Still on the floor, Cal grumbles. “I like the barracks.” He fumbles for a pair of shorts before pulling them on. Then go the bracelets, snapping back into place on his wrists. The latches are complicated, but he slips them on like it’s second nature. “And you don’t have to share a room with your sister.”
I shift and throw a shirt over my head. Our midday break will be over in a few minutes, and I’m expected up on Storm Hill soon. “You’re right. I’ll just get over that little thing I have about sleeping alone.” Of course, by thing I mean still-debilitating trauma. I have terrible nightmares if there isn’t someone in the room with me.
Cal stills, shirt half over his head. He sucks in a breath, wincing. “That’s not what I meant.”
It’s my turn to grumble. I pick at Cal’s sheets. Military-issue, washed so many times they’re almost worn through. “I know.”
The bed shifts, springs groaning, as he leans toward me. His lips brush the crown of my head. “Any more nightmares?”
“No.” I answer so quickly he raises an eyebrow in suspicion, but it’s the truth. “As long as Gisa’s there. She says I don’t make a sound. Her, on the other hand . . . I forgot so much noise could come from such a small person.” I laugh to myself, and find the courage to look him in the eye. “What about you?”
Back in the Notch, we slept side by side. Most nights he tossed and turned, muttering in his sleep. Sometimes he cried.
A muscle ripples in his jaw. “Just a few. Maybe twice a week, that I can remember.”
“Of?”
“My father, mostly. You. What it felt like to be fighting you, watching myself try to kill you, and not being able to do a thing to stop it.” He flexes his hands in memory of the dream. “And Maven. When he was little. Six or seven.”
The name still feels like acid in my bones, even though it’s been so long since I last saw him. He has given several broadcasts and declarations since, but I refuse to watch them. My memories of him are terrorizing enough. Cal knows that, and out of respect for me, he absolutely does not talk about his brother. Until now. You asked, I scold myself. I grit my teeth, mostly to stop from vomiting up all the words I haven’t told him. Too painful for him. It won’t help to know what kind of monster his brother was forced into becoming.
He pushes on, eyes far away in the memory. “He used to be afraid of the dark, until one day he just wasn’t. In my dreams, he’s playing in my room, sort of walking around. Looking at my books. And darkness follows him. I try to tell him. Try to warn him. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t mind. And I can’t stop it. It swallows him whole.” Slowly, Cal runs a hand down his face. “Don’t need to be a whisper to know what that means.”
“Elara is dead,” I murmur, moving so we’re side by side. As if that’s any comfort.
“And he still took you. He still did horrible things.” Cal stares at the floor, unable to hold my gaze. “I just can’t understand why.”
I could keep quiet. Or distract him. But the words boil furiously in my throat. He deserves the truth. Reluctant, I take his hand.
“He remembers loving you, loving your father. But she took that love away, he said. Cut it out of him like a tumor. She tried to do the same with his feelings for me”—and Thomas before—“but it didn’t work. Certain kinds of love . . .” My breath hitches. “He said they’re harder to remove. I think the attempt twisted him, more than he already was. She made it impossible for him to let go of me. Everything he felt for both of us was corrupted, made into something worse. With you, hatred. With me, obsession. And there is nothing either of us could do to change him. I don’t even think she could undo her own work.”
His only reply is silence, letting the revelation hang in the air. My heart breaks for the exiled prince. I give him what I think he needs. My hand, my presence, and my patience. After a long, long time, he opens his eyes.
“As far as I know, there are no newblood whispers,” he says. “Not one that I’ve found or been told about. And I’ve done my fair share of searching.”
This I did not expect. I blink, confused.
“Newbloods are stronger than Silvers. And Elara was just Silver. If someone can . . . can fix him, isn’t it worth it to try?”
“I don’t know” is all I can say. Just the idea numbs me, and I don’t know how to feel. If Maven could be healed, so to speak, would that be enough to redeem him? Certainly it won’t change what he’s done. Not only to me and Cal, to his father, but to hundreds of other people. “I really don’t know.”
But it gives Cal hope. I see it there, like a tiny light in the distance of his eyes. I sigh, smoothing his hair. He needs another cut with a steadier hand than his own. “I guess if Evangeline can change, maybe anyone can.”
His sudden laugh echoes low in his chest. “Oh, Evangeline is the same as always. She just had more incentive to let you go than to let you stay.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I know who told her to do it.”
“What?” I ask sharply.
With a sigh, Cal gets up and crosses the room. The opposite wall is all cabinetry, and mostly empty. He doesn’t have many possessions beyond his clothes and a few bits of tactical gear. To my surprise, he paces. It sets my teeth on edge.
“The Guard blocked every attempt I made to get you back,” he says, hands moving rapidly as he speaks. “No messages, no support for infiltration. No spies of any kind. I wasn’t going to sit in that freezing base and wait for someone to tell me what to do. So I made contact with someone I trust.”
Realization punches me in the gut. “Evangeline?”
“My colors, no,” he gasps. “But Nanabel, my grandmother—my father’s mother—”
Anabel Lerolan. The old queen. “You call her . . . Nanabel?”
He flushes silver and my heart skips a beat. “Force of habit,” he grumbles. “Anyway, she never came to court while Elara was there, but I thought she might once she died. She knew what Elara was, and she knows me. She would have seen through the queen’s lie. She would have understood Maven’s role in our father’s death.”