He grits his teeth, breathing through the blow. “Sorry,” he grumbles.
The interior of what must be the base command building seems more like a mansion. Staircases spiral on either side of the entrance hall, connecting to a gallery above lined by windows. Crown molding lines the ceiling, which is painted to look like the wisteria outside. The floor is parquet wood, alternating planks of mahogany, cherry, and oak in intricate designs. But like in the row houses, anything that can’t be bolted down is gone. Blank spaces line the walls, while alcoves meant for sculptures or busts hold guards instead. Montfort guards.
Up close, their uniforms are better made than anything the Scarlet Guard or the Colonel’s Lakelanders wear. More like the uniforms of Silver officers. They’re mass-produced—sturdy—with badges, insignia, and the white triangle emblazoned on their arms.
Cal observes as closely as I do. He nudges me, nodding up the stairs. In the gallery, no fewer than six Montfort officers watch us go. They are gray-haired, battle-worn, with enough medals to sink a ship. Generals.
“Cameras too,” I whisper to him. In my head I pick them out, noting each electric signature while we pass through the entrance hall.
Despite the empty walls and sparse decorations, the fine passages make my skin crawl. I keep telling myself the person next to me isn’t one of the Arvens. This isn’t Whitefire. My ability is proof of that. No one is keeping me prisoner. I wish I could drop my guard. It’s second nature at this point.
The meeting room reminds me of Maven’s council chamber. It has a long, polished table and finely upholstered chairs, and it’s illuminated by a bank of windows looking out over another garden. Again the walls are empty, except for a seal painted directly on the wall. Yellow and white stripes, with a purple star in the center. Piedmont.
We’re the first to arrive. I expect the Colonel to take a seat at the head of the table, but he doesn’t, electing for the chair on its right instead. The rest of us file in next to him, facing the empty side we leave open for the Montfort officers and Command.
The Colonel looks on, perplexed. He watches as Farley sits, his good eye cold and steely. “Captain, you don’t have clearance for this.”
Cal and I exchange glances, eyebrows raised. Farley and the Colonel clash often. At least that hasn’t changed.
“Oh, were you not informed?” she replies, pulling a folded strip of paper from her pocket. “So sad how that happens.” With a flick of her hand, she slides the paper over to the Colonel.
He unfolds it greedily, eyes scanning a page of harsh-typed letters. It isn’t long, but he stares at it for a while, not believing the words. Finally he smooths the message against the table. “This can’t be right.”
“Command wants a representative at the table.” Farley grins. She splays her hands wide. “Here I am.”
“Then Command made a mistake.”
“I’m Command now, Colonel. There is no mistake.”
Command rules the Scarlet Guard, the hub of a very secretive wheel. I have only heard whispers of their existence, but enough to know they control the entirety of a vast, complicated operation. If they made Farley one of them, does this mean that the Guard is truly coming out of the shadows—or is it just Farley they want?
“Diana, you can’t—”
She bristles, flushing red. “Because I’m pregnant? I assure you, I can handle two tasks at once.” If not for their uncanny resemblance, both in appearance and attitude, it would be easy to forget that Farley is the Colonel’s daughter. “Do you want to press the matter further, Willis?”
He clenches a fist on the message, knuckles turning bone white. But he shakes his head.
“Good. And it’s General now. Act accordingly.”
A retort dies in the Colonel’s throat, giving him a strangled look. With a satisfied smirk, Farley retrieves the message and tucks it away. She notes Cal watching, just as confused as I am.
“You’re not the only ranking officer in the room now, Calore.”
“I suppose not. Congratulations,” he adds, offering a tight smile.
It takes her off guard. After her father’s open hostility, she didn’t expect support from anyone, least of all the begrudging Silver prince.
The Montfort generals enter from another door, resplendent in their dark green uniforms. One I saw in the gallery. She has an even bob of white hair, watery brown eyes, and long, fluttering lashes. She blinks rapidly. The other, a dark-haired woman, brown-skinned, looks to be about forty and built like an ox. She tips her head at me, as if greeting a friend.
“I know you,” I say, trying to place her face. “How do I know you?”
She doesn’t answer, turning her head over her shoulder to wait for one more person, a gray-haired man in plain clothing. But I barely notice him at all, distracted by his companion. Even without his house colors, dressed in simple grays instead of his usual faded gold, Julian is hard to miss. I feel a burst of warmth at the sight of my old teacher. Julian inclines his head, offering a small smile in greeting. He looks better than I’ve ever seen him, even when I first met him at the summer palace. Then he was worn, wearied by a court of enemies, haunted by a dead sister, a broken Sara Skonos, and his own doubt. Though his hair is now more gray than brown, his wrinkles deeper, he seems vibrant, alive, unburdened. Whole. The Scarlet Guard has given him purpose. And Sara too, I bet.
His presence soothes Cal even more than me. He relaxes a bit at my side, giving his uncle the slightest nod. Both of us see what this is, what kind of message Montfort is trying to send. They do not hate Silvers—and they do not fear them.
The other man shuts the door behind him as Julian takes a seat, firmly planting himself on our side of the table. Even though he’s six feet tall, he seems small without a uniform of his own. Instead, he wears civilian clothing. A simple buttoned shirt, pants, shoes. No weapons that I can see. He has red blood, that’s certain, judging by the pink undertones in his sandy skin. Newblood or Red, I don’t know. Everything about him is decidedly neutral, pleasantly average, and unassuming. He seems a blank page, either by nature or design. There’s nothing else to indicate who or what he might be.
But Farley knows. She moves to get to her feet, and he waves her down.
“No need for that, General,” he says. In a way, he reminds me of Julian. They have the same wild eyes, the only thing remarkable about him. His are angled, darting back and forth, taking in everything for observation and understanding. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you all,” he adds, nodding to each of us in turn. “Colonel, Miss Barrow, Your Highness.”
Under the table, Cal’s fingers twitch against his leg. No one calls him that anymore. Not people who mean it.
“And who are you, exactly?” the Colonel asks.
“Of course,” the man replies. “I’m sorry I could not come sooner. My name is Dane Davidson, sir. I serve as premier to the Free Republic of Montfort.”
Cal’s fingers twitch again.
“Thank you all for coming. I’ve wanted this meeting for some time now,” Davidson continues, “and I think that together, we can achieve magnificent things.”
This man is the leader of the entire country. He’s the one who asked for me, who wanted me to join him. Has he done all this to get his way? Like his general’s face, his name rings a distant bell.
“This is General Torkins.” Davidson gestures between them. “And General Salida.”
Salida. I don’t know her name. But now I’m certain I’ve seen her before.
The sturdily built general notes my confusion. “I did some reconnaissance, Miss Barrow. I presented myself to King Maven when he was interviewing Ardent—I mean newbloods. You may remember.” To demonstrate she sweeps her hand at the table. No, not at. Through. Like it’s made of nothing—or she is.