A muscle feathers in Maven’s cheek. “Prince Bracken won’t fight against Montfort, not while those bastards hold his children hostage.” He speaks like I’m some kind of simpleton.
I keep my temper in check, dipping my head. “Of course,” I reply. “But if an alliance could be won in secret? Montfort would lose their base in the south, all the resources Bracken has ceded to them, and they would gain a powerful enemy. Another Silver kingdom for them to fight.”
His footsteps echo, loud and even over the walkway. I can hear him breathing, exhaling in low, humming sighs as I wait for some answer. Even though we’re almost the same height and I probably weigh as much as he does, if not more, I feel small beside Maven. Small and vulnerable. A bird in alliance with a cat. I don’t like the sensation.
“Retrieving Bracken’s children could be a goose chase. We don’t know where they are, or how well guarded they might be. They could be on the other side of the continent. They could be dead, for all we know,” Maven mutters. “Our focus should be on my brother. When he is gone, they’ll have no one left to stand behind.”
I try not to look disappointed, but I feel my shoulders droop anyway. We need Piedmont. I know we do. Leaving them to Montfort is a mistake, one that could end in our death and ruin. So I try again.
“Prince Bracken’s hands are tied. He can’t attempt a rescue of his children, even if he knew where they were,” I murmur, dropping my voice. “The risk of failure is too great. But could someone else do it for him?”
“Are you offering yourself for the job, Iris?” he clips, looking down his nose at me.
I tighten at such a foolish thought. “I am a queen and a princess, not a dog playing fetch.”
“Of course you aren’t a dog, my dear.” Maven offers a sneer, never breaking his stride. “Dogs obey.”
Instead of recoiling, I brush off the naked insult with a sigh. “I suppose you’re right, my king.” My last card to play is a good one. “After all, you have experience where hostages are concerned.”
Heat flares next to me, close enough that an instant sweat breaks out over my body. Reminding Maven of Mare—and how he lost her—is an easy way to ignite his temper.
“If the children can be found,” he growls, “then perhaps something can be arranged.”
That’s all I get from the Calore king. I consider it a successful conversation.
The walls change from polished gilding and turquoise paint to gleaming marble, marking the end of the noble sector and the beginning of the royal palace. Arches still dart the way, but they’re gated and guarded, a Lakelander soldier in stoic blue at each. More walk the length of the wall, looking down at their queen as she passes. Mother’s pace quickens slightly. She’s eager to be inside, away from prying eyes. Alone with us. Tiora follows at her heels, not to stay close to Mother, but to keep her distance from Maven. He unsettles her, as he does most people. Something about the intensity in his electric eyes. It seems wrong in someone so young. Artificial, even. Planted.
With a mother like his, it very well could be.
If she were alive, she wouldn’t be allowed in Detraon, let alone within striking distance of the royal family. In the Lakelands, her kind of Silvers, mind-controlling whispers, are not trusted. Nor do they exist anymore. The Servon Line was extinguished long ago, and for good reason. As for Norta, I have a feeling House Merandus may soon meet the same fate. I have yet to speak to a whisper since I came to Whitefire, and after Maven’s cousin died at our wedding, I think he must be keeping the rest of his mother’s brood away, if they are still living at all.
The Royelle, our palace, spirals across the vast grounds of its sector. It has canals and aqueducts of its own, their waters spilling out in fountains and falls. Some arch over our path, carried to the bay, while others run under the walkway. In winter, most of them freeze, decorating the path in icy sculptures no human hand could create. Priests from the temples will read the ice, on feast days and holidays, to communicate the will of the gods. They speak in riddles, usually, writing their words on the land and lakes for only the blessed to see, and few to understand.
It takes courage for a burner king of a recently hostile nation to enter the stronghold of the Lakelands, and Maven does it without flinching. Another might think he doesn’t have the capacity for fear. That his mother removed something so weak. But that isn’t true. I see fear in everything he does. Fear of his brother, mostly. Fear because that Barrow girl is gone and out of his grasp. And like everyone else in our world, he is deathly afraid of losing his power. It’s why he’s here. Why he married me. He will do anything to keep his crown.
Such dedication. It’s both his greatest strength and his greatest weakness.
We approach the grand gates opening on the bay, flanked both by guards and waterfalls. The men bow to Mother as she passes, and even the water ripples a little, tugged by her immense ability. Inside the bay gates is my favorite courtyard: a wide, manicured riot of blue flowers of every kind. Roses, lilies, hydrangeas, tulips, hibiscus—petals in shades from periwinkle to deep indigo. At least, they should be blue. But like the flags, like my family, the flowers mourn.
Their petals are black.
“Your Majesty, may I ask for my daughter’s presence in our shrine? As is our tradition?”
It’s the first time I’ve heard Mother speak this morning. She uses her court tone, as well as the language of Norta so Maven has no excuse to misunderstand her request. Her accent is better than mine, almost imperceptible. Cenra Cygnet is a smart woman, with an ear for languages and an eye for diplomacy.
She stops to survey Maven, turning to face him in a display of common courtesy. It would not do to show a king her back while asking something of him. Even if the request is for me, her daughter, a living person with a will of her own, I think as a sour taste rises in my mouth. But not really. He outranks you. You’re his subject now, not hers. You do as he wishes.
On the outside, at least.
I have no intention of being a queen on a leash.
Thankfully, Maven is less dismissive of religion in front of my mother. He offers a tight smile and a shallow bow. Next to Mother, with her graying hair and crow’s-feet, he seems younger. New. Inexperienced. He is anything but. “We must honor tradition,” he says. “Even in chaotic times like these. Neither Norta nor the Lakelands can forget who they are. It may be what saves us in the end, Your Majesty.”
He speaks well, the words smooth as syrup.
Mother shows her teeth, but the grin doesn’t meet her eyes. “It may indeed. Come, Iris,” she adds, beckoning to me.
If I had no restraint, I would take her hand and run. But I have restraint in spades, and I keep an even pace. Almost too slow, as I follow my mother and sister through the black flowers, the blue-patterned halls, and onto the sacred ground that is the queen’s personal temple in the Royelle.
Adjoining the royal apartments of the monarch, the secluded temple is simple, tucked away among salons and bedrooms. Tradition stands in the usual trappings. A gurgling fountain, waist height, bubbles away in the center of the small chamber. Worn faces, bland in their features, both strange and familiar, look down from the ceiling and walls. Our gods have no names, no hierarchy. Their blessings are random, their words sparse, their punishments impossible to predict. But they exist in all things. They are felt at all times. I search out my favorite, a vaguely feminine face, her eyes empty and gray, distinguished only by a quirk of the lips that could be a flaw in the stone. She seems to smile knowingly. She comforts me, even now, in the shadow of my father’s funeral. All will be right, I think she says.
The room isn’t as large as the other palace temple, the one we use for court services, or as grand as the massive temples in the center of Detraon. No golden altars or jeweled books of celestial law. Our gods require little more than faith to make their presence known.
I lay a hand against a familiar window, waiting. The rising sun filters weakly through thick diamondglass, the panes arranged like spiraling waves. Only when the doors of the sanctum close behind us, locking us in with no one but the gods and one another, do I breathe a low sigh of relief. Before my eyes adjust to the dim light, Mother takes my face in her warm hands, and I can’t help but flinch.