Cal is also in the training arena, not that Mare or Kilorn knows it, though. The Red boy follows us wordlessly, fuming, but he does nothing to stop Barrow when I lead her into the specially made chamber.
The walls are glass, much like the rest of the Ridge. In the morning, it enjoys a full view of the sunrise. Perfect for early sessions. Now it looks out on the darkness, a vague, bruising blue, fading to black. Ptolemus and Cal occupy different ends of the training floor, ignoring each other as men do. My brother steadily works through a rotation of push-ups, his back straight and lean. Wren perches nearby, seated in the raised viewing area. She must be the healer on duty, to attend to anyone on the floor. But her attention is firmly fixed on Ptolemus and his flexing muscles. I could probably spear Cal through the middle and she wouldn’t blink an eye.
The would-be king faces away from us at first, running a towel over his hair and his sweaty, flushed face. I watch Mare go stock-still next to me, as if frozen solid. Her eyes widen, running over his figure. I can only grimace, noting the damp material clinging to Cal’s back and shoulders. Maybe if I felt some attraction to him—or to any man, for that matter—I might understand exactly why Mare looks like she’s going to pass out.
At least this part of the plan is working. Barrow clearly has no objections to Cal’s body.
“This way,” I say to her, taking her by the arm.
Cal spins at my voice, towel still in hand. He startles at the sight of us. Well, the sight of her. “We’re almost finished,” he manages to sputter.
“Take your time. It doesn’t make a difference to me,” Mare replies, her voice and expression decidedly neutral. She lets me lead her away without protest, but her hand shifts, her arm moving quickly. Her fingers dig into my flesh, nails biting in warning.
“Kilorn,” I hear Cal say behind us, greeting the Red boy with what sounds like a handshake.
Ptolemus looks up from his spot on the floor, not breaking his pace. I give him the slightest nod, pleased by our machinations. His eyes slide past me, though, to rest on Mare instead.
She looks back at him, murderous. It chills my blood.
I try not to shudder. Try not to think of my brother bleeding like hers did, dying as he falls, dying for nothing at all.
Pull yourself together, Samos.
SIXTEEN
Mare
“I’m not an idiot, Evangeline,” I growl as the changing-room door slams behind us.
She just sighs, shoving a training suit into my chest. With practiced, even motions, she strips out of her simple gown and tosses it to the side, discarding the puddle of silk like a pile of trash. Naked but for her underclothes, she pours herself into a training suit of her own. Clearly custom-made for her, printed with a scaled design of black and silver.
Mine is less ornate. A simple navy blue. Furious with her scheming, I pull off my own clothes before forcing the suit on.
“You might as well just shove us into a closet and lock the door,” I snarl, watching her braid her silver hair away from her face. She does it quickly, without thought, forming a crown around her head.
Evangeline only twists her lips. “Trust me, I would if I thought that might work on you. Him, yes. A closet would be enough. But you?” She throws her hands wide, shrugging. “You can never make anything easy.”
“So, what, you’re going to try to beat the shit out of me and hope he feels some pang of sympathy? Maybe have him nurse me back to health?” I shake my head, disgusted.
“It seemed to be working in Montfort.” Her eyes paw over me. “Those Silences did a real number on you.”
My eyes narrow. “Well, I have my reasons,” I snap back, defensive. The memory is like a slap to the face, followed by a deep kick to the gut. I dig my nails into my palm, trying not to slide back into the sensation of being suffocated. In the mountain foothills, in a palace bedroom. From Silvers or from manacles. Without thinking, I circle my fingers around my wrist and squeeze. It almost makes me vomit onto the polished tile floor.
“I know,” she replies, softer than before. If she were anyone else, I might think that was concern shadowing her voice. But not Evangeline Samos. She doesn’t have the ability to feel sympathy toward Reds.
I cough, regaining some of my composure. “Even if you somehow did drive us back together, it wouldn’t accomplish anything. You said yourself, he’s not the abdicating kind. It’s a stupid plan, Evangeline,” I add, for both our sakes.
She looks at me sidelong, buckling a brace of daggers into place around her thigh. One side of her mouth lifts. I can’t decide if it’s a smirk or a smile. “We’ll see.”
All grace and agility, she crosses back to the door, gesturing for me to follow her out onto the waxed wood.
I do so reluctantly, pulling my hair back into a neat tail. Half of me hopes Tiberias is already gone. I focus my eyes on a spot between her shoulder blades.
“It’s a stupid plan, not just because Tiberias already made his choice,” I continue, sliding by her onto the training floor. Instinctively I shift my weight to the balls of my feet, almost bouncing as we walk. I grin back at her. “But also because you’re never going to lay a finger on me.”
She clutches a hand to her chest in false pain. The changing-room door slams shut behind her. “Mare, I’m supposed to be the overly confident one.”
I keep grinning, walking backward to keep my eyes on her. I don’t trust anyone to fight fair, especially her. “Maybe Elane can lick your wounds?”
Evangeline only raises her chin, looking down her nose at me. “She does, and frequently. Jealous?”
My face flares red. I feel the heat of it all down my neck. “No.”
Now it’s her turn to grin. She shoulders past me, knocking her arm into mine with marked force. I twist, but she keeps her body squared to me, never letting me pass out of her eye line. We start to resemble dance partners turning in a ballroom. Or wolves circling in the dark, predators testing each other. Searching for openings and weaknesses. Opportunities.
I have to admit, the prospect of blowing off some steam, and maybe getting a few good rounds in, has me excited. Adrenaline already surges through my veins in anticipation. A good fight, the kind without consequences or any real danger, sounds especially delicious. Even if it means admitting Evangeline was right about sparring.
Across the floor, I spy Kilorn looking on, with Tiberias standing beside him. Ptolemus keeps his distance. I don’t waste my attention on them, even though Evangeline wants me to. She’ll probably slice my face the second I drop my guard.
“You should train more,” she says, her voice a bit louder. It echoes through the open space. I wonder if Evangeline was simply born without shame. “Work that stress out of your system in other ways. Or with other people.”
I blink a rapid tempo, truly surprised. My entire body floods with warmth, and for once, it isn’t Cal’s fault. She grins at my discomfort, even tipping her head toward Cal and Kilorn a few yards away. Both of them are clearly listening to our conversation, while simultaneously trying to look like they aren’t. Evangeline raises an eyebrow toward Kilorn, surveying him with a keen eye.
The implication dawns on me. “Oh, he’s not—”
“Don’t make me laugh,” she sneers, taking another step backward. “I’m talking about that other newblood. The Montfort one. White hair, deep voice. Thin and tall.”
Suddenly the heat coursing through my body turns icy, and I feel the hair on my neck rise. Cal pushes off the far wall. His eyes slide past me as he turns, dropping into his final routine. Push-ups. He works at a steady but fast pace, rising and falling. In the silence, I can just hear his rhythmic puffs of breath over the embarrassing thud of my own heart.
Why are my palms so sweaty?
Evangeline leers, more than satisfied. She dips her chin a little, nodding. Goading me on. Do it, she mouths to me.
“His name is Tyton, and he isn’t here,” I growl, hating myself as the words come out. Across the room, Cal quickens his pace. “This an even stupider plan,” I add, leaning in to whisper as low as I can.