Too bad.
I keep my head bowed, hiding my face from the cameras. The rush of blood roars in my ears, hammering in time with my heart. I feel nauseous; I feel sick. Run! I scream in my head, even though no newblood could escape the throne room now. I look anywhere but at Maven and the newbloods, anywhere but at the invisible cage drawing in around them. My eyes land on Evangeline, only to find her staring back at me. She isn’t smirking for once. Her face is blank, empty. She has much more practice at this than I do.
My nails are ragged, cuticles picked raw during long nights of worry and longer days of this painless torture. The Skonos healer who makes me look healthy always forgets to check my hands. I hope anyone watching the broadcasts does not.
Next to me, the king keeps at this horrid display. “Well?”
Four newbloods present themselves, each one more nervous than the last. Their abilities are often met with astonished gasps or harried whispers. It feels like a grim mirror to Queenstrial. Instead of performing their abilities for a bridal crown, the newbloods are performing for their lives, to earn what they think is sanctuary at Maven’s side. I try not to watch, but find my eyes straying out of pity and fear.
The first, a heavyset woman with biceps to rival Cal’s, tentatively walks through a wall. Just straight through, as if the gilded wood and ornate molding were air. At Maven’s fascinated encouragement, she then does the same to a Sentinel guard. He flinches, the only indication of humanity behind his black mask, but is otherwise unharmed. I have no idea how her ability works at all, and I think of Julian. He’s with the Scarlet Guard too, and hopefully watching every one of these broadcasts. If the Colonel allows it, that is. He’s not exactly a fan of my Silver friends.
Two old men follow the woman, white-haired veterans with faraway eyes and broad shoulders. Their abilities are familiar to me. The shorter one with missing teeth is like Ketha, one of the newbloods I recruited months ago. Though she could explode an object or person with thought alone, she did not survive our raid on Corros Prison. She hated her ability. It is bloody and violent. Even though the newblood man only destroys a chair, blinking it to splinters, he doesn’t look happy about it either. His friend is soft-spoken, introducing himself as Terrance before telling us he can manipulate sound. Like Farrah. Another recruit of mine. She did not come to Corros. I hope she is still alive.
The last is another woman, probably my mother’s age, her braided black hair streaked with gray. She is graceful in movement, approaching the king with the quiet, elegant strides of a well-trained servant. Like Ada, like Walsh, like me once. Like so many of us were and still are. When she bows, she bows low.
“Your Majesty,” she murmurs, her voice soft and unassuming as a summer breeze. “I am Halley, a servant of House Eagrie.”
Maven gestures for her to rise, donning his false smile. She does as commanded. “You were a servant of House Eagrie,” he says gently. Then he nods over her shoulder, finding the commanding head of Eagrie in the small crowd. “My thanks, Lady Mellina, for bringing her to safety.”
The tall, bird-faced woman is already curtsying, knowing the words before he speaks them. As an eye, she can see the immediate future, and I assume she saw her servant’s ability before her servant even realized what she was.
“Well, Halley?”
Her eyes flick to mine for a single moment. I hope I hold up under her scrutiny. But she isn’t looking for my fear, or what I hide beneath my mask. Her eyes turn faraway, seeing through and seeing nothing at the same time.
“She can control and create electricity, great and small,” Halley says. “You have no name for this ability.”
Then she looks at Jon. The same look slides over her. “He sees fate. As far as its path goes, for as long as a person walks it. You have no name for this ability.”
Maven narrows his eyes, wondering, and I loathe myself for feeling the same way he does.
But she keeps going, staring and speaking as she turns.
“She can control metal materials through the manipulation of magnetic fields. Magnetron.”
“Whisper.”
“Shadow.”
“Magnetron.”
“Magnetron.”
Down she goes through the line of Maven’s advisers, pointing and naming their abilities with little difficulty. Maven leans forward, quizzical, head tipped to one side in animal curiosity. He watches closely, barely blinking. Many think him stupid without his mother, not a military genius like his brother, so what is he good for? They forget that strategy is not only for the battlefield.