King’s Cage (Red Queen Book 3)

I can’t see Corvium through the low cloud cover. I stare anyway, my eyes glued on the eastern horizon stretching out behind us. The Scarlet Guard took the city. They control it now. We had to skirt around, giving the hostile city a wide berth. Maven is doing his best to keep it quiet; even he can’t hide such massive defeat. I wonder how the news will land across the kingdom. Will Reds celebrate? Will Silvers retaliate? I remember the riots that followed other attacks by the Scarlet Guard. Of course there will be repercussions. Corvium is an act of war. Finally, the Scarlet Guard has planted a flag that cannot simply be torn down.

My friends are so close I feel as if I could run to them. Tear the manacles off, kill the Arven guards, jump from the transport and disappear into the gray gloom, sprinting through the bare winter forest. In the daydream, they wait for me outside the walls of a broken fortress. The Colonel, his eye crimson, his weathered face and the gun on his hip a comfort like nothing else. Farley with him, bold and tall and resolute as I remember. Cameron, her silence a shield rather than a prison. Kilorn, familiar as my own two hands. Cal, angry and broken as I am, the embers of his rage ready to burn all thoughts of Maven from my mind. I imagine leaping into their arms, begging them to take me away, take me anywhere. Take me to my family, take me home. Make me forget.

No, not forget. It would be a sin to forget my imprisonment. A waste. I know Maven as no one else does. I know the holes in his brain, the pieces he can never make fit. And I’ve seen his court splinter firsthand. If I can escape, if I can be rescued, I can do some good still. I can make my fool’s bargain worth the terrible cost—and I can start to right so many wrongs.

Even though the transport windows are tightly sealed, I smell smoke. Ash. Gunpowder. The metallic, sour bite of a century of blood. The Choke nears, closer with every passing second as Maven’s convoy speeds west. I hope my nightmares of this place were worse than the reality.

Kitten and Clover are still at my sides, their hands gloved and flat upon their knees. Ready to grab me, ready to hold me down. The other guards, Trio and Egg, perch above, on the transport skeleton, harnessed to the moving vehicle. A precaution, now that we’re so close to the war zone. Not to mention a few miles from a city occupied by revolution. All four remain vigilant as ever. Both to keep me imprisoned—and to keep me safe.

Outside, the forest lining the last miles of the Iron Road thins into nothing. Naked branches fall away to reveal hard earth barely worthy of snow. The Choke is an ugly place. Gray dirt, gray skies, blending so perfectly I don’t know where the land ends and sky begins. I almost expect to hear explosions in the distance. Dad said you could always hear the bombs, even from miles away. I suppose that isn’t the case anymore, not if Maven’s gambit succeeds. I’m ending a war that millions died for. Just to keep killing under another name.

The convoy presses on toward the forward camps, a collection of buildings that remind me of the Scarlet Guard base on Tuck. They fade into the distance in either direction. Barracks, mostly. Coffins for the living. My brothers lived in those once. My father too. It might be my turn to keep up the tradition.

As in the cities along the coronation tour, people turn out to watch King Maven and his retinue. Soldiers in red, in black, in clouded gray. They line the main avenue bisecting the Choke camp with military precision, each one dipping their heads in respect. I don’t bother trying to count how many hundreds there are. It’s too depressing. Instead, I clasp my hands together, tight enough to give me another pain to dwell on. The injured Silver officer in Rocasta said Corvium was a massacre. Don’t, I tell myself. Don’t go there. Of course my mind does anyway. It’s impossible to avoid the horrors you really don’t want to think about. Massacre. Both sides. Red and Silver, Scarlet Guard and Maven’s army. Cal survived, that much I know from Maven’s demeanor. But Farley, Kilorn, Cameron, my brothers, the rest? So many names and faces who probably assaulted the walls of Corvium. What happened to them?

I press my fingers to my eyes, trying to keep the tears back. The effort exhausts me, but I refuse to cry in front of Kitten and Clover.

To my surprise, the convoy does not stop in the center of the Choke camp, even though there’s a square that looks perfectly suited to another of Maven’s honeyed speeches. A few of the transports, each carrying scions of several High Houses, peel off, but we speed through, pressing on, deeper and deeper. Even though they try to hide it, Kitten and Clover grow more on edge, their eyes darting between the windows and each other. They don’t like this. Good. Let them squirm.

