He does the same to the wallpaper, letting it burn and peel beneath his touch. Then the window, laying a flaming hand to the glass. It cracks under the tremendous heat he throws off, shattering outward into the sunlight. The room seems to pulse and boil, like the inside of a bubbling pot. I want to step away, but I want to see him. Maven. I must know who he is if I am to defeat him.
The first bed he ignores, somehow knowing it wasn’t hers.
The second he sinks into, as if testing the firmness. He smooths the coverlet beneath his hands, then the pillow. Feeling where her head used to rest. I almost expect him to lie down and breathe in whatever scent might linger.
Instead his fire consumes. Feather and fabric. Wood frame. It leaps across to the other bed, gobbling it up.
“Give me a minute, please,” he whispers, almost inaudible over the roar of controlled flame.
We do as we are told, fleeing before the shining heat.
A minute is all he needs. We’re barely back on the street before he emerges from the door, an inferno jumping to life behind him.
I realize I’m sweating with fear as we walk away and the row house crumbles.
What will Maven burn next?
The snarl of transports echoes outside the holding bunker. The soldiers must have returned, and I wonder if they managed to track down anyone in the swamps. The noise filters through the high windows cut into the concrete slab walls. This room is cool, partially underground, bisected by a long aisle dividing two rows of barred cells. By the official count, we have forty-seven captured held here, two or three to a cell. All red-blooded, but still under heavy Silver guard. Some could be newbloods, quietly waiting for a chance to use their abilities and escape. The Silvers of Montfort—the blood traitors, as the Sentinel called them—are being held elsewhere, restrained by silents and the most powerful of guards.
Maven idly knocks his knuckles against each bar as we pass. The prisoners shrink back or stand firm, afraid or defiant in the face of the king of Norta. Strange, he seems relaxed here, surrounded by cells. He barely seems to notice the prisoners at all.
I do the opposite. I count as we go, to see if they match the official tally. To look for any flash of rebellion or determination that might spark into something inconvenient. I wish I could separate Red from newblood. Every cell I pass makes me uneasy, knowing a snake could be waiting in each one.
At the far end of the bunker, another contingent of royal Silvers approaches, their colors yellow, white, and purple, all done up in gold armor and weapons better suited to decorating a banquet hall. Prince Bracken smiles broadly, but the children clutching his hands cower. Michael and Charlotta alternate between burying their faces in their father’s purple-spangled robes and looking at their golden-shod feet.
While I feel a surge of sorrow for the children and what they endured at the hands of the Montfort monsters, I am also grateful to see that they are well enough to accompany their father. When we slipped out of the mountain kingdom with them, they could barely speak, despite the wretched healer’s fine work. For no skin healer can mend a mind.
If only they could,I think to myself, glancing sidelong at my husband.
“Prince Bracken,” Maven says, dipping his head with all the charm he can muster. Then he sinks further, to eye level with the approaching children. “And Michael, Charlotta. The bravest pair of siblings I ever saw.”
Michael hides his face again, but Charlotta offers the smallest of smiles. The polite kind, hammered into her by some etiquette instructor, no doubt.
“Very brave indeed,” I add, winking at the pair of them.
Bracken stops before us, still smiling, and his guards and retainers glide to a halt with him. I spot another Piedmont prince in their midst, marked by a crown of emeralds, but I can’t say which one.
“Your Majesties,” Bracken offers, sweeping out his hands to bow as low as he can. His children, still holding his fingers, do the same with practiced grace. Even shy, shivering little Michael. “There are neither enough words nor enough gold in the world to express my gratitude, but rest assured, you have it.” The prince’s eyes stray to me and I meet his gaze, raising my chin. I saved his children with my own two hands. That will not be forgotten. “Just as you have use of my military installation, and any resources Piedmont can offer in this war against the very nature of our world.”
With a flick of his fingers, Maven gestures for Bracken to stand.
“You have my gratitude as well for such a mighty pledge,” Maven replies, all performance and posture. “Together we can end what my brother began.”
Something flashes in Bracken’s eye. Amusement, maybe. Does he see the lie for what it is? Tiberias Calore did not start this war, not by any stretch of the imagination. That sin lies with the Red rebels. I swallow, my throat suddenly dry. The Scarlet Guard began in the Lakelands, spurred on by necessary actions my own father took. Still, if they are sinners, we enabled their existence, allowing it to spread. We share in the sin and shame.
“Together with the Lakelands,” Bracken adds.
Another flash of amusement in the prince, and I feel heat rise in my cheeks. “Of course. We back Maven Calore to the last.” With as little as we can afford to send. Fewer troops, less weaponry, less money. The rest of it jealously guarded and hoarded for when we need it most.
