The control center turns to watch for the Colonel, eager for him to start whatever we’re here to see. So we react together, stifling gasps or surprised expressions when another Silver follows the Colonel into the already-crowded room.
Every time I see him, I want to hate him. He was the reason Mare forced me to join her, forced me to return to my prison, forced me to kill, forced others to die so this insignificant dry twig of a man could live. But those choices weren’t his. He was a prisoner as much as I was, doomed to the cells of Corros and the slow, crushing death of Silent Stone. It’s not his fault the lightning girl loves him, and he must bear the curse that love brings with it.
Julian Jacos does not shrink against the back wall with the newbloods, and he doesn’t take the spot next to his nephew Cal either. Instead, he keeps close to the Colonel, allowing the crowd to part so that he might see this broadcast as best he can. I focus on his shoulders as he settles into place. His posture reeks of Silver decadence. Straight-backed, perfect. Even in the hand-me-down uniform, faded by use, with gray in his hair and the pallid, cold look we all take on underground, there’s no denying what he is. Others share my sentiments. The soldiers around him touch their holstered guns, keeping one eye on the Silver man. The rumors are more pointed where is he concerned. He’s Cal’s uncle, a dead queen’s brother, Mare’s old tutor. Woven into our ranks like a thread of steel among wool. Embedded, but dangerous and easily pulled free.
They say he can control a man with his voice and his eyes. Like the queen could. Like many still can.
One more person I will never, ever turn my back on. It’s a long list.
“Let’s see it,” the Colonel barks, cutting off the low murmur born of Julian’s presence. The screens respond in kind, jittering into motion.
No one speaks, and the sight of King Maven’s face cuts through us all.
He beckons from that hulking throne, deep in the heart of the Silver court, eyes wide and inviting. I know he’s a snake, so I can ignore his well-chosen disguise. But I imagine most of the country cannot see through the mask of a young boy called to greatness, dutifully doing what he can for a kingdom on the edge of chaos. He’s good-looking. Not broad like Cal, but finely shaped, a sculpture of sweeping cheekbones and glossy black hair. Beautiful, not handsome. I hear someone scratching notes, probably recording everything on-screen. Allowing the rest of us to watch unfettered, focused only on what horror Maven is about to perform.
He leans forward, one hand extended, as he stands to call someone to him.
“Come forward, Mare.”
The cameras turn, revolving smoothly to show Mare standing before the king. I expected rags, but instead she wears finery I could never dream of. Every inch of her is covered in bloodred gemstones and embroidered silk. It all shimmers as she walks down a grand aisle parting the crowd of Silvers assembled for whatever this is. No more collar, no more leash. Again I see through the mask. Again I hope the kingdom does too—but how can they? They don’t know her like we do. They don’t see the shadows in her dark eyes, flickering with every step. Her hollow cheeks. The purse of her lips. The twitching fingers. A tightening jaw. And that’s only what I notice. Who knows what Cal or Kilorn or her brothers can see in the lightning girl?
The dress covers her from just below her neck to wrist and ankle. Probably to hide bruises, scars, and the brand she bears from the king. It’s not a dress at all, but a costume.
I’m not the only one to suck in a breath of fear when she reaches the king. He takes her hand in his, and she hesitates to close her fingers. Only a fraction of a second, but enough to cement what we already know. This is not her choice. Or if it is, the alternative was much, much worse.
A current of heat ripples on the air. Kilorn does his best to sidle away from Cal without drawing attention, bumping into me. I make room as best I can. No one wants to be too close to the fire prince if things go south.
Maven does not have to gesture. Mare knows him and his schemes well enough to understand what he wants from her. The camera image pulls back as she moves to the right of his throne. What we see now is a display of ultimate strength. Evangeline Samos, the king’s betrothed, a future queen in power and appearance, on one side, with the lightning girl on the other. Silver and Red.
Other nobles, the greatest of the High Houses, stand in assembly on the dais. Names and faces I don’t know, but I’m sure many here do. Generals, diplomats, warriors, advisers. Every one of them dedicated to our complete annihilation.
The king takes his throne again, slowly, eyes locked deep into the camera, and so into us.
“Before I say anything else, before I begin this speech”—he gestures, confident and almost charming—“I want to thank the fighting men and women, Silver and Red, who serve to protect our borders, who are currently defending us from enemies outside this nation, and the enemies within. To the soldiers of Corvium, the loyal warriors resisting the constant and deplorable terrorist attacks of the Scarlet Guard, I salute you, and I am with you.”
“Liar,” someone snarls in the room, but they’re quickly hushed.
On-screen, Mare looks like she shares the sentiment. She does her best not to twitch or let her face betray her emotions. It works. Almost. A flush creeps up her neck, partially hidden by her high collar. Not high enough. Maven would have to put a bag over her head to hide her feelings.