Because what else can Maven do now? Evangeline has deliberately disobeyed his orders, leaping past the allowances their betrothal allows. If I know anything, I know that to cross the king is to be punished. And to do it here, in front of the entire court? He might just execute her on the spot.
If Evangeline thinks she’s risking death, she doesn’t show it. Her voice never cracks or wavers. “You ordered the terrorist to be imprisoned, shut away like a useless bottle of wine, and after a month of council deliberation, there has been no agreement on what is to be done with her. Her crimes are many, worthy of a dozen deaths, a thousand lifetimes in our worst jails. She killed or maimed hundreds of your subjects since she was discovered, your own parents included, and still she rests in a comfortable bedchamber, eating, breathing—alive without the punishment she deserves.”
Maven is his mother’s son, and his court facade is nearly perfect. Evangeline’s words don’t seem to bother him in the slightest.
“The punishment she deserves,” he repeats. Then he looks to the room, one corner of his chin raised. “So you brought her here. Really, are my parties that bad?”
A thrum of laughter, both genuine and forced, ripples through the rapt crowd. Most of them are drunk, but there are enough clear heads to know what’s going on. What Evangeline has done.
Evangeline pulls a courtly smile that looks so painful I expect her lips to start bleeding at the corners. “I know you are grieving for your mother, Your Majesty,” she says without a hint of sympathy. “As we all are. But your father would not act this way. The time for tears is over.”
Those last are not her words, but the words of Tiberias the Sixth. Maven’s father, Maven’s ghost. His mask threatens to slip for a moment, and his eyes flash with equal parts dread and anger. I remember those words as well as he does. Spoken before a crowd just like this, in the wake of the Scarlet Guard’s execution of political targets. Targets chosen by Maven, fed to him by his mother. We did their dirty work, while they added to the body count with an atrocious attack of their own. They used me, used the Guard to eliminate some of their enemies and demonize others in one fell swoop. They destroyed more, killed more than any of us ever wanted.
I can still smell the blood and smoke. I can still hear a mother weeping over her dead children. I can still hear the words framing the rebellion for it all.
“Strength, power, death,” Maven murmurs, his teeth clicking. The words scared me then, and they terrify me now. “What do you suggest, my lady? A beheading? A firing squad? Do we take her apart, piece by piece?”
My heart gallops in my chest. Would Maven allow such a thing? I don’t know. I don’t know what he would do. I have to remind myself, I don’t even know him. The boy I thought him to be was an illusion. But the notes, brutally left, but full of pleas for me to return? The month of quiet, gentle captivity? Perhaps those were false too, another trick to ensnare me. Another kind of torture.
“We do as the law requires. As your father would have done.”
The way she says father, using the word as brutally as she would any knife, is confirmation enough. Like so many people in this room, she knows Tiberias the Sixth did not end the way the stories say.
Still, Maven grips his throne, white-knuckling the gray slabs. He glances at the court, feeling their eyes upon him, before sneering back at Evangeline. “Not only are you not a member of my council, but you did not know my father well enough to know his mind. I am a king as he was, and I understand the things that must be done for victory. Our laws are sacred, but we are fighting two wars now.”
Two wars.
Adrenaline pulses through me so quickly I think my lightning has returned. No, not lightning. Hope. I bite my lip to keep from grinning. Weeks into my captivity the Scarlet Guard continues, and thrives. Not only are they still fighting, but Maven admits it openly. They are impossible to hide or dismiss now.
Despite the need to know more, I keep my mouth shut.
Maven burns a stare through Evangeline. “No enemy prisoner, especially not one as valuable as Mare Barrow, should be wasted on common execution.”
“You waste her still!” Evangeline argues, firing back so quickly I know she must have practiced for this argument. She takes a few more steps forward, closing the distance between herself and Maven. It all seems a show, an act, something played out on the platform for the court to witness. But for whose benefit? “She sits collecting dust, doing nothing, giving us nothing, while Corvium burns!”
Another jewel of information to keep close. More, Evangeline. Give me more.
I saw the fortress city, the heart of the Nortan military, erupt in riots with my own eyes a month ago. It’s still happening. Mention of Corvium sobers the crowd. Maven does not miss it, and he fights to keep his calm.
“The council is days away from a decision, my lady,” he says through gritted teeth.
“Forgive my boldness, Your Majesty. I know you wish to honor your council as best you can, even the weakest parts of it. Even the cowards who cannot do what must be done.” Another step closer, and her voice softens to a purr. “But you are the king. The decision is yours.”
Masterful, I realize. Evangeline is just as adept at manipulation as any other. In a few words, she’s not only saved Maven from appearing weak, but also forced him to follow her will to maintain an image of strength. In spite of myself, I draw in a harried breath. Will he do as she bids? Or will he refuse, throwing fuel on the fire of insurrection already blazing through the High Houses?
Maven is no fool. He understands what Evangeline is doing, and he keeps his focus on her. They hold each other’s gaze, communicating with forced smiles and sharp eyes.
“Queenstrial certainly did bring forth the most talented daughter,” he says, taking her hand. Both of them look disgusted by the action. His head snaps to the crowd, looking to a lean man in dark blue. “Cousin! Your petition of interrogation is granted.”
Samson Merandus snaps to attention and emerges from the crowd, clear-eyed. He bows, almost grinning. Blue robes billow, dark as smoke. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”
“No.”
The word wrenches itself from me.
“No, Maven!”
Samson moves quickly, ascending the platform with controlled fury. He closes the distance between us in a few determined strides, until his eyes are the only thing in my world. Blue eyes, Elara’s eyes, Maven’s eyes.
“Maven!” I gasp again, begging even though it will do nothing. Begging even though it burns my pride to think I’m asking him for anything. But what else is there to do? Samson is a whisper. He’ll destroy me from the inside out, search everything I am, everything I know. How many people will die because of what I’ve seen? “Maven, please! Don’t let him do this!”
I’m not strong enough to break Kitten’s grasp on my chain, or even struggle much when Trio seizes my shoulders. Both of them hold me in place with ease. My eyes flash from Samson to Maven. One hand on his throne, one hand in Evangeline’s. I miss you, his notes said. He is unreadable, but at least he’s looking.
Good. If he won’t save me from this nightmare, I want him to see it happen.
“Maven,” I whisper one last time, trying to sound like myself. Not the lightning girl, not Mareena the lost princess, but Mare. The girl he watched through the bars of a cell and pledged to save. But that girl isn’t enough. He drops his eyes. He looks away.
I am alone.
Samson takes my throat in his hand, squeezing above the metal collar, forcing me to look into his wretched, familiar eyes. Blue as ice, and just as unforgiving.
“You were wrong to kill Elara,” he says, not bothering to temper his words. “She was a surgeon with minds.”
He leans in, hungry, a starving man about to devour a meal.