Naturally, they interrogate me first. I should be used to it by now.
Exhausted, emotionally spent, I slump to the cold stone floor when Samson lets me go. My breathing comes hard, like I’ve just run a race. I will my heartbeat to normalize, to stop panting, to hold on to some shred of dignity and sense. I cringe as the Arvens lock my manacles back into place; then they pass the key away. The manacles are a relief and a burden both. A shield and a cage.
We’ve retreated to the grand council chambers this time, the circular room where I saw Walsh die to protect the Scarlet Guard. More room here, more space to try the dozen captured assassins. The Sentinels have learned their lesson, and they keep firm grips on the prisoners, not allowing any movement. Maven leers down from his council seat, flanked on either side by Volo and Daraeus. The latter fumes, torn between livid rage and sorrow. His fellow prince is dead, killed in what I now know was an assassination attempt on Maven. An attempt that, sadly, failed.
“She knew nothing of this. Neither the house rebellion nor Jon’s betrayal,” Samson tells the room. The terrible chamber seems small, with most of the seats empty and the doors firmly locked. Only Maven’s closest advisers remain, looking on, gears turning in their heads.
In his seat, Maven sneers. Almost being murdered doesn’t seem to rattle him. “No, this was not the Scarlet Guard’s doing. They don’t work like this.”
“You don’t know that,” Daraeus snaps, forgetting all his manners and smiles. “You don’t know anything about them, no matter what you might say. If the Scarlet Guard has allied with—”
“Corrupted,” Evangeline snaps from her place behind Maven’s left shoulder. She doesn’t have a council seat or a title of her own and has to stand, despite the many empty chairs. “Gods do not ally with insects, but they can be infected by them.”
“Pretty words from a pretty girl,” Daraeus says, dismissing her outright. She fumes. “What of the rest?”
At Maven’s gesture, the next interrogation begins in earnest. A Haven shadow, grasped tightly by Trio himself to keep the woman from fleeing. Without her ability, she seems dim, an echo of her beautiful house. Her red hair is darker, duller, without its usual scarlet gleam. When Samson puts a hand to her temple, she shrieks.
“Her thoughts are of her sister,” Samson says without any feeling. Except maybe boredom. “Elane.”
I saw her only hours ago, gliding around Evangeline’s salon. She gave no indication that she knew of an impending assassination. But no good schemer would.
Maven knows it too. He glares at Evangeline, seething. “I’m told Lady Elane escaped with the majority of her house, fleeing the capital,” he says. “Do you have any idea where they might have gone, my dearest?”
She keeps her eyes forward, walking a quickly thinning line. Even with her father and brother so close, I don’t think anyone could save her from Maven’s wrath if he felt inclined to unleash it. “No, why would I?” she says airily, examining her clawlike nails.
“Because she was your brother’s betrothed and your whore,” the king replies, matter-of-fact.
If she’s ashamed or even apologetic, Evangeline does not show it. “Oh, that.” She even scoffs, taking the accusation in stride. “How could she learn much of anything from me? You conspire so well to keep me from councils and politics. If anything, she did you a favor in keeping me pleasantly occupied.”
Their bickering reminds me of another king and another queen: Maven’s parents, fighting after the Scarlet Guard attacked a party at the Hall of the Sun. Each ripping at the other, leaving deep wounds to be exploited later.
“Then submit to interrogation, Evangeline, and we’ll see,” he fires back, pointing with one jeweled hand.
“No daughter of mine will ever do such a thing,” Volo rumbles, though it hardly seems a threat. Merely a fact. “She had no part in this, and she defended you with her own life. Without Evangeline’s and my son’s quick action—well, even to say it is treason.” The old patriarch pulls a frown, wrinkling his white skin, as if the thought is so disgusting. As if he wouldn’t celebrate if Maven died. “Long live the king.”
In the center of the floor, the Haven woman snarls, trying to shove off Trio. He holds firm, keeping her on her knees. “Yes, long live the king!” she says, glaring at us. “Tiberias the Seventh! Long live the king!”
Cal.
Maven stands, slamming his fists against the arms of his seat. I expect the room to burn, but no fire springs to life. It can’t. Not while he sits on Silent Stone. His eyes are the only thing aflame. And then, slowly, with a manic grin, he begins to laugh.
“All this . . . for him?” he says, smirking. “My brother murdered the king, our father, helped murder my mother, and now he tries to murder me. Samson, if you would continue”—he inclines his head in his cousin’s direction—“I have no mercy or remorse for traitors. Especially stupid ones.”
The rest turn to watch the interrogation continue, to listen to the Haven woman as she spouts secrets of her faction, their goals, their plans. To replace Maven with his brother. To make Cal king as he was born to be. To return things to the way they were.
Through it all, I stare at the boy on the throne. He maintains his mask. Jaw clenched, lips pressed into a thin, unforgiving line. Still fingers, straight back. But his gaze wavers. Something in his eyes has gone far away. And at his collar, the slightest gray flush rises, painting his neck and the tips of his ears.
He’s terrified.
For a second, it makes me happy. Then I remember—monsters are most dangerous when they’re afraid.
ELEVEN
Cameron
Even though it would have turned me into an icicle, I wanted to stay behind in Trial. Not out of fear, but to prove a point. I’m not some weapon to be used, not like Barrow allowed herself to be. No one gets to tell me where to go or what to do. I’m done with that. I’ve lived my entire life that way. And every instinct in me tells me to stay away from the Guard’s operation in Corvium, a fortress city that swallows every soldier and spits out their bones.
Except that my brother, Morrey, is only a few miles away now, still firmly stuck in a trench. Even with my ability, I’ll need help to get to him. And if I want anything from this stupid Guard, I’m going to have to start giving them something in return. Farley made that clear enough.
I like her, more now after she apologized for the “utilizing” comment. She says what she means. She doesn’t mope, though she has every right. Not like Cal, who broods around every corner, refusing to help and then relenting when he feels like it. The fallen prince is exhausting. I don’t know how Mare could stand him or his inability to choose a damned side—especially when there’s only one side he can possibly pick. Even now he blusters, wavering between wanting to protect the Silvers of Corvium and wanting to tear the city apart.
“You need to control the walls,” he mutters, standing before Farley and the Colonel. We’re operating from our headquarters in Rocasta, a less-defended supply city a few miles away from our objective. “If you control the walls, you can turn the city inside out—or take the walls down entirely. Render Corvium useless. To everyone.”
I sit idly by in the sparse room, listening to the back-and-forth from my place next to Ada. Farley’s idea. We’re two of the more visible newbloods, well known to both kinds of Reds. Including us in these meeting sends a strong message to the rest of the unit. Ada watches with wide eyes, memorizing every word and gesture. Usually Nanny would sit with us, but Nanny is gone. She was a small woman, but she leaves a very large hole. And I know whose fault that is.