“I watched babies die without seeing the sun. Without breathing fresh air. Slaves to your kind. Have you? When you have, then you can lecture me on perspective, Lord Jacos.” I turn from him. “Let me know when the prince finally picks a side. And if he picks the right one.”
Then I nod at Sara. “Ready to go again?”
TWELVE
Mare
Months ago, when the Silvers fled the Hall of the Sun, frightened by a Scarlet Guard attack on their precious ball, it was a united act. We left together, as one, heading downriver in succession to regroup in the capital. This is not the same.
Maven’s dismissals come in packs. I’m not privy to them, but I notice as the numbers dwindle. A few older advisers missing. The royal treasurer, some generals, members of various councils. Relieved of their posts, the rumors say. But I know better. They were close to Cal, close to his father. Maven is smart not to trust them, and ruthless in their removal. He doesn’t kill them or make them disappear. He’s not stupid enough to trigger another house war. But it’s a decisive move, to say the least. Sweeping away obstacles like pieces from a chess board. The results are feasts that look like mouths of missing teeth. Gaps appear, more with every passing day. Most of those asked to leave are older, men and women with ancient allegiances, who remember more and trust their new king less.
Some start to call it the Court of Children.
Many lords and ladies are gone, sent away by the king, but their sons and daughters are left behind. A request. A warning. A threat.
Hostages.
Not even House Merandus escapes his growing paranoia. Only House Samos remains in their entirety, not one of them falling prey to his tempestuous dismissals.
Those still here are devout in their loyalty. Or at least they make it look like it.
That’s probably why he summons me more now. Why I see so much of him. I’m the only one with loyalties he can trust. The only one he really knows.
He reads reports over our breakfast, eyes skimming back and forth with blistering speed. It’s useless to try to see what they are. He’s careful to keep them to his side of the table, turned over when finished, and well out of my reach. Instead of reading the reports, I have to read him. He doesn’t bother to surround himself with Silent Stone, not here in his private dining room. Even the Sentinels wait outside, posted at every door and on the other side of the tall windows. I see them, but they can’t hear us, as is Maven’s design. His uniform jacket is unbuttoned, his hair unkempt, and he doesn’t put on his crown this early in the morning. I think this is his little sanctuary, a place where he can trick himself into feeling safe.
He almost looks like the boy I imagined. A second prince, content with his place, unburdened by a crown that was never his.
Over the rim of my water glass, I watch every tick and flash across his face. Narrowed eyes, a tightening jaw. Bad news. The dark circles have returned, and while he eats enough for two people, tearing through the plates in front of us, he seems thinned by the days. I wonder if he has nightmares of the assassination attempt. Nightmares of his mother, dead by my hand. His father, dead by his action. His brother, in exile but a constant threat. Funny, Maven called himself Cal’s shadow, but Cal is the shadow now, haunting every corner of Maven’s fragile kingdom.
There are reports of the exiled prince everywhere, so prevalent that even I hear about them. They place him in Harbor Bay, Delphie, Rocasta; there’s even shaky intelligence hinting that he escaped across the border into the Lakelands. I honestly don’t know which, if any, of these rumors are true. He could be in Montfort for all I know. Gone to the safety of a faraway land.
Even though this is Maven’s palace, Maven’s world, I see Cal in it. The immaculate uniforms, drilling soldiers, flaming candles, gilded walls of portraits and house colors. An empty salon reminds me of dance lessons. If I glance at Maven from the corner of my eye, I can pretend. They’re half brothers after all. They share similar features. The dark hair, the elegant lines of a royal face. But Maven is paler, sharper, a skeleton in comparison, body and soul. He is hollowed out.
“You stare so much I wonder if you can read reflections in my eyes,” Maven suddenly muses aloud. He flips the page in front of him, hiding what it holds, as he looks up.
His attempt to startle me fails. Instead, I continue spreading an embarrassing amount of butter onto my toast. “If only I could see something in them,” I reply, meaning all things. “You’re an empty boy.”
He doesn’t flinch. “And you’re useless.”