“Playing dumb isn’t your strong suit either, Evangeline. You know how this works.”
“I know you had a choice, Calore. Two paths. And you chose the one that leads right through me.”
“Choice,” he barks. “You girls love that word.”
My eyes roll in my skull. “Well, you seem to be a stranger to it. Blaming everyone and everything else for a decision you made.”
“A decision I had to make.” He turns to me, eyes flashing. “Or what? You think Anabel and your father and the rest would have allied with the Reds anyway? Without getting something in the bargain? You think they wouldn’t find someone else to back, someone worse? At least, if it’s me, I can—”
I step neatly in front of him, putting us chest to chest. My shoulders square, ready for battle. A lifetime of Training hardens beneath my skin. “What? Make things better? When all the fighting is done, you think you can sit on your new throne and wave your stupid flames and change the way the world is?” With a sneer, I size him up, my eyes ripping a path from his boots to his forehead. “Don’t make me laugh, Tiberias Calore. You’re a puppet as much as I am, but at least you had a chance to cut your strings.”
“And you don’t?”
“I would if I could,” I whisper, and I think I mean it. If Elane were here, if there were some way we could stay . . .
“When—when the time comes, when we have to marry . . .” He stumbles over the words. It isn’t like a Calore to stammer. “I’ll try to make things as easy as I can. State visits, meetings. You and Elane can do as you like.”
A chill runs through me. “As long as I hold up my end of the bargain.”
The prospect disgusts us both, and we look away from each other. “I’m not doing anything without your consent,” he mutters.
Even though I’m not surprised, a tiny burst of relief blooms in my heart. “I’d cut something off if you tried.”
Cal offers a weak laugh, little more than an expulsion of air.
“What a mess,” he mumbles, so low he might not expect me to hear.
I suck in a shaky breath. “You can still choose her.”
The words hang in the air, torturing us both.
He doesn’t reply, now glaring at his booted feet. In the garden, Mare keeps her back to him, following close at her sister’s heels. Despite their differing hair colors, I see the resemblance. They move in the same way. Careful, quiet, deliberate, like mice. The sister picks a flower as they go, a pale green bloom with vibrant petals, then tucks it into her hair. As I watch, the tall Red boy, the one Mare insists on dragging everywhere, does the same. The flower looks silly behind his ear, and both Barrow sisters double over. Their laughter echoes over us, a taunt more than anything.
They are Red. They are lesser. And they are happy. How can this be?
“Stop moping, Calore,” I grind out through gritted teeth. The advice is for both of us. “You forged this crown yourself—now wear it. Or don’t.”
SEVEN
Iris
The banks of the Ohius are high. It was a wet spring, with the southern farms of the Lakelands almost flooding many times. Tiora was here in the unstable borderlands just a few weeks ago, to help save the new crops as much as she was to smile and wave. Her small, rare grin won us some favor here, but not enough. Reports to the crown say that Reds are still fleeing, crossing the hills into the Rift to the east. They are fools if they believe the Silver king there will offer them a better life. The smarter ones cross the Ohius into the disputed territories, where no king or queen rules. But they have to risk the chaos of such a journey, facing Red and Silver alike between the Lakelands and northern Piedmont.
The rise above the river offers a commanding view of the valley. A good place to wait. I look south, into the woods gleaming golden beneath the waning light of afternoon. Today was easy, filled with travel across the corn and wheat. And Maven was kind enough to take his own transport, allowing me long hours of peace as we rolled south. The journey was almost a reprieve, even if it meant leaving my mother and sister behind. They’re back in the capital. I can’t say when I’ll see them again. If I ever do.
In spite of the pleasant breeze and the warm air, Maven elects to wait in his vehicle. For now. Certainly he’ll try to make some kind of entrance when the Piedmontese arrive.
“He is late,” the old woman mutters at my side.
In spite of the circumstances, I feel a corner of my mouth lift. “Patience, Jidansa.”
“My, how the current has changed, Your Majesty,” she chuckles, the wrinkles on her brown face deepening as she grins. “I can remember giving you the same counsel more than once. Usually in regard to food.”
I break my vigil, looking away from the horizon to glance at her. “In that, the current remains true.”
Her dusty laugh deepens, echoing out across the river.
Jidansa of the Merin Line has been a friend of the family for as long as I can remember, close as an aunt and doting as a nanny. She used her telky ability to amuse Ti and me as children, juggling our shoes or toys with her mind. Despite her lined face, white hair, and matronly disposition, Jidansa is a fearsome opponent, a telky talented beyond measure, one of the best in our nation.
I would ask her to return with me to Norta, if I were not so heartless. She would agree, but I know better than to make such a request. Most of her family died in the war. Living among Nortans would be a punishment she doesn’t deserve.
Her presence is calming. Even if we are in the Lakelands, I still feel unease around Maven.
The rest of my escort fans out behind me, allowing a respectful distance. The Sentinels should make me feel safe, but I can never feel at ease beneath their jeweled gaze. They would kill me if my husband commanded it. Or try, at the very least.
I fold my arms in front of me, feeling the edges of my blue traveling jacket. Even though I’m about to meet a prince of Piedmont, the ruling prince, I look woefully underdressed. Hopefully he isn’t as dedicated to appearance as most Silvers I know.
I don’t have to wait much longer to find out.
From our vantage point, we can see his convoy picking its way across the disputed territories. The land is otherwise indistinguishable from the woods of the southern Lakelands. There are no walls, no gates, no roads to mark this part of the border. Our own patrols are well hidden for now, and instructed to let the Piedmont prince pass unimpeded.
His convoy is small, even compared to our meager group of six transports and fifty or so guards. I spot only two transports, fast and agile machines, tearing low across the sparser edges of the forest. They’re painted in camouflage, a sickly green to match the landscape. As they get closer, I can see the yellow, white, and purple stars dotting their sides.
Bracken.
Behind me, metal groans and Maven steps down from his transport. He crosses the flattened grass in a few quick strides, stopping next to me with even grace. Slowly, he folds his hands. His white skin looks more golden in this light. He could almost seem human.
“I did not take Prince Bracken to be such a trusting man. He is a fool,” he says, gesturing to the prince’s small party.
“Desperation makes fools of most,” I answer coolly.
Maven barks out a single laugh. His eyes drag over me in an almost lazy fashion. “Not you.”