King’s Cage (Red Queen Book 3)

I tear apart every book on my shelf, rip them to shreds. The bindings snap, the pages tear, and I wish they would bleed. I wish I could bleed. She’s dead because I’m not. Because I’m still here, bait in a trap, a lure to draw the Scarlet Guard out of their sanctuaries.

After a few hours of pointless destruction, I realize I’m wrong. The Scarlet Guard wouldn’t do this. Not the Colonel, not Farley, not for me.

“Cal, you stupid, stupid bastard,” I say to no one.

Because of course this was his idea. It’s what he learned. Victory at any cost. I hope he doesn’t continue to pay this impossible price for me.

Outside, it’s snowing again. I feel none of its cold, only my own.

In the morning, I wake up on my bed, still in my dress, though I don’t remember getting up from the floor. The ruined books are gone too, meticulously swept from my life. Even the smallest pieces of torn paper. But the shelves aren’t empty. A dozen leather-bound books, new and old, occupy the spaces. The urge to ruin them too consumes me, and I stumble to my feet, lunging.

The first one I grab is ratty, its cover torn and aged. I think it used to be yellow, or maybe gold. It doesn’t really matter to me. I flip it open, one hand grabbing for a sheaf of pages, ready to tear them to bits like the rest.

Familiar handwriting freezes me to the spot. My heart leaps in recognition.

Property of Julian Jacos.

My knees stop working beneath me. I land with a soft thud, bent over the most comforting thing I’ve seen in weeks. My fingers trace the lines of his name, wishing he would spring from them, wishing I could hear his voice somewhere other than in my head. I flip through the pages, looking for more evidence of him. The words skim by, each one echoing with his warmth. A history of Norta, her formation, and three hundred years of Silver kings and queens blaze past. Some pieces are underlined or annotated. Each new burst of Julian makes my chest constrict with happiness. In spite of my circumstances, my painful scars, I smile.

The other books are the same. All Julian’s, pieces of his much larger collections. I paw through them like a girl starved. He favors the histories, but there are sciences too. Even a novel. That one has two names inside. From Julian, to Coriane. I stare at the letters, the only evidence of Cal’s mother in this entire palace. I put that one back with care, my fingers lingering on its unbroken spine. She never read it. Maybe she didn’t get the chance.

Deep down, I hate that these make me happy. I hate that Maven knows me well enough to know what to give me. Because these are certainly from him. The only kind of apology he can make, the only one I could possibly accept. But I don’t. Of course I don’t. As quick as it came, my smile fades. I can’t let myself feel anything but hatred where the king is concerned. His manipulations aren’t as perfect as his mother’s, but I feel them still, and I won’t let them pull me in.

For a second, I debate ripping the books apart like I did the others. Showing Maven what I think of his gift. But I just can’t. My fingers linger on the pages, so easy to tear. And then I shelve them carefully, one by one.

I will not destroy the books, so I settle for the dress instead, ripping the ruby-encrusted fabric from my body.

Someone like Gisa probably made this dress. A Red servant with keen hands and an artist’s eye, perfectly sewing something so beautiful and terrible that only a Silver could wear it. The thought should make me sad, but only anger bleeds through me. I have no more tears. Not after yesterday.

When the next outfit is delivered by silent, stone-faced Clover and Kitten, I pull it on without hesitation or complaint. The blouse is flecked with a treasure trove of ruby, garnet, and onyx, with long, trailing sleeves striped in black silk. The pants are a gift too, loose enough to pass for comfortable.

The Skonos healer comes next. She focuses her efforts on my eyes, healing both the puffiness and my throbbing headache from last night’s frustrated tears. Like Sara, she is quiet and skilled, her blue-black fingers fluttering along my aches. She works quickly. So do I.

“Can you speak, or did Queen Elara cut your tongue out too?”

She knows what I’m talking about. Her gaze wavers, lashes fluttering in quick blinks of surprise. Still, she doesn’t speak. She has been trained well.

