I hold his gaze and quicken my pace, hot anger pulsing through my veins. “You don’t?” It wouldn’t surprise me. I’ve seen kings do worse to their own people in exchange for power.
Davidson turns steely and presses his lips into a grim line. A sudden flush spreads across his broad cheekbones. His voice drops to a whisper. “We had warning, yes. We knew they were coming. And we had enough lead time to make sure the outskirts were protected. But I resent the implication that I would spill the blood of my own people, risk their lives, for what? Dramatic effect?” he hisses, his voice deadly as a knife edge. “Yes, this presents an opportunity for the Scarlet Guard and for Calore to uphold their ends of the bargain, and to prove something before we go to my government and beg. But it is not a trade I’m happy to make,” he snaps. “I’d much rather be sitting out on the terrace getting pleasantly drunk with my husband, watching overpowered children sneer at each other, than do this.”
I feel scolded but also relieved. Davidson glares at me, fire burning in his golden eyes. He’s usually so serene, unflappable, impossible to discern. His strength lies not just in ability or charisma, but in a well-practiced calm that few can see beyond. Not now. Merely the suggestion of any betrayal, however small, to his country has him incensed. I understand that kind of loyalty. I respect it. I can even almost trust it.
“So what are we going to do?” I ask, satisfied for the moment.
The premier slows, then halts, turning his back to the wall. So he can see all of us. It stops everyone short, crowding the wide passageway with waiting Reds and Silvers. Even Queen Anabel looks on Davidson with grave attention.
“Our patrols reported raiders crossing the border an hour ago,” he says. “They usually head for the towns down on the plain, or to the city itself.”
I think about my parents, my siblings, and Kilorn. Either sleeping through the noise or questioning it. I don’t want to fight, not if it means leaving them behind and in danger. Farley catches my eye, and I see the same fear in her. Clara is upstairs too, tucked into a crib.
Davidson does his best to assuage us. “The alarms are cautionary, and our citizens know it,” he says. “Ascendant is well defended from attack. The mountains alone provide enough protection to keep most assaults to the plains or low on the eastern slopes. They would have to climb into our own teeth to get within striking distance of the city.”
“Are the raiders particularly stupid, then?” Farley asks, trying to bluster away her concern. She doesn’t take her hand off her gun.
A corner of Davidson’s mouth lifts, and I think I hear Carmadon cough yes into his hand.
“No,” the premier replies. “But they are very keen on optics. Attacking the Montfort capital is somewhat of a habit for them. It wins favor among their own, as well as the Prairie lords.”
Tiberias lifts his chin. He shifts slowly, edging in front of one of his guards. I can tell by the tightness in his shoulders that he hates being hemmed in like that. Hates being anywhere but the front line. It isn’t in Tiberias Calore to ask another to do what he won’t, to face danger if he doesn’t. “And who are they exactly?” he asks.
“You’ve all asked about Silvers in Montfort,” Davidson says, his voice loud enough to carry over the warning alarms. “You wonder how they live this way. How we changed things decades ago. Some Silvers agreed to freedom, to democracy. Many, I should say. Most.” He clenches his jaw. “They saw what the world should be like. Or they saw the world beyond, and decided it was better to stay, easier to adjust.”
His eyes land on Evangeline, and for some reason she flushes under his scrutiny, almost hiding her face.
“Some did not. Old Silvers, royals, nobles who could not stand our new country. They fled or fought their way to the borders. North, south, west. To the east, in the empty hills between our mountains and Prairie, they formed bands. Attempts at their own lands and lordships. Always fighting, gnawing at each other and us. They live as leeches, feeding on what they find. They do not grow anything; they do not build. They have little holding them together but anger and dying pride. They attack transports, farms, cities, in both Prairie and Montfort. They focus on Red towns and villages mostly, on those who cannot defend against Silver onslaught. They move; they strike; they move again. And so we call them the raiders.”
Carmadon tsks loudly. He runs a hand over his gleaming purple-black skull. “So far to fall for my Silver kin. For nothing more than pride.”
“And for what they think is power,” Davidson adds. His eyes land on Tiberias. The exiled prince straightens, setting his jaw. “For what they think they deserve. They would rather lose everything than live beneath people they think are lesser.”
“Idiots,” I curse.
“History is marred with people like that,” Julian offers. “Resistant to change.”
“But they make those willing to change all the more heroic, don’t they?” I reply, letting the words land as they should.
Tiberias doesn’t take the bait. “Where will they strike?” he says, never moving his eyes from Davidson’s face.
The premier grins darkly.
“We’ve received word from one of the towns down on the plain. Raiders are close,” he says. “Your Majesty, I believe I may get to show you the Hawkway after all.”
No palace is complete without an armory.
Davidson’s guards are already there, suiting up throughout the long room stocked with weaponry and gear. They don’t pull on the green coveralls, the uniforms I’ve become accustomed to, but tight black suits and high boots. Good for defending against a night raid. They remind me of what I used to wear in Training, my purple-and-silver-striped outfit to mark me as a child of House Titanos. A Silver through and through. A lie.
At the door, Anabel puts a hand on Cal’s arm. She pleads with her eyes, but he moves past her, firmly but gently pushing her away. Her fingers trail along the edge of his red cape, letting the black brocade run through her fingers as he escapes her grasp.
“I need to do this,” I hear him murmur. “He’s right. I need to fight for them if they’ll fight for me.”
No one else speaks, and the silence falls thick as a low cloud. All I hear is the shuffle of clothing. My dress puddles around my ankles as I quickly pull the suit up over my underclothes. As I move, I shift, and my eyes lock on familiar muscles.
Tiberias faces away from me too, his shirt discarded, the suit tight around his waist. I trace the length of his spine, noting the few scars along otherwise smooth and sculpted skin. They’re old, older than mine. Won in Training in a palace and on a war front that no longer exists. Even though the touch of a healer could erase them quickly, he keeps them, collecting scars as another would medals or badges.
Will he earn more scars today? Will Davidson keep his promise?
Part of me wonders if this is a trap for the true Calore king. An easy assassination disguised as a real threat. But even if Davidson lied about not harming Tiberias, he’s not an idiot. Removing the older Calore would only weaken us, destroying a vital shield between Montfort and the Scarlet Guard, and Maven.
I keep staring, unable to stop myself. The scars might be old, but not the almost-purple, bruise-like mark where his neck meets his shoulder. That’s new. Only a few days old. That’s mine, I think, gulping around a memory both close and infinitely far away.