Silvers persecuted by Reds. I want to laugh at the thought. How stupid. How impossible. I’ve lived every day of my life knowing they are gods and we are insects. I cannot even begin to fathom a world where the reverse was true.
These are Julian’s books. He saw enough merit here to study them. Still, I feel too unsettled to continue, and I keep my reading to later years. The New Era, the Calore kings. Names and places I know in a civilization I understand.
One day my delivered clothes are plainer than ever. Comfortable, made for utility rather than style. My first indication of something amiss. I almost look like a Security officer, with stretchy pants, a black jacket sparsely embellished with pinprick whorls of ruby beading, and shockingly sensible boots. Polished but worn leather, no heel, just the right amount of pinch, and enough room for my ankle manacles. The ones at the wrist are hidden as usual, covered by gloves. Fur-lined. For the cold. My heart leaps. I’ve never been so excited about gloves.
“Am I going outside?” I ask Kitten breathlessly, forgetting how good she is at ignoring me. She doesn’t disappoint, staring straight ahead as she leads me from my luxurious cell. Clover is always easier to read. The twitch of her lips and narrowed green eyes are affirmation enough. Not to mention that they, too, are both wearing thick coats as well as gloves, albeit the rubber ones to protect their hands from electricity I no longer possess.
Outside. I haven’t tasted much more than a breeze from an open window since that day on the steps of the palace. I thought Maven was going to take my head off, so obviously my mind was elsewhere. Now I wish I could remember the cold air of November, the sharp wind bringing winter with it. In my haste, I almost outpace the Arvens. They’re quick to yank me in line and make me match their steps. It’s a maddening descent, down stairs and corridors I know by heart.
Familiar pressure ripples against me, and I glance over my shoulder. Egg and Trio join our ranks, bringing up the rear of my Arven guard. They move in unison with Kitten and Clover, steps matching, as we make our way to the entrance hall and Caesar’s Square.
Quick as my excitement came, it bleeds away.
Fear gnaws at my insides. I tried to manipulate Maven into making costly mistakes, to make him doubt, to burn the last bridges he has left. But maybe I failed. Maybe he’s going to burn me instead.
I focus on the click of my boots on marble. Something solid to anchor my fear. My fists curl in my gloves, begging for a spark to tide me over. It never comes.
The palace seems strangely empty, even more so than usual. Doors are shut fast, while servants flutter through the rooms that aren’t closed yet, quick and quiet as mice. They flutter white sheets over furniture and artwork, covering them up in strange shrouds. Few guards, fewer nobles. The ones I pass are young and wide-eyed. I know their houses, their colors, and I can see naked fear on their faces. All are dressed like me, for the cold, for function. For movement.
“Where is everyone going?” I ask no one, because no one is going to answer.
Clover harshly yanks on my ponytail, forcing me to look straight ahead. It doesn’t hurt, but the action is jarring. She never handles me this way, not unless I give her a good reason.
I spin through the possibilities. Is this an evacuation? Has the Scarlet Guard attempted another assault on Archeon? Or have the rebelling houses returned to finish what they started? No, it can’t be either. This is too calm. We’re not running from anything.
As we cross the hall, I take a deep breath, looking around. Marble beneath me, chandeliers above me, tall glimmering mirrors and gilded paintings of Calore ancestors marching up the walls on either side. Red and black banners, silver and gold and crystal. I feel like it’s all going to crash down and crush me. Fear creeps down my spine when the doors ahead swing open, metal and glass easing on giant hinges. The first breath of cold wind hits me head-on, making my eyes water.
The winter sun shines bright on the gleaming square, blinding me for a second. I blink rapidly, trying to make my eyes adjust. I can’t afford to miss a second of this. The outside world comes into focus steadily. Snow lies deep on the rooftops of the palace and the surrounding structures of Caesar’s Square.
Soldiers line either side of the steps leading down from the palace, immaculate in their neat rows. The Arvens lead me through the double row of soldiers, past their guns and uniforms and unblinking eyes. I turn to look over my shoulder as I walk, stealing a glance at the opulent pale hulk of Whitefire Palace. Silhouettes prowl the roof. Officers in black uniforms, soldiers in clouded gray. Even from here, their rifles are clearly visible, silhouetted against a cold blue sky. And those are just the guards I can see. There must be more patrolling the walls, manning the gates, concealed and ready to defend this wretched place. Hundreds, probably, kept for their loyalty and lethal ability. We cross the square alone, for no one, for nothing. What is this?
I note the buildings we pass. The Royal Court, a circular building with smooth marble walls, spiraled columns, and a crystal dome, has gone unused since Maven’s coronation. It is a symbol of power, a massive hall large enough to seat the assembled High Houses and their retainers, as well as important members of the Silver citizenry. I’ve never been inside. I hope I never am. The judiciary courts, where Silver law is made and enacted with brutal efficiency, branch out from the domed structure. Next to their arches and crystal trappings, the Treasury Hall looks dull. Slab walls—more marble, and I have to wonder how many quarries this place sucked dry—no windows, sitting like a block of stone among sculptures. The wealth of Norta is somewhere in there, more defended than the king, locked in vaults drilled deep into the bedrock below us.
“This way,” Clover growls, pulling me toward the Treasury.
“Why?” I ask. Again, no one answers.
My heartbeat quickens, hammering against my rib cage, and I struggle to keep my breathing even. Each cold gasp feels like the tick of a clock, steadily counting down the moments before I’m swallowed up.
The doors are thick, thicker than the ones I remember from Corros Prison. They open wide as a yawning mouth, flanked by guards in liveried purple. The Treasury has no grand entrance hall, in sharp contrast to every other Silver structure I’ve ever seen. It’s just a long white corridor, curving and sloping downward in a steady spiral. Guards stand at attention every ten yards or so, flush against pure white stone. Where the vaults might be, or where I’m going, I can’t say.
After exactly six hundred steps, we stop in front of a guard.
Without a word he steps forward and to the side, putting his fingers to the wall behind him. He pushes and the marble glides backward a foot, revealing the silhouette of a door. It slides easily at his touch, widening to create a three-foot gap in the stone. The soldier doesn’t strain at all. Strongarm, I note.
The stone is thick and heavy. My fear triples, and I swallow hard, feeling my hands start to sweat in my gloves. Maven is finally putting me in a real cell.
Kitten and Clover shove me, trying to take me off guard, but I plant my feet, locking every joint against them. “No!” I shout, driving a shoulder back into one of them. Kitten grunts but doesn’t stop, continuing to push while Clover takes me around the middle, lifting me clean off the floor.
“You can’t put me down here!” I don’t know what card to play, what mask to put on. Do I cry? Do I beg? Do I act like the rebel queen they think I am? Which one will save me? Fear overrules my senses. I gasp like a girl drowning. “Please, I can’t—I can’t—”
I kick at open air, trying to topple Clover, but she’s stronger than I expect. Egg takes my legs, cleanly ignoring my heel as it cracks into his jaw. They carry me like a piece of furniture, without thought or attention.