Just the idea is enough to make me gag, and I have to turn away.
“Surrender is not an option. The Scarlet Guard will kill us, or worse . . . ?”
“Worse?”sputters one of the officers lying on the floor, his body bruised and bandaged. “Look around, Chyron!”
I glance around, daring to hope. If they keep shouting at one another, this will be so much easier. On the far side of the room, I spot them. Huddled together, their flesh pink and brown, their blood Red, are no less than twenty fifteen-year-olds. Only fear keeps me rooted in place, separated from everything I want by a stretch of deadly, angry killing machines.
Morrey.Seconds away. Inches away.
We cross the chamber as carefully as we climbed the steps, and twice as slowly. The Silvers with lesser wounds rove about, either tending to the more seriously injured or walking off their nerves. I’ve never seen Silvers like this. Off guard, up close. So human. An older female officer with a riot of badges holds the hand of a young man, maybe eighteen. His face is bone white, drained of blood, and he blinks calmly at the ceiling, waiting to die. The body next to him is already there. I hold back a gasp, forcing myself to breathe evenly and quietly. Even with so many distractions, I’m not taking a chance.
“Tell my mother I love her,” one of the dying murmurs.
Another almost corpse calls for a man who isn’t here, yelping out his name.
Death looms like a cloud. It shadows me too. I could die here, same as the rest. If Harrick tires, if I step somewhere I shouldn’t. I try to ignore everything but my own two feet and the goal in front of me. But the farther I go into the chamber, the harder that is. The floor swims before my eyes, and not from Harrick’s illusion. Am I . . . am I crying? For them?
Angry, I wipe the tears away before they can fall and leave tracks. As much as I know I hate these people, I can’t find it in me to hate right now. All the rage I felt an hour ago is gone, replaced by strange pity.
The hostages are now close enough for me to touch, and one silhouette is as familiar as my own face. Curly black hair, midnight skin, gangly limbs, big hands with crooked fingers. The widest, brightest smile I’ve ever seen, though that is far, far away right now. If I could, I would tackle Morrey and never let him go. Instead, I creep up behind and slowly, surely crouch until I’m right next to his ear. I hope beyond hope he doesn’t startle.
“Morrey, it’s Cameron.”
His body jolts, but he doesn’t make a sound.
“I’m with a newblood; he can make us invisible. I’m going to get you out of here, but you have to do exactly as I say.”
He turns his head, just so, his eyes wide and afraid. He has our mother’s eyes, kohl black with heavy lashes. I resist the urge to hug him. Slowly, he shakes his head back and forth.
“Yes. I can do it,” I breathe. “Tell the others what I just told you. Be discreet. Don’t let the Silvers see. Do it, Morrey.”
After another long moment he clenches his teeth and concedes.
It doesn’t take long for knowledge of our presence to sweep through them. No one questions it. They don’t have the luxury of doing that, not here, in the belly of the beast.
“What you’re about to see isn’t real.”
I gesture to Harrick, who nods. He’s ready. Slowly, we move to our knees, crouching down to blend in with them. When his illusion on us lifts, the Silvers won’t notice us at first. Distracted. Hopefully.
My message travels quickly. The hostages tense. Even though they’re the same age as me, they seem older, worn by the months training to fight and then spent in a trench. Even Morrey, though he looks better fed than he ever was at home. Still invisible to his eye, I reach out and tentatively take his hand. His fingers close on mine, holding tight. And the illusion rendering us invisible drops. Two more bodies join the circle of hostages. The others blink at us, struggling to mask their surprise.
“Here we go,” Harrick murmurs.
Behind us, the Silvers continue bickering over the dead and dying. They don’t spare a thought for the hostages.
Harrick narrows his eyes, focusing on the curving tower wall to our right. He breathes heavily, air whistling through his nose and out his mouth. Gathering his strength. I brace myself for the blow, even though I know it doesn’t exist.
Suddenly the wall explodes inward in a bloom of fire and stone, exposing the tower to the sky. The Silvers shudder, scampering back from what they think is an attack. Airjets scream past, swooping through the false clouds. I blink, not believing my eyes. I shouldn’t believe my eyes. This isn’t real. But it looks amazingly, impossibly real.
Not that I have time to gape.
