Queen Anabel is quick but gentle, laying a hand on his arm to stop his movement. He stills under her touch, perturbed. “We have to decide on your coronation,” she reminds him with a placid smile. Cal seems annoyed by the prospect, or just by his grandmother nannying him. “It must be as soon as possible—tomorrow, even. No need for a fuss, just something official.”
Not to be outdone, Volo braces his bearded chin on one hand. The slightest motion, and a clear signal for attention. “And there’s the issue of New Town to be settled, not to mention your wedding.” He looks between Cal and Evangeline. If not for their well-trained restraint, I think both might squirm or even gag. “It will take some weeks to prepare—”
I latch on to something else instead. “Would you mind explaining the issue of New Town?” I ask, adjusting myself to look at Volo fully. He stares back at me, his gray eyes almost black with disgust. At my side, Farley’s lips twitch, but she quickly schools her expression into neutral blankness.
Anabel answers before Volo can say anything, or bluster at my rudeness. “We don’t need to discuss that now,” she says, hand still on Cal’s arm.
Cal looks at me, wary of what I might do and what it could trigger in the Samos king. He purses his lips and furrows his brow, as if to warn me off the subject.
No chance, Calore.
“I think we should,” I tell them all. My voice is strong, clear, a cold echo of Mareena Titanos, the weapon the Silvers gave me. “Among other things.”
Cal raises an eyebrow. “Such as?”
The premier clears his throat, taking up his piece of our hastily planned and barely rehearsed conversation. But Davidson is a skilled politician and diplomat. Nothing about his words sounds premeditated. He acts well, and speaks with great skill.
“It’s clear the Lakelands and Prince Bracken, not to mention his allies in Piedmont, have little intention of leaving Norta alone,” he says, directing his speech at all the Silver royals. Especially Cal, who must be won over. “She is united again, but your country has been weakened by a bitter war. Two of your largest forts are either destroyed or neutralized. You’re still waiting for the rest of your noble families to pledge allegiance, betting on their support. Queen Cenra doesn’t seem like the kind to let such an opportunity pass by.”
Cal relaxes a little, shoulders dropping their infinite tension. The Lakelands are an easier subject than Red oppression. He glances at me, almost winking, as if this is just a playful game, a way to flirt. Instead of three hunters pushing a wolf into a corner.
“Yes, I agree,” he says with a grateful nod. “And with our own alliances strong, we can defend Norta from any invaders, north or south.”
Davidson doesn’t drop his serene expression. He only tips a finger. “About that.”
I brace myself, toes curling in my shoes. Heat rises in my chest. I tell myself to expect nothing. I know Cal well enough to predict what he will say. Still, there’s the slim chance that he’s changed, that I’ve changed him. Or that he is simply too tired of fighting, sick of the bloodshed, fed up with the evils his kind have made.
Cal doesn’t follow where the premier hopes to lead, but Anabel sees right through him. Her eyes narrow to slits, snakelike. Behind her, Volo looks like he might run us all through with a few well-placed spikes.
On the side closest to me, hidden from the rest, Davidson lowers a hand. It glows vaguely blue, ready to shield us from any attack. His face remains unchanged, his voice still even and firm. “Now that your brother is deposed, and you stand to rule as king, I’d like to propose another option.”
“Premier?” Cal asks, still unable, or unwilling, to understand.
The naked fury in Volo and Anabel gives me pause. Like Davidson, I lower a hand, and call sparks to my skin.
Davidson pushes on, despite the Silver king and queen scowling openly at him. “Years ago, the Free Republic of Montfort was not as it stands today. We were a collection of kingdoms and lordships, Silver-ruled, as you are now. Civil war roamed the mountains.” Even though I’ve heard what he’s about to say before, I still get a chill. “Peace was unheard of. Reds died for Silver wars, Silver pride, Silver power.”
“Sounds familiar,” I murmur, my eyes on Cal. I try to weigh his reaction, noting the slight ticks of motion in his face. Lips pressing together, dark brows curving. A tightening of the jaw, the release of breath. It’s like trying to read a picture, or smell a song. Frustrating and impossible.
