We’re behind schedule, but only by a few minutes. In the chaos, it will take hours before anyone in Maven’s court realizes House Samos has disappeared. I don’t doubt other houses will take the same opportunity, like rats fleeing a sinking ship. Maven is not the only person with an escape plan. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if every house has one of its own. The court is a powder keg with an increasingly short fuse and a spitfire king. You’d have to be an idiot not to expect an explosion.
Father felt the winds shift the moment Maven stopped listening to him, as soon as it became clear that allying to the Calore king would be our downfall. Without Elara, no one could hold Maven’s leash. Not even my father. And then the Scarlet Guard rabble became more organized, a real threat rather than an inconvenience. They seemed to grow with each passing day. Operating in Piedmont and the Lakelands, whispers of an alliance with Montfort far to the west. They’re much larger than anyone anticipated, better organized and more determined than any insurrection in memory. All the while, my wretched betrothed lost his grip. On the throne, on his sanity, on anything but Mare Barrow.
He tried to let her go, or so Elane told me. Maven knew as well as any of us what a danger his obsession would become. Kill her. Be done. Be rid of her poison, he used to mutter. Elane listened undetected, quiet in her corner of his private quarters. The words were only words. He could never part with her. So it was easy to push her into his path—and push him off course. The equivalent of waving a red flag in front of a bull. She was his hurricane, and every nudge pulled him deeper into the eye of the storm. I thought she was an easy tool to use. A distracted king makes for a more powerful queen.
But Maven shut me out of a place that was rightfully mine. He didn’t know to look for Elane. My lovely, invisible shadow. Her reports came later, under the cover of night. They were very thorough. I feel them still, whispered against my skin with only the moon to listen. Elane Haven is the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen in any capacity, but she looks best in moonlight.
After Queenstrial, I promised her a consort’s crown. But that dream disappeared with Prince Tiberias, as most dreams do with the harsh break of day. Whore. That’s what Maven called her after the attempt on his life. I almost killed him where he stood.
I shake my head, refocusing on the task at hand. Elane can wait. Elane is waiting, just as my parents promised. Safe in our home, tucked away in the Rift.
The back courtyards of Archeon open onto flourishing gardens, which in turn are bounded by the palace walls. A few wrought-iron fences ward the flowers and shrubbery. Good for spears. The wall and garden patrols used to be guards of many different house—Laris windweavers, silks of Iral, vigilant Eagrie eyes—but things have changed in recent months. Laris and Iral stand in opposition to Maven’s rule, alongside House Haven. And with a battle raging, the king himself in danger, the other palace guards are scattered. I look up through the greenery, magnolia and cherry blossoms bright against the dark sky. Figures in black prowl the diamondglass ramparts.
Only House Samos remains to man the wall.
“Cousins of iron!”
They snap toward my voice, responding in kind.
“Cousins of steel!”
Sweat trickles down my neck as the wall looms closer. From fear, from exertion. Only a few more yards. In preparation, I thicken the pearly metal of my boots, hardening my last steps.
“Can you get yourself up?” I ask Ptolemus, reaching for Wren as I speak.
With a groan, he swings off the stretcher, forcing himself onto unsteady feet. “I’m not a child, Eve; I can cover thirty feet.” To prove his point, the black steel re-forms to his body in sleek scales.
If we had more time, I would point out the weaknesses in his usually perfect armor. Holes at the sides, thinning across the back. Instead, I only nod. “You first.”
He lifts a corner of his mouth, trying to smirk, trying to lessen my concern. I exhale in relief as he rises into the air, rocketing up to the ramparts of the wall. Our cousins above catch him deftly, drawing him in with their own ability.
“Our turn.”
Wren clings to my side, safe beneath my arm. I haul in a breath, holding on to the feel of the rhodium metal curving beneath my toes, up my legs, over my shoulders. Rise, I tell my armor.
Pop.
The first sensation my father made me memorize was a bullet. I slept with one around my neck for two years. Until it became as familiar to me as my colors. I can name rounds from a hundred yards. Know their weight, their shape, their composition. Such a small piece of metal is the difference between another person’s life and my death. It could be my killer, or my savior.