her tightens. For a second I think she might cry, but the threatening tears never spill. “How?” I barely hear her.
“Through the neck. Quickly.”
Her next slap is well aimed, but without much strength behind it. A show, like everything else in this hellish place.
“Keep your filthy lies to yourself, Barrow,” she hisses, ending our conversation.
I end up in a heap on my bedroom floor, both cheeks stinging, with the crushing weight of four Arven guards washing over me. Egg and Clover look a bit rumpled, but healers have already seen to their injuries, whatever they were. Pity I didn’t kill them.
“Shocked to see me?” I drawl at them, chuckling at the horrific joke.
In response, Kitten forces me into the scarlet gown, making me strip in front of them all. She takes her time in the humiliation. The dress smarts as it pulls across my brand. M for Maven, M for monster, M for murder.
I can still taste the Security officer’s blood when Kitten shoves the speech cards into my chest.
The full strength of the Silver court has been summoned to the throne room. The High Houses press together in their usual riot. Every color is an assault, a firework of gems and brocade. I join the chaos, adding blood red to the collection. The doors to the throne room seal shut behind me, caging me in with the worst of them. The houses part to let me pass, forming a long corridor from the entrance to the throne. They whisper as I go, noting every imperfection and every rumor. I catch snippets. Of course they all know about my little adventure this morning. The Arven guards, two in front, two behind, are confirmation enough of my continued status as prisoner.
So Maven’s newest lie is not for them this time. I try to puzzle out his motives, the turns of his labyrinthine manipulations. He must have weighed the costs of what to tell them—and decided bringing his closest nobles in on such a delicious secret was worth the risk. They won’t mind his lies if he isn’t lying to them.
As before, he sits on his throne of gray stone slabs, both hands clawed to the armrests. Sentinels have his back, lining the wall behind him, while Evangeline takes his left, standing proud. She glitters, a lethal star, with a cape and slashed gown of intricate silver scales. Her brother, Ptolemus, matches in a new suit of armor, close as a guardian for both his sister and the king. Another bitterly familiar face holds Maven’s right. He does not wear armor. He does not need armor. His mind is weapon and shield enough.
Samson Merandus grins at me, a vision in dark blue and white lace, colors I hate above all others. Even silver. I am a butcher, he warned me before my interrogation. He was not lying. I will never fully recover from the way he carved me up: a pig on a hook, bled dry.
Maven notes my appearance, pleased with it. The same Skonos healer attempted to do something with my hair, pulling it back into a neat tail while swiping a bit of makeup across my frazzled features. She didn’t take long, but I wish she’d lingered. Her touch was cool and soothing, fixing up whatever bruises I earned in my doomed escape.
I feel no fear as I approach, walking before the eyes of dozens of Silvers. There are far worse things to be afraid of. Like the cameras ahead, for example. They aren’t trained on me yet, but they will be soon. I can hardly stomach the thought.
Maven stops us short with a single gesture, holding up his palm. The Arvens know what it means and peel away, leaving me to walk the last few yards by myself. That’s when the cameras switch on. To show me walking alone, unguarded, unleashed, a free Red standing with Silvers. The image will be broadcast everywhere, to everyone I love, and anyone I could ever hope to protect. This simple action might be enough to doom dozens of newbloods, and strike a heavy blow against the Scarlet Guard.
“Come forward, Mare.”
That is Maven’s voice. Not Maven, but Maven. The boy I thought I knew. Gentle, tender. He keeps that voice stored away, ready to be drawn and used against me like a sword. It strikes me to my core, as he knows it will. In spite of myself, I feel the familiar longing for a boy who does not exist.
My footsteps echo on the marble. In Protocol, the late Lady Blonos tried to teach me how to hold my face at court. Her ideal expression was cold, emotionless, beyond unfeeling. I am none of those things, and I fight the urge to slip behind such a mask. Instead, I try to school my features into something that will both satisfy Maven and somehow let the country know this is not my choice at all. A hard line to walk.
Still grinning, Samson takes a step sideways, leaving space next to the throne. I shiver at the intention, but do as I must. I take Maven’s right side.
What a picture this must be. Evangeline in silver, me in red, with the king in black between.
SEVEN
Cameron
The so-called “lightning alert”echoes through the main floor of Irabelle, up and down the scaffolded landings, back and forth between passages. Runners go out, seeking those of us deemed important enough to get updates on Mare. Usually I’m not a priority. No one drags me down to be debriefed with the rest of her club. The kids find me later on, at work, and hand me a paper detailing whatever snippets the Guard spies gathered on precious Barrow’s cell time. Useless stuff. What she ate, her guard rotation, that kind of thing. But today the runner, a little girl with slick, straight black hair and russet skin, tugs on my arm.
