“Such artistry,” I hear Niro tell himself, his voice wolfish and full of glee.
His work is mostly silent.
Mostly.
ELEVEN
Mare
I barely slept, despite my exhaustion. It took us almost until dawn to get back to Ascendant, the healers working on us along the way. When we arrived, we only had a few hours until Davidson’s planned address to his assembled government. I tried to sleep, but by the time the adrenaline from the raider battle wore off, I was racked with nerves for the coming meeting. I spent what was left of the night staring at the edges of my curtains, watching the blue light of predawn grow. Now I can barely sit still as I wait on the lower terrace, fussing with the edges of my dress. It is a harsh gown, a deep, spangled purple belted in gold at my waist, with ballooning sleeves gathered at the wrists. The collar plunges, showing the edge of Maven’s brand, and I’ve braided my hair back away from my face. I proudly display the scars branching down my neck. My idea, not Gisa’s. I want to show the Montfort politicians how much I’ve already sacrificed. And I want to look like as much of the lightning girl as I can, even if that person isn’t real. I can draw strength from her, as I draw strength from Mareena too. They may be false versions of myself, but they are also pieces of someone real, however small.
The sunrise is strange in the mountains. It spreads behind me, sending jagged rays of light up and over the peaks. Slowly but steadily, darkness bleeds from the valley, fleeing with the morning mist along the slopes of the city. Ascendant seems to wake up with the light, and the low hum of activity buzzes up to the palace.
Queen Anabel is not one to be late, especially for something as important as this. She descends from the palace entrance, her grandson and their guards close at hand. Julian hangs back a bit, arms folded into his long, golden robes. He meets my eye and nods in greeting. I return the gesture. I might not agree with his choosing to back his nephew, but I understand the choice. I understand supporting family over everything else.
In her Lerolan colors, red and flaming orange, Anabel seems more like a Sentinel guarding her king than his grandmother. She is just as deadly. She doesn’t wear a gown, but a brocaded coat with a matching tunic and black leggings beneath, their hems set with glinting bronze like pieces of armor. Anabel Lerolan is ready for the kind of battle not fought on the field. Her smile at me, across the terrace, does not meet her eyes.
“Your Majesty,” I say, greeting her with a dip of my head. “Tiberias,” I add, my eyes flicking to him.
He smirks to himself, darkly amused by my refusal to call him anything else. Not his nickname. Not even his title.
“Good morning,” he replies. He looks handsome as ever. Perhaps more so. The raider battle hangs on him, and I can almost smell the ash he spent the night scrubbing away. Maybe don’t think about him bathing, I snap to myself.
The dawn suits the fire prince, in his scarlet cloak and raven silk underclothes. He has his crown on his neat, black hair. Magnetron-made, I bet. Another of Evangeline’s creations. It suits him too. No jewels, no intricacies. Just a simple band of raw iron sculpted like a braid of flame. I trace it with my eyes, focusing on such a small thing that he loves so much.
While there is still a hissing tension between us, I don’t feel the same anger or rage I did yesterday. Our words on the mountain, few as they were, had some calming effect. I wish we had more time to come to some sort of understanding.
But what understanding can there be?
Try as I might, I can’t stamp out the hope still burning in my heart. I still want him to choose me. And I would still forgive him if he admitted his mistake. That hope refuses to die, stupid as it might be.
Farley’s appearance shocks me most of all. Not because her leg is healed, good as new. That I expected. She follows the immaculate Premier Davidson out, and at first I don’t recognize her. Gone is the battered uniform, her dark red coveralls stained by use and worn by battle. This is a dress uniform instead, more akin to something I’ve seen Tiberias or Maven wear. Never Farley.
I blink at her, watching her adjust the sleeves of the snug crimson coat, intimately tailored to her form. Her general’s badges are fastened at the collar, three iron squares set in the fabric. There are others on her breast, medals and honors, both metal and ribbon. I doubt they’re real, but they make her look impressive. Clearly Davidson and Carmadon helped her dress for the meeting, working to legitimize the Scarlet Guard through her. Add to that the scar at the corner of her mouth and the hard steel of her blue eyes, and I wonder how any politicians might deny what she asks for.
“General Farley,” I say, offering her a crooked smirk. “Nice outfit.”
“Careful, Barrow, before I force you into one of these too,” she grumbles, fighting her sleeves again. “I can barely move in this thing.” The jacket runs tight across her shoulders, perfectly fitted. But not enough to allow the kind of movement she’s used to. The kind of movement required in a fight.
I glance at her hips, snug in equally tailored pants tucked into boots. “No gun?”
Farley scowls. “Don’t remind me.”
To the surprise of no one, Evangeline Samos arrives last. She glides through the grand oak doors, her Samos cousins flanking her in matching gray coats and black trim. Evangeline’s gown is blinding white fading to deep, inky black at the sleeves and long train. As she grows closer, I realize that the silk of her dress isn’t dyed, but patterned with chips of resplendent, shimmering metal in a perfect shift from pearly white to gray steel to black iron. She approaches with purpose, letting the gown spread behind her, hissing over the green and white stones.
“If only we could replicate such an entrance in the People’s Gallery,” Davidson mutters to Farley and me. He watches Evangeline approach. She squares her shoulders, letting the ramrod of determination mark her steps.
The premier himself keeps to his plain but splendid persona, clad in a dark green suit with white enamel buttons. His gray hair gleams, slicked back against his head.
“Shall we?” he says, gesturing to the arches leading away from the palace.
In our varying colors and varying degrees of readiness, we follow him down the winding steps into the city.
I wish the walk were longer, but the People’s Gallery, the building where the entire Montfort government gathers for matters such as this, isn’t far. Just a few hundred yards down the slope, set onto more terraces cut below the premier’s palace. Again, there are no walls to defend such an important place. Only white stone archways and sweeping verandas surround the domed building overlooking Ascendant and the valley. The sun continues to rise, gleaming off the green-glass dome hundreds of feet across. The glass is too flawed to be Silver-made, but it is more beautiful for the whorls and curves of imperfection, which catch the light in more interesting ways than flat, meticulous panes of pure glass. Silver-barked aspen trees with golden leaves spring up at even intervals, lining the structure like living columns. Those are the work of Silvers. Greenwardens, no doubt.
Soldiers flank each tree, still in their dark greens. Proud, unyielding. We cross the long, marble walkway to the wide-open doors of the Gallery.
I take a breath, steeling myself. This shouldn’t be difficult. Montfort is not our enemy. And our objective is clear. Acquire an army, as much as we can. Overthrow a mad king and his allies, all of them hell-bent on maintaining their power at the cost of Red and newblood life. Agreeing to help should be easy for the Free Republic of Montfort. Isn’t equality what they stand for?