“True war is here,” he replies, his calm manner sharply contrasts with Maven’s sudden temper. “The storm has broken, Maven, whether you want to admit it or not.”
I try to do as Cal has done. Try to let go. The false masquerade of the kind, forgotten boy is already gone. Not even his ghost remains. There is only the person in front of me, with his hatred and his obsession and his twisted love. Get through it, I hiss in my head. Maven is a monster. He branded me, imprisoned me, tortured me in the worst way. To keep me at his side, to feed whatever beast prowls around inside his skull. But as much as I try, I can’t help but see some of myself reflected in him. Trapped by a storm, unable to break free, unable to walk away from what I’ve already done and will continue to do.
This world is a storm I helped create. We all did, in ways big and small. With steps we could not fathom, paths we never thought to walk.
Jon saw it all. I wonder which second put this in motion. Which choice. Was it Elara, looking into my head for an opportunity to strike the Scarlet Guard? Was it Evangeline, making me fall into the arena of Queenstrial? Was it Cal, his hand closing on mine when I was just a Red thief? Or Kilorn, his master dead, his fate decided, the doom of conscription looming before him? Maybe this didn’t even start with any of us. It could be Farley’s mother and sister, drowned by the Lakeland king, their deaths sparking her father, the Colonel, to action. Or Davidson fleeing death in the legions, escaping to Montfort to build a new kind of future? Perhaps someone even further away, a hundred years ago, a thousand. Someone cursed or chosen by a distant god, doomed and blessed to make this all real.
I suppose I’ll never know.
TWENTY-FIVE
Evangeline
The Silent Stone grates against me, and my skin itches with the constant pressure. It isn’t easy to ignore, even with my extensive years of Training. I fight back the searing urge to rip my nails down my arms, if only to feel a different kind of pain instead of this foul, decaying weight. I wonder where the Stones are buried. Beneath the meeting platform? Under our seats? They feel so close I could choke on them.
Everyone else looks undisturbed by the unnatural sensation of our deepest parts repressed. Even Mare, despite her history. She keeps her head high, her body still. No sign of discomfort or pain. Meaning I have to hide it as well as she does. Ugh.
Bracken’s lip curls in distaste, hating the feel of the Silent Stone as much as the rest of us. Perhaps it will make him more amenable to our cause. Yes, he despises Montfort, and he has reason to. But I think he hates losing more. And if Cal’s blustering works, he certainly won’t have faith in Maven much longer.
Maven glares at Cal, as if he can somehow measure up to his warrior brother. Whatever compassion he counted on exploiting seems to disappear as Cal holds firm, unmoved in his seat.
“Those are my terms, Maven,” he says, sounding more kingly than his father ever did. “Surrender, and live.”
Maven deserves little more than a bullet to the brain or a knife to the gut. He’s a danger none of us can afford to leave breathing.
His reply is guttural, coming from the deepest parts of him. “Get off my island.”
No one is surprised. Ptolemus lets loose a low breath. His fingers twitch, itching for the knives strapped across his chest. At least the Sentinels didn’t think, or didn’t care, to disarm us. They must think magnetrons defenseless without ability. They are wrong. My brother could put that knife into Maven’s gut if the circumstances allowed.
My betrothed leans forward in his seat, rising slowly. “Very well,” he says, pained. “Remember this day, Maven, when you are abandoned and alone, with no one to blame but yourself.”
Maven has no response but a smirk and a chuff of laughter. He acts well, relying on the carefully crafted image of beleaguered boy called to greatness. The second son never meant to rule. It has no use here. All of us know who he is.
Still in her seat, Queen Cenra angles her face to him, leaning past her daughter. “Our terms, Your Majesty?”
He doesn’t reply, too distracted by Cal and Mare to know she’s even speaking. Iris nudges him.
“None but surrender,” he says quickly. “No pardons, no quarter,” he adds, eyes flying to Mare’s face. She recoils under his attention. “For any of you.”
On Cal’s far side, Anabel stands. She wipes her hands, as if ridding herself of this situation and her poisoned grandson. “That’s settles it, I suppose,” she sighs. “We’re all in agreement.”
Strangely, her eyes are on Iris. Not on Maven, or even Cenra or Bracken. On the young queen with little to say and even less power in this circle.
The young woman bows her head, gray eyes flashing with some meaning. “Yes, we are,” she says. Next to her, Queen Cenra does the same. A Lakelander tradition, probably. As silly and useless as their do-nothing gods.
The two queens rise first on Maven’s side of the platform, followed quickly by Bracken. He offers a low bow in my direction and I incline my head. But his eyes darken as they sweep past me, fixing on Davidson. No amount of my posturing can distract him fully from his hatred of that newblood.
It doesn’t bother the premier. He remains inscrutable, standing with smooth grace. “This was interesting, to say the least,” he mutters with an empty smile.
“Indeed,” I hear myself answer.
The rest of us rustle out of our chairs in a swirl of bright color and gleaming armor, until only Maven remains, firmly planted in his seat. Staring.
Mare artfully avoids his gaze, weaving around Farley to take Cal’s arm. The sight enrages the false king, who fumes. I almost expect smoke to rise off him. If not for the Silent Stone, it very well might.
“Until we meet again,” Cal says over his shoulder.
Something about the words sets Maven off, and he slams his hands down on the arms of his chair before storming away, turning on us all. His cloak, ink black, streams out behind him. I’m reminded of a toddler kicking up a tantrum. A very dangerous toddler.
The Lakelander queens and the Piedmont prince follow him almost reluctantly. Cal’s right. They’ll abandon Maven’s cause if the scales tip against him, if it becomes clear he can’t win the war. But will they shift to our side? I don’t think so. They’ll sit back and wait to strike. I find myself almost envying the Scarlet Guard and Montfort. Their alliance, at least, seems rooted in true loyalty and a common goal. Not like us Silvers. We might speak of peace, but peace isn’t what we’re built for. We fight always, in throne rooms or battlefields or even across the table of a family dinner. It’s what we are cursed to do.
I’m eager to get out of the circle of Silent Stone and breathe free air again. With a tug, I pull Ptolemus along with me, toward the winding path back to our dropjets. I’m careful to keep him close with General Farley so nearby, haunting his steps. A rat stalking a wolf, waiting for the sliver of opportunity.
As we get free of the Silent Stone, the cool relief of my ability comes rushing back. The pieces of metal in my jewelry, my hair, my teeth, tucked away all over my body, tingle against my perception. I reach for the medals on Maven, feeling them as they fade away. He’s truly leaving. Escaping the island as we are.
The war is far from won, and if my guesses are correct, both sides are evenly matched at present. Perfectly balanced. This could drag on for years. Leaving me unwed, a princess only, still free of a queen’s leash. I could go home for a few weeks, leave when Father gets here. Let him handle the chaos. Maybe steal away with Elane to some quiet place. The thought curls my toes.