Bold as I feel, a shadow of dread falls over me too. Is Maven out of his mind? Where is he taking us—all of us? Certainly he would not drive the court into a trench or a minefield or worse. The transports pick up speed, rolling faster and faster over earth packed hard into a roadway. In the distance, artillery cannons and heavy guns stand in hulking wrecks of iron, twisted shadows like black skeletons. Within a mile, we cross the first trench lines, our vehicles snarling over hastily built bridges. More trenches follow. For reserves, support, communication. Weaving like the passages of the Notch, burrowing into frozen mud. I lose count after a dozen. Either the trenches are abandoned or the soldiers are well hidden. I can’t see a single scrap of red uniform.
This could be a trap, for all we know. The scheming of an old king meant to ensnare and defeat a young boy. Part of me wants that to be true. If I can’t kill Maven, maybe the king of the Lakelands will do it for me. House Cygnet, nymphs. Ruling for hundreds of years. That’s as much as I know about the enemy monarch. His kingdom is like ours, divided by blood, ruled by noble Silver houses. And afflicted by the Scarlet Guard, apparently. Like Maven, he must be bent on maintaining power at all costs, through any means. Even collusion with an old enemy.
In the east, the clouds break, and a few beams of sunlight illuminate the harsh land around us. No trees as far as the eye can see. We cross over the frontline trench and I gasp at the sight. Red soldiers crowd together in long lines, six bodies deep, their uniforms colored in varying shades of rust and crimson. They pool like blood in a wound. Hands on ladders, they shiver in the cold. Ready to rush out of their trench and into the deadly kill zone of the Choke should their king command it. I spot Silver officers among them, denoted by their gray-and-black uniforms. Maven is young, but not stupid. If this is a Lakelander trick, he’s ready to fight his way out. I assume the king of the Lakelands has another army waiting, in his own trenches on the other side. More Red soldiers to discard.
As the tires of our transport hit the other side, Clover tightens next to me. She keeps her electric-green eyes forward, trying to stay calm. A sheen of sweat gleams on her forehead, betraying her fear.
The true wasteland of the Choke is pocked with craters from two armies’ worth of artillery fire. Some of the holes must be decades old. Barbed wire tangles in the frozen mud. Up ahead, on the lead transport, a telky and a magnetron work in tandem. They sweep their arms back and forth, wrenching any debris from the path of the convoy. Bits of coiled iron go spinning off in every direction. And, I assume, bones. Reds have been dying here for generations. The dirt is littered with their dust.
In my nightmares, this place stretches on forever, in every direction. But instead of continuing forward into oblivion, the convoy slows a little more than a half mile beyond the frontline trenches. As our transports circle and weave, arranging themselves in a half-moon arc, I almost erupt with nervous laughter. Of all things, in all places—we’re stopping at a pavilion. The contrast is jarring. It’s brand-new, with white columns and silky curtains swaying in the poisoned wind. Constructed for one purpose and one purpose alone. A summit, a meeting, like the one so long ago. When two kings decided to begin a century of war.
A Sentinel wrenches open my transport door, beckoning for us to step down. Clover hesitates a half second and Kitten clears her throat, urging her on. I move between them, escorted down onto the obliterated earth. Rocks and dirt make the ground uneven under my feet. I pray nothing splinters beneath me. A skull, a rib, a femur, or a spine. I don’t need more proof that I’m walking through an endless graveyard.
Clover is not the only one afraid. Even the Sentinels move slowly, on edge, their masked faces sweeping back and forth. For once, they think of their own safety as well as Maven’s. And the rest of the remaining court—Evangeline, Ptolemus, Samson—they idle by their transports. Their eyes dart; their noses wrinkle. They can smell death and danger as well as I can. One wrong move, one hint of a threat, and they’ll bolt. Evangeline has discarded her furs for armor. Steel coats her from neck to wrist and toe. She quickly frees her fingers from her leather gloves, baring her skin to the cold air. Better for a fight. I feel the itch to do the same, not that it will help me at all. The manacles are strong as ever.
The only one who seems unaffected is Maven. The dying winter suits him, making his pale skin stand out in a way that is oddly elegant. Even the shadows around his eyes, dark as always, black and bruise-like, make him tragically beautiful. Today he wears as much regalia as he dares. A boy king, but a king all the same, about to look into the eyes of someone who is supposedly his greatest opponent. The crown on his head seems natural now, refitted to sit low across his brow. It spits bronze and iron flames through his glossy black hair. Even in the gray light of the Choke, his medals and badges gleam, silver and ruby and onyx. A cape, patterned with brocade red as flame, completes the ensemble and the image of a fiery king. But the Choke consumes us all. Dirt speckles his polished black boots as he walks forward, fighting the deep instinct to fear this place. Impatient, he casts one look over his shoulder, eyeing the dozens he dragged here. His fire-blue eyes are warning enough. We must go with him. I am not afraid of death, and so I am the first to follow him into what could be a grave.
The king of the Lakelands is already waiting.