Windows on every side of the tower room open on the land, where the air still smolders with ash and the western fields are choked in mud, flooded and swamped by the extraseasonal catastrophe. Even this high up, everything smells like blood. I scrubbed my hands for what seemed like hours, washing every inch, and still I can’t get rid of the scent. It clings like a ghost, harder to forget than the faces of the people I killed on the field. The metallic tang infects everything.
Despite the commanding view, all eyes focus on the more commanding person leading our family. Father has no black robes, just his chromium armor shimmering like a mirror melded to his trim form. A warrior king in every inch. Mother does not disappoint either. Her crown of green stones matches the emerald boa constrictor draped around her neck and shoulders like a shawl. It slithers slowly, scales reflecting the afternoon light. Ptolemus looks similar to Father, though the armor painted to his broad chest, narrow waist, and lean legs is black as oil. Mine is a mix of both, striped in skintight layers of chromium and black steel. It isn’t the armor I wore on the field, but the armor I need now. Terrible, threatening, showing every ounce of Samos pride and power.
Four chairs like thrones are set against the windows, and we sit as one, presenting a united front. No matter how much I want to scream.
I feel like a traitor to myself, having let days, weeks pass without opposition. Without so much as a whisper of how much Father’s plan terrifies me. I don’t want to be queen of Norta. I don’t want to belong to anyone. But what I want doesn’t matter. Nothing will threaten my father’s machinations. King Volo is not one to be denied. Not by his own daughter, his flesh and blood. His possession.
An all-too-familiar ache rises in my chest as I settle onto my throne. I do my best to keep composed, quiet, and dutiful. Loyal to my blood. It’s all I know.
I haven’t spoken to my father in weeks. I can only nod to his commands. Words are beyond my ability. If I open my mouth, I fear my temper will get the best of me. It was Tolly’s idea to stay quiet. Give it time, Eve. Give it time. But time for what, I have no idea. Father doesn’t change his mind. And Queen Anabel is hell-bent on pushing her grandson back to the throne. My brother is just as disappointed as I am. Everything we did—marrying him to Elane, betraying Maven, supporting Father’s kingly ambitions—was so we could stay together. All for nothing. He’ll rule in the Rift, married to the girl I love, while I’m shipped off like a crate of ammunition, once more a gift to a king.
I’m grateful for the distraction when Mare Barrow decides to grace the council with her presence, Prince Tiberias trailing at her heels. I forgot what a tragic puppy he became in her presence, all wide eyes begging for attention. His keen soldier sense trains on her instead of the task at hand. Both of them are still vibrating with adrenaline from the siege, and no wonder. It was a brutal thing. Barrow still has blood on her uniform.
Both trek down the central aisle splitting the council. If they feel the weight of their action, they don’t show it. Most conversation reduces to a murmur or stops altogether to watch the pair, waiting to see which side of the room they choose.
Mare is quick, stalking past the front row of green uniforms to lean against the far wall. Out of the spotlight.
The prince, the rightful king of Norta, doesn’t follow. He approaches his grandmother instead, one hand outstretched to embrace her. Anabel is much smaller than him, reduced to an old woman in his presence. But her arms encircle him easily. They have the same eyes, burning like heated bronze. She grins up at him.
Tiberias lingers in her embrace, just for a moment, holding on to the last piece of his family. The seat beside his grandmother is empty, but he doesn’t take it. He elects to join Mare at the wall. He crosses his arms over his broad chest, fixing Father with a heated stare. I wonder if he knows what she has planned for the two of us.
No one takes the seat he left behind. No one dares take the place of the rightful heir to Norta. My beloved betrothed echoes in my head. The words taunt me worse than my mother’s snakes.
Suddenly, with a flick of his hand, Father drags Salin Iral by his belt buckle, pulling him up from his seat, over his table, and across the oak floor. No one protests, or makes a sound.
“You’re supposed to be hunters.”
Father’s voice rumbles low in his throat.
Iral didn’t bother to wash off after the battle, evidenced by the sweat matting his black hair. Or maybe he’s just petrified. I wouldn’t blame him. “Your Majesty—”
“You ensured Maven would not escape. I believe your exact words, my lord, were ‘no snake can escape a silk fist.’” Father doesn’t condescend to look at this failure of a lord, an embarrassment to his house and his name. Mother watches enough for both of them, seeing with her own eyes as well as the eyes of the green snake. It notices me staring and flicks its forked pink tongue in my direction.
Others watch Salin’s humiliation. The Reds look dirtier than Salin, some of them still caked in mud and blue with cold. At least they aren’t drunk. Lord General Laris sways in his chair, sipping conspicuously from a flask larger than anything one should have in polite company. Not that Father or Mother or anyone else will begrudge him the liquor. Laris and his house did their job beautifully, bringing airjets to the cause while dissipating that infernal storm threatening to snow Corvium under. They proved their worth.
As did the newbloods. Silly as their chosen name sounds, they held off the attack for hours. Without their blood and sacrifice, Corvium would be back in Maven’s hands. Instead, he failed a second time. He has been defeated twice. Once by rabble, and now at the hands of a proper army and a proper king. My gut twists. Even though we won, the victory feels like defeat to me.
Mare glowers at the exchange, her entire body tensing like a twisting wire. Her eyes tick between Salin and my father, before straying to Tolly. I feel a tremor of fear for my brother, even though she promised not to kill him. In Caesar’s Square she unleashed a wrath like I’ve never seen. And on the Corvium battlefield she held her own, even surrounded by an army of Silvers. Her lightning is far deadlier than I remember. If she chose to murder Tolly right now, I doubt anyone could stop her. Punish her, of course, but not stop her.
I have a feeling she won’t be terribly pleased by Anabel’s plan. Any Silver woman in love with a king would be content to be a consort, bound though not married—but I don’t believe Reds think that way. They have no idea how important the house bonds are, or how deeply vital heirs of strong blood have always been. They think love matters when wedding vows are spoken. I suppose that is a small blessing in their lives. Without power, without strength, they have nothing to protect and no legacy to uphold. Their lives are inconsequential, but still, their lives are their own.
As I thought mine was, for a few brief, foolish weeks.
On the battlefield, I told Mare Barrow not to make a habit of letting me save her. Ironic. Now I hope she saves me from a queen’s gilded prison, and a king’s bridal cage. I hope her storm destroys the alliance before it even takes root.
“. . . prepares for escape as well as attack. Swifts were in place, transports, airjets. We never even saw Maven.” Salin keeps up his protest, hands raised above his head. Father lets him. Father always gives a person enough rope to hang themselves. “The Lakelander king was there. He commanded his troops himself.”
Father’s eyes flash and darken, the only indication of his sudden discomfort. “And?”
“And now he lies in a grave with them.” Salin glances up at his steel king, a child searching for approval. He trembles down to his fingertips. I think of Iris left behind in Archeon, a new queen on a poisoned throne. And now without her father, cut off from the only family who came south at her side. She was formidable, to say the least, but this will weaken her immensely. If she weren’t my enemy, I might feel pity.
Slowly, Father rises from his throne. He looks thoughtful. “Who killed the king of the Lakelands?”
The noose tightens.