Elane is no stranger to my tears. That doesn’t mean I enjoy crying in front of her, or showing weakness of any kind. To anyone. For as brutal as the Nortan court was, I understood it. It was a game I played well, shielded by my jewels and armor and family, all as fearsome as any other. Not anymore.
I wasn’t there; I didn’t see him die. But I heard enough of the whispers to know the ending he met, and I dream of it anyway. Almost every night, I wake up with that image in my head. Volo Samos, striding across the battlefield, stepping onto the bridge. His dark eyes are glazed and faraway. Julian Jacos sang to him, and sent him walking to his death. I still wonder if he knew. If he was trapped inside his own head, watching as the edge came closer and closer.
Every time, I see my father’s body smashed against a Lakelander ship. His skull cracked open. Fingers still twitching. Silver blood running freely from a dozen wounds. The picture changes sometimes. Spine broken. Legs twisted. Guts spilling. Armor shattered. Sometimes he explodes into dust and ashes. I always wake up before the Lakelander queens reach him, or the river swallows him whole.
We think the Lakelanders kept his corpse. He wasn’t in the river when our own nymphs dredged the water looking for survivors. Cenra and Iris kept his body for reasons I cannot fathom, speeding away to their distant kingdom with my father rotting between them.
“Nymph bitch,” I mutter under my breath, echoing the words of a long-dead king. It helps a little, even if my anger is misplaced. Iris Cygnet didn’t kill my father. I don’t even think I could blame Julian for it. Only one person still living carries that burden.
I knew it was coming, and I did nothing.
My fingers comb through my hair, pulling the roots. The familiar sting clears my mind a little, chasing off the deeper pain.
Shaking my head, I try to take stock of my surroundings. Davidson’s palatial compound isn’t as large as Whitefire Palace, but the estate is more winding, and it’s still easy to get lost. Good. Like the rest of the rooms, this distant hall has polished wood floors, river-stone accents, and dark green walls. A nearby bank of windows looks out on thick pine forest standing sentinel above Ascendant. The sun dips lower with every passing second. I feel so much as hear the clock ticking on a small table nearby. Certainly Ptolemus will go before sunset. No pilot wants to take off from the mountains in darkness.
Since I’ve been effectively chased from Carmadon’s garden, and now from my own chambers, I’m faced with a choice and two very different forms of distraction. Namely, the kitchens or the gymnasium. My heart tugs toward food. Carmadon might be a busybody, but he’s a splendid cook, and his kitchen staff are just as talented as he is. Unfortunately, the kitchens will be busy with servants and probably Carmadon himself, overseeing his next interrogation disguised as a dinner party.
I shudder at the thought. There’s supposed to be some kind of gala soon, a celebration, though the war in the east is far from done. What we could be celebrating I’m not sure, but it will certainly be a spectacle. Davidson’s doing, I know. He’ll invite delegates from the Nortan States, both Red and Silver, as well as members of his own government and the Scarlet Guard representatives who can be spared from their positions. Some have already been back and forth, but I wager he’ll try to get as much of the alliance in one room as he can. He does love the false image of a united front. Red, Silver, newblood, alike in goals and allegiance.
Maybe in a decade, I scoff to myself. There is much still to be done, to make Davidson’s dream come true. The Lakelands stand directly in the way, alongside Piedmont, Prairie, and too many other obstacles to name.
I wonder if I’ll have a part in it. If I want to have a part in it.
Enough, Evangeline.
That settles it. I need the gymnasium. My brain is too much of a mess to do anything but hit something big and heavy.
The training arenas of Norta were sterile places. White walls, glass enclosures, padded obstacle courses. Rigid and perfect, with healers on hand to tend even the smallest of injuries. The training arena in the Ridge was similar, though ours at least had a view of the surrounding landscape. I spent hours in those places, drilling myself to military perfection. It isn’t difficult to fall back into an old routine.
Montfort favors the outdoors and fresh air. They probably think it makes them hardier, training in the dirt and snow. The training compound on the estate is near the armory, made of a collection of small buildings surrounding a circular track, itself a makeshift arena for sparring.
After changing into my lightweight gear, I start with a warm-up run. Pine trees cast long shadows across the empty track.
When I first came here, it was harder than I realized it would be to push through a run. The altitude gets to everyone, and I spent a good week gulping water whenever I could, trying to stave off dehydration. Eventually we adjusted, though Elane took a bit longer. She’s still generous with moisturizers and balms to combat the dry air.
Now I barely feel the strain. This place makes you stronger, in more ways than one.
After thirty minutes, with my pulse surging in my ears, I slow to a walk, sweat cooling my skin. It makes me shiver.
I whirl at the distant feel of copper, adrenaline surging through my veins. In spite of my pride, I almost take off running.
“Ptolemus,” I mutter.
My brother picks his way across the compound, that same copper disc tucked away in his belt. A beacon, an anchor. A piece of metal that means we will never lose sight of each other on the battlefield. He wore it today, not because we’re going to war together, but because he wants me to feel him approaching. He wants to give me a chance to run away.
I grit my teeth and set my feet.
I owe him this much.
Technically, my brother is a king now. The second my father’s skull smashed on a ship deck, Tolly became King Ptolemus of the Rift, though none of us will ever acknowledge it. He looks like a shadow today, his silver hair plastered back, his body clad entirely in black. Not court clothing, or even something suitable for travel. As he gets closer, I realize he’s wearing a training suit like mine. Black leather, silver detailing. Enough stretch to move, but firm enough to blunt a blow. He’s ready to fight.
“Afternoon, Eve,” he says, his voice neither soft nor hard.
I can’t help but sigh, exasperated. At this point, I think I should just carry around a sign with I’M NOT GOING written on it.
“Is everyone following me? Are you all taking turns? Well, okay, Tolly, here’s your chance.”
The corner of his lips twitches, betraying the urge to smile. He glances at the trees. “You saw Wren already?”
“Wren?” I scoff. My stomach twists at the thought of facing down yet another person trying to sway me from my decision. Tolly’s girlfriend won’t press as much as the others, at least. “No, I haven’t seen her yet. But I’ve already gone through Elane and Carmadon. I think they rehearsed.”
“Elane maybe. Carmadon definitely.” Tolly chuckles, putting his hands on his hips. His stance broadens, highlighting the width of his shoulders. It makes him look like Cal. Just another soldier in the grand scheme of our mess. “I take it they didn’t have much luck.”
I raise my chin, defiant. “They did not. You won’t either.”
He doesn’t seem deterred. “I’m not here to try.”