In his seat, Maven sneers. Almost being murdered doesn’t seem to rattle him. “No, this was not the Scarlet Guard’s doing. They don’t work like this.”
“You don’t know that,” Daraeus snaps, forgetting all his manners and smiles. “You don’t know anything about them, no matter what you might say. If the Scarlet Guard has allied with—”
“Corrupted,” Evangeline snaps from her place behind Maven’s left shoulder. She doesn’t have a council seat or a title of her own and has to stand, despite the many empty chairs. “Gods do not ally with insects, but they can be infected by them.”
“Pretty words from a pretty girl,” Daraeus says, dismissing her outright. She fumes. “What of the rest?”
At Maven’s gesture, the next interrogation begins in earnest. A Haven shadow, grasped tightly by Trio himself to keep the woman from fleeing. Without her ability, she seems dim, an echo of her beautiful house. Her red hair is darker, duller, without its usual scarlet gleam. When Samson puts a hand to her temple, she shrieks.
“Her thoughts are of her sister,” Samson says without any feeling. Except maybe boredom. “Elane.”
I saw her only hours ago, gliding around Evangeline’s salon. She gave no indication that she knew of an impending assassination. But no good schemer would.
Maven knows it too. He glares at Evangeline, seething. “I’m told Lady Elane escaped with the majority of her house, fleeing the capital,” he says. “Do you have any idea where they might have gone, my dearest?”
She keeps her eyes forward, walking a quickly thinning line. Even with her father and brother so close, I don’t think anyone could save her from Maven’s wrath if he felt inclined to unleash it. “No, why would I?” she says airily, examining her clawlike nails.
“Because she was your brother’s betrothed and your whore,” the king replies, matter-of-fact.
If she’s ashamed or even apologetic, Evangeline does not show it. “Oh, that.” She even scoffs, taking the accusation in stride. “How could she learn much of anything from me? You conspire so well to keep me from councils and politics. If anything, she did you a favor in keeping me pleasantly occupied.”
Their bickering reminds me of another king and another queen: Maven’s parents, fighting after the Scarlet Guard attacked a party at the Hall of the Sun. Each ripping at the other, leaving deep wounds to be exploited later.
“Then submit to interrogation, Evangeline, and we’ll see,” he fires back, pointing with one jeweled hand.
“No daughter of mine will ever do such a thing,” Volo rumbles, though it hardly seems a threat. Merely a fact. “She had no part in this, and she defended you with her own life. Without Evangeline’s and my son’s quick action—well, even to say it is treason.” The old patriarch pulls a frown, wrinkling his white skin, as if the thought is so disgusting. As if he wouldn’t celebrate if Maven died. “Long live the king.”
In the center of the floor, the Haven woman snarls, trying to shove off Trio. He holds firm, keeping her on her knees. “Yes, long live the king!” she says, glaring at us. “Tiberias the Seventh! Long live the king!”
Cal.
Maven stands, slamming his fists against the arms of his seat. I expect the room to burn, but no fire springs to life. It can’t. Not while he sits on Silent Stone. His eyes are the only thing aflame. And then, slowly, with a manic grin, he begins to laugh.
“All this . . . for him?” he says, smirking. “My brother murdered the king, our father, helped murder my mother, and now he tries to murder me. Samson, if you would continue”—he inclines his head in his cousin’s direction—“I have no mercy or remorse for traitors. Especially stupid ones.”
The rest turn to watch the interrogation continue, to listen to the Haven woman as she spouts secrets of her faction, their goals, their plans. To replace Maven with his brother. To make Cal king as he was born to be. To return things to the way they were.
Through it all, I stare at the boy on the throne. He maintains his mask. Jaw clenched, lips pressed into a thin, unforgiving line. Still fingers, straight back. But his gaze wavers. Something in his eyes has gone far away. And at his collar, the slightest gray flush rises, painting his neck and the tips of his ears.
He’s terrified.
For a second, it makes me happy. Then I remember—monsters are most dangerous when they’re afraid.
ELEVEN
Cameron