Even Father did not foresee this turn. Anabel Lerolan has not been to court in many years, electing to remain in Delphie, her house’s seat. She despised Elara Merandus and could not be near her—that, or she feared her. I suppose now, with the whisper queen gone, the oblivion queen can return. And return she has.
I tell myself not to panic. Blindsided as Father may be, this is not surrender. We keep the Rift. We keep our home. We keep our crowns. It’s only been a few weeks, but I’m loath to give away what we’ve planned for. What I deserve.
“I wonder how you intend to restore a king who wants no part in a throne,” Father muses. He steeples his fingers and surveys Anabel over them. “Your grandson is in Piedmont—”
“My grandson is an unwilling operative of the Scarlet Guard, which in turn is controlled by the Free Republic of Montfort. You’ll find that their leader, the one calling himself premier, is quite a reasonable man,” she adds with the air of someone discussing the weather.
My stomach twists, and I feel vaguely sick. Something in me, a deep instinct, screams for me to kill her before she can continue.
Father raises an eyebrow. “You’ve made contact with him?”
The Lerolan queen smiles tightly. “Enough to negotiate. But I speak to my grandson more often these days. He’s a talented boy, very good with machines. He reached out in his desperation, asking for only one thing. And thanks to you, I delivered.”
Mare.
Father narrows his eyes. “Does he know of your plans, then?”
“He will.”
“And Montfort?”
“Is eager to ally themselves with a king. They will support a war of restoration in the name of Tiberias the Seventh.”
“As they have in Piedmont?” If no one else will point out her folly, I certainly must. “Prince Bracken dances on their strings, controlled. Reports indicate they have taken his children. You would so willingly let your grandson become their puppet too?”
I came here eager to see others kneel. I remain seated, but I feel bare before Anabel as she grins. “As your mother said so eloquently, they seek to make equal that which is not fundamentally equal. Victory is impossible. Silver blood cannot be overthrown.”
Even the panther is quiet, watching the exchange with ticking eyes. Its tail flicks slowly. I focus on its fur, dark as the night sky. An abyss, just like the one we edge toward. My heart drums a harried rhythm, pumping both fear and adrenaline throughout my body. I don’t know which way Father will lean. I don’t know what will become of this path. It makes my skin crawl.
“Of course,” Anabel adds, “the kingdom of Norta and the kingdom of the Rift would be tightly bound by their alliance. And by marriage.”
The floor seems to tip beneath me. It takes every ounce of will and pride to remain on my cold and vicious throne. You are steel, I whisper in my head. Steel does not break or bend. But I can already feel myself bowing, giving way to my father’s will. He’ll trade me in a heartbeat, if it means keeping the crown. The kingdom of the Rift, the kingdom of Norta—Volo Samos will take whatever he can grasp. If the latter is out of reach, he will do whatever he can to maintain the first. Even if it means breaking his promise. Selling me off one more time. My skin prickles. I thought all this was behind us. I am a princess now, my father a king. I don’t need to marry anyone for a crown. The crown is in my blood, in me.
No, that isn’t true. You still need Father. You need his name. You are never your own.
Blood thunders in my ears, the roar of a hurricane. I can’t bring myself to look up at Elane. I promised her. She married my brother so we would never be parted. She upheld her side of the bargain, but now? They’ll send me to Archeon. She’ll stay here with Tolly as his wife and, one day, his queen. I want to scream. I want to rip the infernal chair under me to shreds and tear everyone in this room apart. Including myself. I can’t do this. I can’t live like this.
A few weeks of the closest thing to freedom I’ve ever known—and I can’t let it go. I can’t go back to living for someone else’s ambitions.
I breathe through my nose, trying to keep my rage in check. I have no gods, but I certainly pray.
Say no. Say no. Say no. Please, Father, say no.
No one looks at me, my only relief. No one watches my slow unraveling. They only have eyes for my father and his decision. I try to detach. Try to put my pain in a box and tuck it away. It’s easy to do in Training, in a fight. But it’s almost impossible now.
Of course. The voice in my head laughs sadly. Your path always led here, no matter what. I was made to marry the Calore heir. Physically made. Mentally made. Constructed. Like a castle, or a tomb. My life has never been my own, and it never will be.
My father’s words drive nails into my heart, each one another burst of bloody sorrow.
“To the kingdom of Norta. And the kingdom of the Rift.”
TWENTY-FOUR
Cameron
It takes Morrey longer than the other hostages.
Some believed within minutes. Others held out for days, stubbornly clinging to the lies they’d been spoon-fed. The Scarlet Guard is a collection of terrorists, the Scarlet Guard is evil. The Scarlet Guard will make life worse for you. King Maven freed you from war and will free you from more still. Twisted half-truths spun into propaganda. I can understand how they and so many others were taken in. Maven exploited a thirst in Reds who didn’t know what it was to be manipulated. They saw a Silver pledging to listen when his predecessors would not, to hear the voices of people who had never been heard. An easy hope to buy into.
And the Scarlet Guard are far from innocent heroes. They are flawed at best, combating oppression with violence. The children of the Dagger Legion remain wary. They’re all just teenagers bouncing from the trenches of one army to another. I don’t blame them for keeping their eyes open.
Morrey still clings to his misgivings. Because of me, what I am. Maven accused the Guard of murdering people like me. No matter how much my brother tries, he can’t shake the words.
As we sit down to breakfast, our bowls of oatmeal hot to the touch, I brace myself for the usual questions. We like to eat outside on the grass, beneath the open sky, with the training fields stretched out. After fifteen years in our slum, every fresh breeze feels like a miracle. I sit cross-legged, my dark green coveralls soft from wear and too much washing to count.
“Why don’t you leave?” Morrey asks, jumping right in. He stirs the oatmeal three times, counterclockwise. “You haven’t pledged your oath to the Guard. You don’t have any reason to stay here.”
“Why do you do that?” I tap his spoon with mine. A stupid question, but an easy dodge. I never have a good answer for him, and I hate that he makes me wonder.
He shrugs his narrow shoulders. “I like the routine,” he mumbles. “At home . . . well, you know home was bleeding awful, but . . .” He stirs again, the metal scraping. “You remember the schedules, the whistles.”
“I do.” I still hear them in my dreams. “And you miss that?”
He scoffs. “Of course not. I just . . . Not knowing what’s going to happen. I don’t understand it. It’s—it’s scary.”
I spoon up some oatmeal. It’s thick and tasty. Morrey gave me his sugar ration, and the extra sweetness undercuts whatever discomfort I feel. “I think that’s how everyone feels. I think it’s why I stay.”
Morrey turns to look at me, narrowing his eyes against the glare of the still-rising sun. It illuminates his face, throwing into harsh contrast how much he’s changed. Steady rations have filled him out. And the cleaner air clearly agrees with him. I haven’t heard the scraping cough that used to punctuate his sentences.
One thing hasn’t changed, though. He still has the tattoo, just as I do. Black ink like a brand around his neck. Our letters and numbers match almost exactly.
NT-ARSM-188908, his reads. New Town, Assembly and Repair, Small Manufacturing. I’m 188907. I was born first. My neck itches at the memory of the day when we were marked, permanently bound to our indentured jobs.