“Good decision. Last time I saw Sara, I was rescuing her from a prison. Seems even losing her tongue wasn’t enough punishment.” I glance past her, to Clover and Kitten looking on. Like the healer, they concentrate on me. I feel the cold ripple of their ability, pulsing in time with the constant silence of my manacles. “There were hundreds of Silvers in there. Many from the High Houses. Have any friends go missing lately?”

I don’t have many weapons in this place. But I have to try.

“Keep your mouth shut, Barrow,” Clover growls.

Just getting her to speak is victory enough for me. I push on.

“I find it odd that no one seems to mind that the little king is a bloodthirsty tyrant. But then I’m Red. I don’t understand you people at all.”

I laugh as Clover shoves me away from the healer, fuming now. “That’s enough healing for her,” she hisses, pulling me from the room. Her green eyes spark with anger, but also confusion. Self-doubt. Little cracks I intend to wheedle my way through.

No one else should risk rescuing me. I have to do it myself.

“Ignore her,” Kitten mutters back at her comrade, her voice high and breathy and dripping venom.

“What an honor it must be for you two.” I keep talking as they lead me down long, familiar corridors. “Babysitting some Red brat. Cleaning up after her meals, tidying her room. All so Maven can have his doll around when he wants.”

It only makes them angrier and rougher with me. They quicken their pace, forcing me to keep up. Suddenly we turn left instead of right, into another part of the palace I dimly remember. Residence halls, where the royals live. I lived here once too, if only for a little while.

My heartbeat quickens as we pass a statue in an alcove. I recognize it. My room—my old bedchamber—is a few doors away. Cal’s room too, and Maven’s.

“Not so talkative now,” Clover says, her voice sounding faraway.

Light streams in through the windows, doubly bright from the sun on fresh snow. It does nothing to comfort me. I can handle Maven in the throne room, in his study, when I am on display. But alone—truly alone? Beneath my clothes, his brand smarts and burns.

When we stop at a door and push through to the salon inside, I realize my mistake. Relief washes over me. Maven is king now. His living chambers aren’t here anymore.

But Evangeline’s are.

She sits in the center of the oddly bare salon, surrounded by twisted pieces of metal. They vary in color and material—iron, bronze, copper. Her hands work diligently, shaping flowers from chrome, curling them into a braided silver and gold band. Another crown for her collection. Another crown she can’t wear yet.

Two attendants wait on her. A man and a woman, plainly dressed, their clothes striped with the colors of House Samos. With a jolt, I realize they are Red.

“Make her presentable, please,” Evangeline says, not bothering to look up.

The Reds descend, waving me to the single mirror in the room. As I stare into it, I realize Elane is here as well, lazing on a long couch in a beam of sunlight like a satisfied cat. She meets my gaze without question or fear, only disinterest.

“You may wait outside,” Elane says when she breaks eye contact, turning back to my Arven guards. Her red hair catches the light, rippling like liquid fire. Even though I have an excuse for looking horrible, I still feel self-conscious in her presence.

Evangeline nods, agreeing, and the Arvens file out. Both cast disgruntled glances in my direction. I greedily drink them in to treasure later.

“Anyone care to explain?” I ask the quiet room, expecting no answer.

The other two laugh together, exchanging pointed glances. I take the opportunity to assess the room and the situation. There’s another door, probably leading to Evangeline’s bedroom, while the windows are locked tight against the cold. Her room looks out on a familiar courtyard, and I realize my cell of a bedroom must face hers. The revelation shivers me.

To my surprise, Evangeline drops her work with a clatter. The crown shatters, unable to hold its shape without her ability. “It is the queen’s duty to receive guests.”

“Well, I’m not a guest and you’re not a queen, so . . .”

“If only your brain were as quick as your mouth,” she snaps back.

The Red woman blinks rapidly, flinching like our words might hurt her. Actually, they might, and I resolve to be less stupid. I bite my lip to keep more foolish thoughts from spilling out, letting the two Red servants work. The man attends to my hair, brushing it through and coiling it into a spiral, while she does up my face. No Silver paint, but she uses blush, a bit of black to line my eyes, and striking red for my lips. A garish sight.

