“Shade. Right?”
“Keep his name out of your mouth,” I snap, forgetting for a moment what I’m trying to do. The wound is too fresh, too raw. He takes it in stride.
“My mother said you used to dream about him,” he says. I flinch at the memory, and the thought of her inside my brain. I can still feel her, clawing at the walls of my skull. “But I suppose those weren’t dreams at all. It was really him.”
“Did she do that with everyone?” I reply. “Was nothing safe from her? Even your dreams?”
He doesn’t respond. I push harder.
“Did you ever dream of me?”
Again I cut him without realizing it. He drops his gaze, looking down to the empty plate in front of him. He raises a hand to grab at his water glass, but thinks better of it. His fingers tremble for a second before he shoves them away, out of sight.
“I wouldn’t know,” he finally says. “I don’t dream.”
I scoff. “That’s impossible. Even for a person like you.”
Something dark, something sad, twitches across his face. His jaw tightens and his throat bobs, trying to swallow words he shouldn’t speak. They burst from him anyway. His hands reappear, tapping weakly on the table.
“I used to have nightmares. She took that part away when I was a boy. Like Samson said, my mother was a surgeon with minds. She cut out whatever didn’t suit.”
In recent weeks, a ferocious, fiery anger has replaced the cold hollowness I used to feel. But as Maven speaks, the ice returns. It bleeds through me, a poison, an infection. I don’t want to hear what he has to say. His excuses and explanations are nothing to me. He is a monster still, a monster always. And yet I can’t stop myself from listening. Because I could be a monster too. If given the wrong chance. If someone broke me, like he is broken.
“My brother. My father. I know I loved them once. I remember it.” His hands clench around a butter knife, and he glares at the dull edge. I wonder if he wants to use it on himself or his dead mother. “But I don’t feel it. That love isn’t there anymore. For any of them. For most things.”
“Then why keep me here? If you don’t feel anything. Why not just kill me and be done with this?”
“She has a hard time erasing . . . certain kinds of feeling,” he admits, meeting my eye. “She tried to do it with Father, to make him forget his love for Coriane. It only made things worse. Besides,” he mumbles, “she always said it was better to be heartbroken. The pain makes you stronger. Love makes you weak. And she’s right. I learned that before I even knew you.”
Another name lingers in the air, unspoken.
“Thomas.”
A boy at the war front. Another Red lost to a useless war. My first real friend, Maven told me once. I realize now the spaces between those words. The things unsaid. He loved that boy as he claims to love me.
“Thomas,” Maven echoes. His grip on the knife tightens. “I felt . . .” Then his brow furrows, deep creases forming between his eyes. He puts his other hand to his temple, massaging an ache I can’t understand. “She wasn’t there. She never met him. She didn’t know. He wasn’t even a soldier. It was an accident.”
“You said you tried to save him. That your guards stopped you.”
“An explosion at headquarters. The reports said it was Lakelander infiltration.” Somewhere, a clock ticks as the minutes slide by. His silence stretches as he decides what to say, how far to let the mask slip. But it’s already gone. He’s bare as he can only be with me. “We were alone. I lost control.”
I see it in my mind’s eye, filling in what he can’t will himself to tell me. An ammunitions depot maybe. Or even a gas line. Both need only flame to kill.
“I didn’t burn. He did.”
“Maven—”
“Even my mother could not cut that memory away. Even she couldn’t make me forget, no matter how I begged her to. I wanted her to take that pain from me, and she tried so many times. Instead, it always got worse.”
I know how he’s going to answer my question, but I ask all the same.
“Please let me go?”
“I won’t.”
“Then you’re going to let me die too. Like him.”
The room crackles with heat, sending sweat down my spine. He stands so quickly, he knocks back his chair, letting it crash to the floor. One fist collides with the tabletop before raking sideways, throwing plates, glasses, and reports to the floor. The papers float for a moment, suspended in air before drifting down to the shattered pile of crystal and porcelain.
“I won’t,” he growls under his breath, so low I almost don’t hear him as he stalks from the room.
The Arvens enter and seize me beneath my arms, pulling me away from the table of papers, all of them slipping from reach.
