“If your heart’s not in this, you’re going to get a lot of people killed.”
He whirls, almost knocking me on my ass with the speed and force of his movement. I have seen his fire firsthand, but never so strongly as the flame blazing in his eyes.
“Cameron, my heart is quite literally in this,” he hisses through gritted teeth.
Swooning words. A romantic declaration. I can barely stop my eyes from rolling.
“Save it for when we get her back,” I grumble. When, not if. He nearly set the control room on fire when the Colonel denied his request to explore ways to get messages to Mare within the palace. I don’t need him melting the hallway over a poor choice of words.
He starts walking again, his pace doubled, but I’m not as easily left behind as the lightning girl.
“I just mean to say that the Colonel has strategists of his own . . . people at Command . . . Scarlet Guard officers who don’t have”—I search for the proper term—“conflicting allegiances.”
Cal huffs loudly, his broad shoulders rising and falling. Clearly any etiquette lessons he may have had took a backseat to military training.
“Show me an officer who knows as much as I do about Silver protocols and the Corvium defense system and I’ll gladly step back from this mess.”
“I’m sure there’s someone, Calore.”
“Who’s fought with newbloods? Knows your abilities? Knows how best to use you in a fight?”
I bristle at his tone. “‘Use,’” I spit. Use indeed. I remember those of us who didn’t survive Corros. Newbloods recruited by Mare Barrow, newbloods she promised to protect. Instead, Mare and Cal threw us into a battle we were not prepared for, and it became clear Mare couldn’t even protect herself. Nix, Gareth, Ketha, and others from the prison I didn’t even know. Dozens dead, discarded like pieces on a game board.
That’s how it’s always worked with the Silver masters, and that’s how Cal was taught to fight. Win at all costs. Pay for every inch in Red blood.
“You know what I mean.”
I snort. “Maybe that’s why I’m not exactly confident.”
Harsh, Cameron.
“Listen,” I continue, switching tactics. “I know I’d burn everyone here if it meant getting my brother back. And luckily, that’s not a decision I have to make. But you—you actually have that option. I want to make sure you don’t take it.”
It’s true. We’re here for the same reason. Not blind obedience to the Scarlet Guard, but because they are our only hope of saving the ones we love and lost.
Cal quirks a crooked smile, the same one I’ve seen Mare moon over. It makes him look like more of a fool. “Don’t try to sweet-talk me, Cameron. I’m doing everything I can to keep us out of another massacre. Everything.” His expression turns harsh. “You think it’s just Silvers who care only about victory?” he mutters. “I’ve seen the Colonel’s reports. I’ve seen correspondence with Command. I’ve heard things. You’re embedded with people who think exactly the same way. They’ll burn all of us to get what they want.”
Maybe true,I think, but at least what they want is justice.
I think of Farley, the Colonel, the oathed soldiers of the Scarlet Guard, and the Red refugees they protect. I’ve seen them ferry people across the border with my own eyes. I sat on one of their airjets as it screamed toward the Choke, intent on rescuing a legion of child soldiers. They have objectives with high costs, but they are not Silver. They kill, but not without reason.
The Scarlet Guard are not peaceful, but peace has no place in this conflict. No matter what Cal might think of their methods and their secrecy, theirs is the only way anyone can hope to fight Silvers and win. Cal’s people brought this upon themselves.
“If you’re so worried about Corvium, don’t go,” he says with a forced shrug.
“And miss the chance to paint my hands in Silver blood?” I snap at him. I don’t know if I’m making a poor attempt to joke or threatening him outright. My patience has worn through yet again. I already had to deal with the whining of a walking lightning rod. I’m not going to tolerate the attitude of a mopey matchstick prince.
Again his eyes blaze with anger and heat. I wonder if I’m fast enough with my ability to incapacitate him. What a fight that would be. Fire against silence. Would he burn or would I?
“Funny thing, you telling me not to be careless with human life. I remember you doing everything you could to kill back in the prison.”