Harrick and I jump to our feet, herding the others with us. We bolt through the fire, flames licking close enough to burn us through. I flinch even though I know it isn’t there. The fire is distraction enough, startling the Silvers so that we can stampede through the door and onto the stairs.
I push on, leading the pack, while Harrick keeps the rear. He waves his arms like a dancer, weaving illusions out of thin air. Fire, smoke, another round of missiles. All of it keeps the Silvers from pursuing us, cowering from his spooling images. Silence blooms from me, a sphere of deadly power to fell the two Silver lookouts. Morrey clips my heels, almost making me trip, but he catches my arm, keeping me from going over the rail.
“Stop!” The first strongarm charges at me, head lowered like a bull. I pulse silence into his body, ramming my ability down his throat. He stumbles, feeling the full weight of my power. I feel it too, death rolling through his flesh. I have to kill him. And quickly. The force of my need crushes blood from his mouth and eyes as pieces of his body die off, organs one after the other. I smother the life from him faster than I’ve ever killed anyone before.
The other strongarm dies even faster. When I hit him with another exhausting pummel of silence, he trips sideways and falls headfirst. His skull cracks open on the stone floor, spilling blood and brain matter. A sob chokes in my chest, and I have no time to question my sudden disgust with myself. For Morrey. For Morrey.
My brother looks as agonized as I feel, his eyes glued to the dead strongarm bleeding all over the floor. I tell myself he’s just shocked, and not terrified of me.
“Go!” I bellow, voice choked with shame. Thankfully he does as I say, sprinting to the lower level with the rest.
Even though the ground entrance is blocked up, the hostages make quick work of it, tearing down the Silver fortifications until the double doors are laid bare, a single lock standing between all of us and freedom.
I vault over the strongarm’s crushed skull, tossing the small silver key. Morrey catches it. His conscription and my imprisonment have not stamped out our bond as twins. Sunlight streams through as he hauls the doors open and lunges into the fresh air, the other hostages sprinting with him.
Harrick comes flying down the stairs, false fire spewing in his wake. He waves me on, telling me to go, but I stay rooted. I’m not leaving without the illusionary.
We stumble out together, clutching each other tightly to face down a square full of perplexed guards armed to the teeth. They allow us through at Farley’s orders. She shouts nearby, directing them to focus on the tower entrance, in case the Silvers attempt to make a stand.
I don’t hear her words. I just keep walking until I have my brother in my arms. His heart beats rapidly in his chest. I revel in the sound. He’s here. He’s alive.
Not like the strongarms.
I still feel it, what I did to them.
What I did to every single person I ever killed.
The memories make me dizzy with shame. All for Morrey, all to survive. But no more.
I don’t have to be a murderer alongside everything else.
He clutches at me, eyes rolling in terror. “The Scarlet Guard,” he hisses, holding me close. “Cam, we have to run.”
“You’re safe; you’re with us now. They can’t hurt you, Morrey!”
But instead of calming down, his fear triples. Morrey’s grip on me tightens as his head whips back and forth, taking stock of Farley’s soldiers. “Do they know what you are? Cam, do they know?”
Shame bleeds into confusion. I push back from him a little, to get a better look at his face. He breathes heavily. “What I am?”
“They’ll kill you for it. The Scarlet Guard will kill you for what you are.”
Each word hits me like a hammer. And then I realize my brother isn’t the only one still afraid. The rest of his unit, the other teenagers, cluster together for safety, every one of them keeping clear of the Guard soldiers. Farley meets my eye from a few feet away, just as puzzled as I am.
Then I see her from my brother’s point of view. See them all for what he’s been told to see.
Terrorists. Murderers. The reason they were conscripted in the first place.
I try to pull Morrey into a hug, try to whisper an explanation.
He just goes cold in my arms. “You’re one of them,” he spits, looking at me with so much anger and accusation my knees buckle. “You’re Scarlet Guard.”
My soul fills with dread.
Maven took Mare’s brother.
Did he take mine too?
SIXTEEN
Mare
I can’t see Corviumthrough the low cloud cover. I stare anyway, my eyes glued on the eastern horizon stretching out behind us. The Scarlet Guard took the city. They control it now. We had to skirt around, giving the hostile city a wide berth. Maven is doing his best to keep it quiet; even he can’t hide such massive defeat. I wonder how the news will land across the kingdom. Will Reds celebrate? Will Silvers retaliate? I remember the riots that followed other attacks by the Scarlet Guard. Of course there will be repercussions. Corvium is an act of war. Finally, the Scarlet Guard has planted a flag that cannot simply be torn down.
