Slowly, Ptolemus shakes his head. “We received word from Montfort too. The children—they’re gone. Replaced with Red corpses healed to look like Princess Charlotta and Prince Michael. Someone got to them, and got them out.” He growls low in his throat. “Montfort idiots don’t know how it happened. How anyone got into their precious mountains and out again.”
I wave a hand, dismissing the point. It doesn’t matter right now. “So Piedmont is finished?”
His jaw tightens. “Piedmont is with Maven now.”
“And what can we do?” I suck in a dragging breath. My mind whirls. There was a garrison left back in Piedmont, soldiers from the Scarlet Guard and Montfort. Red, newblood, and Silver, people we need for our armies. I grit my teeth, wondering how many might have survived.
At least my father’s own army is here in the Rift, having returned after we destroyed Corvium. The same can be said of Anabel’s alliance. Our Silver strength is preserved, but the loss of the base—and Piedmont—will have devastating consequences.
I swallow hard, my voice shaking as I speak again. “What can we do against the Lakelands, Maven’s Norta, and Piedmont?”
My brother’s look is grim, and I shiver to my core.
“We’re about to find out.”
THIRTEEN
Iris
I’ve never been thisfar south.
The Piedmont base is so thick with humidity I feel as if I could weaponize the air itself. My bare arms prickle with the sensation of moisture, minuscule droplets too small to see dancing over my skin. I stretch a little, moving my fingers in tiny circles, stirring up the cloying warmth hanging over the balcony of the base headquarters.
Thunderheads chase across the horizon, trailing gray shadows of lashing rain out over the swamps. Lightning forks once or twice, and the distant rumble takes four or five seconds to reach us. The light breeze smells of fires doused by the passing rain, and smoke trails over near the main gate of the base. Bracken’s own soldiers marched in through open gates before turning on all inside in a blitz of swift and strongarm, revealing exactly where their bought allegiances lie. With Maven. And with me.
The king of Norta lays his bone-white hands flat on the balcony railing, leaning forward an inch or two over the edge.
It isn’t far to the ground. Just two stories. If I pushed him over the rail, he would live, albeit with a few broken bones. He squints, dark brow furrowed beneath a simple crown of iron and ruby. No cloak today. Too hot. Instead he has his usual black uniform, unbuttoned at the throat, the fabric flapping in the slight, damp breeze. A sheen of sweat gleams on his neck. Not from the heat. A fire king would be far more comfortable than anyone else at these temperatures. The sweat isn’t from exertion either. He took no part in the storming of the base. Neither did I, though both our nations provided Silver soldiers for Bracken’s endeavor. We waited until it was clear, until victory was sure, before setting foot here.
I think Maven is nervous. Afraid. And enraged.
She wasn’t here.
I watch him quietly, waiting for him to speak. His throat works, bobbing between the open folds of his collar. He looks oddly vulnerable in spite of our triumph.
“How many escaped?” he asks without meeting my gaze. His eyes stay fixed on the storm.
I bite back a rush of annoyance. I’m not some lieutenant, some officer’s aide meant to stand and give figures. But I tell him what he wants, and I do it with a tight smile.
“One hundred into the swamps,” I reply, running a hand through the flowers blooming from boxes along the balcony. The dirt around them is still wet from the passing rains and a particularly exuberant gardener. Behind us, more flowering vines run up the brick walls and columns of the administrative building. The Piedmontese love their flowers. They explode in various shades, thriving in this climate. White, yellow, purple, pink, and a bit of comforting blue. The sun strengthens overhead, and I wish I’d worn white instead of my royal blue dress. The linen is light, at least, thin enough that I can feel the wind on my skin.
Maven plucks a single indigo bloom from the flowers at his side. “And another two hundred dead.” Not a question. He knows the death toll well enough.
“They’re being identified now to the best of our ability.”
He shrugs. “Use the prisoners. Perhaps a few will do the work for us.”
“I doubt that,” I reply. “The Scarlet Guard and the Montfortans are loyal creatures. They won’t do a thing to help us.”
With a long, low sigh he straightens up, pushing back from the balcony. He squints as another crack of lightning flashes, closer this time. What little color he has left drains from his face when the sound of thunder rolls over us. Is he thinking of the lightning girl?
“I have some Merandus cousins who could be the judge of that.”
I grit my teeth. “You know how I feel about whispers,” I say, too quick and too harsh. His mother was one, I remind myself, bracing for some kind of reprimand.
But Maven remains silent. He lays the flower on the railing, petals up, and fusses with his fingernails. They’re short, worn by teeth and anxiety. I would expect a king to keep his nails finely manicured, suited to the arms of a throne. Or maybe roughed by Training or combat, as I’m sure his brother’s are. Not ruined by nervous habits better suited to a child.
“And I think I know how you feel as well, Maven,” I hear myself say. Daring to turn over one of my many cards on the table.
Again he doesn’t respond, and I know I’m right. Whatever his mother did, however her whispers crawled across his brain, left scars and marks. He doesn’t want to risk more.
I sense a chink in his armor, a hole in the wall he keeps up. What if I could slip through? If I could grab hold of a piece of him the way Mare Barrow has—could I hold the reins of a king?
