As before, he sits on his throne of gray stone slabs, both hands clawed to the armrests. Sentinels have his back, lining the wall behind him, while Evangeline takes his left, standing proud. She glitters, a lethal star, with a cape and slashed gown of intricate silver scales. Her brother, Ptolemus, matches in a new suit of armor, close as a guardian for both his sister and the king. Another bitterly familiar face holds Maven’s right. He does not wear armor. He does not need armor. His mind is weapon and shield enough.
Samson Merandus grins at me, a vision in dark blue and white lace, colors I hate above all others. Even silver. I am a butcher, he warned me before my interrogation. He was not lying. I will never fully recover from the way he carved me up: a pig on a hook, bled dry.
Maven notes my appearance, pleased with it. The same Skonos healer attempted to do something with my hair, pulling it back into a neat tail while swiping a bit of makeup across my frazzled features. She didn’t take long, but I wish she’d lingered. Her touch was cool and soothing, fixing up whatever bruises I earned in my doomed escape.
I feel no fear as I approach, walking before the eyes of dozens of Silvers. There are far worse things to be afraid of. Like the cameras ahead, for example. They aren’t trained on me yet, but they will be soon. I can hardly stomach the thought.
Maven stops us short with a single gesture, holding up his palm. The Arvens know what it means and peel away, leaving me to walk the last few yards by myself. That’s when the cameras switch on. To show me walking alone, unguarded, unleashed, a free Red standing with Silvers. The image will be broadcast everywhere, to everyone I love, and anyone I could ever hope to protect. This simple action might be enough to doom dozens of newbloods, and strike a heavy blow against the Scarlet Guard.
“Come forward, Mare.”
That is Maven’s voice. Not Maven, but Maven. The boy I thought I knew. Gentle, tender. He keeps that voice stored away, ready to be drawn and used against me like a sword. It strikes me to my core, as he knows it will. In spite of myself, I feel the familiar longing for a boy who does not exist.
My footsteps echo on the marble. In Protocol, the late Lady Blonos tried to teach me how to hold my face at court. Her ideal expression was cold, emotionless, beyond unfeeling. I am none of those things, and I fight the urge to slip behind such a mask. Instead, I try to school my features into something that will both satisfy Maven and somehow let the country know this is not my choice at all. A hard line to walk.
Still grinning, Samson takes a step sideways, leaving space next to the throne. I shiver at the intention, but do as I must. I take Maven’s right side.
What a picture this must be. Evangeline in silver, me in red, with the king in black between.
SEVEN
Cameron
The so-called “lightning alert” echoes through the main floor of Irabelle, up and down the scaffolded landings, back and forth between passages. Runners go out, seeking those of us deemed important enough to get updates on Mare. Usually I’m not a priority. No one drags me down to be debriefed with the rest of her club. The kids find me later on, at work, and hand me a paper detailing whatever snippets the Guard spies gathered on precious Barrow’s cell time. Useless stuff. What she ate, her guard rotation, that kind of thing. But today the runner, a little girl with slick, straight black hair and russet skin, tugs on my arm.
“Lightning alert, Miss Cole. Come with me,” she says, adamant and cloying.
I want to snap that my priority is to get the heat working in my barracks, not find out how many times Mare used the bathroom today, but her sweet face stops the impulse. Farley must’ve sent the cutest bleeding kid in the base. Damn her.
“All right, I’ll go,” I huff, tossing my tools back into their case. When she takes my hand, I’m reminded of Morrey. He’s shorter than I am, and back when we were kids working the assembly line, he used to hold my hand when the noisy machines frightened him. But this little girl shows no signs of fear.
She pulls me through curling passages, proud of herself for knowing which way to go. I frown at the red scrap tied around her wrist. She’s too young to be oathed to rebels, let alone living in their tactical headquarters. But then, I was sent to work when I was five, sorting scrap from the junk piles. She’s twice that age.
I open my mouth to ask what brought her here, but think better of it. Her parents, obviously, either by their life’s choices or their life’s ending. I wonder where they might be. Just like I wonder about mine.
Passages 4 and 5 and Sub 7 need wire stripping. Barracks A needs heat. I repeat the always-growing list of tasks to dull the sudden pain. My own parents fade from my thoughts as I push away their faces. Daddy driving a transport truck, his hands sure as ever on the wheel. Mama in the factory alongside me, quicker than I’ll ever be. She was sick when we left, her hair thinning while her dark skin seemed to gray. I almost choke on the memory. Both of them are out of my reach. But Morrey isn’t. Morrey I can get to.