“That will do,” Elane says from her back. The Reds are quick to pull away, dropping their hands to their sides and bowing their heads. “We can’t have her looking too well treated. The princes won’t understand it.”

My eyes widen. Princes. Guests. Who am I being paraded in front of now?

Evangeline notices. She huffs aloud, flicking a bronze flower at Elane. It embeds in the wall above her head, but Elane doesn’t seem to mind. She only sighs dreamily.

“Mind what you say, Elane.”

“She’ll find out in a few moments, my dear. What’s the harm?” She gets up from her pillows, extending long limbs that glow with her ability. Evangeline’s eyes track her every movement, sharpening when Elane crosses the room to my side.

She joins me at the mirror, looking into my face. “You’ll behave today, won’t you?”

I wonder how quickly Evangeline would skin me if I slammed my elbow into Elane’s perfect teeth.

“I’ll behave.”

“Good.”

And then she disappears, wiped from sight but not sensation. I still feel her hand on my shoulder. A warning.

I look through where Elane’s body was, back to Evangeline. She gets up from the floor, her dress pooling around her, fluid as mercury. It very well could be.

When she strides toward me, I can’t help but recoil. But Elane’s hand keeps me from moving, forcing me to stand up straight and allow Evangeline to lean over me. A corner of her mouth lifts. She likes seeing me afraid. When she raises a hand and I flinch, she smiles openly. But instead of striking me, she tucks a strand of hair behind my ear.

“Make no mistake, this is all for my benefit,” she says. “Not yours.”

I have no idea what she’s talking about, but I nod along anyway.

Evangeline doesn’t lead us to the throne room, but to Maven’s private council chambers. The Sentinels guarding the doors look more imposing than usual. When I enter, I realize they’re even manning the windows. An extra precaution after Nanny’s infiltration.

The last time I passed through, the room was empty save for Jon. He’s still here, quiet in the corner, unassuming next to the half-dozen others around the room. I shiver at the sight of Volo Samos, a quiet spider in black with his son, Ptolemus, at his side. Of course, Samson Merandus is here too. He leers at me and I lower my eyes, avoiding his gaze as if I can shield myself from the memory of him crawling into my brain.

I expect to see Maven seated alone at the far end of the marble table, but instead, two men flank him closely. Both are draped in heavy furs and soft suede, dressed to withstand arctic cold even though we are well sheltered from the winter. They have deep, blue-black skin like polished stone. The one on the right has bits of gold and turquoise beaded into the intricate whorls of his braids, while the one on the left settles for long, gleaming locks topped by a crown of blossoms hewn from white quartz. Royalty, clearly. But not ours. Not from Norta.Content © NôvelDrama.Org 2024.

Maven raises a hand, gesturing to Evangeline as she approaches. In the light of a winter sun, she gleams. “My betrothed, Lady Evangeline of House Samos,” he says. “She was integral to the capture of Mare Barrow, the lightning girl and the leader of the Scarlet Guard.”

Evangeline plays her part, bowing before the two. They bow their heads in turn, their motions long and fluid.

“Our congratulations, Lady Evangeline,” the one with the crown says. He even extends a hand, gesturing for her own. She lets him kiss her knuckles, beaming at the attention.

When she glares at me, I realize Evangeline means for me to join her. I do so reluctantly. I intrigue the two newcomers, and they watch me in fascination. I refuse to so much as nod my head.

“This is the lightning girl?” the other prince says. His teeth flash moon white against night-dark skin. “This is the one giving you so much trouble? And you let her live?”

“Of course he did,” his compatriot crows. He gets to his feet, and I realize he must be almost seven feet tall. “She’s marvelous bait. Though I’m surprised her terrorists haven’t attempted a real rescue, if she’s as important as you say.”

Maven shrugs. He exudes an air of quiet satisfaction. “My court is well defended. Infiltration is all but impossible.”

I glance at him, meeting his eyes. Liar. He almost smirks at me, like it’s a private joke between us. I fight the familiar urge to spit at him.

“In Piedmont we would march her through the streets of every city,” the prince with the quartz crown says. “Show our citizens what becomes of people like her.”

