“I decide what is important,” Maven clips. “What did you say?”
“I answered Her Majesty, the queen.” His eyes shift to me. Begging for some kind of protection, but I have none to give. The Sentinels are Maven’s to command. “I told her Reds lived here during the Montfort occupation. And Silvers. And newbloods.”
“Rats. Traitors. Freaks,” Maven offers, still without any inflection or emotion. I almost wish he would explode with rage. This is far more frightening. A king who cannot be read, a king without anything in him. “Those were your exact words, weren’t they?”
“They were, Your Majesty.”
With a crack of his neck, Maven looks at another guard. “Sentinel Osanos, can you explain why this was a mistake?”
The blue-eyed nymph sputters at my side, stunned to be called upon. She tries to gather herself as quickly as possible. And answer correctly. “Because . . .” She trails off, her fingers twitching in her robes. “I can’t say, sir.”
“Hmm.” His hum is low, guttural, vibrating in the damp air. “No one?”
I truly despise him.
I click my tongue. “Because Sentinel Rhambos insulted Mare Barrow in your presence.”
I suddenly regret wishing Maven would show anger instead of emptiness. His eyes go black, the pupils blowing out in fury. His mouth opens a little, showing teeth, though I expect fangs. The Sentinels around us tense, and I wonder if they would try to stop him if he moved to strike me. I don’t think they would. I’m their charge as well, but he comes first. He will always come first in this marriage.
“My wife has such an imagination,” he sneers, though I’ve struck upon the truth. An ugly one. I knew he was obsessed with her, in love with her in some corrupt and vile way, but his reaction hints at something deeper. An internal flaw of someone else’s making. His mother did this to him, for a reason I can’t fathom. Speared the pain and agony and torture of loving Mare through his heart and brain.
In spite of my better instincts, I feel the smallest pang of pity for Maven Calore. He is not of his own making. Not entirely. Someone else perfectly cut him apart and poorly put him back together.
His anger passes like the storm clouds, leaving the threat of trembling thunder in its wake. The Sentinels relax when it does. Maven rolls his shoulders and smooths a hand through his hair.
“Your mistake, Sentinel Rhambos, lies in your disdain,” he says, his voice returning to the dismissive, boyish tone he uses to ensnare people. Stepping lightly, he gets us moving again, though I think the Sentinels are keeping a distance. “We are at war, yes, and these people are our enemies. But they’re still people. Many of them my rightful subjects and your own countrymen. When we claim our victory, we will welcome them back into the Kingdom of Norta. With some exceptions, of course,” he adds with a conspiratorial smirk.
The lie comes so easily and so well I shiver in the heat.
“Here, sir,” one of the guards finally says, indicating a row house that looks identical to the others at first glance. But upon closer inspection, I realize the flowers are better tended to. Vibrant, lush petals and verdant green leaves burst from the window boxes.
Maven glares up at the windows, as if inspecting a corpse. He mounts the steps to the door, moving slowly. “And what freak lived here?” he finally says.
At first the Sentinels do not answer. Fearing the trap for what it is.
Only Osanos is brave enough to speak. She clears her throat, then responds.
“Mare Barrow.”
Maven nods, still for a second. Then he raises a foot, slamming his boot next to the doorknob, kicking the lock and the door open with a shatter of wood. His form recedes like a fading shadow as he enters the house.
I remain on the pavement for a moment. Stay here. The Sentinels hesitate with me, reluctant to follow their king. Though I would personally love nothing more than an assassin to jump out of a closet and cut Maven’s throat, I know how that would destroy any chance of winning this war and keeping the Lakelands safe from the other brother and his pets in the Rift.
“Keep up,” I growl, ascending the steps after my foul husband. The Sentinels clatter after me, their armor clinking beneath their robes of flame.
I focus on the sound of them as we enter the dim house, empty and silent without its occupants. The walls are oddly bare; Bracken did say his base, and many of his own treasures, were stripped of valuables. Sold off for resources. I wince at the thought of my own home facing such vultures. Our shrines and temples desecrated to fund a war. Not while I live and breathe. Not while Mother holds her throne.
I don’t bother entering the small salon or searching out the kitchen. Maven’s footsteps echo on the stairs, and I follow, pulling the Sentinels along with me. If the king wants to be alone, he doesn’t say so.
He bangs open each door on the second floor in turn, poking his head into various bedrooms, closets, and a bathroom. Once or twice, he snarls under his breath, like a predator denied prey.
At the final door, in the corner, he pauses, hesitating.
This door he opens with one hand, gently, as if entering a holy place.
I hang back a moment, letting him go first.
Inside is a bedroom, with two small beds flanking a single window. I notice the oddity first. The patterned curtains are cut up, with precise chunks removed.
“The sister,” Maven murmurs, running his hand along a sliced edge. “The seamstress.”
As he runs the fabric through his fingers, sparks spit from his wrist. They catch and spread, eating through the curtains with speed and skill. Burning holes spread like disease. Acrid smoke stings my nostrils.
He does the same to the wallpaper, letting it burn and peel beneath his touch. Then the window, laying a flaming hand to the glass. It cracks under the tremendous heat he throws off, shattering outward into the sunlight. The room seems to pulse and boil, like the inside of a bubbling pot. I want to step away, but I want to see him. Maven. I must know who he is if I am to defeat him.
The first bed he ignores, somehow knowing it wasn’t hers.
The second he sinks into, as if testing the firmness. He smooths the coverlet beneath his hands, then the pillow. Feeling where her head used to rest. I almost expect him to lie down and breathe in whatever scent might linger.
Instead his fire consumes. Feather and fabric. Wood frame. It leaps across to the other bed, gobbling it up.
“Give me a minute, please,” he whispers, almost inaudible over the roar of controlled flame.
We do as we are told, fleeing before the shining heat.
A minute is all he needs. We’re barely back on the street before he emerges from the door, an inferno jumping to life behind him.
I realize I’m sweating with fear as we walk away and the row house crumbles.
What will Maven burn next?
The snarl of transports echoes outside the holding bunker. The soldiers must have returned, and I wonder if they managed to track down anyone in the swamps. The noise filters through the high windows cut into the concrete slab walls. This room is cool, partially underground, bisected by a long aisle dividing two rows of barred cells. By the official count, we have forty-seven captured held here, two or three to a cell. All red-blooded, but still under heavy Silver guard. Some could be newbloods, quietly waiting for a chance to use their abilities and escape. The Silvers of Montfort—the blood traitors, as the Sentinel called them—are being held elsewhere, restrained by silents and the most powerful of guards.