I’m surprised to learn that Maven’s usually meticulous schedule of hearings and court gatherings is suspended for the rest of the day. I guess our conversation had a stronger effect than I expected. His absence confines me to my room, to Julian’s books. I force myself to read, if only to block out any memories of the morning. Maven is a talented liar, and I don’t trust a single word he speaks. Even if he was telling the truth. Even if he is a product of his mother’s meddling, a thorned flower forced to grow a certain way. That doesn’t change things. I can’t forget everything he’s done to me and so many others. When I first met him, I was seduced by his pain. He was the boy in shadow, a forgotten son. I saw myself in him. Second always to Gisa, the bright star in my parents’ world. I know now that was by design. He caught me back then, ensnaring me in a prince’s trap. Now I’m in a king’s cage. But so is he. My chains are Silent Stone. His is the crown.
The country of Norta was forged from smaller kingdoms and lordships, ranging in size from the Samos kingdom of the Rift to the city-state Delphie. Caesar Calore, a Silver lord of Archeon and a talented tactician, united fractured Norta against the looming threat of joint invasion by Piedmont and the Lakelands. Once he crowned himself king, he married his daughter Juliana to Garion Savanna, the ruling high prince of Piedmont. This act cemented a lasting alliance between House Calore and the princes of Piedmont. Many children of Calore and Piedmont royalty upheld the marriage alliance for the following centuries. King Caesar brought an age of prosperity to Norta, and as such, Nortan calendars consider the beginning of his reign the demarcation of the “New Era,” or NE.
It takes me three tries to get through the paragraph. Julian’s histories are much denser than what I had to learn in school. My thoughts keep drifting. Black hair, blue eyes. Tears Maven refuses to show, even to me. Is it another performance? What do I do if it is? What do I do if it isn’t? My heart breaks for him; my heart hardens against him. I push on to avoid such thoughts.
In contrast, relations between newly founded Norta and the extensive Lakelands deteriorated. Following a series of border wars with Prairie in the second century NE, the Lakelands lost vital agricultural territory in the Minnowan region as well as control of the Great River (also known as the Miss). Taxation following the war, as well as the threat of famine and Red rebellion, forced expansion along the Nortan border. Skirmishes sparked on either side. To prevent further bloodshed, King Tiberias the Third of Norta and King Onekad Cygnet of the Lakelands met in a historic summit at the crossing of Maiden Falls. Negotiations fell apart quickly, and in 200 NE, both kingdoms declared war, each blaming the other for the breakdown in their diplomatic relations.
I can’t help but laugh. Nothing ever changes.
Known as the Lakelander War in Norta, and the Aggression in the Lakelands, the conflict is still ongoing at the time of writing. Total Silver death tolls number approximately five hundred thousand, most in the first decade of war. Accurate records for Red soldiers are not kept, but estimates put the total death toll in excess of fifty million, with casualties more than twice that number. Both Lakelander and Nortan casualties are equal in proportion to their native Red populations.
It takes longer than I care to admit, but I scratch out the math in my head. Almost one hundred times more. If this book belonged to anyone other than Julian, I would throw it away in rage.
A century of war and wasteful bloodshed.
How can anyone change something like that?
For once I find myself counting on Maven’s ability to twist and scheme. Perhaps he can see a way—forge a path—that no one before him has imagined.
THIRTEEN
Mare
A week passes untilI leave my room again. Even though they’re a gift from Maven, a reminder of his strange obsession with me, I’m glad for Julian’s books. They’re my only company. A piece of a friend in this place. I keep them close, alongside Gisa’s silk scrap.
Pages pass with the days. I work back through the histories, traveling through words that become less and less believable. Three hundred years of Calore kings, centuries of Silver warlords—this is a world I recognize. But the farther I go, the murkier things become.
Written records of the so-called Reformation Period are scarce, though most scholars agree that the period began sometime around 1500 Old Era (or OE) by the modern Nortan calendar. Most records dating before the Reformation, immediately following, during, or prior to the Calamities that befell the continent, were almost entirely destroyed, were lost, or are impossible to read at present. Those recovered are closely studied and guarded within the Royal Archives in Delphie, as well as similar facilities in neighboring kingdoms. The Calamities themselves have been studied at length, using field investigation paired with pre-Silverian myth to postulate events. At the time of writing, many believe that a combination of ultimate human war, geologic shift, climate change, and other natural catastrophes resulted in the near extinction of the human race.