“Lightning alert, Miss Cole. Come with me,” she says, adamant and cloying.
I want to snap that my priority is to get the heat working in my barracks, not find out how many times Mare used the bathroom today, but her sweet face stops the impulse. Farley must’ve sent the cutest bleeding kid in the base. Damn her.
“All right, I’ll go,” I huff, tossing my tools back into their case. When she takes my hand, I’m reminded of Morrey. He’s shorter than I am, and back when we were kids working the assembly line, he used to hold my hand when the noisy machines frightened him. But this little girl shows no signs of fear.
She pulls me through curling passages, proud of herself for knowing which way to go. I frown at the red scrap tied around her wrist. She’s too young to be oathed to rebels, let alone living in their tactical headquarters. But then, I was sent to work when I was five, sorting scrap from the junk piles. She’s twice that age.
I open my mouth to ask what brought her here, but think better of it. Her parents, obviously, either by their life’s choices or their life’s ending. I wonder where they might be. Just like I wonder about mine.
Passages 4 and 5 and Sub 7 need wire stripping. Barracks A needs heat.I repeat the always-growing list of tasks to dull the sudden pain. My own parents fade from my thoughts as I push away their faces. Daddy driving a transport truck, his hands sure as ever on the wheel. Mama in the factory alongside me, quicker than I’ll ever be. She was sick when we left, her hair thinning while her dark skin seemed to gray. I almost choke on the memory. Both of them are out of my reach. But Morrey isn’t. Morrey I can get to.
Passages 4 and 5 and Sub 7 need wire stripping. Barracks A needs heat.Morrey Cole needs to be saved.
We reach the passage to central control the same time Kilorn does. His own runner trails behind, sprinting to keep up with the lanky boy tearing around the corner. Kilorn must have been topside, out in the frozen air of oncoming winter. His cheeks bloom red from the cold. As he walks, he pulls off a knit hat, upending uneven tawny locks.
“Cam.” He nods at me, stopping where our paths cross. He vibrates with fear, eyes vividly green in the fluorescent lights of the passage. “Any ideas?”
I shrug. I know less than anyone where Mare is concerned. I don’t even know why they bother to keep me in the loop. Probably to make me feel included. Everyone knows I don’t want to be here, but I have nowhere else to go. Not back to New Town, not to the Choke. I’m stuck.
“None,” I reply.
Kilorn glances back at his runner, offering a smile. “Thanks,” he says, kindly dismissive. The kid takes a hint, turning away with relief. I do the same to mine, gesturing with a bob of my head and a grateful smile. She takes off in the other direction, disappearing around a bend.
“Starting them young,” I can’t help but whisper under my breath.
“Not as young as we were,” Kilorn replies.
I frown. “True.”
In the past month or so, I’ve learned enough about Kilorn to know I can trust him as much anyone down here. Our lives are similar. He started apprenticing at a young age, and, like me, he had the luxury of a job to keep him from conscription. Until the rules changed on us both, and we ended up pulled into the lightning girl’s orbit. Kilorn would argue that his presence here is by choice, but I know better. He was Mare’s best friend, and he followed her into the Scarlet Guard. Now blind stubbornness—not to mention his fugitive status—keeps him here.
“But we weren’t indoctrinated into something, Kilorn,” I continue, hesitating to take the next few steps. The control-room guards wait a few yards away, silent in their duties at the door. They’re watching us both. I don’t like the feeling.
Kilorn offers a strange, sad twitch of a smile. His eyes lower to my tattooed neck, where I am permanently marked with my profession and place. The black ink stands out, even against my dark skin. “Yes, we were, Cam,” he says quietly. “Come on.”
He slips an arm around my shoulders, moving us both forward. The guards stand aside, letting us pass through the door.
This time, the control room is more crowded than I’ve ever seen. Every technician sits in rapt attention, their focus on the several screens at the front of the room. Each displays the same thing: the Burning Crown, the emblem of Norta, its flames of red, black, and silver. Usually the symbol bookends official broadcasts, and I assume I’m about to be subjected to the latest message from King Maven’s regime. I’m not the only one to think so.
“We might see her,” Kilorn breathes, his voice tempered by equal parts longing and fear. On-screen, the image jumps a little. Frozen, paused. “What are we waiting for?”
“More like who,” I reply, casting a look about the room. As far as I can see, Cal is here already, stoically folded at the back of the room, keeping his distance from everyone. He feels me watching, but doesn’t do much more than nod.