A prison where I was kept. Starved, neglected, forced to watch the people around me wither and die because they were born . . . wrong. And even before I entered Corros, I was a prisoner of another jail. I am a daughter of New Town, conscripted to a different army since the day I was born, doomed to live my life in shadow and ash, at the mercy of the shift whistle and the factory schedule. Of course I tried to kill the ones who held me captive. I would do it again if given the choice.
“Proud of it,” I tell him, setting my jaw.
He despairs of me. That much is clear. Good. There’s no amount of speechmaking that will ever sway me to his thinking. I doubt anyone else will listen much either. Cal is a prince of Norta. Exiled, yes, but different from us in every way. His ability is to be used as much as mine, but he is a barely tolerated weapon. His words can only travel so far. And even then they fall on deaf ears. Mine especially.
Without warning, he sets off down a smaller passage, one of the many burrowing through the warren of Irabelle. It branches off from the wider hall, angling upward to the surface in a gentle slope. I let him go, puzzled. There’s nothing in that direction. Just empty passages, abandoned, unused.
Yet something tugs. I’ve heard things, he said. Suspicion flares in my chest as he walks away, his broad form getting smaller by the second.
For a moment, I hesitate. Cal is not my friend. We’re barely on the same side.
But he is nothing if not annoyingly noble. He won’t hurt me.
So I follow.
The corridor is obviously unused, cluttered with scraps and dark in places where the lightbulbs are burned out. Even from a distance, Cal’s presence warms the close air with every passing second. It’s actually a comfortable temperature, and I make a mental note to speak with a few other escaped techies. Maybe we can figure out a way to warm up the lower passages using pressurized air.
My eyes trail the cabled wires along the ceiling, counting them. More there than there should be, to feed a few lightbulbs.
I hang back, watching as Cal shoulders some wood pallets and scrap metal from a wall. He reveals a door beneath, with the cables running overhead and into whatever room it hides. When he disappears, pulling the door shut behind him, I dare to get a little closer.
The tangle of cables comes into sharper focus. Radio array. Now I see it, clear as the nose on my bleeding face. The telltale braid of black wires that means the room inside has the ability to communicate beyond the walls of Irabelle.
But who could he possibly be communicating with?
My first instinct is to tell Farley or Kilorn.
But then . . . if Cal thinks that whatever he’s doing will keep me and a thousand others from a suicide attack on Corvium, I should let him continue.
And hope I don’t regret it.
FIVE
Mare
I drift on adark sea, and shadows drift with me.
They could be memories. They could be dreams. Familiar but strange, and something wrong with each. Cal’s eyes are shot with silver, bleeding hot, smoking blood. My brother’s face looks more skeleton than flesh. Dad gets out of his wheelchair, but his new legs are spindle thin, knobbled, ready to splinter with every shaking step. Gisa has metal pins in both hands, and her mouth is sewn shut. Kilorn drowns in the river, tangled in his perfect nets. Red rags spill from Farley’s slit throat. Cameron claws at her own neck, struggling to speak, trapped in a silence of her own making. Metal scales shudder over Evangeline’s skin, swallowing her whole. And Maven slumps on his odd throne, letting it tighten and consume him until he is stone himself, a seated statue with sapphire eyes and diamond tears.
Purple eats at the edge of my vision. I try to turn in to its embrace, knowing what it holds. My lightning is so close. If only I could find the memory of it and taste one last drop of power before plunging back into darkness. But it fades like the rest, ebbing away. I expect to feel cold as the darkness presses in. Instead, heat rises.
Maven is suddenly too close to bear. Blue eyes, black hair, pale as a dead man. His hand hovers inches from my cheek. It trembles, wanting to touch, wanting to pull away. I don’t know which I would prefer.
I think I sleep. Darkness and light trade places, stretching back and forth. I try to move, but my limbs are too heavy. The work of manacles or guards or both. They weigh me down worse than before, and the terrible visions are the only escape. I chase what matters most—Shade, Gisa, the rest of my family, Cal, Kilorn, lightning. But they always dance out of my grip or flicker to nothing when I reach them. Another torture, I suppose—Samson’s way of running me ragged even as I sleep. Maven is there too, but I never go to him, and he never moves. Always sitting, always staring, one hand on his temple, massaging an ache. I never see him blink.
