As I watch, Cameron shakily takes a small knife, careful to keep it sheathed. She spent the last three days honing her ability, not her knife work, and the dagger is a last resort, one I hope she doesn’t have to utilize. She catches my eye, her expression pained, and for a moment I fear she might snap at me or, worse, see through my mask. Instead, she nods in grim acknowledgment.
I nod back, extending the invisible hand of friendship between us. But her gaze hardens and she looks away sharply. Her meaning is clear. We are allies but not friends.
“Not long now,” Cal says, nudging me on the arm so that I turn around. Too soon, my mind screams, though I know we’re right on schedule.
“This will work.” My voice shakes, and thankfully he’s the only one to hear it. He doesn’t poke at my weakness, letting it fester. “This will work.” Even weaker this time.
“Who has the advantage?” he asks.
The words shock, sting, and soothe in succession. Instructor Arven asked the same thing in Training, when he paired his students against each other in battles for blood and pride. He asked it again in the Bowl of Bones, before a Rhambos strongarm skewered him like a fat, foul pig. I hated the man, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t learn anything from him.
We have surprise; we have Cameron; we have Shade and Gareth and Nanny and five other newbloods no Silver could possibly plan for. We have Cal, a military genius.
And we have cause. We have the Red dawn at our backs, begging to rise.
“We have the advantage.”
Cal’s grin is just as forced as mine, but it warms me anyway. “That’s my girl.”
Again, his words bring forth roiling, conflicting emotion.
A click and a hiss of static from the radio wipe all thoughts of Cal from my mind. I turn my gaze on Nanny, who nods in reply. Before my eyes, her body changes, transforming from an old woman into a boy with ice-blue eyes, black hair, and no soul. Maven. Her clothes shift with her appearance, replacing the flight suit with a pristine, black dress uniform, complete with a row of gleaming medals and a bloodred cape. A crown nestles in the black curls, and I have to fight the urge to toss it from the jet.
The others watch in rapt attention, amazed by the sight of the false king, but I feel only hatred, and the smallest twinge of regret. Nanny’s kindness bleeds through the disguise, turning Maven’s lips into a soft smile I recognize far too well. For a single, painful moment, I’m looking at the boy I thought he was, and not the monster he turned out to be.
“Good,” I force out, my voice thick with emotion. Only Kilorn seems to notice, and wrenches his gaze away from Nanny. I barely shake my head at him, telling him not to worry. We have more important things to dwell on.
“Corros Air, this is Fleet Prime,” Cal says into the radio. On other flights, he did his best to sound bored, uninterested in the mandatory call-ins to different bases, but now he’s all business. After all, we’re pretending to be the king’s own transport, what is known as Fleet Prime, a craft above all scrutiny. And Cal knows firsthand what this particular call-in is supposed to sound like. “The Throne approaches.”
No complicated call sign, no requesting permission to land. Nothing but stern authority, and any operator on the other end would be hard-pressed to deny him. As expected, the responding voice stammers.
“R-r-r-received, Fleet Prime,” a man says. His deep, rasping voice does nothing to hide his unease. “Your pardon, but we were not expecting His Royal Highness until tomorrow afternoon?”
Tomorrow. The fourth day, when Jon said we would die—and he was right. Maven would bring an army of guards with him, from Sentinels to deadly warriors like Ptolemus and Evangeline. We would be no match for them.
I wave a hand behind me, gesturing, but Nanny’s already there. Her closeness in Maven’s form makes my skin prickle.
“The king follows no schedule but his own,” she says into the radio, her cheeks flushed silver. Her tone isn’t sharp enough, but the voice is unmistakable. “And I will not explain myself to a glorified doorman.”
A crash on the other end of the radio can only be the operator falling out of his seat. “Yes—yes, of course, Your Highness.”
Behind us, someone snorts into his sleeve. Probably Kilorn.
Cal offers Nanny a nod, before taking the radio mouthpiece back. I see the same pain in him, the one I feel too deeply. “We will be landing in ten minutes. Prepare Corros for the king’s arrival.”
“I’ll see to it personal—”
But Cal switches off the radio before the operator can finish, and allows himself a single, relieved smile. Again, the others cheer, celebrating a nonexistent victory. Yes, the obstacle is hurdled, but many more will follow. All of them are below us, on the gray-green fields that edge the Wash wastelands, hiding the prison that might be our doom.
A tinge of daylight bleeds on the eastern horizon, but the sky above is still a deep, drowning blue when the Blackrun lands on the smooth Corros runway. This is not a military base crowded with jet squadrons and hangars, but it’s still a Silver facility, and a palpable air of danger hangs over everything. I slide the flight helmet over my head, hiding my face. Cal and the others follow suit, donning their own helmets and slapping the face shields into place. To an outsider, we must look frightening. All in black, masked, accompanying the young, ruthless king to his prison. Hopefully the guards will look right past us, more concerned with the king’s presence than his companions’.