I’ve never been to these doors before. But I can guess where they lead. Too grand to be for anyone but a king. White lacquered wood, silver and gold trim, inlaid with mother of pearl and ruby. Evangeline doesn’t knock this time and throws the doors open, only to find an opulent antechamber lined by six Sentinels. They bristle at our presence, hands straying to weapons, eyes sharp behind their glittering masks.
She doesn’t balk. “Tell the king Mare Barrow is here to see him.”
“The king is indisposed,” one answers. His voice trembles with power. A banshee. He could scream us both deaf if given the chance. “Be gone, Lady Samos.”
Evangeline shows no fear and runs a hand through her long silver braid. “Tell him,” she says again. She doesn’t have to drop her voice or snarl to be threatening. “He’ll want to know.”
My heart pounds in my chest. What is she doing? Why? The last time she decided to parade me around Whitefire, I ended up at the mercy of Samson Merandus, my mind split open for him to sift through. She has an agenda. She has motives. If only I knew what they were, so I could do the opposite.
One of the Sentinels breaks before she does. He is a broad man, his muscles evident even beneath the folds of his fiery robes. He inclines his face, the black jewels of his mask catching the light. “A moment, my lady.” I can’t stand Maven’s chambers. Just being here feels like stepping into quicksand. Plunging into the ocean, falling off a cliff. Send us away. Send us away.
The Sentinel returns quickly. When he waves off his comrades, my stomach drops. “This way, Barrow.” He beckons to me.
Evangeline gives me the slightest nudge, putting pressure on the base of my spine. Perfectly executed. I lurch forward.
“Just Barrow,” the Sentinel adds. He eyes the Arvens in succession.
They stay in place, letting me go. So does Evangeline. Her eyes darken, blacker than ever. I’m seized by the strange urge to grab her and bring her with me. Facing Maven alone, here, is suddenly terrifying.
The Sentinel, probably a Rhambos strongarm, doesn’t have to touch me to herd me in the proper direction. We cross through a sitting room flooded with sunlight, oddly empty and barely decorated. No house colors, no paintings or sculptures, or even books. Cal’s old room was cluttered, bursting with different types of armor, his precious manuals, even a game board. Pieces of him strewn everywhere. Maven is not his brother. He has no cause to perform, not here, and the room reflects the hollow boy he truly is inside.
His bed is strangely small. Built for a child, even though the room was clearly arranged to hold something much, much bigger. The walls of his bedroom are white, unadorned. The windows are the only decoration, overlooking a corner of Caesar’s Square, the Capital River, and the bridge I once helped destroy. It spans the water, connecting Whitefire to the eastern half of the city. Greenery bursts to life in every direction, peppered with blossoms.
Slowly, the Sentinel clears his throat. I glance at him and shiver when I realize he’s going to abandon me too. “That way,” he says, pointing at another set of doors.
It would be easier if someone dragged me. If the Sentinel put a gun to my head and made me walk through. Blaming my moving feet on another person would hurt less. Instead, it’s only me. Boredom. Morbid curiosity. The constant ache of pain and loneliness. I live in a shrinking world where the only thing I can trust is Maven’s obsession. Like the manacles, it is a shield and a slow, smothering death.
The doors swing inward, gliding over white marble tile. Steam spirals on the air. Not from the fire king himself, but hot water. It boils lazily around him, milky with soap and scented oils. Unlike his bed, the bath is large, standing on clawed silver feet. He rests an elbow on either side of the flawless porcelain, fingers trailing lazily through the swirling water.
Maven tracks me as I enter, his eyes electric and lethal. I’ve never seen him so off guard and so angry. A smarter girl would turn and run. Instead, I shut the door behind me.
There are no seats, so I remain standing. I’m not sure where to look, so I focus on his face. His hair is mussed, soaking wet. Dark curls cling to his skin.
“I’m busy,” he whispers.
“You didn’t have to let me in.” I wish I could call back the words as soon as I speak them.
“Yes I did,” he says, meaning all things. Then he blinks, breaking his stare. He leans back, tipping his head against the porcelain so he can stare up at the ceiling. “What do you need?”
A way out, forgiveness, a good night’s sleep, my family. The list stretches, endless.