My friends are so close I feel as if I could run to them. Tear the manacles off, kill the Arven guards, jump from the transport and disappear into the gray gloom, sprinting through the bare winter forest. In the daydream, they wait for me outside the walls of a broken fortress. The Colonel, his eye crimson, his weathered face and the gun on his hip a comfort like nothing else. Farley with him, bold and tall and resolute as I remember. Cameron, her silence a shield rather than a prison. Kilorn, familiar as my own two hands. Cal, angry and broken as I am, the embers of his rage ready to burn all thoughts of Maven from my mind. I imagine leaping into their arms, begging them to take me away, take me anywhere. Take me to my family, take me home. Make me forget.
No, not forget. It would be a sin to forget my imprisonment. A waste. I know Maven as no one else does. I know the holes in his brain, the pieces he can never make fit. And I’ve seen his court splinter firsthand. If I can escape, if I can be rescued, I can do some good still. I can make my fool’s bargain worth the terrible cost—and I can start to right so many wrongs.
Even though the transport windows are tightly sealed, I smell smoke. Ash. Gunpowder. The metallic, sour bite of a century of blood. The Choke nears, closer with every passing second as Maven’s convoy speeds west. I hope my nightmares of this place were worse than the reality.
Kitten and Clover are still at my sides, their hands gloved and flat upon their knees. Ready to grab me, ready to hold me down. The other guards, Trio and Egg, perch above, on the transport skeleton, harnessed to the moving vehicle. A precaution, now that we’re so close to the war zone. Not to mention a few miles from a city occupied by revolution. All four remain vigilant as ever. Both to keep me imprisoned—and to keep me safe.
Outside, the forest lining the last miles of the Iron Road thins into nothing. Naked branches fall away to reveal hard earth barely worthy of snow. The Choke is an ugly place. Gray dirt, gray skies, blending so perfectly I don’t know where the land ends and sky begins. I almost expect to hear explosions in the distance. Dad said you could always hear the bombs, even from miles away. I suppose that isn’t the case anymore, not if Maven’s gambit succeeds. I’m ending a war that millions died for. Just to keep killing under another name.
The convoy presses on toward the forward camps, a collection of buildings that remind me of the Scarlet Guard base on Tuck. They fade into the distance in either direction. Barracks, mostly. Coffins for the living. My brothers lived in those once. My father too. It might be my turn to keep up the tradition.
As in the cities along the coronation tour, people turn out to watch King Maven and his retinue. Soldiers in red, in black, in clouded gray. They line the main avenue bisecting the Choke camp with military precision, each one dipping their heads in respect. I don’t bother trying to count how many hundreds there are. It’s too depressing. Instead, I clasp my hands together, tight enough to give me another pain to dwell on. The injured Silver officer in Rocasta said Corvium was a massacre. Don’t, I tell myself. Don’t go there. Of course my mind does anyway. It’s impossible to avoid the horrors you really don’t want to think about. Massacre. Both sides. Red and Silver, Scarlet Guard and Maven’s army. Cal survived, that much I know from Maven’s demeanor. But Farley, Kilorn, Cameron, my brothers, the rest? So many names and faces who probably assaulted the walls of Corvium. What happened to them?
I press my fingers to my eyes, trying to keep the tears back. The effort exhausts me, but I refuse to cry in front of Kitten and Clover.
To my surprise, the convoy does not stop in the center of the Choke camp, even though there’s a square that looks perfectly suited to another of Maven’s honeyed speeches. A few of the transports, each carrying scions of several High Houses, peel off, but we speed through, pressing on, deeper and deeper. Even though they try to hide it, Kitten and Clover grow more on edge, their eyes darting between the windows and each other. They don’t like this. Good. Let them squirm.
Bold as I feel, a shadow of dread falls over me too. Is Maven out of his mind? Where is he taking us—all of us? Certainly he would not drive the court into a trench or a minefield or worse. The transports pick up speed, rolling faster and faster over earth packed hard into a roadway. In the distance, artillery cannons and heavy guns stand in hulking wrecks of iron, twisted shadows like black skeletons. Within a mile, we cross the first trench lines, our vehicles snarling over hastily built bridges. More trenches follow. For reserves, support, communication. Weaving like the passages of the Notch, burrowing into frozen mud. I lose count after a dozen. Either the trenches are abandoned or the soldiers are well hidden. I can’t see a single scrap of red uniform.
