I fix my eyes ahead, counting the tables, counting the High Houses. All are here, plus House Calore, represented by Maven alone. He has no cousins or other family that I know of, though I assume they must exist. Like the servants, they’re probably smart enough to avoid his jealous wrath and tremulous grip on the throne.
House Iral seems smaller, dulled despite their vibrant blue-and-red outfits. There are nowhere near as many of them, and I wonder how many Irals were sent to Corros Prison. Or maybe they fled court. Sonya is still here, though, her posture elegant and practiced but strangely tense. She’s traded her officer’s uniform for a sparkling gown and sits beside an older man, resplendent in a collar of rubies and sapphires. Probably the new lord of her house since his predecessor, the Panther, was murdered by a man sitting only a few feet away. I wonder if Sonya told them what I said about her grandmother and Ptolemus. I wonder if they care.
I jolt when Sonya looks up sharply, catching my eye.
Next to me, Jon sighs long and low. He picks up his glass of scarlet wine with one hand and shunts his dinner knife away with the other.
“Mare, could you do me a small favor?” he says calmly.
Even his voice disgusts me. Sneering, I turn to look at him with all the venom I can muster. “Excuse me?”
Something cracks, and pain sears along my cheekbone, cutting skin, burning flesh. I jerk from the sensation, falling sideways, shying away like a spooked animal. My shoulder collides with Jon, and he pitches forward, spilling wine and water over the fine tablecloth. Blood too. There’s a lot of blood. I feel it, warm and wet, but I don’t look down to see the color. My eyes are on Evangeline, standing from the table, one arm outstretched.
A bullet shudders on the air in front of her, held in place. I assume it matches the one that cut my cheek—and could have done much worse.
Her fist clenches and the bullet rockets backward to where it came from, chased on by splinters of cold steel as they explode from her dress. I watch in horror as blue-and-red figures weave through the metallic storm, dodging, dipping, darting in and out of every blow. They even catch pieces of her metal projecticles and hurl them back, beginning the cycle again in a violent, glittering dance.
Evangeline is not the only one to attack. Sentinels pitch forward, surging over the high table, forming a wall before us. Their movements are perfect, made through years of relentless training. But their ranks have gaps. And some throw their masks away, discarding their flamelike robes. They turn on one another.
The High Houses do the same.
I’ve never felt so exposed, so helpless, and that’s saying quite a bit. In front of me, gods duel. My eyes widen, trying to see it all. Trying to make sense of this. I’ve never imagined anything like it. An arena battle in the middle of a ballroom. Jewels instead of armor.
Iral and Haven and Laris in their shocking yellow seem to form one side of whatever this is. They back one another, aid one another. Laris windweavers toss Iral silks from one side of the room to the other with sharp gusts, wielding them like living arrows while the Irals fire pistols and throw knives with deadly precision. The Havens have disappeared entirely, but a few Sentinels in front of us drop, felled by invisible attacks.
And the rest, the rest don’t know what to do. Some—Samos, Merandus, most of the guards and Sentinels—rally to the high table, rushing to defend Maven, who I can’t see. But most fall back, surprised, betrayed, not willing to wade into such a mess and risk their own necks. They defend and do nothing else. They watch to see the direction of the tide.
My heart leaps in my chest. This is my chance. In the chaos, no one will notice me. The manacles have not taken away my thief’s instincts or talents.
I push off the floor, finding my feet, not bothering to wonder about Maven or anyone. I focus only on what’s in front of me. The closest door. I don’t know where it goes, but it will get me away from here, and that’s enough. As I move, I grab a knife off the table and set it to work, trying to pick the locks of my manacles.
Someone flees ahead of me, leaving a trail of scarlet blood. He limps but moves fast, ducking through a door. Jon, I realize. Making his escape. He sees the future. Surely he can see the best way out of here.
I wonder if I’ll be able to keep up.
I get my answer after a grand total of three steps, when a Sentinel seizes me from behind. He pins my arms to my sides, holding tight. I groan like an annoyed child, exasperated beyond frustration, as my hand drops the knife.
“No, no, no,” Samson says as he steps into my path. The Sentinel won’t even let me flinch. “We can’t have this.”
Now I can see what this is. Not a rescue. Not for me. A coup, an assassination attempt. They’ve come for Maven.
Iral, Haven, and Laris cannot win this battle. They’re outnumbered, but they know that. They prepared for it. The Irals are schemers and spies. Their plan is well executed. Already they’re making an escape through the shattered windows. I watch, dumbfounded, as they throw themselves out into the sky, catching gales of wind that fling them out and away. Not all of them make it. Nornus swifts catch a few, as does Prince Daraeus, despite a long knife protruding from his shoulder. I assume the Havens are long gone too, though one or two flicker back into my vision, each one bleeding, dying, assaulted by a Merandus whisper’s onslaught. Daraeus himself puts out one blurring arm and catches someone by the neck. When he squeezes, a Haven blinks into existence.
The Sentinels who turned, all Laris and Iral, don’t make it either. They kneel, angry but unafraid, burning with determination. Without their masks, they don’t look so terrifying.
A gurgling sound draws our attention. The Sentinel turns, allowing me to see the center of what was once the feasting table. A crowd clusters where Maven’s seat was, some on guard, some kneeling. Through their legs, I see him.
Silver blood bubbles from his neck, gushing through the fingers of the nearest Sentinel, who is trying to keep pressure on a bullet wound. Maven’s eyes roll and his mouth moves. He can’t speak. He can’t even scream. A wet, gasping sort of noise is all he can make.
I’m glad the Sentinel holds me still. Or else I might run to him. Something in me wants to run to him. Whether to finish the job or comfort him as he dies, I don’t know. I desire both in equal measure. I want to look into his eyes and see him leave me forever.
But I just can’t move, and he just won’t die.
The Skonos skin healer, my skin healer, skids to his side, sliding on her knees. I think her name is Wren. An apt name. She is small and darting as her namesake. She snaps her fingers. “Take it out; I have him!” she shouts. “Out, now!”
Ptolemus Samos crouches, abandoning his guarding vigil. He twitches his fingers and a bullet pulls free of Maven’s neck, bringing with it a fresh fountain of silver. Maven tries to scream, gargling his own blood.
Brow furrowed, the skin healer works, holding both hands over his wound. She bends as if to put her weight on him. From this angle, I can’t see the skin beneath, but the blood stops gushing. The wound that should’ve killed him heals. Muscle and vein and flesh knit back together, good as new. No scar but the memory.
After a long, gasping moment, Maven hurtles to his feet, and fire explodes from both hands, sending his entourage reeling backward. The table before him flips, blasted back by the strength and rage of his flame. It lands in a resounding heap, spitting puddles of blue-burning alcohol. The rest ignites, fed by Maven’s anger. And, I think, terror.
Only Volo has the spine to approach him in such a state.
“Your Majesty, should we evacuate you to the—”
With wicked eyes, Maven turns. Above him, the lightbulbs in the chandeliers burst, spitting flame instead of sparks. “I have no reason to run.”
All this in a few moments. The ballroom is in shambles, full of shattered glass, upended tables, and a few very mangled bodies.
Prince Alexandret is among them, slumped dead in his seat of honor with a bullet hole between his eyes.
I don’t mourn his loss. His ability was pain.