Mother is quick to respond. “Agreed.”
“Agreed,” Tiora offers with the same speed. She even raises her glass, the clear liquid turning in the faceted cup.
Outside, as the rain ebbs to nothing, I feel a bit calmer. Still anxious about what is to come, but satisfied by the plan taking shape. If Maven’s houses can be made loyal to us, then Tiberias will be severely hobbled. Losing allies left and right. Alone on the throne is no place for anyone to be.
Maven was alone too, no matter how many advisers and nobles surrounded him. I’m glad he never tried to make me share his empty hours, at least not more than was necessary. He frightened me, when he was alive. He was an impossible person to predict. I never knew what he might say or do, and it forced me to live on edge. I’ve only just begun to catch up on all the sleep lost in his palace, too close to the monstrous king for comfort.
“I’m surprised they didn’t execute him publicly,” I muse aloud, my voice low. “I wonder how they did it.”
I see Maven in my head, struggling weakly against our guards. He didn’t see it coming. I’m impossible to predict too.
My sister dips her spoon in the lamprey stew, not eating, but pushing the liquid back and forth. It sloshes, filling the silence.
“What is it, Tiora?” Mother prods, seeing right through her display.
Tiora hesitates, but not for long. “There’s been some speculation about that,” she says. “He hasn’t been seen or heard from since he was taken to the palace in Harbor Bay.”
I shrug. “Because he’s dead.”
Tiora doesn’t look at me. Can’t look at me. “Our spies don’t think so.”
Despite the warmth of the room and the food, I feel a sudden chill deep in my chest. I swallow hard, trying to understand—and ignore the fear threatening to return. Don’t be a coward. He’s far away, imprisoned if not dead. He’s not your problem anymore.
Mother shares none of my terror. She just blusters. “Why keep him alive? I swear, these Calore brothers are trying to out-idiot each other.”
I try to be more thoughtful. I speak if only to mask my unease. “Perhaps the older brother can’t do it. He seemed softhearted.” He must be, to allow himself to be so manipulated by a Red girl.
Tiora is just as observant as our mother, and she tries to be gentle as she explains. “There are rumors that Maven isn’t there anymore.”
The queen of the Lakelands blanches. “Well, where could he be?”
There are few options, and I run through them quickly. Of course, one is more obvious than the rest. And woefully awful for that lightning girl. At least I escaped Maven Calore. She, it seems, cannot. “I suspect Montfort,” I say. “He’s with the newbloods and the Scarlet Guard. With Mare Barrow.”
Tiora bobs her head, thinking as she nods. “So when the Reds left . . .”
“He’s a valuable hostage, yes,” I tell her. “If Maven is still alive, Tiberias is vulnerable. Nobles might still be loyal to his brother.”
Mother surveys me like an adviser, not a daughter. It thrills me, and I feel my spine straighten, flattening my back against my seat as I draw up to my full height. “Do you think that’s possible?” she asks.
I chew on the answer for a moment, weighing what I know of Norta and its Silvers. “I think those Silver houses just want a reason not to back Tiberias. To hold on to their country as it was.” Both my mother and Tiora, a queen and a queen to be, watch me silently. I raise my chin.
“I say we give them a reason.”
TWENTY-NINE
Mare
It’s nightfall when we reach Ascendant, gliding through the mountains in almost pitch darkness. I try not to think about being smashed against the black slopes. But the pilots are skilled, landing our airjet on the alpine runway with ease. The rest of Montfort’s Air Fleet, as well as the transport convoys carrying the bulk of their army, is down on the plain. They’ll have to climb the Hawkway to get to the city, or disperse along other roads and travel routes throughout Montfort to return to their posts. The country will then take up defensive positions, guarding its own borders, on the off chance the Lakelanders decide to try their might against the mountains. Or prod the raiders and Prairie into doing their work for them.
Farley, Davidson, their attendants, and I make the trek into the city in silence, walking the steps beneath an arc of glittering starlight. I watch the sky as we go, trying to name the constellations. I refuse to think about either Calore brother. Not the one we left in Norta, nor the one marching with us, bound in chains, held at gunpoint. He chatters occasionally, asking questions about Montfort. No one answers, and his voice dies slowly, left to echo into nothing. Before we reach the premier’s home, Maven is taken away, down another flight of steps, where more guards appear to flank him. Montfort won’t risk losing another prisoner. Maven won’t get the gentle treatment given to Bracken’s children. He will be being taken deep into the city, to the prison below the Ascendant main barracks. I try not to watch his silhouette as it grows smaller and smaller. He never looks back.
Farley outpaces everyone, even Kilorn and his long strides. I don’t have to be a mind reader to guess her thoughts are of her daughter, left behind with the rest of our family.
Davidson was good enough to send word on ahead, so his palatial home is ablaze when we approach, the many windows and balconies lit by warm candles and lights. Familiar figures cast shadows across the stones, and we beeline for them. My mother hands off Clara, the baby girl sleepy but smiling as Farley lifts her up. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Davidson embrace his husband, Carmadon, before my mom does the same to me. Her arms squeeze my shoulders tightly, and she hugs me to her chest with a deep sigh. I relax as I only can with the rest of my family, letting them usher us inside and up to our rooms.
The reunion is sentimental as ever, even though it’s become a habit. I leave, face death, and, against all odds, return in one piece. I know my parents would tie me down to stop me from repeating the cycle, if they thought it might work. But they trust me to make my own choices, and besides, I’m a newblood. The lightning girl. There are very few bonds that can hold me back. No matter how much I might want to stay, the need to move on, to keep fighting, is always stronger.
Farley disappears into her own bedroom, Clara on her hip, with an exhausted smile. No one stops her. She needs time alone with her daughter, and we’re all happy to give it.
Instead my family filters onto the tiled terrace, which is bursting with more flowers than I remember. Tramy has been busy. “They’re beautiful,” I tell him, gesturing to a lovely array of white blooms curling up and over the railing. He heaves himself into a chair with a bashful grin, and Gisa perches on the arm of the seat. I plop down next to them both, content to sit on a flat, squashy cushion set on the tile.
“Mom helped,” Tramy says, gesturing across to her.
At the edge of the terrace, she waves a hand. Her hair is down tonight. I’m used to long years of my mother in twisted braids and neat buns, always keeping her hair out of her face. Despite the gray, she looks younger like this. “I just followed you around with a watering can,” she says.
I’ve never considered Ruth Barrow beautiful. How could anyone, let alone a poor Red woman, be considered beautiful next to Silvers? But Montfort brings a glow to her, a healthiness in her golden skin that makes it gleam. Even her wrinkles seem lessened, softened by the gentle lamplight. Of course, Dad looks better than ever, heartier than he was in the Stilts. He’s gained weight where he needs to, arms and legs filling out, while his waist looks trimmer. I chalk it up to nutrition, and of course his replaced leg and lung. After he greets me, he settles into his usual gruff silence, claiming a seat of his own next to Bree. The weeks have been good to all of them. Especially Gisa. Her dark red hair glints like oil in the dim light. I take in her clothing, a repurposed Montfort uniform. But the cuffs and collar are heavily embroidered in swirls of colored thread, pricking out a pattern of flowers and purple-bright zags of lightning. I reach out to her, running my fingers over her careful handiwork.