My cheek burns, flaming hot, as Maven’s lips brush my face in a chaste but symbolic kiss. “We’re a good match, aren’t we?” he says, turning back to Bracken.
I fight the urge to make good on my promise and pin Maven to the floor where I can drown him to my heart’s content.
“Quite,” Bracken murmurs, his black eyes darting between us. “Unfortunately, we don’t seem to be making much headway. I’ve sent for whispers and singers from Prince Denniarde’s lands.” He gestures to the prince behind him, resplendent in his emeralds and sheer, green silk. “But they’ve yet to arrive, and I’m afraid I don’t want to risk further damaging any of the prisoners before they can be properly interrogated.”
I turn to the nearest cell, hoping to hide my disgust at the thought of whispers and singers coming here. Neither should be trusted, but I hold my tongue.
The man in the cell stares back at me, his eyes like bright coals in the dim light of his prison. His skin is as brown as mine, although with a reddish undertone, and his black hair is curly, as is his oiled and groomed beard. The uniform he wears is dark green, the color of Montfort. It has rips in it, missing patches on the breast and upper arms. They dangle broken thread. From insignia removed, badges and honors torn away. I narrow my eyes, and he does the same.
“What’s your rank, soldier?” I sneer, crossing to the bars.
Behind me, Bracken and Maven quiet.
The bearded man says nothing. As I come closer, I realize he has a scar below his eye. Too uniform to be an accident. A well-healed and perfectly straight line.
I jerk my chin at it. “Someone gave you that mark, didn’t they?”
“You speak as if a Silver holding me down and scarring my face were a gift,” he replies slowly. His words are oddly stilted, broken apart. As if he has to think through each as it weighs on his tongue.
I trace the scar again, looking it over. I wonder what he did, or didn’t do, to warrant such a punishment.
“When your whispers come,” I say, looking over my shoulder to Bracken. “Start with him. He’s of higher rank. He’ll know more than most.”
Maven’s lips twitch and he almost smiles.
“Of course,” Bracken replies. “We’ll start with that foolish Red, won’t we?” he adds, crooning to his children as he leads them away. They nod in tandem, seeming far younger than ten and eight. “Then you’ll see they are nothing to be frightened of. Not anymore. They’re nothing to you. Nothing.”
Again Michael hides his face, shoving his head under his father’s arm.
Charlotta does the opposite, putting her tiny chin in the air. She has freckles, a dusting over her brown skin. In Montfort, her hair was simple, smoothed back into a single, tight knot. Here she dresses like the princess she is, in patterned white silk, with amethysts studding her many braids. I watch her as she follows her father, small gown trailing over concrete. Her outfit reminds me of a bride’s dress, and I wonder who she will be traded to, as I was traded, when the time comes.
We continue on our way, surveying the cells, and I return to my counting. Maven swings his arms back and forth, almost joyful. So the victory has had an effect after all.
“I didn’t know you were capable of happiness,” I mutter, and he laughs outright. It cuts like glass.
He grins at me unkindly, a wild, manic gleam in his eye. “Your impression of Mare Barrow is very good.”
I sneer back, dancing on the knife edge. “Well, you want her to be your queen, so I might as well play the part.”
Another peal of laughter. He blinks at me, as if inspecting a painting. “Is this jealousy, Iris?” I tighten under his scrutiny, my muscles tense as coiled wire. “No, no, it’s not,” he sighs, still smiling. “As I said before, we’re a good match.”
Hardly.
“Did someone say my name?”
Maven stops short next to me, his brows furrowing in open confusion. He tips his head to one side and looks over his shoulder, blinking back at the cell behind us.
The voice belongs to the bearded man. He leans against his bars, dangling his hands into the central aisle. He peers at us, an eyebrow raised like some kind of challenge.
“You heard me, Maven,” he says, and his voice is different from before. Still his own, but stronger, faster, more forceful. A sharp edge on stone.
We look back at him, perplexed. At least, I am.
Maven looks torn between murderous fury and . . . hope?
The man grins.
“Have you missed me?” he says. “I think you have.”
I hear bone on bone. Grinding teeth. Maven clenches his jaw and forces out a single word.
“Mare.”
FOURTEEN
Mare
“He knows it’s you.”
We all seem to inhale at the same time, and my breath feels ragged. Suddenly, the small room tucked away in the Samos palace is much too tight. On instinct, my eyes snap to Farley. She stares back at me. Her throat works, swallowing hard, and I trace the action. She steels before my eyes, hardening with determination.
