At least the transport has windows. I watch, not wanting to blink, as we speed through an achingly familiar forest. When we reach the river, and the widely paved road running next to it, a longing burns through my chest.
That is the Capital River. My river. We’re driving north, on the Royal Road. They could throw me from the transport right now, leave me in the dust with nothing, and I could find my way home. Tears spring to my eyes at the thought. What I would do, to myself or anyone else, for the chance to go back home?
But no one is there. No one I care about. They’re gone, protected, far away. Home is no longer the place we’re from. Home is safe with them. I hope.
I jump as other transports join our convoy. Military-grade, their bodies marked by the black sword of the army. I count almost a dozen in sight, and more stretching into the distance behind us. Many have Silver soldiers visible, either leaning off the side or perched on top in special seats and harnesses. All of them are on alert, ready to act. The Arvens don’t look surprised by the new additions. They knew they were coming.
The Royal Road winds through towns on the riverbank. Red towns. We’re too far south for us to pass through the Stilts yet, but that doesn’t dampen my excitement. Brick mills come into view first, jutting out into the shallows of the river. We speed right for them, entering the outskirts of a thriving mill town. As much as I want to see more, I hope we don’t stop. I hope Maven passes right through this place without disruption.
I mostly get my wish. The convoy slows but never stops, rolling through the heart of the town in all its glittering menace. Crowds line the street, waving us on. They cheer for the king, shouting his name, straining to see and be seen. Red merchants to millworkers, the old and young, hundreds of them pressing forward to get a better look. I expect to see Security officers pushing them on, forcing such a raucous welcome. I lean back against my seat, willing myself not to be seen. They’re already forced to watch me sit by Maven’s side. I don’t want to add more fuel to that manipulative fire. To my relief, no one puts me on display. I merely sit and stare at my hands in my lap, hoping for the town to pass by as quickly as possible. In the palace, seeing what I see of Maven, knowing what I do about him, it’s easy to forget he has most of the country in his pocket. His grand efforts to turn the tide of opinion against the Scarlet Guard and his enemies seem to be working. These people believe what he says, or perhaps have no opportunity to fight. I don’t know which one is worse.
When the town recedes behind us, the cheers still echo in my head. All this for Maven, for the next step in whatever plan he has put in motion.
We must be beyond New Town; that much is clear. There’s no pollution in sight. There aren’t any estates either. I remember passing River Row on my first journey south, back when I was pretending to be Mareena. We sailed downriver from the Hall of the Sun all the way to Archeon, passing villages, towns, and the luxurious stretch of bank where many High Houses kept their family mansions. I try to remember the maps Julian used to show me. Instead, I only give myself a headache.
The sun dips lower as the convoy turns off after the third cheering town, moving in practiced formation onto a connecting roadway. Heading west. I try to swallow the dip of sadness rising inside. North pulls at me, beckoning even though I cannot follow. The places I know stretch farther and farther away.
I try to keep the compass in my head. West is the Iron Road. The way to the Westlakes, the Lakelands, the Choke. West is war and ruin.
Egg and Trio don’t let me move much, so I have to crane my neck to see. I bite my lip as we pass through a set of gates, trying to spot a sign or a symbol. There isn’t anything, just bars of wrought iron beneath shockingly green vines of flowering ivy. Well out of season.
The estate is palatial, at the far end of a road lined by immaculate hedges. We spit out into a wide square of stone, with the estate house occupying one side. Our convoy circles in front of it, stopping with the transports splayed out in an arced row. No crowds here, but guards are already waiting outside. The Arvens move quickly and I’m ushered from the transport.
I glare up at charming red brick and white trim, rows of polished windows hung with blooming flower boxes, fluted columns, florid balconies, and the largest tree I’ve ever seen bursting from the middle of the mansion. Its branches arc over the pointed roof, growing in conjunction with the structure. Not a twig or leaf out place, perfectly sculpted like a piece of living art. Magnolia, I think, judging by the white flowers and the perfumed smell. For a moment, I forget it’s winter.
“Welcome, Your Majesty.”
The voice isn’t one I recognize.
Another girl, my age but tall, lean, pale as the snow that should be here, steps down from one of the many transports that joined ours. Her attention is on Maven, now clambering out of his own transport, and she glides by me to curtsy in front of him. I know her at a glance.
Heron Welle. She competed in Queenstrial long ago, drawing mighty trees out of earth while her house cheered her on. Like so many, she hoped to become a royal bride, chosen to marry Cal. Now she stands at Maven’s command, eyes downcast, waiting for his order. She pulls her green-and-gold coat tighter around herself, a defense against the cold and Maven’s stare.
Hers is one of the few houses I knew before I was forced into the Silver world. Her father governs the region I was born in. I used to watch his ship pass by on the river, and wave at its green flags with other stupid children.
Maven takes his time, needlessly donning his gloves for the short walk between his transport and the mansion. As he moves, the simple crown nestled in his black curls captures the waning sunlight, winking red and gold.
“Charming place, Heron,” he says, making idle small talk. It sounds sinister coming from him. A threat.