To my dismay, Kilorn waves him over. After a second of hesitation, Cal complies, moving gently through the room as it crowds full. For whatever reason, this lightning alert has drawn many to control, all of them as on edge as Kilorn. Most of them I don’t recognize, but a few newbloods join the mix. I spot Rash and Tahir at their usual position, seated with their radio equipment, while Nanny and Ada stick close together. Like Cal, they occupy the back wall, reluctant to draw any attention to themselves. As the prince gets closer, Red officers all but jump out of his way. He pretends to ignore it.
Cal and Kilorn trade weak smiles. Their usual rivalry is long gone, but replaced by trepidation.
“Wish the Colonel would move his ass a little faster,” a voice says on my right.
I turn to see Farley sidle up to us, doing her best to remain inconspicuous despite her belly. It’s mostly hidden by her large jacket, but it’s hard to keep secrets in a place like this. She’s close to four months and doesn’t care who knows. Even now, she balances a plate of fried potatoes in one hand, a fork in the other.
“Cameron, boys,” she adds, nodding at us in turn. I do the same, as does Kilorn. She gives Cal a mock salute with her fork, and he barely grunts a response. His jaw clenches so tightly his teeth might shatter.
“Thought the Colonel slept in here,” I reply, fixing my gaze on the screen. “Typical. The one time we need him around.”
Any other day, I would wonder if his absence was a ploy. Maybe to let us know who’s in charge. As if any of us could forget. Even next to Cal, a Silver prince and general, or a host of newbloods with a terrifying array of abilities, he somehow manages to hold all the cards. Because here, in the Scarlet Guard, in this world, information is more important than anything, and he’s the only one who knows enough to keep control of us all.
I can respect that. Parts of a machine don’t need to know what the other pieces are doing. But I’m not just a gear. Not anymore.
The Colonel enters, flanked by Mare’s brothers. Still no sign of her parents, who remain stowed away somewhere, alongside her sister with the dark red hair. I thought I saw her once, a smart, quick thing darting through the mess hall, but I never got close enough to ask. I’ve heard rumors, of course. Whispers from the other technicians and soldiers. A Security officer crushed the girl’s foot, forcing Mare to beg at the summer palace. Or something like that. I have a feeling that asking Kilorn for the real story would be inconsiderate.
The control center turns to watch for the Colonel, eager for him to start whatever we’re here to see. So we react together, stifling gasps or surprised expressions when another Silver follows the Colonel into the already-crowded room.
Every time I see him, I want to hate him. He was the reason Mare forced me to join her, forced me to return to my prison, forced me to kill, forced others to die so this insignificant dry twig of a man could live. But those choices weren’t his. He was a prisoner as much as I was, doomed to the cells of Corros and the slow, crushing death of Silent Stone. It’s not his fault the lightning girl loves him, and he must bear the curse that love brings with it.
Julian Jacos does not shrink against the back wall with the newbloods, and he doesn’t take the spot next to his nephew Cal either. Instead, he keeps close to the Colonel, allowing the crowd to part so that he might see this broadcast as best he can. I focus on his shoulders as he settles into place. His posture reeks of Silver decadence. Straight-backed, perfect. Even in the hand-me-down uniform, faded by use, with gray in his hair and the pallid, cold look we all take on underground, there’s no denying what he is. Others share my sentiments. The soldiers around him touch their holstered guns, keeping one eye on the Silver man. The rumors are more pointed where is he concerned. He’s Cal’s uncle, a dead queen’s brother, Mare’s old tutor. Woven into our ranks like a thread of steel among wool. Embedded, but dangerous and easily pulled free.
They say he can control a man with his voice and his eyes. Like the queen could. Like many still can.
One more person I will never, ever turn my back on. It’s a long list.
“Let’s see it,” the Colonel barks, cutting off the low murmur born of Julian’s presence. The screens respond in kind, jittering into motion.
No one speaks, and the sight of King Maven’s face cuts through us all.
He beckons from that hulking throne, deep in the heart of the Silver court, eyes wide and inviting. I know he’s a snake, so I can ignore his well-chosen disguise. But I imagine most of the country cannot see through the mask of a young boy called to greatness, dutifully doing what he can for a kingdom on the edge of chaos. He’s good-looking. Not broad like Cal, but finely shaped, a sculpture of sweeping cheekbones and glossy black hair. Beautiful, not handsome. I hear someone scratching notes, probably recording everything on-screen. Allowing the rest of us to watch unfettered, focused only on what horror Maven is about to perform.
He leans forward, one hand extended, as he stands to call someone to him.
“Come forward, Mare.”