The premier gains momentum. He enjoys this, and excels in the effort. “It was only through an uprising,” he says, “an alliance of Reds, bolstered by the growing ranks of Ardents, as well as Silvers sympathetic to our plight, that we were able to re-form ourselves into the democratic nation we are today. It took sacrifice. It took many lives. But more than a decade later, we are better for it. And growing better by the day.” Satisfied, he leans back, still ignoring the positively murderous looks from Anabel and Volo. “I hope you would endeavor to do the same, Cal.”
Cal.
The use of the name here, while he sits a throne with a crown on his head, has clear meaning. Even Cal seems to get it. He blinks once, twice, gathering himself.
Before he can say anything, Farley squares herself to Cal, eager to play her part in this.
Her general’s squares glint, gleaming sharply, reflecting points of light onto Cal’s face. “We have an opportunity right now that will not come again. Norta is in shambles, begging to be rebuilt,” she says. Farley isn’t as good a speaker as Davidson, but she isn’t an amateur. The Scarlet Guard picked her to be their voice all those months ago, and they picked her for a reason. She has enough fire and enough belief to stir even the coldest hearts. “Let us rebuild her together, into something new.”
Anabel speaks before her grandson can say anything. Almost hissing, she says, “Into something like your country, Premier? And, let me guess, you’ll offer your services in helping make this glorious new nation?” she adds, tossing the barb with deadly accuracy. Planting the seed of suspicion she needs. I see it land, shadowing Cal’s eyes. Will it take root? “Perhaps you might even offer to help rule her?”
A bit of Davidson’s restraint flickers. He almost smirks. “I have a country of my own to serve, Your Majesty, while I am allowed to serve.”
Volo barks an empty laugh. It’s almost worse than Maven’s. “You want us to give up our thrones, everything we worked for. Throw away our lineage and betray our houses, our fathers and grandfathers?”
Anabel scowls. “And grandmothers,” I think she growls under her breath.
Even though I want to jump up, I keep my seat. It isn’t wise to escalate this into a more physical display.
“And what have we worked for, Volo?” I say. Volo barely deigns to look at me. It only feeds the anger in me, making it useful. “What have we bled for? The right to be ruled again? To be shuttered into slum towns, bound into conscription, returned to the lives we escaped? How is this right? How is that fair?”
My grip on myself begins to loosen, and I try to hold back, ignoring the telltale tightening in my throat as I speak. Saying all of this out loud, to people who have made this world cruel, or kept it that way, has a strange effect. I feel as if I could cry or explode, and I don’t know which way I might tip. I want to take Anabel by the shoulders or grab Volo by the neck, force them to listen and see what they’ve done and what they want to continue doing. But if they keep their eyes shut? Or if they look and see nothing wrong? What more can I do?
The Samos king scoffs at me, disgusted. “This world is neither right nor fair, girl. I would think anyone born Red would know that,” he sniffs. Next to him, Evangeline keeps still, her eyes on the floor, her mouth pursed shut. “You’re not our equals, no matter how much you try to be. That is nature.”
Cal finally breaks his silence, his eyes flaring. “Volo, quiet,” he says sharply. No title, no niceties. But no denial either. Whatever line he walks is growing thinner by the minute. “What exactly are you asking, Premier?” he adds. He’s going to make us spell it out.
“It’s not just my request,” Davidson replies, looking to me.
Cal looks at me, too, his bronze stare fully trained on my face. In spite of myself, my gaze runs over him, from his hands to the crown on his forehead. Everything he is.
I don’t hesitate. I’ve survived too much and too long. After all we’ve been through, Cal shouldn’t be surprised.
“Step down,” I tell him. “Or we step back.”
His voice flattens, hollow of emotion. No shock.
He saw this coming.
“You’ll end the alliance.”
Davidson nods once. “The Free Republic of Montfort has no interest in creating a kingdom like the one we escaped.”
Proud, Farley speaks up too. “The Scarlet Guard won’t stand for it either.”
