The transports coast to a halt some yards away, keeping a safe distance from our own convoy. When they open, a dozen guards troop out, resplendent in dark purple edged in gold. They carry swords and guns, though a few seem to favor war hammers or axes instead of blades.
Bracken carries no weapons at all.
He is tall, black-skinned, with a smooth complexion, full lips, and eyes like two polished stones of jet. Where Maven is draped in his cape, his medals, and his crown, Bracken seems less reliant on style. His clothes are finely made, dark purple edged in gold to match his guards, but I see no crown, no furs, no jewels. This man is here on a dire mission and has no cause for pageantry.
The prince towers over us both, with the muscular physique of a strongarm, though I know for a fact that Bracken is a mimic. If he were to touch me, he would be able to use my nymph abilities, albeit only for a time, and to a lesser extent. The same goes for any Silver. Perhaps even newbloods too.
“I wish our first meeting were under better circumstances,” he says in a deep, rumbling voice. As is custom, he ducks into a shallow bow, observing both our ranks. He might rule Piedmont, but his country is no match for ours.
“As do we, Your Highness,” I reply, offering a nod of my own.
Maven copies my motions, but too quickly. As if he wants this to be over with as soon as possible. “What do you have for us?”
I wince at the lack of tact. On instinct, I open my mouth, ready to smooth over the rough edges of such a precarious conversation. But to my surprise, Bracken grins.
“I don’t like to waste time either,” he replies, his smile taking on a hard edge. Over his shoulder, one of his guards approaches, carrying a leather-bound folio in hand. “Not when my children hang in the balance.”
“This is your intelligence on Montfort?” I ask, eyeing the papers as the guard passes them to her prince. “You pulled this together so quickly.”
“The prince has been searching for his children, and for people to help in his endeavor, for months,” Maven drawls. “I remember your envoys, the princes Alexandret and Daraeus. I’m sorry I couldn’t be of any . . . help to them.”
I almost snort aloud. One of the princes died in the Archeon palace, killed in a failed coup to overthrow Maven himself. And the other is dead too, as far as I know.
Bracken dismisses the apology with a wave of one large hand. “They knew the risks, as do all in my service. I’ve lost dozens to the search for my son and daughter.” There is true sorrow in his words, laced beneath the anger.
“Let us hope we don’t lose any more,” I mutter, thinking of myself. And what my mother said. It must be you.
Maven raises his chin, his eyes flashing between Bracken and the folio. It has to be filled with information on Montfort, their mysterious cities, their mountains, their armies. Information we need.
“We’re prepared to do what you cannot, Bracken,” he says. Maven is a skilled performer, and he layers his words with just the right amount of sympathy. If given the chance, the young king might lure Bracken to his side before I even get a chance to play my hand. “I understand that, while the Montfortans hold your children, you can’t move against them. The smallest rescue mission could jeopardize their lives.”
“Yes, exactly true.” Bracken nods rapidly. He’s eating up everything Maven gives him. “Even gathering intelligence was almost too dangerous.”
The Nortan king raises an eyebrow. “And?”
“We were able to track the children to their capital, Ascendant,” the prince offers. He extends his hand, holding out the folio to us. “It’s deep in the mountains, protected by a valley. Our maps of the city are old, but usable.”
I take the information before one of the Sentinels can, weighing the folio. It’s heavy, worth its weigh in gold.
“Were you able to find where they’re being held?” I ask, eager to crack open the pages and get to work.
Bracken dips his head. “I believe so. At great cost.”
I cross my arms, cradling the substantial book to my chest. “I won’t waste it.”
The Piedmont prince looks me up and down, his face pulled in respectful confusion. Maven is less obvious. He doesn’t move and his expression doesn’t change. The temperature doesn’t rise a single degree. But I can smell the suspicion rolling off him. And the warning. He’s smart enough to keep his mouth shut in front of the prince, unable to stop me from spinning my web.
“I’m leading the team myself,” I offer, fixing Bracken with my most determined stare. He doesn’t blink, resolute as a statue. Examining me, weighing me. The simple clothing was a good choice on my part. I look more like a warrior than a queen. “I’ll use Nortan soldiers and soldiers of the Lakelands, a small-enough force to pass through unnoticed. Rest assured, we’ve been hard at work since yesterday.”
Even though it makes my skin crawl, I put a hand on Maven’s arm. His flesh is cold beneath his sleeve. I can’t see it, but I feel the tiniest tremble in him. My smile widens.
“Maven came up with a brilliant plan.”
He slides his hand over mine, fingers like ice. A threat plain as day.
“Indeed I did,” Maven says, his lips pulling into a feral smile to match my own.
Bracken sees only the offer, and the possibility, of his children’s rescue. I don’t blame him. I can only imagine what my mother would do, if Tiora and I were in the same position.
The prince breaths a long sigh of relief. “Magnificent,” he offers, bowing his head one more time. “And in return, I can pledge to uphold the alliance we’ve had for decades. Until the blood freaks decided to intervene.” Bracken hardens. “But no more. The tide turns today.”
I feel his words as keenly as I feel the river below, flowing in its course. Unbreakable. Unstoppable.
“The tide turns today,” I echo, the folio tight in hand.
This time, Maven climbs into my transport after me, and I’m tempted to kick him back out in the grass. Instead I retreat to the farthest corner of my seat, Bracken’s intelligence laid across my knees. Maven keeps his eyes on me as he sits down. His calm manner almost makes me sweat.
I wait for him to speak, matching his icy gaze with my own. Inwardly, I curse his presence. I want to crack into the papers and start filling in the gaps in my rescue plan, but I can hardly start with Maven sneering at me. And he knows it. He’s enjoying this, as he always enjoys bothering people. I think it makes him feel better about his own demons, to make demons for everyone else.
Only after the transport is moving, hurtling away from the borderlands at high speed, does he speak.
“What exactly are you doing?” he asks, his voice smooth and devoid of all emotion. It’s his favorite tactic, giving no indication as to his mood. It’s useless to search his eyes or his face for any feeling, to try to read him as I would any other person. He’s too skilled for that.
I answer simply, head held high. “Winning Piedmont for us.”
Us.
Maven hmms deep in his throat, before settling back for the long journey. “Very well,” he says, and speaks no more.
EIGHT
Mare
The Montfort escort leadsus 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.”