The earliest discovered, translatable records date from approximately 950 OE, but the exact year cannot be verified. One document,The Trial of Barr Rambler, is an incomplete account of the attempted court trial of an accused thief in reconstructed Delphie. Barr was accused of stealing his neighbor’s wagon. During the course of the trial, Barr reportedly broke his chains of binding “as if made of twigs” and escaped despite a full guard. It is believed to be the first record of a Silver displaying his ability. To this day, House Rhambos claims to trace its strongarm bloodline from him. However, this claim is refuted by another court record, The Trial of Hillman, Tryent, Davids, wherein three men of Delphie were tried for the subsequent murder of Barr Rambler, who was reported to have no children. The three men were acquitted and later praised by the citizens of Delphie for their work in destroying “the Rambler abomination” (Delphie Records and Writings, Vol. 1).
The treatment of Barr Rambler was not an isolated incident. Many early writings and documents detail fear and persecution of a rising population of abilitied humans with silver-colored blood. Most banded together for protection, forming communities outside Red-dominated cities. The Reformation Period ended with the rise of Silver societies, some living in conjunction with Red cities, though most eventually overtook their red-blooded counterparts.
Silvers persecuted by Reds. I want to laugh at the thought. How stupid. How impossible. I’ve lived every day of my life knowing they are gods and we are insects. I cannot even begin to fathom a world where the reverse was true.
These are Julian’s books. He saw enough merit here to study them. Still, I feel too unsettled to continue, and I keep my reading to later years. The New Era, the Calore kings. Names and places I know in a civilization I understand.
One day my delivered clothes are plainer than ever. Comfortable, made for utility rather than style. My first indication of something amiss. I almost look like a Security officer, with stretchy pants, a black jacket sparsely embellished with pinprick whorls of ruby beading, and shockingly sensible boots. Polished but worn leather, no heel, just the right amount of pinch, and enough room for my ankle manacles. The ones at the wrist are hidden as usual, covered by gloves. Fur-lined. For the cold. My heart leaps. I’ve never been so excited about gloves.
“Am I going outside?” I ask Kitten breathlessly, forgetting how good she is at ignoring me. She doesn’t disappoint, staring straight ahead as she leads me from my luxurious cell. Clover is always easier to read. The twitch of her lips and narrowed green eyes are affirmation enough. Not to mention that they, too, are both wearing thick coats as well as gloves, albeit the rubber ones to protect their hands from electricity I no longer possess.
Outside.I haven’t tasted much more than a breeze from an open window since that day on the steps of the palace. I thought Maven was going to take my head off, so obviously my mind was elsewhere. Now I wish I could remember the cold air of November, the sharp wind bringing winter with it. In my haste, I almost outpace the Arvens. They’re quick to yank me in line and make me match their steps. It’s a maddening descent, down stairs and corridors I know by heart.
Familiar pressure ripples against me, and I glance over my shoulder. Egg and Trio join our ranks, bringing up the rear of my Arven guard. They move in unison with Kitten and Clover, steps matching, as we make our way to the entrance hall and Caesar’s Square.
Quick as my excitement came, it bleeds away.
Fear gnaws at my insides. I tried to manipulate Maven into making costly mistakes, to make him doubt, to burn the last bridges he has left. But maybe I failed. Maybe he’s going to burn me instead.
I focus on the click of my boots on marble. Something solid to anchor my fear. My fists curl in my gloves, begging for a spark to tide me over. It never comes.
The palace seems strangely empty, even more so than usual. Doors are shut fast, while servants flutter through the rooms that aren’t closed yet, quick and quiet as mice. They flutter white sheets over furniture and artwork, covering them up in strange shrouds. Few guards, fewer nobles. The ones I pass are young and wide-eyed. I know their houses, their colors, and I can see naked fear on their faces. All are dressed like me, for the cold, for function. For movement.
“Where is everyone going?” I ask no one, because no one is going to answer.
Clover harshly yanks on my ponytail, forcing me to look straight ahead. It doesn’t hurt, but the action is jarring. She never handles me this way, not unless I give her a good reason.
I spin through the possibilities. Is this an evacuation? Has the Scarlet Guard attempted another assault on Archeon? Or have the rebelling houses returned to finish what they started? No, it can’t be either. This is too calm. We’re not running from anything.
As we cross the hall, I take a deep breath, looking around. Marble beneath me, chandeliers above me, tall glimmering mirrors and gilded paintings of Calore ancestors marching up the walls on either side. Red and black banners, silver and gold and crystal. I feel like it’s all going to crash down and crush me. Fear creeps down my spine when the doors ahead swing open, metal and glass easing on giant hinges. The first breath of cold wind hits me head-on, making my eyes water.
