Slowly, I put my arms around her shoulders, hugging her close. I tell myself not to flinch at the feel of her skin. She can control it, I tell myself. She won’t let her silence touch you. “Thanks for being here,” I tell her. I mean it.
She nods tightly, her chin brushing the top of my head. So damn tall. Either she’s still growing or I’ve started shrinking. Even money on both.
“Now tell me where here is,” I add, pulling back. “And what the hell I’ve been missing.”
She ducks her chin, gesturing toward the tail of the plane. Like the old Blackrun, this airjet features a ramp entrance. It lowers with a pneumatic hiss. Healer Reese leads the others out, and we follow, a few paces behind. I tense as we go, not knowing what to expect outside.
“We’re a lucky bunch,” Cameron says. “We get to see what Piedmont looks like.”
“Piedmont?” I glance at Cal, unable to hide my shock or my confusion.
He rolls his shoulders. Discomfort flashes across his face. “I wasn’t aware until this was planned. They didn’t tell us much.”
“They never do.” That’s how the Guard works, how it keeps ahead of Silvers like Samson or Elara. People know exactly what they need to, and nothing more. It takes a lot of faith, or stupidity, to follow orders like that.
I walk down the ramp, each step lighter than the last. Without the deadweight of manacles, I feel like I could fly. The other Guardsmen keep on ahead of us and join in with a crowd of other soldiers.
“The Piedmont branch of the Scarlet Guard, right? Big branch, by the looks of it.”
“What do you mean?” Cal mutters in my ear. Over his shoulder, Cameron eyes us both, equally puzzled. I glance between them, searching for the right thing to say. I choose the truth.
“That’s why we’re in Piedmont. The Guard has been operating here as in Norta and the Lakelands.” The words of the Piedmont princes, Daraeus and Alexandret, echo in my mind.
Cal holds my gaze for a moment, before turning to look at Cameron. “You’re close to Farley. You hear anything about this?”
Cameron taps her lip. “She never mentioned it. I doubt she knows. Or has clearance to tell me.”
Their tones change. Sharper, all business. They don’t like each other. On Cameron’s end, I understand. On Cal’s? He was raised a prince. Even the Scarlet Guard can’t scrub away every inch of brat.
“Is my family here?” I sharpen too. “Do you know that, at least?”
“Of course,” Cal replies. He’s not a good liar, and I see no lie in him now. “I was assured of it. They came from Trial with the rest of the Colonel’s team.”
“Good. I’m going to see them as soon as possible.”
The Piedmont air is hot, heavy, sticky. Like the deepest hole of summer, even though it’s only spring. I’ve never started sweating so quickly. Even the breeze is warm, offering no respite as it rolls across the flat, hot concrete. The landing field is awash with floodlights, so bright it almost crowds out the stars. In the distance, more jets line up. Some are forest green, same as the ones I saw in Caesar’s Square. Airjets like the Blackrun, as well as bigger cargo craft. Montfort, I realize as the dots connect in my brain. The white triangle on their wings is their mark. I saw it before, back at Tuck on crates of equipment and on the twins’ uniforms. Peppered in with the Montfort crafts are deep blue jets, as well as yellow-and-white ones, their wings painted in stripes. The first are Lakelander, the second from Piedmont itself. Everything around us is well-organized and, judging by hangars and outbuildings, well funded.
Clearly, we’re on a military base, and not the kind the Scarlet Guard is used to.
Both Cal and Cameron look just as surprised as I do.
“I just spent six months a prisoner, and you’re telling me I know more about our operations than the both of you?” I scoff at them.
Cal looks sheepish. He’s a general; he’s Silver; he was born a prince. Being confused and helpless deeply unsettles him.
Cameron just bristles. “Took you just a few hours to regain your self-righteousness. Must be a new record.”
She’s right, and it stings. I hurry to catch her, Cal at my side. “I just—sorry. I thought this would be easier.”
A hand at the small of my back bleeds warmth, soothing my muscles. “What do you know that we don’t?” Cal asks, his voice achingly gentle. Part of me wants to shake him out of it. I’m not a doll—not Maven’s doll, no one’s—and I’m in control again. I don’t need to be handled. But the rest relishes his tender treatment. It’s better than anything I’ve experienced in so long.