“We can remove them from court, if you want,” I murmur slowly. I school my features into something softer, more caring, as I shift closer to him. I angle my body so my collarbone juts out, and my dress slips just so, showing exactly as much skin as I need. “Blame it on me. My Lakeland superstitions. Call it a short-lived measure to please your new wife.”
It’s like circling a whirlpool, trying to keep to its edges. To stay within its bounds without drowning.
The corner of his mouth lifts, tugging his lips. He cuts a sharp profile, all edges of straight nose, proud brow, and sculpted cheekbones. “You’re nineteen, aren’t you, Iris?”
I blink at him, confused. “And?”
Grinning, he moves faster than I expect, putting one hand to my face. I flinch as his fingers slide behind my ear, his thumb beneath my chin. The latter digs a little, pressing into the flesh of my throat. His skin flares, hot but not burning. We’re almost the same height, but he has an inch or so over me, and I’m forced to look up into eyes like a tundra sky. Frozen, unforgiving, endless. To anyone watching, we might look like enamored newlyweds.
“You’re very good at this already,” he says, his oddly cool breath washing over my face. “But so am I.”
I step back, meaning to pull from his grip, but he releases me before I force any kind of struggle. He seems amused, which makes my stomach churn. I give no indication of my disgust. Only cold indifference. I raise an eyebrow and smooth my hair over one shoulder, gleaming black and oil-smooth. I try to channel my mother’s regal, fearless nature.
“Touch me without my consent again, and we’ll see how long you can hold your breath.”
Slowly, he lifts the flower again, and his fist tightens around it. One by one, the petals fall, and he flicks his wrist, sparking his bracelet. The petals burn before they hit the ground, disappearing in a burst of red flame and ash and open threat.
“Forgive me, my queen,” he says, smiling. Lying. “The stress of this war can be such a ruin on my nerves. I only hope my brother can be made to see reason, and the traitors with him are brought to justice so we might finally have some peace in our lands.”
“Of course.” My words are just as false as his. I dip my head, ignoring any shame I feel in the action. “Peace is the goal we all share.”
After my mother feasts on your country and tosses your throne into the ocean. After we bleed the Samos king dry and kill every person responsible for my father’s death.
After we take your crown, Maven Calore, and drown you and your brother both.
“Your Majesty?”
We both turn to find one of Maven’s Sentinels, his mask black and glittering, standing in the doorway to the balcony. He bows low, his robes a swirl of woven fire. I can’t imagine how sweltering their armor and robes must be right now.
Maven gestures, hands open. His voice is a bucket of ice water. “What is it?”
“We’ve located what you asked for.” I can only see the Sentinel’s eyes beneath his mask, and they flash with fear.
“Are you sure?” The king picks at his nails again, feigning disinterest. This only piques mine.
The Sentinel bobs his head. “Yes, sir.”
With a cutting smile, Maven looks up from his hands and turns, putting his back to the railing. “Well, then, my thanks. I’d like to see it.”
“Yes, sir,” the Sentinel says again, nodding once more.
“Iris, care to join me?” Maven asks, one hand outstretched. His fingers hover half an inch from my arm, taunting me.
Every warrior instinct I have tells me to refuse. But then I openly admit I am afraid of Maven Calore, and give him power over me. This I cannot allow. And whatever he’s looking for on the Piedmont base could be important to the Lakelands. A weapon, perhaps. Intelligence, maybe. “Why not?” I say with an exaggerated shrug.
I ignore his hand, following the Sentinel off the balcony. My dress snaps behind me, cut low to show the whorls of water tattooed across my back.
The base is a good size, though half as big as the major citadels where we house our fleets and armies back in the Lakelands. Wherever we’re going must be close enough to walk, as Maven’s contingent of Sentinels doesn’t bring a transport. I wish they would. Despite the many trees dotting the streets of the base, the shady areas aren’t much cooler than the sunlit streets. As we walk, flanked by a dozen Sentinel guards, I run a hand along my neck. Droplets of water form in the wake of my fingertips, each one running a soothing race down my inked spine.
Maven follows close at the heels of his lead Sentinel, hands fisted in his pockets. He’s eager. He wants whatever we’re about to find.
They turn us onto a street of row houses. At first it seems oddly cheerful. Red brick and black shutters, paved sidewalks, flowers blooming, and columns of pruned trees. But the emptiness is unsettling, like a city block removed of its inhabitants. A dollhouse without dolls. The people who lived here were either killed or captured, or they fled into the stinking, sinking swamps. Perhaps they left something of value behind.
“These were officer homes,” one of the Sentinels explains. “Before the occupation.”
I raise an eyebrow at him. “And after?”
“Used by the enemy. Red rats, blood traitors, newblood freaks,” one of the Sentinels hisses behind his mask.
Maven stops so quickly his leather boots leave black scuff marks on the sidewalk. He turns to the hissing guard, hands still concealed. Despite the Sentinel’s towering height, Maven doesn’t seem at all perturbed. In fact, he wears no expression at all as he stares.
“What was that, Sentinel Rhambos?”