Piedmont. The word rings like a bell in my head. So these are the Piedmont princes. I rack my brain, trying to remember what I know of their country. An ally of Norta, forming part of our southern border. Governed by a collection of princes. All that I know from Julian’s lessons. But I know other things too. I remember finding shipments on Tuck, supplies stolen from Piedmont. And Farley herself hinted that the Scarlet Guard was expanding there, intent on spreading their rebellion through Norta’s closest ally.

“Does she speak?” the prince continues, looking between Maven and Evangeline.

“Unfortunately,” she replies with a pointed smirk.

Both princes laugh at that, as does Maven. The rest of the room follows suit, pandering to their lord and master.

“Well then, Prince Daraeus? Prince Alexandret?” Maven sweeps his gaze over each in turn. He proudly plays the part of king, despite the two royals twice his age and size. Somehow he measures up against them. Elara trained him so well. “You wanted to see the prisoner. And you’ve seen her.”

Alexandret, already standing so close, takes my chin in soft hands. I wonder what his ability is. I wonder how afraid of him I should be. “Indeed, Your Majesty. We have a few questions, if you would be so kind as to allow it?”

Though he frames the words as a request, this is little more than a demand.

“Your Majesty, I’ve already told you what she knows.” Samson speaks up from his chair, leaning across the table so he can gesture to me. “Nothing in Mare Barrow’s mind escaped my search.”

I would nod in agreement, but Alexandret’s grip keeps me still. I stare up at him, trying to deduce exactly what he wants from me. His eyes are an abyss, unreadable. I don’t know this man and find nothing in him I can use. My skin crawls at his touch and I wish for my lightning, to put a little distance between us. Over his shoulder, Daraeus shifts so he can see me better. His gold beading catches the winter light, filling his hair with dazzling brightness.

“King Maven, we would like to hear it from her own lips,” Daraeus says, leaning in to Maven. Then he smiles, all ease and charisma. Daraeus is beautiful and uses his looks well. “Prince Bracken’s request, you understand. We only need a few minutes.”

Alexandret, Daraeus, Bracken. I commit the names to memory.

“Ask what you will.” Maven’s hands grip the edge of his seat. Neither one stops smiling, and nothing has ever looked so false. “Right here.”

After a long moment, Daraeus relents. He inclines his head in a deferential bow. “Very well, Your Majesty.”

Then his body blurs, moving so quickly I barely see his movements. He is suddenly right beside me. Swift. Not as fast as my brother, but fast enough to send a shock of adrenaline coursing through me. I still don’t know what Alexandret can do. I can only pray he isn’t a whisper, that I won’t have to face such torture again.

“Is the Scarlet Guard operating in Piedmont?” Alexandret asks as he looms over me, his deep eyes boring into mine. Unlike Daraeus, there is no smile in him.

I wait for the telltale sting of another mind crashing into my own. It never comes. The manacles—they won’t allow an ability to penetrate my cocoon of silence.

My voice cracks. “What?”

“I want to hear what you know of the Scarlet Guard’s operations in Piedmont.”

Every interrogation I’ve been subjected to has been performed by a whisper. It’s odd to have someone ask me questions freely, and trust my answers without splitting open my skull. I suppose Samson has already told the princes everything he learned from me, but they don’t trust what he said. Smart, then, to see if my story matches up with his.

“The Scarlet Guard is good at keeping secrets,” I reply, my thoughts a blur. Do I lie? Do I throw more fuel to the fire of distrust between Maven and Piedmont? “I wasn’t allowed much information regarding their operations.”

“Your operations.” Alexandret furrows his brow, forming a deep crease in the center of his forehead. “You were their leader. I refuse to believe you can be so useless to us.”

Useless. Two months ago I was the lightning girl, a storm in human form. But before that I was as he says. Useless to everyone and everything, even my enemies. Back in the Stilts I hated it. Now I’m glad. I’m a poor weapon for a Silver to wield.

“I am not their leader,” I tell Alexandret. Behind me, I hear Maven shift, settling back into his seat. I hope he’s squirming. “I never even met their leaders.”