The winter sun shines bright on the gleaming square, blinding me for a second. I blink rapidly, trying to make my eyes adjust. I can’t afford to miss a second of this. The outside world comes into focus steadily. Snow lies deep on the rooftops of the palace and the surrounding structures of Caesar’s Square.
Soldiers line either side of the steps leading down from the palace, immaculate in their neat rows. The Arvens lead me through the double row of soldiers, past their guns and uniforms and unblinking eyes. I turn to look over my shoulder as I walk, stealing a glance at the opulent pale hulk of Whitefire Palace. Silhouettes prowl the roof. Officers in black uniforms, soldiers in clouded gray. Even from here, their rifles are clearly visible, silhouetted against a cold blue sky. And those are just the guards I can see. There must be more patrolling the walls, manning the gates, concealed and ready to defend this wretched place. Hundreds, probably, kept for their loyalty and lethal ability. We cross the square alone, for no one, for nothing. What is this?
I note the buildings we pass. The Royal Court, a circular building with smooth marble walls, spiraled columns, and a crystal dome, has gone unused since Maven’s coronation. It is a symbol of power, a massive hall large enough to seat the assembled High Houses and their retainers, as well as important members of the Silver citizenry. I’ve never been inside. I hope I never am. The judiciary courts, where Silver law is made and enacted with brutal efficiency, branch out from the domed structure. Next to their arches and crystal trappings, the Treasury Hall looks dull. Slab walls—more marble, and I have to wonder how many quarries this place sucked dry—no windows, sitting like a block of stone among sculptures. The wealth of Norta is somewhere in there, more defended than the king, locked in vaults drilled deep into the bedrock below us.
“This way,” Clover growls, pulling me toward the Treasury.
“Why?” I ask. Again, no one answers.
My heartbeat quickens, hammering against my rib cage, and I struggle to keep my breathing even. Each cold gasp feels like the tick of a clock, steadily counting down the moments before I’m swallowed up.
The doors are thick, thicker than the ones I remember from Corros Prison. They open wide as a yawning mouth, flanked by guards in liveried purple. The Treasury has no grand entrance hall, in sharp contrast to every other Silver structure I’ve ever seen. It’s just a long white corridor, curving and sloping downward in a steady spiral. Guards stand at attention every ten yards or so, flush against pure white stone. Where the vaults might be, or where I’m going, I can’t say.
After exactly six hundred steps, we stop in front of a guard.
Without a word he steps forward and to the side, putting his fingers to the wall behind him. He pushes and the marble glides backward a foot, revealing the silhouette of a door. It slides easily at his touch, widening to create a three-foot gap in the stone. The soldier doesn’t strain at all. Strongarm, I note.
The stone is thick and heavy. My fear triples, and I swallow hard, feeling my hands start to sweat in my gloves. Maven is finally putting me in a real cell.
Kitten and Clover shove me, trying to take me off guard, but I plant my feet, locking every joint against them. “No!” I shout, driving a shoulder back into one of them. Kitten grunts but doesn’t stop, continuing to push while Clover takes me around the middle, lifting me clean off the floor.
“You can’t put me down here!” I don’t know what card to play, what mask to put on. Do I cry? Do I beg? Do I act like the rebel queen they think I am? Which one will save me? Fear overrules my senses. I gasp like a girl drowning. “Please, I can’t—I can’t—”
I kick at open air, trying to topple Clover, but she’s stronger than I expect. Egg takes my legs, cleanly ignoring my heel as it cracks into his jaw. They carry me like a piece of furniture, without thought or attention.
Twisting, I manage to catch sight of the Treasury guard as the door slides back into place. He hums to himself, nonchalant. Another day on the job for him. I force myself to look forward, at whatever fate awaits me in these white depths.
This vault is empty; its walkway corkscrews like the corridor, albeit in tighter circles. Nothing marks the walls. No distinguishing features, no seams, not even guards. Just lights overhead and stone all around.
“Please.” My voice echoes in the silence, alone with the sound of my racing heartbeat.
I stare up at the ceiling, willing this all to be a dream.
When they drop me, I gasp, the wind knocked from my lungs. Still, I roll to my feet as quickly as I can. As I stand, fists clenched, teeth bared, I’m ready to fight and willing to lose. I won’t be abandoned here without taking someone’s teeth.