This could be a trap, for all we know. The scheming of an old king meant to ensnare and defeat a young boy. Part of me wants that to be true. If I can’t kill Maven, maybe the king of the Lakelands will do it for me. House Cygnet, nymphs. Ruling for hundreds of years. That’s as much as I know about the enemy monarch. His kingdom is like ours, divided by blood, ruled by noble Silver houses. And afflicted by the Scarlet Guard, apparently. Like Maven, he must be bent on maintaining power at all costs, through any means. Even collusion with an old enemy.
In the east, the clouds break, and a few beams of sunlight illuminate the harsh land around us. No trees as far as the eye can see. We cross over the frontline trench and I gasp at the sight. Red soldiers crowd together in long lines, six bodies deep, their uniforms colored in varying shades of rust and crimson. They pool like blood in a wound. Hands on ladders, they shiver in the cold. Ready to rush out of their trench and into the deadly kill zone of the Choke should their king command it. I spot Silver officers among them, denoted by their gray-and-black uniforms. Maven is young, but not stupid. If this is a Lakelander trick, he’s ready to fight his way out. I assume the king of the Lakelands has another army waiting, in his own trenches on the other side. More Red soldiers to discard.
As the tires of our transport hit the other side, Clover tightens next to me. She keeps her electric-green eyes forward, trying to stay calm. A sheen of sweat gleams on her forehead, betraying her fear.
The true wasteland of the Choke is pocked with craters from two armies’ worth of artillery fire. Some of the holes must be decades old. Barbed wire tangles in the frozen mud. Up ahead, on the lead transport, a telky and a magnetron work in tandem. They sweep their arms back and forth, wrenching any debris from the path of the convoy. Bits of coiled iron go spinning off in every direction. And, I assume, bones. Reds have been dying here for generations. The dirt is littered with their dust.
In my nightmares, this place stretches on forever, in every direction. But instead of continuing forward into oblivion, the convoy slows a little more than a half mile beyond the frontline trenches. As our transports circle and weave, arranging themselves in a half-moon arc, I almost erupt with nervous laughter. Of all things, in all places—we’re stopping at a pavilion. The contrast is jarring. It’s brand-new, with white columns and silky curtains swaying in the poisoned wind. Constructed for one purpose and one purpose alone. A summit, a meeting, like the one so long ago. When two kings decided to begin a century of war.
A Sentinel wrenches open my transport door, beckoning for us to step down. Clover hesitates a half second and Kitten clears her throat, urging her on. I move between them, escorted down onto the obliterated earth. Rocks and dirt make the ground uneven under my feet. I pray nothing splinters beneath me. A skull, a rib, a femur, or a spine. I don’t need more proof that I’m walking through an endless graveyard.
Clover is not the only one afraid. Even the Sentinels move slowly, on edge, their masked faces sweeping back and forth. For once, they think of their own safety as well as Maven’s. And the rest of the remaining court—Evangeline, Ptolemus, Samson—they idle by their transports. Their eyes dart; their noses wrinkle. They can smell death and danger as well as I can. One wrong move, one hint of a threat, and they’ll bolt. Evangeline has discarded her furs for armor. Steel coats her from neck to wrist and toe. She quickly frees her fingers from her leather gloves, baring her skin to the cold air. Better for a fight. I feel the itch to do the same, not that it will help me at all. The manacles are strong as ever.
The only one who seems unaffected is Maven. The dying winter suits him, making his pale skin stand out in a way that is oddly elegant. Even the shadows around his eyes, dark as always, black and bruise-like, make him tragically beautiful. Today he wears as much regalia as he dares. A boy king, but a king all the same, about to look into the eyes of someone who is supposedly his greatest opponent. The crown on his head seems natural now, refitted to sit low across his brow. It spits bronze and iron flames through his glossy black hair. Even in the gray light of the Choke, his medals and badges gleam, silver and ruby and onyx. A cape, patterned with brocade red as flame, completes the ensemble and the image of a fiery king. But the Choke consumes us all. Dirt speckles his polished black boots as he walks forward, fighting the deep instinct to fear this place. Impatient, he casts one look over his shoulder, eyeing the dozens he dragged here. His fire-blue eyes are warning enough. We must go with him. I am not afraid of death, and so I am the first to follow him into what could be a grave.