He doesn’t believe me. But he doesn’t believe what he’s already been told either. “How many of your operatives are in Piedmont?”

“I don’t know.”

“Who is funding your endeavors?”

“I don’t know.”

It starts as a prickle in my fingers and toes. A tiny sensation. Not pleasant but not uncomfortable. Like when a limb goes numb. Alexandret never lets go of my jaw. The manacles, I tell myself. They will protect me from him. They must.

“Where are Prince Michael and Princess Charlotta?”

“I don’t know who those people are.”

Michael, Charlotta. More names to memorize. The prickling continues, now in my arms and legs. I draw hissing breath through my teeth.

His eyes narrow in concentration. I brace myself for an explosion of pain born of whatever ability he will subject me to. “Have you had any contact with the Free Republic of Montfort?”

Still the prickling is bearable. Only his tight grip on my jaw is truly painful.

“Yes,” I bite out.

Then he pulls back, letting my chin go with a sneer. He glances at my wrists, then forcibly raises one sleeve to see my bindings. The buzzing in my arms and legs recedes as he scowls.

“Your Majesty, I wonder if I might question her without manacles of Silent Stone?” Another demand disguised as a request.

This time, Maven denies him. Without my manacles, his ability will be unbound. It must be enormous for it to have penetrated even a little through my cage of silence. I’ll be tortured. Again.

“You may not, Your Highness. She is far too dangerous for that,” Maven says with a curt shake of his head. In spite of all my hatred, I feel the smallest bloom of gratitude. “And, as you said, she’s valuable. I can’t have you breaking her.”

Samson doesn’t bother to hide his disgust. “Someone should.”

“Is there anything else I can do for Your Highnesses, or for Prince Bracken?” Maven pushes on, speaking over his demonic cousin. He unfolds himself from his chair, using one hand to smooth his dress uniform studded with medals and badges of honor. But he keeps one hand on the seat, clawed around an arm of Silent Stone. It is his anchor and his shield.

Daraeus bows low enough for both princes, smiling again. “I did hear rumors of a feast.”

“For once,” Maven replies with a sharp grin in my direction, “the rumors are true.”

Lady Blonos never taught me the protocol for entertaining royalty of an ally nation. I’ve seen feasts before, balls, a Queenstrial I inadvertently ruined, but never anything like this. Perhaps because Maven’s father was not so concerned with appearance, but Maven is his mother’s son in flesh and bone. To look powerful is to be powerful, she said once. Today he takes that lesson to heart. His advisers, his Piedmont guests, and I are seated at a long table where we can overlook all the rest.

I’ve never set foot in this ballroom before. It dwarfs the throne room, the galleries, and the feasting chambers of the rest of Whitefire. It fits the entire assembled court, all the lords and ladies and their extended families, with ease. The chamber is three stories tall, towering windows of crystal and colored glass, each one depicting the colors of the High Houses. The result is a dozen rainbows arcing over a marble floor veined with black granite, each beam of light a prism shifting through the diamond facets of chandeliers worked into trees, birds, sunbeams, constellations, storms, infernos, typhoons, and a dozen other symbols of Silver strength. I would spend the entire meal staring at the ceiling if not for own my precarious position. At least I’m not next to Maven this time. The princes have to suffer him tonight. But Jon is on my left and Evangeline on my right. I keep my elbows tucked sharply to my sides, not wanting to accidentally touch either of them. Evangeline might stab me, and Jon might share another nauseating premonition.

Luckily, the food is good. I force myself to eat, and I keep away from the liquor. Red servants circulate, and no glass is ever empty. After ten minutes of trying to catch someone’s eye, I abandon the pursuit. The servants are smart, and not willing to risk their lives for a glance at me.

I fix my eyes ahead, counting the tables, counting the High Houses. All are here, plus House Calore, represented by Maven alone. He has no cousins or other family that I know of, though I assume they must exist. Like the servants, they’re probably smart enough to avoid his jealous wrath and tremulous grip on the throne.

