The stone beneath me changes. Smooth, square tiles become steps. I bump on the first but right myself, holding up the train. Doing the only thing I’m still able to do. Stand to the side, kneel, shrivel away, turn bitter and hungry in the shadows. Is this the rest of my life?
Before I enter the maw of the Royal Court too, I glance up. Past the sculptures of fire and stars and swords and ancient kings, past the crystal reaches of the glittering dome. To the sky. Clouds gather in the distance. A few have already reached the square, moving steadily in the wind. They dissipate slowly, unraveling into wisps of nothing. Rain wants to gather, but something, probably Silver storms, controlling the weather won’t let it. Nothing will be allowed to ruin this day.
And then the sky disappears, replaced by a vaulted ceiling. Smooth limestone arches overhead, banded with silver spirals of forged flame. Red-and-black banners of Norta and blue banners of the Lakelands decorate either side of the antechamber, as if anyone could forget the kingdoms whose union we’re about to witness. The murmurs of a thousand onlookers sound like humming bees, increasing with every step forward I take. Ahead, the passage widens into the central chamber of the Royal Court, a magnificent circular hall beneath the crystal dome. The sun climbs across the clear panes, illuminating the spectacle below. Every seat is full, ringed out from the middle of the chamber in a halo of flashing color. The crowd waits, breathless. I can’t see Maven yet, but I can guess where he will be.
Anyone else would hesitate, even a little. Iris does not. She never breaks pace as we cross into the light. A thousand bodies standing up is almost deafening, and the noise echoes around the chamber. Rustling clothes, shifting movement, whispers. I stay focused on my breathing. My heart races anyway. I want to look up, note the entrances, the branching passages, the pieces of this place I can use. But I can barely walk, let alone plan another ill-fated escape.
It feels like years pass before we reach the center. Maven waits, his cape just as opulent as Iris’s train and nearly as long. He cuts an impressive figure in flashing red and white instead of black. The crown is newly made, wrought of silver and rubies worked into flame. It gleams when he moves, turning his head to face his approaching bride and her entourage. His eyes find me first. I know him well enough to recognize regret. It flickers, alive for a moment, dancing like the wick of a lit candle. And, just as easily, it disappears, trailing a memory like smoke. I hate him, especially because I can’t fight the now-familiar surge of pity for the shadow of the flame. Monsters are made. So was Maven. Who knows who he was supposed to be?
The ceremony takes the better part of an hour, and I have to stand through all of it alongside Evangeline and the rest of the bridal parade. Maven and Iris trade words back and forth, oaths and pledges urged on by a Nortan judge. A woman in plain indigo robes speaks as well. From the Lakelands, I assume—maybe an envoy of their gods? I hardly listen. All I can think about is an army in red and blue, marching across the world. Clouds continue to roll in, each one darker than the last as they pass the dome overhead. And each one disintegrates. The storm wants to break, but it just can’t seem to.
I know the feeling.
“From this day until my last day, I pledge myself to you, Iris of House Cygnet, princess of the Lakelands.”
In front of me, Maven holds out his hand. Fire licks at the tips of his fingers, gentle and weak as candle flame. I could blow it out if I tried.
“From this day until my last day, I pledge myself to you, Maven of House Calore, king of Norta.”
Iris mirrors his action, putting out her own hand. Her white sleeve, edged in bright blue, falls back gracefully, exposing more of her smooth arm as it leaches moisture from the air. A sphere of clear, trembling water fills her palm. When she joins hands with Maven, one ability destroys the other without even the hiss of steam or smoke. A peaceful union is made, and sealed with a brush of their lips.
He doesn’t kiss her the way he kissed me. Any fire he might have is far away.
I wish I were too.
The applause shudders in me, loud as a thunderclap. Most people cheer. I don’t blame them. This is the last nail in the coffin of the Lakelander War. Even though Reds died in the thousands, the millions, Silvers died too. I won’t begrudge them their celebrations of peace.
Another rumble sounds as many seats around the Royal Court shift, pushing back along stone. I flinch, wondering if we’re about to be crushed in a tide of well-wishers. Instead, Sentinels press in. I clutch at Iris’s train like a lifeline, letting her swift motions pull me through the heaving crowd and back out into Caesar’s Square.
Of course, the crush of noise only increases tenfold. Flags wave, cheers erupt, and sprinkles of paper drift down on us. I dip my head, trying to block it out. Instead, my ears start to ring. The sound doesn’t go away, no matter how much I shake my head. One of the Arvens takes my elbow, her fingers digging into flesh as more and more people press in around us. The Sentinels shout something, instructing the crowd to stay back. Maven turns to look over his shoulder, his face flushed gray in excitement or nerves or both. The ringing intensifies, and I have to let go of Iris’s train to cover my ears. It does nothing except slow me down, pulling me out of her circle of safety. She carries on, arm in arm with her new husband, with Evangeline trailing them both. The tide separates us.
Maven sees me stop and raises an eyebrow, his lips parting to ask a question. His steps slow.
Then the sky turns black.
Storm clouds bloom, dark and heavy, arcing over us like an inferno’s smoke. Lightning streaks across the clouds, bolts tinged white and blue and green. Each one jagged, vicious, destructive. Unnatural.
My heartbeat roars loud enough to drown out the crowd. But not the thunder.
The sound rattles in my chest, so close and so explosive it shakes the air. I taste it on my tongue.
I don’t get to see the next thunderbolt before Kitten and Clover throw me to the ground, our dresses be damned. They pin my shoulders, digging into aching muscles with their hands and their ability. Silence floods my body, fast and strong enough to push the air from my lungs. I gasp, struggling to breathe. My fingers scrabble over the tiled ground, feeling for something to grab. If I could breathe, I would laugh. This is not the first time someone has held me down in Caesar’s Square.
Another clap of thunder, another flash of blue light. The resulting push of Arven silence almost makes me vomit up my guts.
“Don’t kill her, Janny. Don’t!” Clover growls. Janny. Kitten’s real name. “It’ll be our heads if she dies.”
“It’s not me,” I try to choke out. “It’s not me.”
If Kitten and Clover can hear, they don’t show it. Their pressure never lessens, a new constant of pain.
Unable to scream, I force my head up, looking for someone to help me. Looking for Maven. He’ll stop this. I hate myself for thinking it.
Legs cross my vision, black uniforms, civilian colors, and distant, fleeing red-orange robes. The Sentinels keep moving, tight in their formation. Like at the banquet that ended in a near assassination, they spring into well-practiced action, focused on their one and only purpose: defend the king. They change direction quickly, herding Maven not toward the palace, but to the Treasury. To his train. To his escape.
Escape from what?
The freak storm isn’t mine. The lightning isn’t mine.
“Follow the king,” Kitten—Janny—snarls. She hoists me onto wobbly legs, and I almost fall again. The Arvens don’t let me. Neither does the sudden wall of uniformed officers. They surround me in diamond formation, perfect for cutting through the surging crowd. The Arvens lessen their pulsing ability, if only to allow me to walk.