“I was hoping to catch you at home,” he calls over the hissing downpour. “Well, honestly, I was hoping to catch you indisposed so I could do this in the morning. Instead of out in this infernal wet.” Julian shakes his head like a dog and pushes hair away from his eyes.
“Say what you came here to say, Julian.” I cross my arms. As the night falls, so does the temperature. I might catch a chill, even here in steaming Piedmont.
Julian doesn’t reply. Instead his eyes flick to Kilorn, one eyebrow raised in silent question. “He’s fine,” I say, answering before he can ask. “Speak up before we all drown out here.”
My tone sharpens, and so does Julian. He isn’t a fool. His face falls, reading the disappointment etched on me. “I know you feel abandoned,” he begins, choosing his words with maddening care.
I can’t help but bristle. “Stick to history. I won’t let you lecture me on what I’m allowed to feel.”
He only blinks, taking my response in stride. Again he pauses, long enough to let a raindrop roll down his straight nose. He does it to gauge me, to measure, to study. For the first time, his patient manner makes me want to seize him by the shoulders and shake some impulsive words out of him.
“Very well,” he says, his voice low and wounded. “Then, in the interest of history, or what will very soon be history, I am still accompanying my nephew on your journey west. I would like to see the Free Republic for myself, and I think I can be of use to Cal there.” Julian starts to take a step forward, toward me, but thinks better of it. He keeps his distance.
“Does Tiberias have some interest in obscure history that I don’t know about?” I scoff, the words coming out harsher than usual.
He looks torn; that much is very clear. He can barely look me in the eye. The rain plasters his hair to his forehead, clings to his lashes, pulls at him with tiny fingers. It smooths him out somehow, as if washing away his days. Julian seems younger than when I met him, almost a year ago. Less sure of himself. Full of worry and doubt.
“No,” he concedes. “While I normally encourage my nephew to pursue all knowledge he can, there are some things I’d like to steer him away from. Some stones he should not waste time trying to overturn.”
I raise an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”
Julian frowns. “I assume he mentioned his hopes for Maven. Before.”
Before he chose the crown over me. “He did,” I whisper, sounding small.
“He thinks there might be some way to fix his brother. Heal the wounds of Elara Merandus.” Slowly, Julian shakes his head. “But there is no completing a puzzle with missing pieces. Or putting a shattered pane of glass back together.”
My stomach twists, tensing with what I already know. What I’ve seen firsthand. “It’s impossible.”
Julian nods. “Impossible, and hopeless. A doomed pursuit, one that will only break my boy’s heart.”
“What makes you think I still care about his heart?” I sneer, tasting the bitter lie.
Julian takes a wary step forward. “Go easy on him,” he murmurs.
I snap back without blinking. “How dare you say that to me?”
“Mare, do you remember what you found in those books?” he asks, pulling his robes tight around himself. His voice takes on a pleading edge. “Do you remember the words?”
I shiver, and it isn’t because of the rain. “‘Not a god’s chosen, but a god’s cursed.’”
“Yes,” he replies, nodding along with fervent motion. It reminds me of the way he used to teach, and I brace for a lecture. “This is not a new concept, Mare. Men and women have felt that way, in some capacity, for thousands of years. Chosen or cursed, fated or doomed. Since the dawn of sentience, I suspect, and long before Silver and Red or any type of ability. Did you know kings and politicians and rulers of every kind used to think they were blessed by the gods? Ordained to their place in the world? Many thought themselves chosen, but a few, of course, saw the duty as a curse.”
Next to me, Kilorn puffs out a low scoff. I’m more obvious, rolling my eyes at Julian. When I shift, so does the collar of my shirt, sending a steady drip of rainwater down my spine. I clench my fists to keep from flinching.
“Are you saying your nephew is cursed to his crown?” I sneer.
Julian hardens, and I feel a tinge of regret for being so callous. He shakes his head at me, like I’m a child to be scolded. “Forced to choose between the woman he loves and what he thinks is right? What he thinks he must do, because of everything he’s been taught to be? What else would you call that?”
“I call it an easy decision,” Kilorn growls.
I bite down hard on the inside of my cheek, trying to gnaw back a dozen rude responses. “Did you really come here to defend what he did? Because I’m certainly not in the mood for it.”
“No, of course not, Mare,” Julian replies. “But to explain, if I can.”
My stomach churns at the thought of Julian of all people explaining his nephew’s heart to me. With his dissections and ruminations. Will he boil it down to simple science? An equation to show that the crown and I are not equal in the prince’s eyes? I simply can’t stand it.
“Save your breath, Julian,” I spit. “Go back to your king. Stand at his side.” I look him dead in the eye. So he knows I’m not lying. “And keep him safe.”
He sees the offer for what it is. The only thing I can do.
Julian Jacos bows low. He sweeps out his soaking robes in an attempt at courtly manner. For a second, we could be back in Summerton, just him and me in a classroom piled with books. Back then, I lived in terror, forced to masquerade as someone else. Julian was one of my only refuges in that place. Alongside Cal and Maven. My only sanctuaries. The Calore brothers are gone. I think Julian might be too.
“I will, Mare,” he tells me. “With my life, if I must.”
“I hope it doesn’t come to that.”
“So do I.”
Our words are warnings to each other. And his voice sounds like a good-bye.
I think Bree keeps his eyes closed for the entire flight. Not to sleep. He just really despises flying, so much so he can hardly look at his own feet, let alone peek out the window. He doesn’t even respond to Tramy’s and Gisa’s gentle teasing. They sit on either side of him, content to poke and prod. Gisa stage-whispers to Tramy, leaning across Bree to say something about jet crashes or engine malfunctions. I don’t join in. I know what a jet crash feels like, or at least close to it. But I won’t spoil their fun either. We get so little of it these days. Bree keeps still in his seat, arms tightly crossed, his lids glued shut. Eventually his head lolls forward, chin resting on his chest, and he sleeps the rest of the way.
It’s no small accomplishment on his part, considering the route from the Piedmont base to the Free Republic of Montfort is one of the longest flights I’ve ever taken. Six hours of flying at least. Too long a journey for a dropjet, so we’re on a larger carrier, a transport more like the Blackrun. But this isn’t the same craft, thankfully. The Blackrun was torn apart last year, by a contingent of Samos warriors and Maven’s own fury.
I glance down the fuselage to the silhouettes of two pilots working the jet. Men of Montfort. I don’t know either of them. Kilorn hangs at their backs, watching them fly.
Like Bree, Mom isn’t keen on the flight, but Dad twists with his forehead glued to the glass, eyes on the land as it sprawls out below. The rest of the Montfort escort—Davidson and his advisers—spend the time sleeping. They must intend to hit the ground running when they get home. Farley sleeps too, her face pressed up against her seat. She took a spot without a window. Flying still makes her ill.