I bite my lip and wish I could do this alone. But she isn’t going anywhere, standing over Ibarem. Close enough to stop this if things get beyond my control. Ibarem’s eyes burn into mine, alight and intense as his mind bridges the divide between Ridge House and Piedmont. He already vomited out as much information as he could about the prison on the Piedmont base, the bunker half buried with east-facing windows. Which prisoners his brother can see, exactly who he’s captured with, who he saw die, who he saw escape. To my relief, Ella and Rafe were among the survivors who made it into the swamps. That intelligence alone was vital, but this—Maven, right in front of us. So close I feel like I could almost reach out and touch him.
I want to see what Ibarem sees. I want to tip forward, plunge through the russet depths of his eyes, and emerge in the matching pair staring out of a cell hundreds of miles away. Look Maven in the face again. Read him as I know I can. Every tick and pull of muscle under skin. The smallest flashes across ice-blue eyes, speaking of secrets and weaknesses he tries to bury.
Ibarem’s connection to his brother will have to do. Their bond is strong despite the distance, almost immediate. Ibarem describes everything he senses through Rash as it comes.
“Maven is approaching the bars—he’s leaning in, inches away. There’s sweat on his neck. It’s hot in Piedmont. It just rained.” Ibarem tightens before me, laying his palms flat on his thighs. He draws back, and I imagine Maven right here in the room with us, crowding into his face. Ibarem’s lip curls in distaste. “He’s searching us. Our eyes.”
I flinch and feel the cold phantom of familiar breath on my skin.
In spite of the sunlight streaming in through the single window, I feel darkness pool in this small, forgotten room hidden in Ridge House. I wish I’d never thought of this, had never summoned Ibarem to do this. He was supposed to be our link to Tahir and Davidson, an easy connection to Montfort. Not to his other brother, captured in Piedmont. Not to Maven.
I force myself to keep still, locking my muscles and my expression. But my heart gallops in my chest, rising to a dull, constant thud.
Farley tries not to pace, and her odd lack of activity makes me even more nervous than I already am. This place disagrees with both of us. Ridge House seems like little more than a trap waiting to be sprung. Every room has metal in some form, beamed or columned or even woven into the floor itself. The house is a weapon only a few can wield. And they surround us at all times.
Even the chair beneath me is cold steel. I shiver where it touches my bare skin.
The knock on the door makes us both jump, startled out of our skin. I whirl, teeth clenched, to see the knob turn, catching fast against a lock. Farley crosses to the door in two long strides, ready to turn away whatever servant or snooping noble waits on the other side.
To my dismay, she throws the door wide and steps back, allowing a broad, familiar silhouette to step into the room.
I all but snarl at her, my fists clenching on my knees.
“What are you doing?” I hiss, my voice low and firm.
Tiberias glances between Farley and me, as if weighing the two of us. Which female frightens him more. “I was invited,” he says thickly. “And we are going to be extremely late for a council meeting.”
“Then go!” I dismiss him with a wave, turning on Farley. “What are you doing?” I force through gritted teeth.
She cuts me off with the sharp slam of the door. “You know Maven, but so does he,” she says with cold efficiency. “Let him listen.”
In front of me, Ibarem blinks. “Miss Barrow,” he says, prodding for us to continue.
As if this weren’t stressful enough.
“Fine,” I mutter through gritted teeth, turning back to face the Montfort newblood. I do my best to ignore the other Calore, now leaning against the wall to put as much space between us as he can. His foot taps in the corner of my eye in a burst of nervous energy.
“Maven is saying something,” Ibarem murmurs, his natural voice soft and halting. It shifts quickly into the best impression he can make of Maven. “How are we speaking right now?” he says, the words suddenly cruel and sharp. He even forces a cold laugh. It’s a good likeness. “Or are you just trying to toy with a king, Red? Not a good decision, I’m afraid.”
Ibarem shifts again, his eyes darting, seeing across the miles. “He has guards. Sentinels. Six of them. Prince Bracken and his children just passed through as well, with four guards of their own.”
Tiberias says something behind his hand and Farley nods. Adding to the count of hostiles, probably. “Firm alliance with Bracken,” I hear Tiberias mutter. “They’ll strike again, and soon.”
“The queen is with him,” Ibarem continues. “The Lakelander princess. She isn’t speaking, just standing. Watching.” Ibarem narrows his eyes. “Her face is blank. She almost seems frozen.”
“Tell Iris . . .” I stumble, tapping my fingers together. They must be convinced. Irrevocably sure it’s me speaking through the brotherly bond. “Tell her all dogs bite.”