Years or seconds pass. The pressure dulls. My mind sharpens. Whatever fog held me captive recedes, burning off. I am allowed to wake up.
I feel thirsty, bled dry by bitter tears I do not remember shedding. The crushing weight of silence hangs heavy as always. For a moment it’s too difficult to breathe, and I wonder if this is how I die. Drowned in this bed of silk, burned by a king’s obsession, smothered by open air.
I’m back in my prison bedchamber. Maybe I’ve been here the entire time. The white light streaming from the windows tells me it has snowed again, and the world outside is bright winter. When my sight adjusts to it, letting the room come into clearer focus, I risk looking around. Flashing my eyes left and right, not moving more than I have to. Not that it matters.
The Arvens stand guard at the four corners of my bed, each one staring down. Kitten, Clover, Trio, and Egg. They exchange glances with one another as I blink up at them.
Samson is nowhere I can see, though I expect him to loom over me with a malicious smile and a snappy welcome. Instead, a small woman in plain clothes, with flawless blue-black skin like a polished gem, stands at the foot of my bed. I don’t know her face, but there’s something familiar about her features. Then I realize what I thought were manacles were actually hands. Hers. Each one tight around an ankle, soothing against my skin and the bones beneath.
I recognize her colors. Red and silver crossed on her shoulders, representing both kinds of blood. Healer. Skin healer. She’s of House Skonos. The sensation I feel from her touch is healing me—or at least keeping me alive against the onslaught of four pillars of silence. Their pressure must be enough to kill me, if not for a healer. A delicate balance to be sure. She must be very talented. She has the same eyes as Sara. Bright, dark gray, expressive.
But she isn’t looking at me. Her eyes, instead, are on something to my right.
I flinch when I follow her gaze.
Maven sits as I dreamed him. Still, focused, one hand on his temple. The other hand waves in silent order.
And then there really are manacles. The guards move quickly, fastening strange braided metal studded with smoothly polished orbs around my ankles and wrists. They lock each one with a single key. I try to follow the key’s path, but in my daze, it flickers in and out of focus. Only the manacles stand out. They feel heavy and cold. I expect one more, a new collar to mark my neck, but my neck is left blissfully bare. The jeweled thorns don’t come back.
To my eternal surprise, the healer and the guards take their leave of me, walking from the room. I watch them go in confusion, trying to hide the sudden leap of excitement sending my pulse into overdrive. Is everyone really this stupid? Will they leave me alone with Maven? Does he think I won’t try to kill him in a heartbeat?
I turn to him, trying to get out of bed, trying to move. But anything faster than sitting up feels impossible, as if my very blood has turned to lead. I quickly understand why.
“I’m quite aware of what you’d like to do to me,” he says, his voice barely a whisper.
My fists clench, fingers twitching. I reach for what still won’t respond. What can’t respond. “More Silent Stone,” I mumble, saying the words like a curse. The polished orbs of my wearable prison gleam. “You must be running low by now.”
“Thank you for your concern, but the supply is well in order.”
As I did in the cells beneath the Bowl of Bones, I spit in his direction. It lands harmlessly at his feet. He doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, he smiles.
“Get it out of your system now. The court will not take kindly to such behavior.”
“As if I— Court?” The last word sputters out.
His smile spreads. “I did not misspeak.”
My insides cringe at the sight of his grin. “Lovely,” I say. “You’re tired of keeping me caged up where you can’t see me.”
“Actually, I find it difficult being this close to you.” His eyes flicker over me with an emotion I don’t want to place.
“The feeling is mutual,” I snarl, if only to kill the strange softness in him. I would rather face his fire, his rage, than any quiet word.
He doesn’t rise to the bait. “I doubt that.”
“Where’s my leash, then? Do I get a new one?”
“No leash, no collar.” He angles his chin at my manacles. “Nothing but those now.”