“Scarlet Guard,” I breathe, noting the torn crimson sun stamped on the side of the lead craft. The other might as well be dripping fresh paint. Its tail is marked with a new emblem. Three circles linked together—one red, one silver, one white. For each kind of blood. Woven as equals. “And the Nortan States.”
I know exactly who will be waiting for us at Ridge House, standing in the shell of my old life.
Normally the drive from the airfield to the estate is too long, but today I wish it wouldn’t end. We summit the rolling hills in what feels like a few seconds, with the familiar gates of the old palace looming through the trees. I lower my eyes as we pass through, unable to glance at the imposing façade of glass and steel.
I could shut my eyes if I wanted, and navigate the halls without any difficulty. It would be easy to walk to the throne room without even looking up. A coward would do it.
Instead I barely blink, and let everyone see me as I step down into the wide, leafy courtyard. A stream runs through, winding beneath fluid iron bridges as it tumbles from the spring near the center of Ridge House. The flowers and trees are the same as I remember, unchanged but for the brush of autumn’s fire. I glimpse familiar walls through the plant life, and instinctively remember the rooms looking down on the receiving courtyard. Guest chambers, the servant halls, galleries, guardrooms, a statuary. Nothing looks amiss. War has not reached the Ridge. It seems we have stepped back in time.
But that isn’t true. Before my father died, there were only Silvers flanking the doors. Warriors loyal to House Samos. Now there is only Scarlet Guard. Their crimson and cardinal scarves hang proudly, impossible to ignore. They watch, hard-eyed, as we approach.
The Montfort delegates are first to enter Ridge House, leading us all in their white or forest-green clothing. Their own guards are meant for us as well, and they are attentive as we walk. Some are Reds; some are newbloods; some are Silvers. All are armed in their own way, ready to fight should the need arise. I pity anyone who decides to attack Ptolemus and me here, in a place we know so well. There is no sense in fighting a magnetron in a palace made of steel. Even my Samos cousins would not try. They might be stupid enough to attempt a coup in my name, but they aren’t suicidal.
The air inside Ridge House tastes stale and old, shocking me from my ruminations. While the Ridge itself is intact, I immediately see the decay all around us. Even in a few months’ time so much has changed. Dust coats the usually pristine walls. Most of the rooms branching off the entrance hall are dark. My home, or this part of it, is abandoned.
Elane grips my hand tightly, her touch cool against mine. I’m suddenly aware of the flush crawling beneath my skin, making me sweat. I squeeze back, grateful for her presence.
Cords of wire almost blend into the stonework beneath our feet, winding through the shadows at the base of the wall to my left. It leads to the throne room, already prepared for what we must do and what we must say. The Sunset Stretch was our receiving hall once, before my father decided to call himself a king. It still holds our thrones now, along with a great deal else. I can feel the machinery from here. Cameras, broadcasting equipment, lightning. Aluminum, iron, edged with absences that can only be plastic or glass.
I don’t hesitate, as much as I want to. There are too many eyes, Montfort and Scarlet Guard. Too much risk in appearing weak. And the pressure of an audience has always made me a better performer.
Unlike the rest of the Ridge, my father’s throne room is pristine. The windows have been cleaned, offering a clear view over the valley and the Allegiant River. Everything gleams beneath the too-bright lights the broadcast crew has assembled, now pointed at the raised platform where my family once sat. Whoever cleaned was very thorough, scouring everything from floor to ceiling. I assume it was the Scarlet Guard. Reds have more practice with such things.
The Nortan States didn’t send much of a delegation. I only count two of them. They don’t have uniforms, not like Montfort or the Guard. But it’s easy to tell who represents the new country to the east, still rebuilding itself from the ashes of the old. And these two are even easier to recognize. While the Guard busies themselves arranging cameras and perfecting their lightning, the two Nortans hang back. Not to avoid the work, but to avoid getting in the way.
I don’t blame them. Julian Jacos and Tiberias Calore are useless here, reduced to spectators. They look even more out of place than the armed Reds scuffing up my mother’s floors.
I haven’t seen Cal since his last visit to Montfort. And that was brief, only a few days. Barely enough time to shake hands with the premier and exchange pleasantries at one of Carmadon’s dinners. He’s been busy shoring up alliances and relationships, acting as a go-between for the Silver nobles of his former kingdom and the new government taking shape. Not an easy job, by any means. He’s exhausted—anyone can see that—his burning eyes ringed by dark shadows. Sometimes I wonder if he’d rather be at the head of an army instead of the negotiating table.
He catches my eye and the corner of his mouth twitches, the best smile he can muster.
I do the same, ducking my head.
How far the two of us have come from Queenstrial.
Cal isn’t my future anymore, and for that I am eternally grateful.
It’s the uncle who worries me, making my stomach swoop.
Jacos stands as he always does, looking small at Cal’s shoulder. The singer stares at the floor, unwilling to meet my gaze or my brother’s. I can’t tell if it’s guilt or pity guiding him. After all, he killed our father. Sometimes Jacos is in my nightmares, his teeth fanged, his tongue like a snake. So different from the bookish, unassuming reality.
When we approach, Julian is good enough to excuse himself, head still bowed. Only Wren gives him a smile as we pass, small as it is. One of her cousins is his companion, and even with the Nortan court in ruins, the bonds of the old nobility still hold tight.
Ptolemus reaches Cal first, clasping his hand firmly as he offers the warmest smile he can muster. No mean feat for my brother. Cal responds in kind, lowering his chin.
“Thank you for doing this, Ptolemus,” he says, one abdicated king to another. Cal looks odd in his plain jacket, without a uniform dripping with medals. Especially in comparison to my brother, all dressed up in his colors and armor.
Tolly releases his grip. “And thank you for coming. It wasn’t necessary.”
“Of course it is,” Cal replies, his tone light. “It’s an exclusive club you’re joining. I have to be on hand to welcome you into the Abdicators.”
My lip curls. All the same, I take Cal’s arm, pulling him into a stiff but quick embrace. “Please don’t start calling us that,” I growl.
“I think it has a nice ring to it,” Elane interjects. She tips her head, finding the light. Everyone else looks skeletal or garish beneath the harsh fluorescent of the lighting gear, but of course she doesn’t. “Good to see you, Cal.”
“And you, Elane. All of you,” he adds, his eyes sweeping over me to Wren. They keep moving, searching the room. Hunting for someone else.
But Mare Barrow isn’t here.
“Are you all the States sent to witness?” I ask, and he looks glad for the question. Happy to change the subject, happy for a distraction.
“No, the other representatives are with General Farley,” he replies. “Two Red organizers, the newblood Ada Wallace, and one of the former governor Rhambos’s children.” With a twist of his fingers, he points to the far side of the throne room. I don’t bother to turn. I’ll see them in a moment. And truthfully, I don’t want to look and find Diana Farley staring daggers at Ptolemus. My stomach twists the way it usually does whenever I’m near the Red general. Stop it, I tell myself. I’m already afraid of the cameras. I don’t have the energy to be afraid of her too.