The older Silver flexes a hand, the waning sunlight flashing on his long nails. A soft brush of wind rustles through Maven’s hair. A warning. “Save your breath, princeling. There are things to discuss.”
Maven only grins. “I just didn’t expect to see Silvers here, in the midst of such . . . crimson company.”
I huff, already bored with his stalling tactics. “You said yourself, you don’t know anything about this place.” Maven turns back to me, glaring, but I wave him off. “And you don’t need to.”
He bares his teeth. “Because you’ll execute me before long? Is that the threat you’re trying to make, Mare?” I set my jaw, electing not to answer. “It’s an empty one. If you were going to kill me, you would have done it already. I’m worth more alive. To you and your cause.”
The room remains silent in reply.
“Oh, don’t play coy,” Maven sneers. “As long as I breathe, I’m a threat to my brother. Same as he was to me. I assume he’s collecting loyalties now, recalling the High Houses of Norta. Trying to win over those who pledged allegiance to me. And some will, but all?” Slowly, he ticks his head back and forth, clucking his tongue like a scolding mother. “No, they’ll sit back and wait. Or they’ll fight him.”
“For you?” I snap back. “I doubt that.”
He makes a noise low in his throat, a growl more suited to an animal.
“What exactly do you need from me?” he says, wrenching his eyes away. He moves gracefully, swiveling on his toes to face the rest of the chamber. The fallen king has no cage, but he is obviously trapped. For some reason, his eyes waver on Tyton, looking over the electricon, with his white hair and calmly murderous disposition. “And who is he?”
To my surprise, I hear fear in Maven Calore.
Farley pounces, smelling blood in the water. “You’re going to tell us what you did to the Archeon tunnels. Which ones are closed, which ones are open. Which ones you built after you took the throne.”
In spite of his predicament, Maven rolls his eyes and laughs. “You people and your tunnels.”
The young general is not deterred. “Well?”
“And what do I get out of this?” He leers at her. “A better view from my cell? Not that it would be difficult. I currently have no windows.” With oddly twitching hands, he counts off on his fingers. “Better food? Visitors, perhaps?” Maven wavers a little, teeth on edge. His body seems to shiver. Whatever control he maintains is beginning to slip. “A painless death?”
I fight the urge to grab him, if only to keep him still. He reminds me of a rat in a trap, squirming for his life.
“You get the satisfaction, Maven,” I force out.
I should be used to the sensation of his eyes running through me. I’m not, and I shudder, his gaze a featherweight on my skin. “Of what?” he murmurs.
Despite the yards between us, Maven feels much too close.
The words taste sour in my mouth. “You know what.”
His grin widens, a white knife to taunt us. “If I can’t have the throne, neither can he,” he says plainly. “Well, that’s something, at least.” His voice drops, as does his grin. “But not enough.”
Behind him, Davidson looks to his side, exchanging a stern glance with Tyton. After a long moment, the white-haired electricon unfolds from his chair. He rises slowly, deliberately, hands loose at each side. Maven turns at the sound, sharp in his motions. His eyes widen.
“Who is he?” Maven asks again. I try to ignore the tremor in his voice.
I raise my chin. “Someone like me.”
Tyton drums a hand against his leg, running a single, blinding white spark down his finger.
“But stronger.”
Dark lashes flutter against pale cheeks, and Maven’s throat bobs.
His next words are reluctant, stumbling. Low, almost inaudible. “I need something in exchange,” he hisses.
My teeth clench in frustration. “Maven, I already told you—”
The fallen king cuts me off, wrenching his eyes from Tyton to look back at me with all his black fire. “When you invade, which you’re planning to do,” he sneers, baring his teeth, “I’ll lead you where you need to go. Which tunnels, which paths. I’ll bring your whole army into the city myself, and set you loose on my wretched brother.”
Farley scoffs from her seat. “Into a trap, no doubt. Into the teeth of your Cygnet bride—”
“Oh, she’ll be there, no doubt,” Maven replies, waving a finger at her. Her face flushes with anger. “That snake and her mother have been planning to take Norta since the moment she set foot in my kingdom.”
“The moment you let her in,” I mutter.
Maven barely flinches. “A calculated risk. And so is this.”
Hardly convincing, even to those who don’t know him. The Command generals look more disgusted than when he walked in, no mean feat, while the newbloods of Montfort seem more inclined to skin Maven alive. The premier, usually so levelheaded, curls his lips into the rare, obvious scowl. Again he nods to Tyton, and the electricon takes one shuddering step forward.
It sets something off in Maven. He jumps out of reach, keeping his distance from all of us. The twitching returns in force, but his eyes blaze, all fire. No fear.
“You think I can’t lie through pain,” he snarls, his voice thundering through the room. “You think I haven’t done it a thousand times?”
No one has an answer for him, especially not me. I try not to react, not to give him the satisfaction of seeing an emotion from me. I fail horribly, unable to keep my eyes open. For a brief, empty moment I see nothing but darkness, and I try not to think of Maven. His words. What his life was and continues to be.
And how we’ve all suffered because of it.
I expect the others to give him no quarter. To torture what we need from him. Draw it out with lightning and pain. Will I be strong enough to watch?
Even Farley falters.
She stares at Maven, trying to read him. To weigh the risk and the cost. He meets her eyes without quailing.
She swears under her breath.
For once, he’s telling the truth.
Maven Calore is our only chance.
THIRTY
Cal
A coronation has always been in my future. The ceremonial crown is not a surprise. I turn it over in my hands, feeling the formidable weight of iron, silver, and gold. In less than an hour, my grandmother will put the monstrosity on my head. My father wore it too. He was already a king when I was born, with a different queen from the only one I recall.
I wish I could remember her. I wish the memories I had of my mother were my own, and not stories from Julian. Not the brush of oil paint instead of living flesh.
The diary copy is still locked away, hidden in a drawer at my bedside in my Archeon chambers. I’ll have to move it soon, once the king’s rooms are prepared, washed clean of Maven’s presence. I shudder at the thought. I don’t know why I’m so hesitant to lay hands on such a small and terrible thing. It’s just a book. Just a jumble of scrawled letters pieced together. I’ve faced down execution squads and armies. Fought lightning and storm. Dodged bullets. Fallen through the sky more than once.