Despite the manicured forest and luxurious grounds of the Ridge, few birds come here. They know better. As children, Ptolemus and I used many for target practice. The rest fell to my mother’s whims.
More than three hundred years ago, before the Calore kings rose, the Ridge did not exist, and neither did Norta. This corner of land was ruled by a Samos warlord, my direct ancestor. Ours is the blood of conquerors, and our fortunes have risen again. Maven is not the only king in Norta anymore.
Servants are good at making themselves scarce here, appearing only when needed or called upon. In recent weeks, they seem almost too good at their job. It isn’t hard to guess why. Many Reds are fleeing, either to the cities for safety against civil war, or to join the Scarlet Guard’s rebellion. Father says the Guard itself has escaped to Piedmont, which is all but a puppet, dancing on Montfort’s strings. He maintains channels of communication with the Montfort and Guard leaders, albeit begrudgingly. But for now, the enemy of our enemy is our friend, making us all tentative allies where Maven is concerned.
Tolly waits in the gallery, the wide, open hall running the length of the main house. Windows on all sides offer a view in every direction, over miles of the Rift. On the clearest of days, I might be able to see Pitarus to the west, but clouds hang low in the distance as spring rains race the length of the sprawling river valley. In the east, valleys and hills roll off in increasingly high slopes, ending in blue-green mountains. The Rift region is, in my correct opinion, the most beautiful piece of Norta. And it is mine. My family’s. House Samos rules this heaven.
My brother certainly looks like a prince, the heir to the throne of the Rift. Instead of armor, Tolly wears a new uniform. Silver gray instead of black, with gleaming onyx-and-steel buttons and an oil-dark sash crossing him from shoulder to hip. No medals yet, at least none that he can wear. The rest were earned in service to another king. His silvery hair is wet, plastered back against his head. Fresh from a shower. He keeps his new hand tucked in close, protective of the appendage. It took Wren the better part of a day to regrow it properly, and even then she needed an immense amount of help from two of her kin.
“Where’s my wife?” he asks, looking down the open passage behind me.
“She’ll be along eventually. Lazy thing.” Tolly married Elane a week ago. I don’t know if he’s seen her since the wedding night, but he hardly minds. The arrangement is mutually agreed upon.
He links his good arm in mine. “Not everyone can operate on as little sleep as you.”
“Well, what about you? I’ve heard all that work on your hand has led to some late nights with Lady Wren,” I reply, leering. “Or am I misinformed?”
Tolly grins, sheepish. “Is it that even possible?”
“Not here.” In Ridge House, it’s near impossible to keep secrets. Especially from Mother. Her eyes are everywhere, in mice and cats and the occasional daring sparrow. Sunlight angles through the gallery, playing across many sculptures of fluid metal. As we pass, Ptolemus twists his new hand in the air, and the sculptures twist with it. They re-form, each one more complex than the last.
“Don’t dawdle, Tolly. If the ambassadors arrive before we do, Father might spike our heads to the gate,” I scold him. He laughs at the common threat and old joke. Neither of us has ever seen such a thing. Father has killed before, certainly, but never so crudely or so close to home. Don’t bleed in your own garden, he would say.
We wind our way down from the gallery, keeping to the outer walkways so as to better enjoy the spring weather. Most of the interior salons look out on the walkway, their windows polished plate glass or their doors thrown open to catch the spring breeze. Samos guards line one, and they nod their heads when we approach, paying deference to their prince and princess. I smile at the gesture, but their presence unsettles me.
The Samos guards oversee a violent operation: the making of Silent Stone. Even Ptolemus pales as we pass. The smell of blood overpowers us both for a moment, filling the air with sharp iron. Two Arvens sit inside the salon, chained to their seats. Neither is here willingly. Their house is allied to Maven, but we have need for Silent Stone, and so they are here. Wren hovers between them, noting their progress. Both their wrists have been slit open, and they bleed freely into large buckets. When the Arvens reach their limit, Wren will heal them up and stimulate their blood production, all to begin again. Meanwhile, the blood will be mixed with cement, hardened into the deadly blocks of ability-suppressing stone. For what, I don’t know, but Father certainly has plans for it. A prison, maybe, like the one Maven built for Silvers and newbloods both.
Our grandest receiving chamber, the aptly named Sunset Stretch, is on the western slope. I suppose now it’s technically our throne room as well. As we approach, courtiers of my father’s newly created nobility dot the way, thickening with every forward step. Most are Samos cousins, elevated by our declaration of independence. A few of closer blood, my father’s siblings and their children, claim princely titles for themselves, but the rest remain lords and ladies, content as always to live off my father’s name and my father’s ambitions.