“My brother is a traitor, an exile. He will be dead soon enough.”
“That’s my point, boy. As soon as he is gone, as soon as we tear the Scarlet Guard limb from limb—will you return to the old ways? The old enemies? Will you find yourself once again drowning in Red bodies and in need of somewhere to throw them?” Orrec’s face darkens, flushing gray and purple. His cold, detached manner fades into anger. “Population control is one matter, but the war, the endless push and pull, it is little more than madness. I will not spill one more drop of Silver blood because you can’t command your Red rats.”
Maven leans forward, matching Orrec’s intensity. “Our treaty will be signed here, broadcast across every city, to every man, woman, and child of my kingdom. Everyone will know this war has ended. Everyone in Norta, at least. I know you don’t have the same capabilities in the Lakelands, old man. But I trust you’ll do your best to inform as much of your backwater kingdom as possible.”
A shudder goes through us all. Fear in the Silvers, but excitement in me. Destroy each other, I whisper in my head. Turn each other inside out. I have no doubt a nymph king would have little issue drowning Maven where he stands.
Orrec bares his teeth. “You don’t know anything about my country.”
“I know the Scarlet Guard began in your house, not mine,” Maven spits back. With his free hand he gestures, telling his Sentinels to back down. Foolish, posturing boy. I hope it gets him killed. “Don’t act like you’re doing me a favor. You need this as much as we do.”
“Then I want your word, Maven Calore.”
“You have it—”
“Your word and your hand. The strongest bond you can make.”
Oh.
My eyes fly from Maven, locked in a grip with the king of the Lakelands, to Evangeline. She sits still, as if frozen, her gaze on the marble floor and nowhere else. I expect her to stand up and scream, to turn this place into a wreck of shrapnel. But she doesn’t move. Even Ptolemus, her lapdog of a brother, stays firmly in his seat. And their father in his Samos blacks broods as always. No change in him that I can see. No indication that Evangeline is about to lose the position she fought so hard to obtain.
Across the pavilion, the Lakelander princess seems hewn from stone. She doesn’t even blink. She knew this was coming.
Once, when Maven’s father told him he was to marry me, he choked in surprise. He put on a good show, blustering and arguing. He pretended not to know what that proposal was about, what it meant. Like me, he has worn a thousand masks and played a million different parts. Today he performs as king, and kings are never surprised, never caught off guard. If he is shocked, he doesn’t show it. I hear nothing but steel in his voice.
“It would be an honor to call you father,” he says.
Finally, Orrec lets go of Maven’s hand. “And an honor to call you son.”
Both could not be more false.
To my right, someone’s chair scrapes against marble. Followed quickly by two more. In a flurry of metal and black, House Samos hurries from the pavilion. Evangeline leads her brother and father, never looking back, her hands open at her sides. Her shoulders drop and her meticulously straight posture seems lessened somehow.
She is relieved.
Maven doesn’t watch her go, wholly focused on the task at hand. The task being the Lakelander princess.
“My lady,” he says, bowing in her direction.
She merely inclines her head, never breaking her steely gaze.
“In the eyes of my noble court, I would ask for your hand in marriage.” I’ve heard these words before. From the same boy. Spoken in front of a crowd, each word sounding like a lock twisting shut. “I pledge myself to you, Iris Cygnet, princess of the Lakelands. Will you accept?”
Iris is beautiful, more graceful than her father. Not a dancer, though, but a hunter. She stands on long limbs, unfolding herself from her seat in a cascade of soft sapphire velvet and full, feminine curves. I glimpse leather leggings between the slashes of her gown. Well-worn, cracked at the knees. She did not come here unprepared. And like so many here, she doesn’t wear gloves, despite the cold. The hand she extends to Maven is amber-skinned, long-fingered, unadorned. Still, her eyes do not waver, even as a mist forms from the air, swirling around her outstretched hand. It glimmers before my eyes, tiny droplets of moisture condensing to life. They become tiny, crystal beads of water, each one a pinprick of refracting light as they twist and move.
Her first words are in a language I do not know. Lakelander. It is heartbreakingly beautiful, one word flowing into the next like a spoken song, like water. Then, in accented Nortan—
“I put my hand in yours, and pledge my life to yours,” she replies, after her own traditions and the customs of her kingdom. “I accept, Your Majesty.”
He puts his bare hand out to take hers, the bracelet at his wrist sparking as he moves. A current of fire hits the air, snakelike and curling around their joined fingers. It does not burn her, though it certainly passes close enough to try. Iris never flinches. Never blinks.
And so one war is ended.
SEVENTEEN
Mare
It takes many days to return to Archeon. Not because of the distance. Not because the king of the Lakelands brought no less than one thousand people with him, courtiers and soldiers and even Red servants. But because the entire kingdom of Norta suddenly has something to celebrate. The end of a war, and an upcoming wedding. Maven’s now-endless convoy snakes down the Iron Road and then the Royal Road at a crawl. Silvers and Reds alike turn out to cheer, begging for a glimpse of their king. Maven always obliges, stopping to meet crowds with Iris at his side. Despite the deeply bred hatred for the Lakelands we are supposed to have, Nortans bow before her. She is a curiosity and a blessing. A bridge. Even King Orrec receives lukewarm welcomes. Polite clapping, respectful bows. An old enemy turned into an ally for the long road ahead.
That’s what Maven says at every turn. “Norta and the Lakelands stand united now, bound together for the long road ahead. Against all dangers threatening our kingdoms.” He means the Scarlet Guard. He means Corvium. He means Cal, the rebelling houses, anything and everything that might threaten his tenuous grip on power.
There is no one alive to remember the days before war. My country does not know what peace looks like. No wonder they mistake this for peace. I want to scream at every Red face I pass. I want to carve the words on my body so everyone has to see. Trap. Lie. Conspiracy. Not that my words mean anything anymore. I’ve been someone else’s puppet for too long. My voice is not my own. Only my actions are, and those are severely limited by circumstances. I would despair of myself if I could, but my days of wallowing are long behind me. They have to be. Or else I will simply drown, a hollow doll dragged behind a child, empty in every inch.
I will escape. I will escape. I will escape. I don’t dare whisper the words aloud. They run through my mind instead, their rhythm in time with my heartbeat.
No one speaks to me during our journey. Not even Maven. He’s busy feeling out his new betrothed. I get the sense she knows what kind of person he is, and is prepared for him. As with her father, I hope they kill each other.
The tall spires of Archeon are familiar, but not a comfort. The convoy rolls back into the jaws of a cage I know all too well. Through the city, up the steep roads to the palatial compound of Caesar’s Square and Whitefire. The sun is deceptively bright against a clear blue sky. It’s almost spring. Strange. Part of me thought winter would last forever, mirroring my imprisonment. I don’t know if I can stomach watching the seasons turn from inside my royal cell.