I chuckle darkly again, tipping my head back against the stonework. The stars above me are pinpricks, dimmed by the city lights of Corvium as well as the rising moon. The stars seem to watch, looking down at the fortress city. I wonder if Iris Cygnet’s gods are laughing with me. If they even exist.
I wonder if Jon is laughing too.
The thought of him chills my blood, killing whatever manic giggle I have left. That wretched, prophesizing newblood is out there somewhere, having escaped us. But to do what? Sit on a hill and watch? Let his red eyes tick back and forth as we all kill each other? Is he some kind of game master, content to nudge us into position and play out whatever future he chooses? If it were remotely possible, I would try to find him. Force him to protect us from lethal fate. But that’s absurd. He’ll see me coming. We can only find Jon if he wants to be found.
Frustrated, I scrub my fingers over my face and scalp, letting my nails drag across my skin. The sharp sensation brings me back to reality, little by little. So does the cold. The stone beneath my body loses warmth as night wears on. The thin fabric of my uniform does little to keep me from shivering, while the sharp, solid edges of the wall are hardly comfortable. Still, I don’t move.
Moving means sleep, but it also means going back down. To the others, to the barracks. Even if I don my best scowl and run, I’ll have to face Reds and newbloods and Silvers too. Julian, certainly. I can just imagine him waiting on my cot, ready with another lecture. What he could possibly say, I don’t know.
He’ll side with Cal, I think. At the end of all this. When it becomes clear we won’t let Cal keep his throne. Silvers are nothing if not loyal to blood. And Julian is nothing if not loyal to his dead sister. Cal is the last piece of her left. He won’t turn his back on that, even for all his talk of revolution and history. He won’t leave Cal alone.
Tiberias. Call. Him. Tiberias.
It even hurts to think the name. His real name. His future. Tiberias Calore the Seventh, King of Norta, Flame of the North. I picture him on his brother’s throne, safe in a cage of Silent Stone. Or would he drag out the diamondglass inferno his father sat? Destroy every shred of Maven, erase him from history? He’ll rebuild his father’s palace. The Kingdom of Norta will return to the way it was. Except for the Samos king in the Rift, everything will go back to what it was meant to be the day I fell into the arena.
Making everything that has occurred since that day be for nothing.
I refuse to let that happen.
And, luckily, I’m not alone in this endeavor.
The moonlight glows on the black stone, making the gold accents of every tower and parapet gleam silver. Patrols wind below me, guards in red and green uniforms keeping watch. Scarlet Guard and Montfort. Their counterparts, Silvers in house colors, are less frequent, and they clump together. Yellow Laris, black Haven, red and blue Iral, red and orange Lerolan. No Samos colors. They’re royal now, thanks to Volo’s ambition and opportunity. No need to waste their time on something as ordinary as the nightly rounds.
I wonder what Maven thinks of that. He fixated on Tiberias so much, I can only imagine the weight of another rival king like Volo. Everything revolved around his brother, even though Maven seemingly had everything he could want. The crown, the throne, me. He still felt that shadow. Elara’s doing. She coiled and curled him into what she needed, cutting away and building up in equal measure. His obsession helped fuel his need for power, and enabled her own. Will it extend to King Volo? Or are Maven’s darkest and most dangerous desires restricted to us? Kill Tiberias, keep me?
Only time will tell. When he strikes again, and he will, I’ll know.
I only hope we’re ready.
Davidson’s troops, the Scarlet Guard and our spreading infiltration—we’re enough. We have to be.
But that doesn’t mean I can’t take precautions.
“When do we leave?”
It took some dreaded social interaction, but I managed to ask my way to Davidson’s quarters. He commands some larger offices in the administrative sector, forming a suite currently filled with Montfort brass. And Scarlet Guard too, although Farley isn’t here. The officers take my entrance in stride, giving way to the person they still call lightning girl. Most busy themselves with packing. Papers, folders, charts, mostly. Nothing that actually belongs to anyone here. Intelligence for smarter people than me to devour. Probably left over from whatever Silver officers used this space last.
Ada, one of my newblood recruits, is at the center of the activity. Her eyes run over every scrap of paper before someone else packs it away. She’s memorizing it all, using her ability of perfect memory. I catch her eye as I pass, and we share a nod. When we go to Montfort, Ada will be dispatched to Command at Farley’s orders. I don’t suppose I’ll see her again for a long time.
Davidson looks up from his bare desk. The corners of his angled eyes crinkle, the only indicator of a smile. Despite the harsh, unforgiving light of the office, he looks handsome as ever. Distinguished. Intimidating. A king in power if not title. When he waves me over, I swallow hard, remembering what he looked like in the siege. Bloody, exhausted, afraid. And determined. Just like the rest of us. It calms me a little.
“You did well up there, Barrow,” he says. With a toss of his head, he gestures in the vague direction of the core tower.
I blink, scoffing. “You mean I kept my mouth shut.”
At the window, someone laughs. I glance over to see Tyton leaning against the glass, arms crossed, his usual lock of white hair drooping over one eye. He has a clean forest-green uniform too, though a little short at the wrists and legs. No lightning insignia to mark him for what he is: an electricon like me. Because it isn’t his uniform. The last time I saw him, he was painted eyebrows to ankles in silver blood. He drums his fingers against his arm, brandishing them like the weapons they are.
“Is that possible?” he says without looking at me, his voice deep.
Davidson surveys me, shaking his head a bit. “Actually, I’m pleased with what you told the others, Mare. About accompanying me home.”
“Like I said, I’m curious about—”
The premier puts up his hand, palm out, to stop me short. “Save it. I think Lord Jacos is the only person here who does anything simply for the sake of curiosity.” Well, he isn’t wrong. “What do you really want from Montfort?”