The king of the Lakelands is already waiting.
He sprawls in a simple chair, a small man against the massive flag hung behind him. It is cobalt, worked with a four-petaled flower in silver and white. His milky-blue metal transports splay out on the other side of the pavilion, arranged in mirror image to our own. I count more than a dozen at a glance, all of them crawling with the Lakelander version of Sentinel guards. More flank the Lakeland king and his entourage. They don’t wear masks or robes, but tactical armor in flashing plates of deep sapphire. They stand, silent, stoic, with faces like carved stone. Each one a warrior trained from birth or close to it. I know none of their abilities, nor those of the king’s companions. The court of the Lakelands is not something I studied in my lessons with Lady Blonos centuries ago.
As we approach, the king comes into better focus. I stare at him, trying to see the man beneath the crown of white gold, topaz, turquoise, and dark lapis lazuli. For as much as Maven favors red and black, this king favors his blue. After all, he is a nymph, a manipulator of water. It’s fitting. I expect his eyes to be blue as well—instead, they are storm gray, matching the hard iron of his long, straight hair. I find myself comparing him to Maven’s father, the only other king I’ve ever known. He stands in stark contrast. Where Tiberias the Sixth was hefty, bearded, his face and body bloated by alcohol, the Lakelander king is slight, clean-shaven, and clear-eyed with dark skin. As with all Silvers, a gray-blue undertone cools his complexion. When he stands, he is graceful, his sweeping movements akin to a dancer’s. He wears no armor or dress uniform. Only robes of shimmering silver and cobalt, bright and foreboding as his flag.
“King Maven of House Calore,” he says, inclining his head just so as Maven steps onto the pavilion. Black silk slithers over white marble.
“King Orrec of House Cygnet,” Maven responds in kind. He is careful to bow lower than his opponent, with a smile fixed firmly upon his lips. “If only my father were here to see this.”
“Your mother too,” Orrec says. No bite to the words, but Maven straightens up quickly, as if suddenly presented with a threat. “My condolences. You are far too young to experience so much loss.” He has an accent, his words finding a strange melody. His eyes twitch over Maven’s shoulder, past me, to Samson following us in his Merandus blues. “You were informed of my . . . requests?”
“Of course.” Maven juts a chin over his shoulder. He glances at me for a second; then, like Orrec’s, his gaze slides to Samson. “Cousin, if you would not mind waiting in your transport.”
“Cousin—” Samson says with as much opposition as he dares. Still, he stops in his tracks, feet planted several yards from the pavilion platform. There is no argument to make, not here. King Orrec’s guards tighten, hands moving to their array of weapons. Guns, swords, the very air around us. Anything they might call upon to keep a whisper from getting too close to their king and his mind. If only the court of Norta were the same.
Finally, Samson relents. He bows low, arms sweeping out at his sides in sharp, practiced movements. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
Only when he turns around, walks back to the vehicles, and disappears from sight do the Lakelander guards relax. And King Orrec smiles tightly, waving Maven forward to face him. Like a child invited to beg.
Instead, Maven turns to the seat set opposite. It isn’t Silent Stone, isn’t safe, but he settles into it without a blink of hesitation. He leans back and crosses his legs, letting his cape drape over one arm while the other lies free. His hand dangles—with his flamemaker bracelet clearly visible.
The rest of us congregate around him, taking seats to match the court of the Lakelands now facing us. Evangeline and Ptolemus take Maven’s right, as does their father. When he joined our convoy, I don’t know. Governor Welle is here too, his green robes sickly against the gray of the Choke. The absence of Houses Iral, Laris, and Haven seems glaring to my eye, their ranks replaced by other advisers. My four Arven guards flank me as I sit, so close I can hear them breathing. I focus instead on the people in front of me, the Lakelanders. The king’s closest advisers, confidants, diplomats, and generals. People to be feared almost as much as the king himself. No introductions are made, but I quickly realize who is most important among them. She sits at the king’s right-hand side, the place Evangeline currently occupies.
