King's Cage

I don’t know what Orrec sees in Maven, but suddenly he relents and extends one dark hand. Rings of state wink on all his fingers. “Well, they’ll be dealt with soon enough. Your rebel Silvers too. Three houses against the might of two kingdoms is nothing at all.”

With a dip of his head, Maven returns the gesture. He grips Orrec’s hand in his.

Dimly, I wonder how the hell Mare Barrow of the Stilts ended up here. A few feet from two kings, watching one more piece of our bloody history lock into place. Julian will lose his mind when I tell him. When. Because I will see him again. See them all again.

“Now for the terms,” Orrec pushes on. And I realize he has not let go of Maven’s fingers. So do the Sentinels. They take one menacing step forward in tandem, their robes of flame hiding any number of weapons. On the other side of the platform, the Lakelander guards do the same. Each side daring the other to take the step that will end in bloodshed.

Maven doesn’t try to wrench away, or push closer. He merely stands firm, unmoved, unafraid. “The terms are sound,” he replies, his voice even. I can’t see his face. “The Choke divided evenly, the old borders maintained and opened for travel. You’ll have equal use of the Capital River and the Eris Canal—”

“While your brother lives, I need guarantees.”

“My brother is a traitor, an exile. He will be dead soon enough.”

“That’s my point, boy. As soon as he is gone, as soon as we tear the Scarlet Guard limb from limb—will you return to the old ways? The old enemies? Will you find yourself once again drowning in Red bodies and in need of somewhere to throw them?” Orrec’s face darkens, flushing gray and purple. His cold, detached manner fades into anger. “Population control is one matter, but the war, the endless push and pull, it is little more than madness. I will not spill one more drop of Silver blood because you can’t command your Red rats.”

Maven leans forward, matching Orrec’s intensity. “Our treaty will be signed here, broadcast across every city, to every man, woman, and child of my kingdom. Everyone will know this war has ended. Everyone in Norta, at least. I know you don’t have the same capabilities in the Lakelands, old man. But I trust you’ll do your best to inform as much of your backwater kingdom as possible.”

A shudder goes through us all. Fear in the Silvers, but excitement in me. Destroy each other, I whisper in my head. Turn each other inside out. I have no doubt a nymph king would have little issue drowning Maven where he stands.

Orrec bares his teeth. “You don’t know anything about my country.”

“I know the Scarlet Guard began in your house, not mine,” Maven spits back. With his free hand he gestures, telling his Sentinels to back down. Foolish, posturing boy. I hope it gets him killed. “Don’t act like you’re doing me a favor. You need this as much as we do.”

“Then I want your word, Maven Calore.”

“You have it—”

“Your word and your hand. The strongest bond you can make.”

Oh.

My eyes fly from Maven, locked in a grip with the king of the Lakelands, to Evangeline. She sits still, as if frozen, her gaze on the marble floor and nowhere else. I expect her to stand up and scream, to turn this place into a wreck of shrapnel. But she doesn’t move. Even Ptolemus, her lapdog of a brother, stays firmly in his seat. And their father in his Samos blacks broods as always. No change in him that I can see. No indication that Evangeline is about to lose the position she fought so hard to obtain.

Across the pavilion, the Lakelander princess seems hewn from stone. She doesn’t even blink. She knew this was coming.

Once, when Maven’s father told him he was to marry me, he choked in surprise. He put on a good show, blustering and arguing. He pretended not to know what that proposal was about, what it meant. Like me, he has worn a thousand masks and played a million different parts. Today he performs as king, and kings are never surprised, never caught off guard. If he is shocked, he doesn’t show it. I hear nothing but steel in his voice.

“It would be an honor to call you father,” he says.

Finally, Orrec lets go of Maven’s hand. “And an honor to call you son.”

Both could not be more false.

To my right, someone’s chair scrapes against marble. Followed quickly by two more. In a flurry of metal and black, House Samos hurries from the pavilion. Evangeline leads her brother and father, never looking back, her hands open at her sides. Her shoulders drop and her meticulously straight posture seems lessened somehow.

She is relieved.

Maven doesn’t watch her go, wholly focused on the task at hand. The task being the Lakelander princess.

“My lady,” he says, bowing in her direction.

She merely inclines her head, never breaking her steely gaze.

“In the eyes of my noble court, I would ask for your hand in marriage.” I’ve heard these words before. From the same boy. Spoken in front of a crowd, each word sounding like a lock twisting shut. “I pledge myself to you, Iris Cygnet, princess of the Lakelands. Will you accept?”

Iris is beautiful, more graceful than her father. Not a dancer, though, but a hunter. She stands on long limbs, unfolding herself from her seat in a cascade of soft sapphire velvet and full, feminine curves. I glimpse leather leggings between the slashes of her gown. Well-worn, cracked at the knees. She did not come here unprepared. And like so many here, she doesn’t wear gloves, despite the cold. The hand she extends to Maven is amber-skinned, long-fingered, unadorned. Still, her eyes do not waver, even as a mist forms from the air, swirling around her outstretched hand. It glimmers before my eyes, tiny droplets of moisture condensing to life. They become tiny, crystal beads of water, each one a pinprick of refracting light as they twist and move.