House Iral seems smaller, dulled despite their vibrant blue-and-red outfits. There are nowhere near as many of them, and I wonder how many Irals were sent to Corros Prison. Or maybe they fled court. Sonya is still here, though, her posture elegant and practiced but strangely tense. She’s traded her officer’s uniform for a sparkling gown and sits beside an older man, resplendent in a collar of rubies and sapphires. Probably the new lord of her house since his predecessor, the Panther, was murdered by a man sitting only a few feet away. I wonder if Sonya told them what I said about her grandmother and Ptolemus. I wonder if they care.

I jolt when Sonya looks up sharply, catching my eye.

Next to me, Jon sighs long and low. He picks up his glass of scarlet wine with one hand and shunts his dinner knife away with the other.

“Mare, could you do me a small favor?” he says calmly.

Even his voice disgusts me. Sneering, I turn to look at him with all the venom I can muster. “Excuse me?”

Something cracks, and pain sears along my cheekbone, cutting skin, burning flesh. I jerk from the sensation, falling sideways, shying away like a spooked animal. My shoulder collides with Jon, and he pitches forward, spilling wine and water over the fine tablecloth. Blood too. There’s a lot of blood. I feel it, warm and wet, but I don’t look down to see the color. My eyes are on Evangeline, standing from the table, one arm outstretched.

A bullet shudders on the air in front of her, held in place. I assume it matches the one that cut my cheek—and could have done much worse.

Her fist clenches and the bullet rockets backward to where it came from, chased on by splinters of cold steel as they explode from her dress. I watch in horror as blue-and-red figures weave through the metallic storm, dodging, dipping, darting in and out of every blow. They even catch pieces of her metal projecticles and hurl them back, beginning the cycle again in a violent, glittering dance.

Evangeline is not the only one to attack. Sentinels pitch forward, surging over the high table, forming a wall before us. Their movements are perfect, made through years of relentless training. But their ranks have gaps. And some throw their masks away, discarding their flamelike robes. They turn on one another.

The High Houses do the same.

I’ve never felt so exposed, so helpless, and that’s saying quite a bit. In front of me, gods duel. My eyes widen, trying to see it all. Trying to make sense of this. I’ve never imagined anything like it. An arena battle in the middle of a ballroom. Jewels instead of armor.

Iral and Haven and Laris in their shocking yellow seem to form one side of whatever this is. They back one another, aid one another. Laris windweavers toss Iral silks from one side of the room to the other with sharp gusts, wielding them like living arrows while the Irals fire pistols and throw knives with deadly precision. The Havens have disappeared entirely, but a few Sentinels in front of us drop, felled by invisible attacks.

And the rest, the rest don’t know what to do. Some—Samos, Merandus, most of the guards and Sentinels—rally to the high table, rushing to defend Maven, who I can’t see. But most fall back, surprised, betrayed, not willing to wade into such a mess and risk their own necks. They defend and do nothing else. They watch to see the direction of the tide.

My heart leaps in my chest. This is my chance. In the chaos, no one will notice me. The manacles have not taken away my thief’s instincts or talents.

I push off the floor, finding my feet, not bothering to wonder about Maven or anyone. I focus only on what’s in front of me. The closest door. I don’t know where it goes, but it will get me away from here, and that’s enough. As I move, I grab a knife off the table and set it to work, trying to pick the locks of my manacles.

Someone flees ahead of me, leaving a trail of scarlet blood. He limps but moves fast, ducking through a door. Jon, I realize. Making his escape. He sees the future. Surely he can see the best way out of here.

I wonder if I’ll be able to keep up.

I get my answer after a grand total of three steps, when a Sentinel seizes me from behind. He pins my arms to my sides, holding tight. I groan like an annoyed child, exasperated beyond frustration, as my hand drops the knife.

“No, no, no,” Samson says as he steps into my path. The Sentinel won’t even let me flinch. “We can’t have this.”

Now I can see what this is. Not a rescue. Not for me. A coup, an assassination attempt. They’ve come for Maven.

