“Keep moving!” I shout over the shriek of another round, this one exploding somewhere near War Command.
Someone else is shouting too, barking barely audible orders over the din. A streak of flame accompanies his voice, whirling through the fog near the head of the gathered legion. Whatever stirring speech Cal cooked up will be of little use now. It’s too loud, too wet, and his soldiers are too distracted by the armada currently choking the river. Still, they begin to march, lurching forward to follow whatever his orders might be. Probably to line the cliffs. Concentrate their attack on the river below.
We’re suddenly caught in their motion.
The legion surges like a tide, carrying us with them. I try to shove against the uniformed bodies, searching the Silver faces for Ptolemus and Wren. Still close, but the distance between us is steadily growing. I feel for the copper in my brother’s belt, holding on to the sensation of the metal.
“Move,” I snarl, trying to tear my way through the crowd. Using my armor to propel me, using Ptolemus’s as a beacon. “Move!”
The next blow is closer, dead on target, dropping out of the sky like a hammer. A shell, not a missile. Smaller, unguided, but still deadly. In unison, separated though we are, Ptolemus and I raise our hands, throwing out our ability with a mighty burst of energy.
I grab on to the steel casing, gritting my teeth against the strain of stopping a fast-moving projectile. But we manage and, with equal grunts, fling the shell back into the fog, spiraling off to hopefully explode somewhere in the Lakelander fleet. A few telkies among Cal’s legion do the same, banding together to throw back shells and missiles. But there are too many rounds rocketing out of the fog, almost on top of us before we even know it.
The Air Fleet races among the clouds, still weaving through the sky, peppering the armada as best they can with all they can. They aren’t the only jets up there. The Lakelanders have aerial battalions of their own, as does Piedmont in fewer numbers. Between the thunder of the ships and the scream of the jets, I can barely hear myself think. And the Nortan guns only add to the chaotic din. The turrets up ahead spit sparks and hot iron, flashing with gunfire. They’re usually disguised as part of the walls around the Square, or supports to the Bridge, but not now. A few telkies stand at the turrets, using their abilities to fling explosives with deadly aim.
This city was built to survive, and that’s what it’s trying to do.
A wind picks up, probably born of our own windweavers. House Laris is still allied to Cal, and they use their ability to its full extent. A howling gale streaks over the Square, blowing from somewhere behind us. It knocks some of the shells and missiles off course, and a few land harmlessly in the river while others spiral off into the fog. I squint against the slapping wind, keeping Ptolemus and Wren in sight, but the hurricane force makes the soldiers tighten their ranks, squashing us in with them.
Gritting my teeth, I painstakingly shove my way through, slipping under arms, pressing past guns and torsos. Every step is an ordeal, made more difficult by the lashing wind, the rain, the press of the legion. The crowd tosses like the river below, now whitecapped with rising waves.
My hands close on Tolly’s wrist, his armor cold against my fingers. He heaves, pulling me to him over the last yard, until I’m tucked safely into his side. My brother holds Wren in the same manner, his arms braced across both our shoulders.
What now?
We have to get the edge of the crowd, but the walls and buildings of the Square keep the legion hemmed in, funneling all of us toward the Bridge. Even from a distance, I can see Cal elevated above the rest, his red armor like blood against the howling storm. He stands to the side of the open gates, perched on a stone turret.
Like some idiotic target.
A good sniper could pick him off from a thousand yards if they cared to try.
But he risks it for the morale of his troops, shouting encouragement as they charge onto the Bridge. More shells hurtle toward him, but he flicks a hand, exploding the rounds in midair before they can do any harm.
On the Bridge itself, Silver soldiers disappear into the fog. I can guess their destination. Even now, the rhythmic, haunting drum of the armada’s guns breaks its pattern. I try not to picture Nortan soldiers fighting on the ship decks, facing the full might of Queen Cenra’s and Prince Bracken’s forces.
If we can get you two onto the ships . . . Cal’s voice echoes in my head. I grit my teeth against the curl of shame licking through me. I’m not wading into this battle, not on another river. Not with them down there.
This is our chance, and we have to take it.
“Keep pushing!” I shout, hoping Tolly can hear me over the din. The Treasury is behind us now, the distance growing with every passing step. It’s suffocating, being shoved like this, prodded forward against my will.
I don’t have much armor left—my father stripped most of it away—but what little I have re-forms along my arm, flattening into a round shield. Ptolemus mirrors my action, creating a smooth disk over his arm. We use them like battering rams, pushing against the human tide with our abilities and our own strength. It works slowly but steadily, creating enough space for us to move.
Until red armor blocks our path, a fireball hovering over one hand.
Cal stares between us, and I expect accusation. His flame gutters against the rain, refusing to surrender. His soldiers form a protective cocoon around him.
Rainwater drips down his face, steaming on his exposed skin.
“How many are you taking with you?” he says, barely audible.
I blink water out of my eyes and gesture blankly at Wren and Ptolemus.
“Your father, Evangeline. How many will he manage to flee with?” Cal takes a long step forward, never breaking eye contact. “I need to know who I still have left.”
Something releases in my chest. I shake my head, slow at first, then faster and faster.
“I wouldn’t know,” I murmur.
Cal’s expression doesn’t change, but for a moment I think the flame in his hand burns a bit brighter. Again his gaze bounds between my brother and me, weighing us both. I let it wash over me like the rain and the fog and the rising smoke. Tiberias Calore is not my future anymore.
Without another word, he stands aside, and his soldiers move with him. Clearing a path over the slick tiles of the Square.
As I move past him, I feel a ghost of warmth bleeding from his hand as it hovers near my arm. I think he almost hugs me. Cal has always been an odd sort, different from other Silvers. Strange and soft in his inclinations, while the rest of us were raised to razors and hard edges.
Instead of embracing him, I grab his arm, just for a moment. Pull him close enough for one last whisper, one last barb from Evangeline Samos before she disappears. Without her crown, without her house, without her colors. To become a new person entirely.
“If it isn’t too late for me, it isn’t too late for you.”
When we sit down on the train, its lights flickering and engine lumbering to life, only then do I dimly wonder where the tracks end.
It will be a long walk to Montfort.
THIRTY-THREE
Mare
I’m still not used to the purple hair.