Nanabel, of course, keeps to the old tradition. I don’t think she owns anything that isn’t red, orange, or black. Her long silk coat trails as she walks down the jet, displaying explosive red brocade set with chips of black stone. No one would ever know we aren’t royal anymore if they looked in her closet.
And she isn’t the only one to still dress like the old days. Today, the Nortan States delegation has four other Silvers in it, two of them from the High Houses. One is from House Laris, a representative for us as well as the now-returned Rift. Her yellow clothing seems garish in wartime. The other, Cyrus Welle, is a former governor and an old man, run ragged and thin by war. His green robes are clean, but they seem faded. His medallion, a jeweled tree, barely reflects the lights inside the jet as he walks. He catches my glance and offers a smile weaker than his chin. At least he’s here, I remind myself.
The other two Silvers aren’t nobles at all, but selected from the many merchants, craftsmen, career soldiers, and other professionals who volunteered from the lower houses. Naturally, they’re less opposed to restructuring than any noble would be.
The rest of the Nortan States delegation files off the jet with us, some of them already stamping their feet against the chill. It isn’t quite this cold at home, and most of the delegation, the Reds especially, have never been to such high altitude.
Ada Wallace weaves among them, speaking in a low voice. Probably explaining exactly how high we are, why the air is so thin, and what that does to the human body. She keeps telling them to drink more water, with an encouraging smile. Though I’ve only known her a year, Ada feels like an old friend, and a relic of a different life. Like Mare, she’s a newblood, one of the many we recruited so many months ago. She’s more valuable than ever now, perhaps the most valuable member of the States’ reconstruction effort. And a real comfort. Someone who knows me as more than an abdicated king.
Not like the Silvers. Though I’m glad to have some nobles of the High Houses working with us, I never let my guard down around them. Not Welle, not Laris, not Rhambos or any of the others. Not even my cousins of House Lerolan. I’d be stupid to think they’re here because they believe in blood equality, and not because they know they’ll lose any effort to return Norta to her former self. Not because this is the only way to keep their heads above water.
The same cannot be said of the Secession, the Silvers of both Norta and the Rift refusing reconstruction. A familiar ache twists behind my eyes when I think of them, so many powerful nobles lined up against us. They might not be well organized yet or have a numbers advantage, but they’re strong, they have resources, and they have the Lakelands to back them up. Their danger can only grow, and I know it certainly will if they unite properly.
This war is far from over, and my job is far from done.
The hard truth exhausts me, even after my nap on the flight. Despite the chance of seeing Mare again, I suddenly want nothing more than to collapse in whatever room they give me and sleep until morning. Not that I’ll even be able to do that.
I don’t sleep well, and haven’t since my father died. Died. I still have to remind myself to say he died instead of I killed him. It was Elara, not me. I know that, but it doesn’t change what I see in my head at night. There’s no cure for what ails me. I’m not like Mare. Having another person in the room doesn’t settle me down. It doesn’t matter who’s in my bed—the nightmares still come.
This was the last place I saw her, my mind whispers. I try not to remember. Mare said good-bye to me here on this runway. She told me not to wait, told me she needed time. And while I understand what she meant, it still cuts me up to think about.
Luckily, the welcoming party from the Republic approaches, giving me an easy distraction from the haunting memories.
One glance tells me the premier isn’t here at the airfield to greet us. I’m not surprised. The Scarlet Guard representatives are already in the city, and he’ll be deep in council with whoever they sent. Farley is certainly one of them. I don’t expect she’d miss all the action over the next few days. She fights with words as well as guns these days.
Instead of Davidson, Representative Radis, one of the Silver Montfortans, waits by the transports ready to take us into the city. He’s accompanied by a half dozen others from the People’s Assembly, both Red and Silver and probably newblood too.
He greets me with a firm handshake, and I’m reminded of his sharp nails. As one of the former lords of Montfort, before their own monarchies were overthrown to create the Republic, his influence holds great sway over the Silvers from my own country. I’m careful to introduce him around, and let him charm the others. Let them see the future is not as bleak as they think.
It’s been this way for months now. Forcing smiles and pleasantries, coaxing men and women who would rather die than feel inferior into some kind of understanding. Somehow, the posturing is more tiresome than battle. I used to spar to stay sharp, stay focused and in shape. Now I do it as a relief, and a rare one these days. Stupid as it may be, I find myself almost wishing everything would boil over and go back to outright battle. I understand war, at least.
I should be good at diplomacy. I was raised to be a ruler. I was a king. But most of this is simply beyond my grasp or desire.
As the introductions go around, Julian must notice my eyes glazing over and my energy waning. He puts a hand to my shoulder, taking over to give me a break. And permission to check out.
I hang back, listening occasionally, smiling when needed. When my stomach growls, seemingly as loud as a jet engine, we trade easy, forced chuckles. Even the Reds, still understandably wary around us, crack smiles.
“I’m afraid you’ve missed Carmadon’s dinner parade for the evening,” Radis says. His wispy, white-blond hair gleams beneath the lights of the airfield.
The thought of Carmadon’s cooking reminds me of exactly how famished I am. I don’t get to eat as much as I like, not because of rations, but because there simply seems to be no time. “I’m no stranger to raiding kitchens, sir,” I answer with a false smile.
Radis dips his head and gestures toward the waiting transports. “Then shall we? I’m sure you’re all eager to settle in.” He looks over my shoulder, speaking to the others. “Tomorrow morning, we’ve arranged a tour of the city for those of you interested, followed by council . . .”
I tune him out. This part of the performance isn’t for me. A tour. Like Radis himself, a tour is another convincing argument to make, especially to the Silvers. The Montfortans want to show what reconstruction can look like. What beauty can come out of a few difficult years.
As for me, tomorrow I get to look forward to meetings, meetings, lunch during another meeting, meetings, dinner, and passing out. The Scarlet Guard, the Republic, the Nortan States. Premier Davidson and the People’s Assembly, Farley and her officers. Presentations and pleas from all, myself included. I’m imagining my previous visits, where we lived on coffee and furtive glances across an oak table. Argued over everything from refugee aid to newblood training. Now multiply that by how many dozens are here now. And add Mare to the equation.
A headache explodes in full force as my stomach drops.
Food first, Calore. One step at a time.
It’s fully dark by the time our transports reach the estate, having taken a circuitous route to the premier’s home above Ascendant. I’m sure Radis and the transport staff were instructed to show off the city as night fell—the lights, the lake, the mountains cutting high against brilliant stars. Compared to Norta, with its cities ringed by tech towns smothered in pollution, Silver estates separated from the world, and dirt-poor Red villages, this must look like a dream. The Red delegates in particular are wide-eyed as the transports come to a halt in the estate courtyard, looking up at the palace of columns and white stone. Even the noble Silvers look impressed, though Nanabel keeps her eyes firmly in her lap. She’s doing her best to behave.