The faces hemming me in are unfamiliar, their uniforms equally split between Montfort green and the hellish red of the Scarlet Guard. They keep me locked in place, unable to do much more than stand on my toes for a craning look at the crowd.
For this is certainly a crowd. Dozens of soldiers and their commanders, organized into neat lines, wait patiently for the jets. But far fewer than I expected. Do they really think this is enough to assault Archeon? Even if they have newbloods of strange and terrible abilities, this is foolish. Suicide. How did I lose to such rampant idiots?
Someone chuckles nearby, and I’m seized by the familiar sense that they’re laughing at me. I turn sharply, only to see the premier of Montfort himself staring between the shoulders of my guards.
With a gesture of his hand, the two soldiers move, allowing him to approach. To my surprise, he’s dressed like a soldier, unremarkable in a dark green uniform. No medals or honors on his breast, nothing to mark him as the leader of an entire country. No wonder he and Cal got along so well. They’re both stupid enough to fight on the front lines.
“Something funny?” I sneer, looking up at him.
The premier merely shakes his head. As in the council, the man keeps his face still and almost empty, showing only enough emotion to allow an audience to project their own assumptions.
I would congratulate him on the talent if I felt so inclined.
Like me, Davidson is a skilled actor. But his performance is wasted. I see through him.
“What happens when this is over, and the time comes to divide the spoils?” I smile, the air freezing against my teeth. “Who picks up my brother’s crown, Davidson?”
The man doesn’t flinch, seemingly unaffected. But I catch the minuscule twitch as his eyes narrow. “Look around, Calore. No one wears crowns in my country.”
“So clever,” I muse. “Not all crowns are worn where people can see.”
He smirks, refusing to rise to the bait. Either his temper is extraordinary, or somehow this man is truly without a lust for power. It’s the former, of course. No person on earth can ignore the lure of a throne.
“Uphold your end of the bargain, and it will be quick,” the older man says, backing away. “Board him,” he adds, his voice harder in command.
The guards move as one, well trained, and if I shut my eyes, I could pretend they were Sentinels. My own Silver protectors, oathed to keep me safe, instead of these rats and blood traitors bent on keeping me chained.
At least they don’t bother with manacles. My wrists remain unbound, albeit bare.
No bracelets, no flame.
No sparks that I can make.
Lucky, then, that we’re traveling with a lightning girl.
I manage to catch a glimpse of her as I’m marched forward, over the runway to the airjet idling ahead. She clusters with her friend, the Farley woman who was so easily misled a year ago, as well as her fellow electricon, the white-haired man. Odd hair must be a style in Montfort, because there’s a woman with blue locks and a man with closely cut green hair as well.
Mare smiles at them, a true grin. When she moves, I realize her hair is different too. The gray ends are gone, replaced by a beautiful, familiar purple. I love it.
I feel a tug deep in my chest. She’s on my jet. Probably to keep an eye on me. To let her torturer friend stand over me for the entire flight. That’s fine. I’ll suffer it.
A few hours of fear are worth the dwindling time we have left.
Our jet has dark green wings, a symbol of the Montfort fleet. I’m led up and into a military craft lined with seats, plus a lower compartment running the length of the fuselage. For more passengers or arms. Maybe both. My mouth turns sour as I realize this jet is Montfort-made, and certainly not the only one. The strange mountain country is better equipped than we realized, even after Corvium, after Harbor Bay. And they are mobilizing.
As I’m strapped into my seat, the buckles fastened just a hair too tight, I realize why Davidson was laughing.
The jets on the runway, the soldiers assembled outside—they’re just the beginning.
“How many thousands are you leading into Archeon?” I ask aloud, letting my voice carry over the bustle of the filling compartment.
I’m ignored, and that’s answer enough.
Across the jet, Mare takes her own seat, with Farley at her side. The pair of them glance at me, eyes hard as flint, and just as easy to spark. I fight the urge to wag my fingers at them.
Then a body crosses my vision, blocking the two women out.
I heave a sigh, and look up slowly.
So predictable.
“Try something,” the white-haired electricon says.
Instead I shut my eyes and lean back. “Shan’t,” I reply, doing my best to hide how difficult it is to breathe against these infernal belts.
He doesn’t move, even when the jet roars into the air.
So I keep my eyes shut, and I run through my precarious plan.
Again, and again, and again.
THIRTY-TWO
Evangeline
It’s been at least two weeks since Barrow left, a week since my betrothed was crowned king, and a few days since I saw Elane last. I can still feel her, though, her pale skin smooth and cool beneath my fingers. But she is far, far beyond my reach. Dispatched back to the Ridge, away from the danger.
Cal would have let me keep her here, if my father had allowed it. In spite of everything, an understanding is falling into place between us. Funny, I used to dream of such a thing. A king who left me to my own devices and my own crown. Now it’s the best I can hope for, and a prison all the same. It traps us both, locking us away from the ones we care about most. He can’t bring back Mare, and I won’t bring Elane back. Not with the Lakelander queens on the horizon and an invasion imminent. I won’t risk her life for a few days of my own comfort.
My new rooms in Whitefire Palace are meant for the queen, and they still echo with the presence of Iris Cygnet. Everything is blue, blue, blue, from the curtains to the plush carpets, even down to the flowers wilting in an obscene amount of crystal vases. With fewer servants, the process of clearing the rooms is slow going. I end up ripping down most of the curtains myself. They’re still in the salon outside my bedroom, collecting dust in a pile of cobalt-blue silk.
The long balcony overlooking the river is the only respite from her, the distant princess who will return to kill us all. And even here, standing with my face to the sun, I can’t escape the thought of the Cygnet nymph. The Capital River courses below, splitting the city of Archeon in two as it winds toward the sea. I try to ignore the rush of water, calm as it is. I focus on braiding my hair instead, pulling the silver strands back from my face. The simple act is a good distraction. The tighter the braids, the more severe, the more determined I feel.
I plan to train a little this morning, go through the motions. Run the barracks track, maybe spar with Ptolemus if he wants. I find myself wishing Barrow were here. She’s a good workout and a good challenge. And easier to deal with than my mother.
I’m surprised she hasn’t breezed in yet, as she often does these days. Trying to prod me toward more queenly activities, as she puts it. But I don’t have the stomach to charm or intimidate nobles today, especially for her benefit. My parents want me to sway more Silvers, earn the loyalty they pledged to Cal. To pull allies away from him, like saving rats from a sinking ship.
Mother and Father want me to be his queen the way Iris was Maven’s. A snake in his bed, a wolf at his side. Gathering strength and waiting for an opportunity to strike. Even though I do not care for Cal, and never could, somehow it feels wrong.
But if Anabel and Julian play out their scheme . . .
I have no idea where that leaves me.
Suspended on a bridge, trapped in the middle, with both ends on fire.
The Bridge.