At the window, Tyton’s eyes flicker in the light as he finally deigns to look at me.
I raise my chin. “Only what you promised.”
“Resettlement?” For once, Davidson looks truly startled. “You want to—”
“I want my family safe.” My voice never wavers. I push a little of what I remember from a dead Silver and her etiquette rules into my bearing. Straight spine, squared shoulders. Hold eye contact.
“We are truly at war,” I say. “Norta, Piedmont, the Lakelands, and your Republic too. Nowhere is safe, from either side. But you’re farthest away, and you seem to be the strongest, or at least the most defended. I think it will be best if I can take my family there myself. Before I come back to finish what better people started.”
“The promise was for newbloods, Miss Barrow,” Davidson says quietly. The flurry of activity around us almost drowns him out.
My stomach drops, but I harden my expression. “I don’t think so, Premier.”
He pulls that bland smile of his, retreating behind his usual mask. “Really, you think me so heartless?” A strange joke, but Davidson is nothing if not a strange man. He flashes even teeth. “Of course your family is welcome. Montfort would be proud to accept them as citizens. Ibarem, a word?” he adds, calling over my shoulder.
A man bustles in from one of the connecting rooms, and I can’t help but jump. He’s the spitting image of Rash and Tahir, the newblood twins. If I didn’t know Tahir was still in Piedmont and Rash embedded in Archeon, both relaying information for the cause, I would think he was one of the twins. Triplets, I quickly realize, and a bitterness fills my mouth. I don’t like surprises.
Like his brothers, Ibarem has dark brown skin, black hair, and a well-manicured beard. I can just glimpse a scar beneath the hair on his chin, a single white line of raised flesh. He’s marked too, cut by a Silver lord long ago to distinguish him from his identical siblings.
“Pleased to meet you,” I mutter, narrowing my eyes at Davidson.
He senses my unease. “Ah, yes, this would be the brother of Rash and Tahir.”
“Couldn’t tell,” I shoot back dryly.
Ibarem’s lips twist into a small smile as he nods his head in greeting. “Glad to make your acquaintance at last, Miss Barrow.” Then he turns to the premier, expectant. “What do you need, Premier?”
Davidson eyes him. “Send word to Tahir. Have him inform the Barrow family that their daughter will be collecting them tomorrow. For resettlement in Montfort.”
“Yes, sir,” he replies. His eyes glaze for a moment, as the message travels from his brain to his brother’s. It only takes a second, despite the hundreds of miles between them. He ducks his head again. “Relayed, sir. Tahir says congratulations and welcome, Miss Barrow.”
I only hope my parents accept the offer. Not that they wouldn’t. Gisa wants to go, and Mom will follow her lead. Bree and Tramy will follow Mom. But Dad, I’m not sure. Not if he knows I won’t be staying with them. Please go. Please let me give you this.
“Tell him thanks,” I mumble, still disconcerted by him.
“Relayed,” Ibarem says again. “Tahir says you’re very welcome.”
“Thank you both,” Davidson cuts in, and for good reason. The brothers can go back and forth with maddening speed, although it’s worse when their linked brains are side by side. Ibarem nods, taking the dismissal, before shuffling away to continue his work elsewhere.
“Are there any more of them you’d like to tell me about?” I hiss, leaning forward to grit my teeth at the premier.
He takes my annoyance in stride. “No, though I wish I had more of their like at my disposal,” he sighs. “Funny, those brothers. Usually Ardents have Silver counterparts, but I’ve never seen their like beyond our blood.”
“His brain feels different from any other,” Tyton mutters.
I eye him sharply. “The way you say that is very disconcerting.”
Tyton only shrugs.
I turn back to Davidson, still smarting, but unable to ignore what a gift he’s just given me. “Thank you for doing this. I know you lead the country, and it may not seem like much, but this means a great deal to me.”
“Of course it does,” he replies. “And I hope to do the same for other families like yours, as soon as we are able. My government is currently debating how to face what is rapidly becoming a refugee crisis, as well as how to move already-displaced Reds and newbloods. But for you, for what you’ve done and continue to do, exceptions can be made.”
“And what have I done? Really?” The words slip out before I can bite them back. Heat spreads across my cheeks.
“You’ve made cracks in the impenetrable.” Davidson speaks like he’s pointing out the obvious. “Put dents in armor. You loosened the proverbial jar, Miss Barrow. Let us break it open.” His grin is true, wide and white and stretching. I’m reminded of a cat. “And it’s no small thing that, because of you, a claimant to the throne of Norta will be coming to the Republic.”
That sends a jolt through me. Is that a threat? I move quickly, leaning over his desk, my palms braced against the wood, my voice low, in warning. “I want your word he won’t be harmed.”
He doesn’t hesitate. “You have it,” he says, matching my tone. “I won’t touch a hair on his head. Nor will anyone else, not while Calore is in my country. You have my solemn promise. That’s not how I operate.”
“Good,” I reply. “Because it would be ridiculously stupid to remove the buffer between our alliance and Maven Calore. And you aren’t a stupid person, are you, Premier?”
That cat smile widens. He nods.
“Won’t it be good for the little prince to see something different?” Davidson cocks one manicured gray eyebrow. “A country without a king?”
See that it’s possible. That the crown, the throne—they aren’t his duty. He doesn’t have to be a king or a prince. Not if he doesn’t want to be.
But I think he wants to be.
“Yes” is all I can say. And all I can hope for. After all, didn’t I first meet Tiberias in a dark tavern, where he pretended to be someone else so he could see what the world really looked like? See what should change?
Davidson leans back, clearly finished with me. I do the same. “Consider your request granted,” he says. “And consider yourself lucky we have to return to Piedmont first anyway, or else I might not be so amenable to retrieving a metric ton of Barrows.”
He almost winks.
I almost smile.