Still kneeling, Tiberias says nothing. He only nods, a muscle jumping his cheek.
On the opposite side of the chamber, Radis gestures to Davidson, flicking out one hand. As he does so, a sudden breeze rustles through the Gallery. He is a windweaver, I realize. “Put it to a vote, Premier,” the Silver says.
In his seat, Davidson dips his chin. He stares out, searching the many assembled politicians. I wonder what he reads in their faces. After a long moment, he exhales. “Very well, Representative Radis.”
“I vote yes,” Radis says quickly, firmly, and sits.
On the floor, Tiberias blinks quickly, trying to mask his surprise. I feel the same.
It only grows with every resounding yes, spoken from dozens of lips. I count under my breath. Thirty. Thirty-five. Forty.
There are nos scattered among the politicians, enough at first to temper any hope I might feel. But they are quickly eclipsed, drowned out in favor of the answer we so desperately need.
Finally, Davidson grins and stands back up out of his chair. He crosses the floor and touches Tiberias lightly on the shoulder, gesturing for him to rise.
“You have your army.”
TWELVE
Evangeline
Even though Montfort is beautiful, I’m keenly glad to be leaving so soon after our arrival. What’s more, I’m going home. To Ridge House, to Ptolemus, to Elane. I’m so happy I barely notice that I have to pack up my things myself.
It’s the smart move. Even the Reds know it. The Rift is closer to Montfort than the Piedmont base, not to mention it isn’t surrounded by Bracken’s territory. And the kingdom is a place of strength, well defended. Maven won’t order an assault on our lands, and we’ll have time to gather our resources and our armies.
Still, my skin prickles with discomfort all afternoon. I can hardly stomach Cal’s grin as we step out into the courtyard of Davidson’s palace. Sometimes I wish he had just an ounce of Maven’s cunning, or even sense. Then he might understand what happened this morning in the People’s Gallery. But no, he’s too trusting, too good, and much too pleased with his little speech to realize how well Davidson maneuvers.
The vote was already decided. It must have been. The politicians of Montfort already knew what Davidson would request, and they already knew how they would answer. The army was decided before we even arrived. Everything else, the entire visit to the city, was a performance, and a seduction.
It’s what I would do.
Just as Davidson’s own words to me were a seduction of their own. Another small thing we allow here, he said to me when I first arrived. He knows about Elane, and he knows exactly what to say to make me falter. Make me wonder. Make me think, even for an instant, about throwing my life away for a place here.
The premier is a good salesman, to say the least.
Cal crosses the courtyard to bid good-bye to Davidson and his husband, Carmadon. Looking at the couple, I feel the familiar surge of jealousy and then nausea. I turn away, if only to look somewhere else.
My eyes land on another despicable public display of emotion. Another nauseating round of farewells before this troop of dancing monkeys heads to the Rift.
I don’t understand why Mare couldn’t have said her good-byes inside, where the rest of us didn’t have to see such a performance. As if she is original in her grief. As if Mare Barrow is the only one here who has ever had to leave someone behind.
She hugs her family one by one, each embrace longer than the last. Her mother cries; her father cries; her brothers and her sister cry. She does her best not to, and fails. Their half-hidden sniffles echo across the mountain jetway, and the rest of us are forced to act as if we aren’t waiting for the weeping family.
It’s all very Red, I suppose. They don’t have to worry about what showing weakness might do, because, for the most part, they’re already weak. Someone should talk to Barrow about that. She should know by now how important maintaining an image is.
The tall Red boy, Barrow’s tan, blond pet, follows alongside, hugging her family as if they were his own. I suppose he’s still tagging along.
Cal finishes with Davidson, pulling back from their whispered conversation. The premier isn’t coming back with us, not yet. Now that his government has agreed to fully aid us, he has much to organize, and he pledges to follow us back to the Rift in a week or so. But I don’t think that’s what they’re talking about. Cal is too fervent, too on edge, his grip on Davidson tight and unyielding. His eyes are soft, though. He’s asking for something, something small and unimportant to anyone but him.
When the prince walks away, he passes by Mare with long, quick strides. Her brothers watch him go, eyes trailing in the prince’s wake. If they were Calore burners, I think they might set him on fire. The sister is less hostile, but more disappointed. She frowns at his retreating form, lip between her teeth. She looks more like Mare when she does that, especially when her frown deepens into a sneer.
Cal stops at my right, settling into a wide-legged stance, crossing his arms over a plain black uniform.
“You need a better mask, Calore,” I mutter to him. He only scowls. “And she needs to keep to our schedule.”
“She’s leaving her family behind, Evangeline,” he growls in reply. “We can spare the minutes.”
I heave a sigh and examine my nails. No claws today. No need for them on the journey back home. “So many allowances where Barrow is concerned. I wonder where that line is, and what happens when she inevitably crosses it.”
Instead of snarling back, as I expect, he chuckles low in his throat. “Try to spread your misery all you want, Princess. It’s the only thing you have left.”
Gritting my teeth, I clench a fist. And I wish I’d donned my claws.
“Don’t pretend I’m the only one miserable here,” I snap.
That cows him into silence, the tips of his ears flushing a stubborn gray.
With a last embrace, Mare finally finishes all her hysterical nonsense. She turns tightly, shoulders squared away from her brood. Their faces vary, but they all have a likeness. Similar coloring, dark eyes and golden-toned skin. Dark brown hair but for the sister and the graying parents. There’s a common roughness to them, born in their blood. As if they were shaped from earth and we were shaped from stone.
The Red boy keeps pace as Mare walks toward us, tugged along on an invisible leash. He looks over his shoulder to wave back at the family, but Mare doesn’t. I respect that instinct, at least. Her dogged and sometimes ill-advised habit of pressing forward at all costs.
Cal looks up as she passes, stomping her way into the jet. His hand flexes, fingers grazing her arm as she goes. His skin is pale against the sleeve of her rust-colored jacket. But she doesn’t stop and he doesn’t stop her. He only stares at her disappearing form, throat bobbing with the words he can’t find it in himself to say.
Part of me wants to prod him after her with a sharp knife. The rest wants to cut out that heart of his, since he insists on ignoring it and subjecting me to a similar pain.
“Shall we, my future husband?” I growl, offering him my arm. The spikes of my metallic coat lie flat, glistening against one another in invitation.
Cal eyes me darkly, his teeth clenched into a forced grin. Dutiful to the last, he slips his arm around mine, resting his hand below my wrist. His skin blazes with heat, almost too hot to touch. I feel sweat prickle on my neck and fight the urge to shiver in disgust. “Of course, my future wife.”