I feel a low tremor of heat, a small ripple from Cal’s direction. A bad sign. With a sigh, I let go of any hope that he might finally see reason. It draws his attention, if only for a second. I see hurt in him, enough to evoke the same in me. Just a tiny pinprick, dull compared to all the wounds I have from the Calore brothers.
Cal looks back to Davidson, directing his rising anger to someone else. “So you’ll leave us to the Lakelanders and Piedmont. Kingdoms and princes worse than I will ever be?” he says, exasperated, almost stumbling over the words. It’s clear he’s trying to salvage this, and doing all he can to keep us here. “Like you said, we’re weak right now. Easy prey. Without your armies—”
“Red armies,” the premier reminds him coolly. “Newblood armies.”
“It can’t be done,” Cal replies, his voice blunt. He puts his hands out, palms up, empty. With nothing to offer. “It just can’t be done. Not now. In time, maybe, but the High Houses won’t kneel if there isn’t a king. We’ll splinter. Norta won’t exist anymore. We don’t have time to change our entire form of government while preparing for an inevitable invasion—”
Farley cuts him off. “Make the time.”
Despite his height, his broad form, the crown, the uniform, all the trappings of a warrior and a king, Cal has never seemed more like a child. He looks between us, glancing from me to his grandmother to Volo. The latter offer no respite, their faces carved into matching scowls. If he bends to us, they will refuse. And the other side of his alliance will be broken.
Behind Cal, unseen, Julian lowers his head. He says nothing to anyone, and keeps his mouth shut.
Volo runs one deadly hand through his silver beard. His eyes flash. “The Silver lords of Norta will not give up their birthrights.”
Fast as lightning, Farley jumps out of her seat. She spits impressively at Volo’s feet. “That’s what I think of your birthright.”
The Samos king is, to my infinite surprise, stunned into silence. He gawks at her, mouth agape. I’ve never known a Samos to be at a loss for words.
“Rats don’t change,” Anabel snarls. She taps one hand against the arm of her chair, the threat clear as day. Not that it affects Farley much.
Cal only repeats himself, his voice barely more than a mumble. The hunters have pushed him into a corner. “It can’t be done,” he says.
Slowly, with finality, Davidson stands from his seat, and I follow suit. “Then we’re sorry to leave you like this,” he says. “Truly. I consider you a friend.”
Cal glances between us, eyes running back and forth. I see sadness in him, the same I feel in myself. We share an acceptance too. This was always the path we chose to walk.
“I know that,” Cal replies. His voice shifts, deepening. “And you should know I don’t respond well to ultimatums, friendly or otherwise.”
A warning.
And not just to us.
We step down together, Reds aligned in our beliefs and our goals. Red uniforms and green, our skin kissed by the same undertones of rose and scarlet. We leave behind the Silvers, as cold and unmoving as if they were carved from stones, statues with living eyes and dead hearts.
“Good luck,” I manage to say over my shoulder, stealing one last glance.
Cal responds in kind, watching me go. “Good luck.”
In Corvium, when he chose the crown, I thought the world had been snatched away, leaving me to fall through an abyss. This isn’t the same. My heart has already been broken, and one night did not sew it back together. This wound isn’t new; this ache isn’t unfamiliar. Cal is the person he told me he was. Nothing and no one will ever change him. I can love him, and perhaps always will, but I can’t make him move when he decides to stay still. The same could be said of me.
Farley nudges my hand, a sharp reminder as we walk. Our last request is yet to be made.
I turn again, angling my face to him. I try to look as I must. Determined, deadly, an inevitable downfall for the Silver king. But still Mare, still the girl he loves. The Red who tried to turn his heart. “Will you let Reds leave the slums, at the very least?”
Next to me, Farley barks out the rest. “And end conscription?”
We expect nothing in return. Perhaps a pantomime of sadness, or another tragic explanation of how impossible such things would be. Maybe even Anabel chasing us from the room.
Instead Cal speaks without looking at the Silvers on his right. Deciding without their input. I didn’t know he had it in him. “I can promise fair wages.”
I almost scoff out loud, but he keeps speaking.
“Fair wages,” he continues. Volo blanches, looking disgusted. “No restrictions on movement. They’re free to live and work where they please. Same for the armies. Fair wages, fair enlistment terms. No conscription.”
