How I used to want this, I don’t know.
Any revulsion I feel is quickly swallowed by excitement as we board the jet, our steps matched as we climb into the iron hulk. All that stands between me and a reunion with the ones I love most is a few short hours of flight. Squeezed alongside Cal and Mare and whatever dramatic sighs and meaningful stares they might toss at each other, yes, but I can handle it. Ptolemus is waiting.
Elane is waiting.
Even thousands of miles away, I feel the cool balm of her presence, a cold towel on fevered skin. White skin, red hair, all the stars in her eyes, the moon in her teeth.
When I was thirteen, I cut Elane to ribbons in the Training ring. For Father, for even the chance of his approval. I cried for a week afterward, and spent another month apologizing. She understood, of course. We know what our families are, what they demand, what we must be for them. And as the years wore on, such things became expected. Ordinary. We fought daily, hurting each other, hurting ourselves. In Training, with healers at the ready. We desensitized ourselves to the necessary violence of our days. But I wouldn’t do it to her now. Wouldn’t hurt her for anyone on this earth, even with the best healers in the world waiting to attend her. Not for my father, or for my crown. If only Calore felt as strongly for Mare. If only he loved her as I love Elane.
As soon as we’re safely in the belly of the jet, the curved walls lined with cushioned seats and restraints, bolted-down tables and thick-glassed windows, Cal peels away from me. He eases himself down next to his grandmother, holding solitary court at one of the few tabled areas.
“Nanabel,” I hear him mumble in greeting, using the utterly ridiculous and unbecoming pet name.
She looks weary for the first time I can remember. She offers her grandson a kind, private smile as he sits.
I find a seat of my own, favoring a window and a table at the corner, where I can sleep without much disturbance. Our jet is more comfortable than the military transports, though also commandeered from the Piedmont Air Fleet. The inside is white and cheery, accented with yellow and tiny bursts of purple stars along the interior. Prince Bracken’s colors and symbols.
I’ve never met the prince, only his various diplomats through the years, and of course his envoys, Prince Alexandret and Prince Daraeus. They’re both dead now. I watched Alexandret die in Archeon, shot through the skull during the first attempt on Maven’s life. The memory turns my stomach.
An Iral lord stood up, pointed a gun, and fired a bullet at the king sitting two feet to my left. Fired and missed, of course, forcing us to act like the allies we pretended to be.
He should have died that day. I wish he’d died that day.
I can still taste the iron tang of his blood, mercurial upon the stones, gushing in an open river at my feet.
The assassination attempt failed. The rebelling houses fled, retreating to their lands and strongholds. Elane is no warrior and she was already gone, fleeing before the attack. But House Samos had to keep our cover. I still had to stand at Maven’s council—stand because the weasel denied me the courtesy of a single chair—and watch him interrogate her sister. Watch his Merandus cousin spill out her memories before they executed her for treason.
Elane never speaks of it, and I won’t push. I can’t imagine what I would do if Ptolemus met the same fate. No, that’s not true. I can imagine a thousand things. A million different forms of violence and pain. And not one would fill the void. The bonds of Silver blood, when strong, are unbreakable. Our loyalty to the few we love runs bone-deep.
What will Bracken do for his children, then?
I didn’t ask after them, or their treatment in Montfort. It’s easier not to. One less worry in a world full of worries.
My pursuit of silent privacy is interrupted by a hurricane of muscular limbs and cropped blond hair. The Scarlet Guard general sits with a collapsing thump, shuddering the floor beneath my feet.
“You move with the grace of one of those bison,” I sneer, hoping to chase her out of the seat opposite mine.
She doesn’t flinch or reply. The woman just glares at me with a flash of anger, her eyes galaxy blue. Then she turns to the window, leaning her forehead against the glass with a low huff of breath. She isn’t crying. Not like Barrow, who enters the jet with hiccups and red-rimmed eyes.
There is no such display of sorrow on General Farley. Still, I can see the agony rolling off her like a tide. Her face goes blank, empty without the usual stony expression and obligatory disgust she tosses at Silvers, especially me.
I know she has a daughter, an infant, stowed away somewhere.
Not here. Not on this craft.
Barrow follows the Red woman, taking the seat beside her, and I snarl to myself. We traveled here with two jets, enough to keep the Reds and Silvers apart, as well as carry the bounty of Corvium. I find myself wishing that were still the case, and we weren’t all crammed together for the journey to the Rift.
“There are approximately sixty other seats on this plane,” I mutter.
Mare cuts her own glare at me, torn between anger and heartache. “You’re welcome to move if you want,” she replies. “But I doubt you have somewhere better to sit.” She gestures with her chin, indicating the rest of the plane as it fills with various representatives of those loyal to Cal and the Scarlet Guard.
I sink back into the plush seat, almost huffing. She isn’t wrong. I hardly want to spend the hours donning a court mask, wielding a smile like a shield to trade information and veiled threats with the other Silvers. Nor do I have any desire to shut my eyes among Reds who would rather slit my throat. No, strangely, Mare Barrow is my safest haven here. Our bargain protects us both.
Mare shifts her attention, moving so her body is squared to the general. They don’t speak, and Diana Farley doesn’t look at Barrow. Her focus on the window is perfect, enough to shatter the glass. She doesn’t seem to notice when Mare takes her hand.
As the jet purrs to life, its engines humming to a roar, she doesn’t move. Her teeth clench, the muscles in her jaw jumping as she grinds them together.
Only when we take off, climbing into the clouds, leaving the mountains behind, does she shut her eyes.
I think I hear her whisper good-bye.
I’m the first down the steps of the jet, gulping the fresh scent of the Rift in summer. I smell dirt and river and leaves and damp heat, undercut with the distant hint of iron beneath the hills. The sun is strong, bright in a hazy, humid sky. It makes everything gleam in odd contrast. The ridges march off into the distance, lush and green against the flat, hot black of the paved runway. If I were to lay a palm to the ground, it would burn my skin. Waves of heat distortion rise from the pavement, wobbling the world around me. Or that could just be me, trembling with want. I try not to run. Try to hold on to some sense of propriety.
My relationship with Elane Haven is an open secret now, and a small one in comparison to the myriad of alliances and betrayals that seem to tangle our lives in so many webs.
A small secret, but a shameful one. An obstacle. A difficulty.
In Norta. In the Rift, a voice says in my head. Not so elsewhere.
She won’t be waiting out here for all to see. It’s not her way. Still, my heartbeat hammers, pounding at my pulse points.
Ptolemus is not so restricted. He stands on the runway, sweating stubbornly in a summer uniform of gray linen and reserved regalia. The only metal on him winks at his wrists. Thick-braided iron rope, more weapon than jewelry. A caution, especially alongside the dozen or so guards in Samos colors. A few are cousins, marked by their silver hair and black eyes. The rest are pledged to our house, to my father’s crown, in the same way Maven’s guards were. I don’t bother noting their colors. They don’t matter.