Strongarm.The Sentinel could tear Maven’s arms off if he wanted. Instead his eyes widen behind his mask, a watery brown full of terror.
“Nothing of importance, Your Majesty.”
“I decide what is important,” Maven clips. “What did you say?”
“I answered Her Majesty, the queen.” His eyes shift to me. Begging for some kind of protection, but I have none to give. The Sentinels are Maven’s to command. “I told her Reds lived here during the Montfort occupation. And Silvers. And newbloods.”
“Rats. Traitors. Freaks,” Maven offers, still without any inflection or emotion. I almost wish he would explode with rage. This is far more frightening. A king who cannot be read, a king without anything in him. “Those were your exact words, weren’t they?”
“They were, Your Majesty.”
With a crack of his neck, Maven looks at another guard. “Sentinel Osanos, can you explain why this was a mistake?”
The blue-eyed nymph sputters at my side, stunned to be called upon. She tries to gather herself as quickly as possible. And answer correctly. “Because . . .” She trails off, her fingers twitching in her robes. “I can’t say, sir.”
“Hmm.” His hum is low, guttural, vibrating in the damp air. “No one?”
I truly despise him.
I click my tongue. “Because Sentinel Rhambos insulted Mare Barrow in your presence.”
I suddenly regret wishing Maven would show anger instead of emptiness. His eyes go black, the pupils blowing out in fury. His mouth opens a little, showing teeth, though I expect fangs. The Sentinels around us tense, and I wonder if they would try to stop him if he moved to strike me. I don’t think they would. I’m their charge as well, but he comes first. He will always come first in this marriage.
“My wife has such an imagination,” he sneers, though I’ve struck upon the truth. An ugly one. I knew he was obsessed with her, in love with her in some corrupt and vile way, but his reaction hints at something deeper. An internal flaw of someone else’s making. His mother did this to him, for a reason I can’t fathom. Speared the pain and agony and torture of loving Mare through his heart and brain.
In spite of my better instincts, I feel the smallest pang of pity for Maven Calore. He is not of his own making. Not entirely. Someone else perfectly cut him apart and poorly put him back together.
His anger passes like the storm clouds, leaving the threat of trembling thunder in its wake. The Sentinels relax when it does. Maven rolls his shoulders and smooths a hand through his hair.
“Your mistake, Sentinel Rhambos, lies in your disdain,” he says, his voice returning to the dismissive, boyish tone he uses to ensnare people. Stepping lightly, he gets us moving again, though I think the Sentinels are keeping a distance. “We are at war, yes, and these people are our enemies. But they’re still people. Many of them my rightful subjects and your own countrymen. When we claim our victory, we will welcome them back into the Kingdom of Norta. With some exceptions, of course,” he adds with a conspiratorial smirk.
The lie comes so easily and so well I shiver in the heat.
“Here, sir,” one of the guards finally says, indicating a row house that looks identical to the others at first glance. But upon closer inspection, I realize the flowers are better tended to. Vibrant, lush petals and verdant green leaves burst from the window boxes.
Maven glares up at the windows, as if inspecting a corpse. He mounts the steps to the door, moving slowly. “And what freak lived here?” he finally says.
At first the Sentinels do not answer. Fearing the trap for what it is.
Only Osanos is brave enough to speak. She clears her throat, then responds.
“Mare Barrow.”
Maven nods, still for a second. Then he raises a foot, slamming his boot next to the doorknob, kicking the lock and the door open with a shatter of wood. His form recedes like a fading shadow as he enters the house.
I remain on the pavement for a moment. Stay here. The Sentinels hesitate with me, reluctant to follow their king. Though I would personally love nothing more than an assassin to jump out of a closet and cut Maven’s throat, I know how that would destroy any chance of winning this war and keeping the Lakelands safe from the other brother and his pets in the Rift.
“Keep up,” I growl, ascending the steps after my foul husband. The Sentinels clatter after me, their armor clinking beneath their robes of flame.
I focus on the sound of them as we enter the dim house, empty and silent without its occupants. The walls are oddly bare; Bracken did say his base, and many of his own treasures, were stripped of valuables. Sold off for resources. I wince at the thought of my own home facing such vultures. Our shrines and temples desecrated to fund a war. Not while I live and breathe. Not while Mother holds her throne.
I don’t bother entering the small salon or searching out the kitchen. Maven’s footsteps echo on the stairs, and I follow, pulling the Sentinels along with me. If the king wants to be alone, he doesn’t say so.
He bangs open each door on the second floor in turn, poking his head into various bedrooms, closets, and a bathroom. Once or twice, he snarls under his breath, like a predator denied prey.
At the final door, in the corner, he pauses, hesitating.
This door he opens with one hand, gently, as if entering a holy place.
I hang back a moment, letting him go first.
Inside is a bedroom, with two small beds flanking a single window. I notice the oddity first. The patterned curtains are cut up, with precise chunks removed.
“The sister,” Maven murmurs, running his hand along a sliced edge. “The seamstress.”
As he runs the fabric through his fingers, sparks spit from his wrist. They catch and spread, eating through the curtains with speed and skill. Burning holes spread like disease. Acrid smoke stings my nostrils.