“All dogs bite, Iris,” Ibarem repeats. He tips his head as I tip mine. Imitating me now. A common girl with an uncommon life. The truth unsettles Maven as much as anything, and I must unsettle him if I’m to get anything out of this exchange.
“The queen is smirking. She nods her head,” Ibarem says. He shifts into an impression of Iris, his voice climbing an octave. “All dogs bite, but some dogs wait, Mare Barrow.”
“And what is that supposed to mean?” Farley grumbles into her hand.
But I know.
I’m just a well-dressed and tightly leashed lapdog,I told Iris once, during my imprisonment. She smirked then too. Even lapdogs bite, she replied. Will you?
I’m finally free to answer. And so is she.
Iris Cygnet is waiting for her own opportunity to strike. I wonder if she has the Lakelands behind her, or just her own rage.
I glance over my shoulder, looking to Farley. “It’s something she said to me in Archeon. Before I came back.”
“It’s definitely her, but how, I can’t say,” Ibarem continues, relaying Iris’s voice the best he can. “This must be some newblood ability we don’t know yet.”
“What you don’t know could fill an ocean,” I reply. “About Montfort, about the Scarlet Guard.” It feels shameful, dirty even, to jab like this, but I do it easily. “About your brother. He’s standing right next to me, you know.”
Ibarem sneers, mimicking Maven. “Is that supposed to mean something?” I think there may be a tremor of fear in the echoed words. “I have little regard for who you decide to stand next to. Though,” he adds, and his sneer curves into a wicked smile, “I understand you aren’t standing next to him much anymore.”
I force a smile, using it to mask my wince. “Good to know you have spies in our coalition,” I say boldly. “Although nowhere near as many as we have in yours.”
A laugh like nails on glass bursts from Ibarem. “You think I waste my spies on tracking your emotions, Mare? No, my darling, I just know you better than anyone else.” He laughs again, showing white eyeteeth. I focus on the scar on Ibarem’s chin to keep a picture of Maven’s beautiful, haunted, hissing face out of my head. “I knew you wouldn’t stomach it when Cal showed who he truly was.”
At the edge of my vision, Tiberias doesn’t move. Doesn’t even breathe. He keeps his eyes lowered, intent on glaring a hole in the floor.
“He is created as much as I am. Made by our father, molded and broken into that walking, talking brick wall you thought you loved so well.” Maven pushes on, speaking through Ibarem. “He hides behind that shield he calls duty, but the truth is less noble. Cal is made of want, same as the rest of us. But he wants the crown. He wants the throne. And no price is too high to pay. No blood too valuable to spill.”
A snap rips through the air as Cal cracks a single knuckle with his thumb.
“We always come back to the same conversation, Maven,” I grumble, leaning back with exaggerated nonchalance. Ibarem mirrors my motions. “I wonder, Iris, does he whine about Tiberias as much to you, or am I the only one who has to deal with this nonsense?”
Ibarem turns his head, as if looking to Iris. “Her lips twitched. Perhaps a smile,” he reports. “Maven is shifting, putting an arm to the bars. The temperature is rising.”
“Did I strike a nerve?” I ask. “Oh, I forgot, you don’t know which nerves are even yours. And which are hers.”
With a grimace, Ibarem smacks his open palms on his thighs. “Maven hit the bars. The temperature is still rising. The other prisoners are doing their best to watch.” The newblood blinks, flaring his nostrils, forcing heavy breaths. “He’s trying to calm himself.”
“It isn’t wise to antagonize someone with so many hostages at his disposal. I could let them all burn if I wanted,” Maven hisses through gritted teeth. I can smell his shaking anger from hundreds of miles away. “It would be easy to report that there were no survivors of Bracken’s glorious reclamation of his lands.”
It’s true. There is nothing to stop Maven from murdering every prisoner in sight. They live on his whims alone.
Leaving an intricate needle for me to thread.
“Or you could free them.”
Maven barks a surprised laugh. “I think you need to get more sleep, Mare.”
“In a trade, of course.” I glance up at Farley, weighing her expression. Her brows twitch, knitting together in thought.
I see Tiberias pale too. The last time we brokered a trade with Maven, I ended up imprisoned for months on end.
“Because that ended so well for us last time,” Maven chuckles through Ibarem’s bond. “But if you’d like to return, and pretend you’re doing it to save some nameless soldiers, then I’m happy to welcome you back.”
“I thought Elara killed your ability to dream,” I snap back. “No, Maven, I’m talking about what the Scarlet Guard left behind on Bracken’s base.”