He stops next to his grandmother, tall at her side. “It can’t be tolerated anymore. It simply can’t be. Difference is not division.”
Poor, naive Calore. His grandmother nods in approval, but I remember her in my own house, and what she said. She wants her grandson on the throne, and she wants the old world.
“Premier,” Tiberias says, gesturing to the Montfort leader.
With a clearing of his throat, the man stands. Taller than most, but weedy. He has the look of a pale fish with an equally empty expression. “King Volo, we thank you for your aid in the defense of Corvium. And here, now, before the eyes of our leadership and your own, I would like to know your sentiments on what Prince Tiberias has just said.”
“If you have a question, Premier, ask it,” Father rumbles.
The man keeps his face still, unreadable. I get the sense he hides as many secrets and ambitions as the rest of us. Would that I could put the screws to him. “Red and Silver, Your Majesty. Which color rises in this rebellion?”
A muscle quivers in one pale cheek as my father exhales. He runs a hand through his pointed beard. “Both, Premier. This is a war for us both. On this you have my word, sworn on the heads of my children.”
Thank you so much, Father. The Red commander would collect that price with a smile if given the opportunity.
“Prince Tiberias speaks truthfully,” Father continues, lying though his teeth. “Our world has changed. We must change with it. Common enemies make strange allies, but we are allies all the same.”
As with Salin, I sense a noose tightening. It loops around my neck, threatening to hang me above the abyss. Is this what the rest of my life will feel like? I want to be strong. This is what I trained and suffered for. This is what I thought I wanted. But freedom was too sweet. One gasp of it and I can’t let go. I’m sorry, Elane. I’m so sorry.
“Do you have other questions about the terms, Premier Davidson?” Father pushes on. “Or shall we continue planning the overthrow of a tyrant?”
“And what terms would those be?” Mare’s voice sounds different, and no wonder. I knew her last as a prisoner, smothered almost beyond recognition. Her sparks have returned with a vengeance. She glances between Father and her premier, looking to them for answers.
Father is almost gleeful as he explains, and I hold my breath. Save me, Mare Barrow. Loose the storm I know you have. Bewitch the prince as you always do.
“The Kingdom of the Rift will stand in sovereignty after Maven is removed. The kings of steel will reign for generations. With allowances made for my Red citizens, of course. I have no intention of creating a slave state like the one Norta is.”
Mare looks far from convinced, but holds her tongue.
“Of course, Norta will need a king of her own.”
Her eyes widen. Horror bleeds through her, and she whips her head to Cal, looking for answers. He seems just as taken aback as she fumes. The lightning girl is easier to read than the pages of a children’s book.
Anabel rises from her seat to stand proudly. Her lined face beams as she turns to Cal, putting a hand to his cheek. He’s too shocked to react to her touch. “My grandson is the rightful king of Norta, and the throne belongs to him.”
“Premier . . . ,” Mare whispers, now looking at the Montfort leader. She is almost begging. A flicker of sadness pierces his mask.
“Montfort pledges to back the installment of Ca—” He stops himself. The man looks anywhere but at Mare Barrow. “King Tiberias.”
A current of heat ripples on the air. The prince is angry, violently so. And the worst is yet to come, for all of us. If I’m lucky, he’ll burn the tower down.
“We will cement the alliance between the Rift and the rightful king in the usual way,” Mother says, twisting the knife. She enjoys this. It takes everything to keep my tears inside, where no one else can see.
The implication of her words is not lost on anyone. Cal gives a strangled sort of yelp, a gasp very unbecoming of a prince, let alone a king.
“Even after all this, Queenstrial still brought forth a royal bride.” Mother runs a hand over mine, her fingers crossing where my wedding ring will be.
Suddenly the high chamber feels stifling, and the smell of blood crashes through my senses. It’s all I can think about, and I lean into the distraction, letting the sharp iron bite overwhelm me. My jaw clenches, teeth tight against all the things I want to say. They rattle in my throat, begging to be loose. I don’t want this anymore. Let me go home. Each word is a betrayal to my house, my family, my blood. My teeth grate against one another, bone on bone. A locked cage for my heart.
I feel trapped inside myself.
Make him choose, Mare. Make him turn me aside.
She breathes heavily, her chest rising and falling at rapid speed. Like me, she has too many words she wants to scream. I hope she sees how much I want to refuse.
“No one thought to consult me,” the prince hisses, pushing his grandmother away. His eyes burn. He has perfected the art of glaring at a dozen people at once. “You mean to make me a king—without my consent?”
Anabel has no fear of flame and seizes his face again. “We’re not making you anything. We’re simply helping you be what you are. Your father died for your crown, and you want to throw it away? For who? Abandon your country? For what?”
He has no answer. Say no. Say no. Say no.
But already I see the tug. The lure. Power seduces all, and it makes us blind. Cal is not immune to it. If anything, he is particularly vulnerable. All his life he watched a throne, preparing for a day it would be his. I know firsthand that’s not a habit a person can easily break. And I know firsthand that few things taste sweeter than a crown. I think of Elane again. Does he think of Mare?
“I need some air,” he whispers.
Of course, Mare follows him out, sparks trembling in her wake.
On instinct, I almost call for another cup of wine. But I refrain. Mare isn’t here to stop the commander if she snaps again, and more alcohol will just make me sicker than I already am.
“Long live Tiberias the Seventh,” Anabel says.
The chamber echoes the sentiment. I only mouth the words. I feel poisoned.
EPILOGUE
He scrapes his bracelets together angrily, letting his wrists spit sparks. None of them catch or burst into flame. Spark after spark, each one cold and weak compared to mine. Useless. Futile. I follow him down a spiraling stair to a balcony. If it has a lovely view, I don’t know. I don’t have the capacity to see much farther than Cal. Everything inside me quivers.
Hope and fear battle through me in equal measure. I see it in Cal too, flashing behind his eyes. A storm rages in the bronze, two kinds of fire.
“You promised,” I whisper, trying to tear him apart without moving a muscle.
Cal paces wildly before putting his back to the rails of the balcony. His mouth flops open and closed, searching for something to say. For any explanation. He’s not Maven. He’s not a liar, I have to remind myself. He doesn’t want to do this to you. But will that stop him?
“I didn’t think—what logical person could want me to be king after what I’ve done? Tell me if you truly thought anyone would let me near a throne,” he says. “I’ve killed Silvers, Mare, my own people.” He buries his face in his blazing hands, scrubbing them over his features. Like he wants to pull himself inside out.
“You killed Reds too. I thought you said there was no difference.”
“Difference not division.”
I snarl. “You make a wonderful speech about equality but let that Samos bastard sit there and claim a kingdom just like the one we want to end. Don’t lie and say you didn’t know about his terms, his new crown. . . .” My voice trails away before I can speak the rest aloud. And make it real.
“You know I had no idea.”
“Not one?” I raise an eyebrow. “Not a whisper from your grandmother. Not even a dream of this?”