“Happy to be home?”
I’m equally startled by someone speaking to me and by exactly who is speaking to me.
I resist the deep urge to bow, keeping my spine straight as I stop to face her. The Arvens halt as well, close enough to grab me if they have to. I feel a ripple of their ability draining bits of my energy. Her own guards are just as on edge, their attentions on the hall around us. I suppose they still think of Archeon and Norta as enemy territory.
“Princess,” I reply. The title tastes sour, but I don’t see much use in directly antagonizing yet another one of Maven’s betrotheds.
Her traveling outfit is deceptively plain. Just leggings and a dark blue jacket, cinched at the waist to better show her hourglass figure. No jewelry, no crown. Her hair is simple, pulled back into a single black braid. She could pass for a normal Silver. Wealthy, but not royal. Even her face remains neutral. No smile, no sneer. No judgment of the lightning girl in her chains. Compared to the nobles I’ve known, it makes for a jarring contrast and an inconvenient one. I know nothing about her. For all I know, she could be worse than Evangeline. Or even Elara. I have no idea who this young woman is, or what she thinks of me. It makes me uneasy.
And Iris can tell.
“No, I would think not,” she pushes on. “Walk with me?”
She puts out a hand, crooking it in invitation. There is a decent chance my eyes bug out of my head. But I do as she asks. She sets a quick but not impossible pace, forcing both sets of guards to follow us through the entrance hall.
“Despite the name, Whitefire seems a cold place.” Iris looks up at the ceiling. The chandeliers reflect in her gray eyes, making them starry. “I would not want to be imprisoned here.”
I scoff deep in my throat. The poor fool is about to be Maven’s queen. I can think of no worse prison than that.
“Something funny, Mare Barrow?” she purrs.
“Nothing, Your Highness.”
Her eyes rove over me. They linger on my wrists, at the long sleeves hiding my manacles. Slowly, she touches one and draws in a breath. Despite the Silent Stone and the instinctive fear it inspires, she doesn’t flinch. “My father keeps pets as well. Perhaps it’s something kings do.”
Months ago, I would have snapped at her. I’m not a pet. But she isn’t wrong. Instead, I shrug. “I haven’t met enough kings to know.”
“Three kings for a Red girl born to poor nothings. One must wonder if the gods love or hate you.”
I don’t know whether to laugh or sneer. “There are no gods.”
“Not in Norta. Not for you.” Her expression softens. She glances over her shoulder, at the many courtiers and nobles as they mill about. Most don’t bother to hide their ogling. If it annoys her, she doesn’t show it. “I wonder if they can hear me in a godless place like this. There isn’t even a temple. I must ask Maven to build me one.”
Many strange people have passed through my life. But all of them have pieces I can understand. Emotions I know, dreams, fears. I blink at Princess Iris and realize that the more she speaks, the more confusing she becomes. She seems intelligent, strong, self-assured, but why would a person like that agree to marry such an obvious monster? Certainly she sees him for what he is. And it can’t be blind ambition driving her here. She’s a princess already, daughter of a king. What does she want? Or did she even have a choice? Her talk of gods is even more confusing. We have no such beliefs. How can we?
“Are you memorizing my face?” she asks quietly as I try to read her. I get the sense she is doing the same, observing me like I’m a complicated piece of art. “Or simply trying to steal a few more moments outside a locked room? If the latter, I do not blame you. If the former, I have a feeling you’ll be seeing a great deal of me, and I of you.”
From anyone else, it might sound like a threat. But I don’t think Iris cares enough about me for that. At least she doesn’t seem the jealous type. That would require her to have any sort of feeling for Maven, something I sorely doubt.
“Take me to the throne room.”
My lips twitch, wanting to smile. Usually the people here make requests that are truly iron commands. Iris is the opposite. Her command sounds like a question. “Fine,” I mutter, letting my feet guide us. The Arvens don’t dare try to pull me away. Iris Cygnet is not Evangeline Samos. Crossing her could be considered an act of war. I can’t help smirking over my shoulder at Trio and Egg. Both glower back. Their irritation makes me grin, even through the itch of my scars.