I keep my eyes on the window. For once, I’m glad for the all-too-familiar ache of Silent Stone. It is an undeniable reminder of what he is, and what his love means for me.
“You tried to murder everyone I care about. You killed children.” A baby, bloodstained, a note in its little fist. I remember it so vividly it could be a nightmare. I don’t try to force the image away. I need to remember it. I need to remember what he is. “Because of you, my brother is dead.”
I spin to him, barking out a harsh, vengeful laugh. Anger clears my head.
He sits up sharply, his naked torso almost as white as the bathwater.
“And you killed my mother. You took my brother. You took my father. The second you fell into the world, the wheels were in motion. My mother looked into your head and saw opportunity. She saw a chance she had been looking for forever. If you hadn’t—if you had never—” He stumbles, the words coming faster than he can stop them. Then he grits his teeth, clamping down on anything more damning. Another breath of silence. “I don’t want to know what would have been.”
“I know,” I snarl. “I would’ve ended up in a trench, obliterated or torn apart or barely surviving as the walking dead. I know what I would have become, because a million others live it. My father, my brothers, too many people.”
“Knowing what you know now . . . would you go back? Would you choose that life? Conscription, your muddy town, your family, that river boy?”
So many are dead because of me, because of what I am. If I were just a Red, just Mare Barrow, they would be alive. Shade would be alive. My thoughts hinge on him. I would trade so many things to have him back. I’d trade myself a thousand times. But then there are the newbloods found and saved. Rebellions aided. A war ended. Silvers tearing at one another. Reds uniting. I had a hand in all of it, however small. Mistakes were made. My mistakes. Too many to count. I am worlds away from perfect, or even good. The true question eats at my brain. What Maven is really asking. Would you give up your ability, would you trade your power, to go back? I don’t need time to figure out an answer.
“No,” I whisper. I don’t remember moving so close to him, my hand closing on one side of the porcelain bath. “No, I wouldn’t.”
The confession burns worse than flame, eating at my insides. I hate him for what he makes me feel, what he makes me realize. I wonder if I can move fast enough to incapacitate him. Clench a fist, bust his jaw with the hard manacle. Can skin healers regrow teeth? No real point in trying. I wouldn’t live to find out.
He stares up at me. “Those who know what it’s like in the dark will do anything to stay in the light.”
“Don’t act like we’re the same.”
“The same? No.” He shakes his head. “But perhaps . . . we’re even.”
“Even?” Again I want to tear him apart. Use my nails, my teeth to rip his throat. The insinuation cuts. Almost as much as the fact that he might be right.
“I used to ask Jon if he could see futures that no longer exist. He said the paths were always changing. An easy lie. It let him manipulate me in a way even Samson couldn’t. And when he led me to you, well, I didn’t argue. How was I supposed to know what a poison you would be?”
“If I’m a poison, then get rid of me. Stop torturing us both!”
“You know I can’t do that, no matter how much I may want to.” His lashes flicker and his eyes go far away. Somewhere even I can’t reach him. “You’re like Thomas was. You are the only person I care about, the only person who reminds me I am alive. Not empty. And not alone.”
Alive. Not empty. Not alone.
Each confession is an arrow, piercing every nerve ending until my body turns to cold fire. I hate that Maven can say such things. I hate that he feels what I feel, fears what I fear. I hate it; I hate it. And if I could change who am, how I think, I would. But I can’t. If Iris’s gods are real, they certainly know I’ve tried.
“Jon would not tell me about the dead futures—the ones no longer possible. I think about them, though,” he mumbles. “A Silver king, a Red queen. How would things have changed? How many would still be alive?”
“Not your father. Not Cal. And certainly not me.”
“I know it’s just a dream, Mare,” he snaps. Like a child corrected in the classroom. “Any window we had, however small, is gone.”
“Because of you.”
“Yes.” Softer, an admission of his own. “Yes.”
Never breaking eye contact, Maven slips the flamemaker bracelet from his wrist. It’s slow, deliberate, methodic. I hear it hit the floor and roll, silver metal ringing against the marble. The other quickly follows. Still watching, he leans back in the bath and tips his head. Exposing his neck. At my side, my hands twitch. It would be so easy. Wrap my brown fingers around his pale neck. Put all my weight into it. Pin him down. Cal is afraid of water. Is Maven? I could drown him. Kill him. Let the bathwater boil us both. He dares me to do it. Part of him might want me to do it. Or it could be one of the thousand traps I’ve fallen for. Another trick of Maven Calore.
He blinks and exhales, letting go of something deep inside himself. It breaks the spell and the moment shatters.
“You’ll be one of Iris’s ladies tomorrow. Enjoy yourself.”
One more arrow to the gut.
I wish for another glass to smash against the wall. A lady-in-waiting for the wedding of the century. No chance of slipping away. I’ll have to stand before the entire court. Guards everywhere. Eyes everywhere. I want to scream.
Use the anger. Use the rage, I try to tell myself. Instead, it just consumes me and turns to despair.
Maven just gestures lazily with an open hand. “There’s the door.”
I try not to look back as I go, but I can’t help myself. Maven stares at the ceiling, his eyes empty. And I hear Julian in my head, whispering the words he wrote.
Not a god’s chosen, but a god’s cursed.
EIGHTEEN
Mare
For once, I am not the object of torture. If I had the opportunity, I would thank Iris for allowing me to sit to the side and be ignored. Evangeline takes my place instead. She tries to look serene, unaffected by the scene around us. The rest of the bridal entourage keeps glancing at her, the girl they were supposed to serve. At any moment, I expect her to curl up like one of her mother’s snakes and start hissing at every person who dares come within a few feet of her gilded chair. After all, these chambers used to be hers.
The salon is redecorated for its new occupant and rightfully so. Bright blue wall hangings, fresh flowers in clear water, and several gentle fountains make it unmistakable. A princess of the Lakelands reigns here.