He continues speaking, but his voice dulls in my head, the whine of a hornet coming too close, making every nerve stand on edge. I look over my shoulder. My eyes drift through the crowd of courtiers behind us. All of them stand proud and vile in their mourning black. Lord Volo of House Samos and his son, Ptolemus, are splendid in polished, ebony armor with scaled silver sashes from hip to shoulder. At the sight of the latter, I see scarlet, raging red. I fight the urge to lunge and rip the skin from Ptolemus’s face. To stab him through his heart the way he did my brother Shade. The desire shows, and he has the spine to smirk at me. If not for the collar and the silent guards restricting everything I am, I would turn his bones to smoking glass.
Somehow his sister, an enemy of so many months ago, isn’t looking at me. Evangeline, her gown spiked with black crystal, is ever the glittering star of such a violent constellation. I suppose she’ll be queen soon, having suffered her betrothal to Maven long enough. Her gaze is on the king’s back, dark eyes fixed with burning focus on the nape of his neck. A breeze picks up, stirring her glossy curtain of silver hair, blowing it back from her shoulders, but she doesn’t blink. Only after a long moment does she seem to notice me staring. And even then, her eyes barely flick to mine. They are empty of feeling. I am no longer worthy of her attention.
“Mare Barrow is a prisoner of the crown, and she will face the crown and council’s judgment. Her many crimes must be answered for.”
With what? I wonder.
The crowd roars in response, cheering his decree. They are Silvers, but “common,” not of noble descent. While they revel in Maven’s words, his court does not react. In fact, some of them turn gray, angry, stone-faced. None more so than House Merandus, their mourning garb slashed with the dark blue of the dead queen’s wretched colors. While Evangeline did not notice me, they fix on my face with startling intensity. Eyes of burning blue from every direction. I expect to hear their whispers in my head, a dozen voices burrowing like worms through a rotten apple. Instead, there is only silence. Perhaps the Arven officers flanking me are not just jailers, but protectors as well, smothering my ability as well as the abilities of anyone who would use them against me. Maven’s orders, I assume. No one else may hurt me here.
No one but him.
But everything hurts already. It hurts to stand, hurts to move, hurts to think. From the jet crash, from the sounder, from the crushing weight of the silencing guards. And those are only physical wounds. Bruises. Fractures. Pains that will heal if given the time. The same cannot be said of the rest. My brother is dead. I am a prisoner. And I don’t know what really happened to my friends however many days ago when I struck this devil’s bargain. Cal, Kilorn, Cameron, my brothers Bree and Tramy. We left them behind in the clearing, but they were wounded, immobilized, vulnerable. Maven could have sent any number of assassins back to finish what he started. I traded myself for them all, and I don’t even know if it worked.
Maven would tell me if I asked him. I can see it in his face. His eyes dart to mine after every vile sentence, punctuating every lie performed for his adoring subjects. To make sure I’m watching, paying attention, looking at him. Like the child he is.
I will not beg him. Not here. Not like this. I have pride enough for that.
“My mother and father died fighting these animals,” he rails on. “They gave their lives to keep this kingdom whole, to keep you safe.”
Defeated as I am, I can’t help but glare at Maven, meeting his fire with a hiss of my own. We both remember his father’s death. His murder. Queen Elara whispered her way into Cal’s brain, turning the king’s beloved heir into a deadly weapon. Maven and I watched as Cal was forced to become his father’s killer, cutting off the king’s head and any chance Cal had of ruling. I have seen many horrible things since then, and still the memory haunts me.
I don’t remember much of what happened to the queen outside the walls of Corros Prison. The state of her body afterward was testament enough to what unbridled lightning can do to human flesh. I know I killed her without question, without remorse, without regret. My ravaging storm fed by Shade’s sudden death. The last clear image I have of the Corros battle is of him falling, his heart pierced by Ptolemus’s needle of cold, unforgiving steel. Somehow Ptolemus escaped my blind rage, but the queen did not. At least the Colonel and I made sure the world knew what happened to her, displaying her corpse during our broadcast.
I wish Maven had some of her ability, so he could look into my head and see exactly what kind of ending I gave his mother. I want him to feel the pain of loss as terribly as I do.
His eyes are on me as he finishes his memorized speech, one hand outstretched to better display the chain binding me to him. Everything he does is methodical, performed for an image.
“I pledge myself to do the same, to end the Scarlet Guard and the monsters like Mare Barrow, or die in the attempt.”
Die, then, I want to scream.
The roar of the crowd drowns out my thoughts. Hundreds cheer on their king and his tyranny. I cried on the walk across the bridge, in the face of so many blaming me for their loved ones’ deaths. I can still feel the tears drying on my cheeks. Now I want to weep again, not in sadness, but anger. How can they believe this? How can they stomach these lies?
Like a doll, I am turned from the sight. With the last of my strength, I crane my neck over one shoulder, hunting for the cameras, the eyes of the world. See me, I beg. See how he lies. My jaw tightens, my eyes narrow, painting what I pray is a picture of resilience, rebellion, and rage. I am the lightning girl. I am a storm. It feels like a lie. The lightning girl is dead.
But it is the last thing I can do for the cause, and for the people I love still out there. They will not see me stumble in this final moment. No, I will stand. And though I have no idea how, I have to keep fighting, even here in the belly of the beast.
Another tug forces me to spin around to face the court. Cold Silvers stare back, their skin undertoned by blue and black and purple and gray, leached of life, with veins of steel and diamond rather than blood. They focus not on me, but on Maven himself. In them I find my answer. In them I see hunger.
For a split second, I pity the boy king alone on his throne. Then, deep down, I feel the teasing breath of hope.
Oh, Maven. What a mess you’re in.
I can only wonder who will strike first.