Disgust curls in my stomach. I’m seized by the image of me parading through the country, a few steps behind Maven, always at his beck and call. On-screen, in front of cameras, it feels degrading, but in person? Before crowds of people like the ones in the town? I may not survive it. Somehow I think I would prefer the prison of Whitefire.
Maven clasps hands with the governor, his smile spreading into something that could pass for genuine. He’s good at the act, I’ll give him that. “Of course, Cyrus, I could think of no better place to start. Heron speaks so highly of you,” he adds, waving her to his side.
She steps quickly, eyes flashing to her father. A look of relief passes between them. Like everything Maven does, her presence is a careful manipulation and a message.
“Shall we?” Maven gestures to the mansion. He sets off, making the rest of us keep up. The governor hurries to flank Maven, still trying to at least look like he has some manner of control here.
Inside, droves of Red servants line the walls in their best uniforms, their shoes polished and eyes on the floor. None look at me, and I keep to myself, musing instead on the governor’s mansion. I expected greenwarden artistry and I am not disappointed. Flowers of every kind dominate the foyer, blooming from crystal vases, painted on the walls, molded on the ceiling, worked in glass in the chandeliers or in stone mosaic on the floor. The smell should be overwhelming. Instead, it’s intoxicating, calming with every breath. I inhale deeply, allowing myself this one small pleasure.
More of House Welle wait to greet the king, falling over themselves to bow or curtsy or compliment Maven on everything from his laws to his shoes. As he suffers them all, Evangeline joins us, having already discarded her furs with some poor servant.
I tense as she pauses next to me. All the greenery reflects in her clothing, giving her a sickly hue. With a jolt, I realize her father isn’t here. He usually hovers between her and Maven at events like this, quick to step in when her temper threatens to boil over. But he isn’t here now.
Evangeline says nothing, content to stare at Maven’s back. I watch her watch him. Her fist clenches when the governor leans to whisper in Maven’s ear. Then he beckons to one of the Silvers waiting, a tall, thin woman with jet-black hair, swooping cheekbones, and cool, ocher skin. If she’s part of House Welle, she doesn’t look it. Not a scrap of green on her. Instead, her clothes are gray-blue. The woman bows her head stiffly, careful to keep her eyes on Maven’s face. His demeanor changes, his smile widening for an instant. He mutters something back, his head bobbing in excitement. I catch a single word.
“Now,” he says. The governor and the woman oblige.
They walk away together, Sentinels in tow. I glance at the Arvens, wondering if we’re meant to go too, but they don’t move.
Evangeline doesn’t either. And for whatever reason, her shoulders droop and her body relaxes. Some weight has fallen away.
“Stop staring at me,” she snaps, knocking me from my observations.
I drop my head, letting her win this small, insignificant exchange. And I continue to wonder. What does she know? What does she see that I don’t?
As the Arvens lead me away to whatever my cell for the evening may be, my heart sinks in my chest. I left Julian’s books in Whitefire. Nothing will comfort me tonight.
FOURTEEN
Mare
Before my capture, I spent months crisscrossing the country, evading Maven’s hunters and recruiting newbloods. I slept on a dirt floor, ate what we could steal, spent all my waking hours either feeling too much or too little, trying my best to stay ahead of all our demons. I didn’t handle the pressure well. I shut down and shut out my friends, my family, everyone close to me. Anyone who wanted to help or understand. Of course I regret it. Of course I wish I could go back to the Notch, to Cal and Kilorn and Farley and Shade. I would do things differently. I would be different.
Sadly, no Silver or newblood can change the past. My mistakes cannot be undone, forgotten, or ignored. But I can make amends. I can do something now.
I’ve seen Norta, but as an outlaw. From the shadows. The view from Maven’s side, as part of his extensive entourage, is like the difference between night and day. I shiver beneath my coat, hands clasped together for warmth. Between the crushing power of the Arvens and my manacles, I’m more susceptible to the temperature. Despite my hatred for him, I find myself inching closer to Maven, if only to take advantage of his constant heat. On his other side, Evangeline does the opposite, keeping her distance. She focuses more on Governor Welle than the king, and mutters to him occasionally, her voice low enough not to disturb Maven’s speech.