A very young queen, maybe? No, the family resemblance is too strong. She has to be the princess of the Lakelands, with eyes like her father’s and her own crown of flawless blue gems. Her straight black hair gleams, beaded with pearl and sapphire. As I stare, she feels my eyes—and she stares right back.
Maven speaks first, breaking my observations. “For the first time in a century, we find ourselves in agreement.”
“That we do.” Orrec nods. His jeweled brow flashes in the weakening sunlight. “The Scarlet Guard and all its ilk must be eradicated. Quickly, lest their disease spread further than it already has. Lest Reds in other regions be seduced by their false promises. I hear rumors of trouble in Piedmont?”
“Rumors, yes.” My black-hearted king concedes nothing more than he wants to. “You know how the princes can be. Always arguing among themselves.”
Orrec almost smirks. “Indeed. The Prairie lords are quite the same.”
“In regard to the terms—”
“Not so fast, my young friend. I should like to know the state of your house before I walk through the door.”
Even from my seat I can feel Maven tighten. “Ask what you wish.”
“House Iral? House Laris? House Haven?” Orrec’s eyes sweep down our line, missing nothing. His gaze skirts over me, faltering for half a second. “I see none of them here.”
“So?”
“So the reports are true. They have rebelled against their rightful king.”
“Yes.”
“In support of an exile.”
“Yes.”
“And what of your army of newbloods?”
“It grows with every passing day,” Maven says. “Another weapon we all must learn to wield.”
“Like her.” The king of the Lakelands tips his head in my direction. “The lightning girl is a mighty trophy.”
My fists clench on my knees. Of course, he’s right. I’m little more than a trophy for Maven to drag around, using my face and my forced words to draw more to his side. I don’t flush, though. I’ve had a long time to get used to my shame.
If Maven looks my way, I don’t know. I won’t look at him.
“A trophy, yes, and a symbol too,” Maven says. “The Scarlet Guard is flesh and blood, not ghosts. Flesh and blood can be controlled, defeated, and destroyed.”
The king clucks his tongue, as if in pity. Quickly, he stands, his robes swirling around him like a tossing river. Maven stands too, and meets him in the center of the pavilion. They size each other up, one devouring the other. Neither wants to be the first to break. I feel the very air around me tighten: hot, then cold, then dry, then clammy. The will of two Silver kings rages around us all.
I don’t know what Orrec sees in Maven, but suddenly he relents and extends one dark hand. Rings of state wink on all his fingers. “Well, they’ll be dealt with soon enough. Your rebel Silvers too. Three houses against the might of two kingdoms is nothing at all.”
With a dip of his head, Maven returns the gesture. He grips Orrec’s hand in his.
Dimly, I wonder how the hell Mare Barrow of the Stilts ended up here. A few feet from two kings, watching one more piece of our bloody history lock into place. Julian will lose his mind when I tell him. When. Because I will see him again. See them all again.
“Now for the terms,” Orrec pushes on. And I realize he has not let go of Maven’s fingers. So do the Sentinels. They take one menacing step forward in tandem, their robes of flame hiding any number of weapons. On the other side of the platform, the Lakelander guards do the same. Each side daring the other to take the step that will end in bloodshed.
Maven doesn’t try to wrench away, or push closer. He merely stands firm, unmoved, unafraid. “The terms are sound,” he replies, his voice even. I can’t see his face. “The Choke divided evenly, the old borders maintained and opened for travel. You’ll have equal use of the Capital River and the Eris Canal—”
“While your brother lives, I need guarantees.”
“My brother is a traitor, an exile. He will be dead soon enough.”
“That’s my point, boy. As soon as he is gone, as soon as we tear the Scarlet Guard limb from limb—will you return to the old ways? The old enemies? Will you find yourself once again drowning in Red bodies and in need of somewhere to throw them?” Orrec’s face darkens, flushing gray and purple. His cold, detached manner fades into anger. “Population control is one matter, but the war, the endless push and pull, it is little more than madness. I will not spill one more drop of Silver blood because you can’t command your Red rats.”
Maven leans forward, matching Orrec’s intensity. “Our treaty will be signed here, broadcast across every city, to every man, woman, and child of my kingdom. Everyone will know this war has ended. Everyone in Norta, at least. I know you don’t have the same capabilities in the Lakelands, old man. But I trust you’ll do your best to inform as much of your backwater kingdom as possible.”