“Wren said you wouldn’t be speaking . . . ?” I say, my voice trailing off.
“Correct.” Cal crosses his arms over his chest and settles into a stance I know well. He’s battle ready. “We won’t be on the broadcast either. Sends the wrong message.”
His logic isn’t difficult to follow. “Ah. You want the country to see us do this of our own volition. No sword hanging over our heads.” I wince as soon as the words are out of my mouth, and so does Cal. I imagine he’s thinking of the moment a sword cut through his father’s neck. “Sorry, bad turn of phrase.”
He waves me off, though his face pales. “We’re just here for support, mostly,” Cal mutters.
I blink at him, brow furrowed. “For us?” I scoff.
He shakes his head. “For them.” His eyes dart across the throne room, toward the far end, still empty of equipment. A small crowd waits by the windows, packed tightly together like a flock of brightly colored birds. Suddenly I feel like I might vomit, and I search for a familiar silhouette, a panther on her heels. But my mother isn’t with the Silver nobles.
Elane is not so lucky. She draws in a shaking breath when she spots her father.
Jerald Haven speaks quietly with the nobles of the Rift, and a few of old Norta too. None of House Samos that I can see, but I recognize Lord General Laris, an ally of my father’s and the former commander of the Nortan Air Fleet. None of them will look at us. They refuse. They don’t approve of what we’re doing, but they certainly can’t stop us either.
Elane looks away first, her face clear. No blush, no paling cheeks. As far as I know, she hasn’t seen her father in months. They’ve spoken only in a few letters, and those were short, terse, and on Jerald’s end downright insulting. He wanted her to come home, and she always refused. Eventually he stopped asking, and stopped writing.
The sight of him incenses me, knowing how much pain he caused her. As usual, Cal is woefully bad at reading women, and he mistakes my anger. The former king nudges my arm.
“It’s all right. Don’t let them scare you. The same was done to me, when I abdicated,” he says, his voice low and thick. “My grandmother couldn’t speak to me for days.”
I resist the very familiar urge to roll my eyes at Tiberias Calore.
Wren raises an eyebrow. “But she came around?” The hope in her voice is small, and ill advised. I know enough of Anabel Lerolan to understand that.
Cal almost laughs. “Not really, no. She accepts it, though. She doesn’t have a choice. The Burning Crown dies with me, and there will be no other to rebuild the throne I broke.”
Not while you live, I want to say. For such a brilliant military strategist, Cal can be terribly shortsighted. Pretenders will come. They’ll do it here, and they’ll do it in Norta. This won’t be over until long after we are dead.
Someone else might despair of such a notion. But somehow I find comfort in it. I’m choosing to step away because I can. And if someone else comes to claim the crown I throw away, so be it. That isn’t on my shoulders. I’ve done all I can to make sure of that.
“Our people need to see we’re united in this,” Cal murmurs. He still watches the Silvers, eyes alight as if he can burn them away. “That we’re ready to let go of the old world. Together.”
As simple as his platitudes are, I certainly can’t argue with them. Or deny the surge of emotion deep in my chest.
My smile is true and wide. “Yes, we are.”
SIX
Evangeline
I don’t move as my brother gives his speech, which is a little rushed but otherwise perfect, in short, decisive words. He looks straight ahead, unblinking, sitting at a plain desk drawn up before our old steel thrones. I remain at his side, the two of us alone before the broadcast. The rest of the throne room is deathly quiet, watching history unfold before them.
“My name is Ptolemus Escarian Samos, King of the Rift and Lord of House Samos. Son of the late King Volo Samos of the Rift, and Queen Larentia of House Viper. I hereby abdicate the throne of the Kingdom of Rift and renounce any claim I, or my descendants, might have on this country or land. It is my solemn wish that the Kingdom of the Rift be dissolved, as it was created by illegal secession from the former Kingdom of Norta, and be absorbed back into the boundaries of the Nortan States. I hope I live to see this land thrive beneath a free government and an equality of all blood.”
Though he is throwing away his crown, Ptolemus has never looked or sounded more like a king. He stares down the whirring camera for a long moment. Letting the broadcast spread across our country, into video screens in all our cities, so that everyone—Red and Silver and newblood—might know. It won’t stay within the borders of our country for long. The Lakelands will know within minutes, and Piedmont too. The Nortan States are already rumbling with abdication after Cal stepped down. Another broken throne could spark celebrations or riots.
Elane stays as close to me as she can, just out of the camera’s line of sight. I don’t look at her directly, but her red hair, glowing in the morning light, is difficult to mistake at the edge of my vision. Her father and his Silver supporters are more obvious. They position themselves directly in my eye line, clustered behind the camera in the middle of the long throne room. I stare through them, the way my mother taught me.
The Scarlet Guard brass keep to the sidelines, some leaning against the wall. General Farley looks rigid and tense, her eyes on her feet. She either can’t or won’t watch my brother speak, and for that I am grateful. The less attention she gives him, the safer he’ll be.
Ptolemus doesn’t flinch when he bends his head, raising the pen to sign the official declaration of abdication. His signature is sparse and sharp, impossible to miss. He leaves space below his name, enough for me to write my own.
I am queen now, for a few strange, stretching seconds. I feel different, and also the same. In between, hovering at the threshold of two very different doors. In an instant, I see inside both and what they hold for me. What heartaches and triumphs there could be, in the lives of a commoner or a queen. I tremble as I look at Elane, letting myself find refuge in her. The choice is crystal clear.
When Ptolemus stands up from his chair, the Silver supporters’ attention shifts as one, and every eye lands on me. I feel each of them, a needle in my skin. I don’t need to be a whisper to know what they’re begging me to do.
Refuse to kneel.
I find Cal, half obscured by the sunlight pouring in from the windows. He leans up against the glass, arms crossed over his jacket. I feel a pull of kinship to him, a weight we both know and share. Slowly, he dips his chin an inch. As if I need his encouragement.
I sit slowly, gracefully, my face schooled into a cold mask of content. My mercurial cape drapes over one shoulder, pooling at my feet.
“My name is Evangeline Artemia Samos, Queen of the Rift.” In spite of all my courtly training, I can’t keep the tremor from my voice when I say those words. Queen. Without a king, without a father, without a master. Without any rules but the ones I would make for myself.
A fantasy. A lie. There are always rules and always consequences. I want no part of this. No crown is worth the price I would pay. I steady myself with thoughts of Elane, and the flash of red in the corner of my eye.