For once, I am not the center of attention. It is my only respite, not to mention an advantage. No one cares about the lightning girl without her lightning. I do what I can, which is little, but not inconsequential. I listen.
Evangeline is restless despite an iron-faced facade. Her fingers drum the arms of her seat, still only when Elane is near, whispering or touching her. But then she does not dare to relax. She remains on an edge as sharp as her knives. It’s not hard to guess why. Even for a prisoner, I’ve heard very little talk of a royal wedding. And though she is certainly betrothed to the king, she is still not a queen. It scares her. I see it in her face, in her manner, in her constant parade of glittering outfits, each one more complicated and regal than the last. She wears a crown in all but name, yet the name is what she wants more than anything. Her father wants it too. Volo haunts her side, resplendent in black velvet and silver brocade. Unlike his daughter, he doesn’t wear any metal that I can see. Not a chain or even a ring. He doesn’t need to wear weaponry to seem dangerous. With his quiet manner and dark robes, he looks more like an executioner than a noble. I don’t know how Maven can stand his presence, or the steady, focused hunger in his eyes. He reminds me of Elara. Always watching the throne, always waiting for a chance to take it.
Maven notices, and does not care. He gives Volo the respect he requires, but little more. And he leaves Evangeline to Elane’s dazzling company, obviously glad that his future wife has no interest in him. His focus is decidedly elsewhere. Not on me, strangely, but on his cousin Samson. I also have a hard time ignoring the whisper who tortured the deepest parts of me. I am constantly aware of his presence, trying to feel out his whispers if I can, though I hardly have the strength to resist them. Maven doesn’t have to worry about that, not with his chair of Silent Stone. It keeps him safe. It keeps him empty.
When I was first trained to be a princess, a laughable thing in itself, I was engaged to the second prince, and I attended very few meetings of court. Balls, yes, feasts many, but nothing like this until my confinement. Now I’ve almost lost count of how many times I’ve been forced to sit like Maven’s well-trained pet, listening to petitioners, politicians, and newbloods pledging allegiance.
Today looks to be more of the same. The governor of the Rift region, a lord of House Laris, finishes a well-rehearsed plea for Treasury funds to repair Samos-owned mines. Another one of Volo’s puppets, his strings clearly visible. Maven defers him easily, with a wave and a promise to review his proposal. Though Maven is a man of his word with me, he is not at court. The governor’s shoulders slump in dejection, knowing it will never be read.
My back already hurts from the stiff chair, not to mention the rigid posture I have to maintain in my latest court ensemble. Crystal and lace. Red, of course, as always. Maven loves me in red. He says it makes me look alive, even as life is leached from me with every passing day.
A full court is not required for the daily hearings, and today the throne room is half empty. The dais is still crowded, though. Those chosen to accompany the king, flanking his left and right, take great pride in their position, not to mention the opportunity to be featured in yet another national broadcast. When the cameras roll, I realize that more newbloods must be coming. I sigh, resigning myself to another day of guilt and shame.
My gut twists when the tall doors open. I lower my eyes, not wanting to remember their faces. Most will follow Morritan’s damning example and join Maven’s war in an attempt to understand their abilities.
Next to me, Jon twitches in his usual way. I focus on his fingers, long and thin, drawing lines against his pant leg. Sweeping back and forth, like a person riffling through pages of a book. He probably is, reading the tentative threads of the future as they form and change. I wonder what he sees. Not that I would ever ask. I will never forgive him for his betrayal. At least he doesn’t try to talk to me, not since I passed him in the council chambers.
“Welcome all,” Maven tells the newbloods. His voice is practiced and steady, carrying through the throne room. “Not to worry. You’re safe now. I promise you all, the Scarlet Guard will never threaten you here.”
Too bad.
I keep my head bowed, hiding my face from the cameras. The rush of blood roars in my ears, hammering in time with my heart. I feel nauseous; I feel sick. Run! I scream in my head, even though no newblood could escape the throne room now. I look anywhere but at Maven and the newbloods, anywhere but at the invisible cage drawing in around them. My eyes land on Evangeline, only to find her staring back at me. She isn’t smirking for once. Her face is blank, empty. She has much more practice at this than I do.
My nails are ragged, cuticles picked raw during long nights of worry and longer days of this painless torture. The Skonos healer who makes me look healthy always forgets to check my hands. I hope anyone watching the broadcasts does not.
Next to me, the king keeps at this horrid display. “Well?”
Four newbloods present themselves, each one more nervous than the last. Their abilities are often met with astonished gasps or harried whispers. It feels like a grim mirror to Queenstrial. Instead of performing their abilities for a bridal crown, the newbloods are performing for their lives, to earn what they think is sanctuary at Maven’s side. I try not to watch, but find my eyes straying out of pity and fear.