It’s my turn to be caught off guard. I have to blink and bow my head. He returns the gesture. “Thank you for that,” I force out.
His grandmother slaps the arm of his throne, indignant. “We’re about to fight another war,” she sneers, as if anyone needs reminding of the Lakelander danger.
I turn back around to hide my smile. Next to me, Farley does the same. We exchange glances, pleasantly surprised by the acquiescence. It means little in the grand scheme; it could be an empty promise, and it probably won’t last. But it serves one purpose, at least.
Driving a wedge between the Silvers, putting cracks in an already precarious alliance. The only one Cal has left.
Behind me, Cal’s voice takes on a dangerous edge as he talks his grandmother down. “I am king. Those are my orders,” he says to her.
Her response is a whisper I cannot hear, muffled by the groaning noise of the doors as they swing open again and then shut. The receiving hall in front of us is as crowded as before, full of rubbernecking nobles and soldiers, eager to glimpse the new king and his patchwork council. We pass through in silence, our faces blank and unreadable. Farley and Davidson mutter to their officers, relaying our decision. It’s time for us to leave Harbor Bay and Norta behind. I unbutton my uniform collar, letting the jacket fall open so I can breathe more easily, unfettered by stiff fabric.
Kilorn is the only person waiting for me, and he is quick to reach my side. He doesn’t bother to ask how the meeting went. Our exit, along with our silence, is answer enough.
“Damn it,” he growls as we walk, our pace brisk and determined.
I don’t have anything to pack. All my clothes are borrowed or easily replaced, even the ones I came to Harbor Bay in. I have nothing in the way of personal belongings, except the piercings in my ear. And the earring back in Montfort, tucked away in a box. The red stone, the one I couldn’t bear to part with. Until now.
I wish I had it here. To leave it in his room, on the pillow I slept on.
That would be a fitting good-bye. And easier than the one I have to make now.
I break off from Farley and Davidson, who are heading for their own rooms at the bottom of the grand staircase. “I’ll meet you outside in a few minutes,” I tell them both. Neither questions my decision, or my purpose, letting me go with a wave and a nod.
Kilorn hesitates on the first step, waiting for an invitation to follow. He’ll never get one.
“You too,” I mutter. “This won’t take long.”
His green eyes narrow, hard as chips of emerald. “Don’t let him ruin you.”
“He’s already done what he can to me, Kilorn,” I say. “Maven can’t break anything else.”
The lie soothes him, enough for him to turn away, satisfied with my safety.
But there’s always something left to be broken.
His door guards step aside, letting me turn the knob of his room. I do it quickly, so I can’t lose my nerve or change my mind. His cell is not a cell, but a fine sitting room tucked away on an upper floor, facing the ocean. No bed, just a few chairs and a long couch. Either he’ll die this afternoon, and he has no use for sleeping arrangements, or a bed hasn’t been prepared yet.
He stands at the window, one hand on the curtains, as if to pull them shut.
“No use,” he mutters, his back to me as I shut the door again. “They don’t block the light.”
“I thought that’s what you wanted,” I reply. “To stay in the light?”
I echo words he said to me months ago, when I was his prisoner, chained to a room like this one, doomed to stare out windows and waste.
“We have an odd symmetry, don’t we?” he says, gesturing to the room with a lazy smile. I almost laugh at the circumstances. Instead I sink into one of the armchairs, careful to keep my hands free and my sparks close.
I watch him, still at the window. He doesn’t move.
“Or maybe Calore kings just have similar taste in jail cells.”
“Doubtful,” he replies. “But fine prisons, it seems, are how we show affection. Small mercies for prisoners we can’t help but love.”
His declarations mean nothing to me anymore. I barely feel a twinge, easy to ignore, deep in my heart.
“What Cal feels for you and what you feel for me are very different.”
Maven laughs darkly. “I would hope so,” he says, running the curtain through his hands again. He glances at my jacket, then at my collarbone, now covered by an undershirt. My brand is hidden away. “When will it be?” he adds, his voice going soft.
The execution. “I don’t know.”