Iral, Haven, and Laris cannot win this battle. They’re outnumbered, but they know that. They prepared for it. The Irals are schemers and spies. Their plan is well executed. Already they’re making an escape through the shattered windows. I watch, dumbfounded, as they throw themselves out into the sky, catching gales of wind that fling them out and away. Not all of them make it. Nornus swifts catch a few, as does Prince Daraeus, despite a long knife protruding from his shoulder. I assume the Havens are long gone too, though one or two flicker back into my vision, each one bleeding, dying, assaulted by a Merandus whisper’s onslaught. Daraeus himself puts out one blurring arm and catches someone by the neck. When he squeezes, a Haven blinks into existence.

The Sentinels who turned, all Laris and Iral, don’t make it either. They kneel, angry but unafraid, burning with determination. Without their masks, they don’t look so terrifying.

A gurgling sound draws our attention. The Sentinel turns, allowing me to see the center of what was once the feasting table. A crowd clusters where Maven’s seat was, some on guard, some kneeling. Through their legs, I see him.

Silver blood bubbles from his neck, gushing through the fingers of the nearest Sentinel, who is trying to keep pressure on a bullet wound. Maven’s eyes roll and his mouth moves. He can’t speak. He can’t even scream. A wet, gasping sort of noise is all he can make.

I’m glad the Sentinel holds me still. Or else I might run to him. Something in me wants to run to him. Whether to finish the job or comfort him as he dies, I don’t know. I desire both in equal measure. I want to look into his eyes and see him leave me forever.

But I just can’t move, and he just won’t die.

The Skonos skin healer, my skin healer, skids to his side, sliding on her knees. I think her name is Wren. An apt name. She is small and darting as her namesake. She snaps her fingers. “Take it out; I have him!” she shouts. “Out, now!”

Ptolemus Samos crouches, abandoning his guarding vigil. He twitches his fingers and a bullet pulls free of Maven’s neck, bringing with it a fresh fountain of silver. Maven tries to scream, gargling his own blood.

Brow furrowed, the skin healer works, holding both hands over his wound. She bends as if to put her weight on him. From this angle, I can’t see the skin beneath, but the blood stops gushing. The wound that should’ve killed him heals. Muscle and vein and flesh knit back together, good as new. No scar but the memory.

After a long, gasping moment, Maven hurtles to his feet, and fire explodes from both hands, sending his entourage reeling backward. The table before him flips, blasted back by the strength and rage of his flame. It lands in a resounding heap, spitting puddles of blue-burning alcohol. The rest ignites, fed by Maven’s anger. And, I think, terror.

Only Volo has the spine to approach him in such a state.

“Your Majesty, should we evacuate you to the—”

With wicked eyes, Maven turns. Above him, the lightbulbs in the chandeliers burst, spitting flame instead of sparks. “I have no reason to run.”

All this in a few moments. The ballroom is in shambles, full of shattered glass, upended tables, and a few very mangled bodies.

Prince Alexandret is among them, slumped dead in his seat of honor with a bullet hole between his eyes.

I don’t mourn his loss. His ability was pain.

Naturally, they interrogate me first. I should be used to it by now.

Exhausted, emotionally spent, I slump to the cold stone floor when Samson lets me go. My breathing comes hard, like I’ve just run a race. I will my heartbeat to normalize, to stop panting, to hold on to some shred of dignity and sense. I cringe as the Arvens lock my manacles back into place; then they pass the key away. The manacles are a relief and a burden both. A shield and a cage.

We’ve retreated to the grand council chambers this time, the circular room where I saw Walsh die to protect the Scarlet Guard. More room here, more space to try the dozen captured assassins. The Sentinels have learned their lesson, and they keep firm grips on the prisoners, not allowing any movement. Maven leers down from his council seat, flanked on either side by Volo and Daraeus. The latter fumes, torn between livid rage and sorrow. His fellow prince is dead, killed in what I now know was an assassination attempt on Maven. An attempt that, sadly, failed.

“She knew nothing of this. Neither the house rebellion nor Jon’s betrayal,” Samson tells the room. The terrible chamber seems small, with most of the seats empty and the doors firmly locked. Only Maven’s closest advisers remain, looking on, gears turning in their heads.

In his seat, Maven sneers. Almost being murdered doesn’t seem to rattle him. “No, this was not the Scarlet Guard’s doing. They don’t work like this.”

“You don’t know that,” Daraeus snaps, forgetting all his manners and smiles. “You don’t know anything about them, no matter what you might say. If the Scarlet Guard has allied with—”

“Corrupted,” Evangeline snaps from her place behind Maven’s left shoulder. She doesn’t have a council seat or a title of her own and has to stand, despite the many empty chairs. “Gods do not ally with insects, but they can be infected by them.”

“Pretty words from a pretty girl,” Daraeus says, dismissing her outright. She fumes. “What of the rest?”

At Maven’s gesture, the next interrogation begins in earnest. A Haven shadow, grasped tightly by Trio himself to keep the woman from fleeing. Without her ability, she seems dim, an echo of her beautiful house. Her red hair is darker, duller, without its usual scarlet gleam. When Samson puts a hand to her temple, she shrieks.

“Her thoughts are of her sister,” Samson says without any feeling. Except maybe boredom. “Elane.”

I saw her only hours ago, gliding around Evangeline’s salon. She gave no indication that she knew of an impending assassination. But no good schemer would.

Maven knows it too. He glares at Evangeline, seething. “I’m told Lady Elane escaped with the majority of her house, fleeing the capital,” he says. “Do you have any idea where they might have gone, my dearest?”

She keeps her eyes forward, walking a quickly thinning line. Even with her father and brother so close, I don’t think anyone could save her from Maven’s wrath if he felt inclined to unleash it. “No, why would I?” she says airily, examining her clawlike nails.

“Because she was your brother’s betrothed and your whore,” the king replies, matter-of-fact.

If she’s ashamed or even apologetic, Evangeline does not show it. “Oh, that.” She even scoffs, taking the accusation in stride. “How could she learn much of anything from me? You conspire so well to keep me from councils and politics. If anything, she did you a favor in keeping me pleasantly occupied.”

Their bickering reminds me of another king and another queen: Maven’s parents, fighting after the Scarlet Guard attacked a party at the Hall of the Sun. Each ripping at the other, leaving deep wounds to be exploited later.

“Then submit to interrogation, Evangeline, and we’ll see,” he fires back, pointing with one jeweled hand.

“No daughter of mine will ever do such a thing,” Volo rumbles, though it hardly seems a threat. Merely a fact. “She had no part in this, and she defended you with her own life. Without Evangeline’s and my son’s quick action—well, even to say it is treason.” The old patriarch pulls a frown, wrinkling his white skin, as if the thought is so disgusting. As if he wouldn’t celebrate if Maven died. “Long live the king.”

In the center of the floor, the Haven woman snarls, trying to shove off Trio. He holds firm, keeping her on her knees. “Yes, long live the king!” she says, glaring at us. “Tiberias the Seventh! Long live the king!”

Cal.

Maven stands, slamming his fists against the arms of his seat. I expect the room to burn, but no fire springs to life. It can’t. Not while he sits on Silent Stone. His eyes are the only thing aflame. And then, slowly, with a manic grin, he begins to laugh.

“All this . . . for him?” he says, smirking. “My brother murdered the king, our father, helped murder my mother, and now he tries to murder me. Samson, if you would continue”—he inclines his head in his cousin’s direction—“I have no mercy or remorse for traitors. Especially stupid ones.”

The rest turn to watch the interrogation continue, to listen to the Haven woman as she spouts secrets of her faction, their goals, their plans. To replace Maven with his brother. To make Cal king as he was born to be. To return things to the way they were.

Through it all, I stare at the boy on the throne. He maintains his mask. Jaw clenched, lips pressed into a thin, unforgiving line. Still fingers, straight back. But his gaze wavers. Something in his eyes has gone far away. And at his collar, the slightest gray flush rises, painting his neck and the tips of his ears.

He’s terrified.

For a second, it makes me happy. Then I remember—monsters are most dangerous when they’re afraid.