Bold as I feel, a shadow of dread falls over me too. Is Maven out of his mind? Where is he taking us—all of us? Certainly he would not drive the court into a trench or a minefield or worse. The transports pick up speed, rolling faster and faster over earth packed hard into a roadway. In the distance, artillery cannons and heavy guns stand in hulking wrecks of iron, twisted shadows like black skeletons. Within a mile, we cross the first trench lines, our vehicles snarling over hastily built bridges. More trenches follow. For reserves, support, communication. Weaving like the passages of the Notch, burrowing into frozen mud. I lose count after a dozen. Either the trenches are abandoned or the soldiers are well hidden. I can’t see a single scrap of red uniform.

This could be a trap, for all we know. The scheming of an old king meant to ensnare and defeat a young boy. Part of me wants that to be true. If I can’t kill Maven, maybe the king of the Lakelands will do it for me. House Cygnet, nymphs. Ruling for hundreds of years. That’s as much as I know about the enemy monarch. His kingdom is like ours, divided by blood, ruled by noble Silver houses. And afflicted by the Scarlet Guard, apparently. Like Maven, he must be bent on maintaining power at all costs, through any means. Even collusion with an old enemy.

In the east, the clouds break, and a few beams of sunlight illuminate the harsh land around us. No trees as far as the eye can see. We cross over the frontline trench and I gasp at the sight. Red soldiers crowd together in long lines, six bodies deep, their uniforms colored in varying shades of rust and crimson. They pool like blood in a wound. Hands on ladders, they shiver in the cold. Ready to rush out of their trench and into the deadly kill zone of the Choke should their king command it. I spot Silver officers among them, denoted by their gray-and-black uniforms. Maven is young, but not stupid. If this is a Lakelander trick, he’s ready to fight his way out. I assume the king of the Lakelands has another army waiting, in his own trenches on the other side. More Red soldiers to discard.

As the tires of our transport hit the other side, Clover tightens next to me. She keeps her electric-green eyes forward, trying to stay calm. A sheen of sweat gleams on her forehead, betraying her fear.

The true wasteland of the Choke is pocked with craters from two armies’ worth of artillery fire. Some of the holes must be decades old. Barbed wire tangles in the frozen mud. Up ahead, on the lead transport, a telky and a magnetron work in tandem. They sweep their arms back and forth, wrenching any debris from the path of the convoy. Bits of coiled iron go spinning off in every direction. And, I assume, bones. Reds have been dying here for generations. The dirt is littered with their dust.

In my nightmares, this place stretches on forever, in every direction. But instead of continuing forward into oblivion, the convoy slows a little more than a half mile beyond the frontline trenches. As our transports circle and weave, arranging themselves in a half-moon arc, I almost erupt with nervous laughter. Of all things, in all places—we’re stopping at a pavilion. The contrast is jarring. It’s brand-new, with white columns and silky curtains swaying in the poisoned wind. Constructed for one purpose and one purpose alone. A summit, a meeting, like the one so long ago. When two kings decided to begin a century of war.

A Sentinel wrenches open my transport door, beckoning for us to step down. Clover hesitates a half second and Kitten clears her throat, urging her on. I move between them, escorted down onto the obliterated earth. Rocks and dirt make the ground uneven under my feet. I pray nothing splinters beneath me. A skull, a rib, a femur, or a spine. I don’t need more proof that I’m walking through an endless graveyard.

Clover is not the only one afraid. Even the Sentinels move slowly, on edge, their masked faces sweeping back and forth. For once, they think of their own safety as well as Maven’s. And the rest of the remaining court—Evangeline, Ptolemus, Samson—they idle by their transports. Their eyes dart; their noses wrinkle. They can smell death and danger as well as I can. One wrong move, one hint of a threat, and they’ll bolt. Evangeline has discarded her furs for armor. Steel coats her from neck to wrist and toe. She quickly frees her fingers from her leather gloves, baring her skin to the cold air. Better for a fight. I feel the itch to do the same, not that it will help me at all. The manacles are strong as ever.

The only one who seems unaffected is Maven. The dying winter suits him, making his pale skin stand out in a way that is oddly elegant. Even the shadows around his eyes, dark as always, black and bruise-like, make him tragically beautiful. Today he wears as much regalia as he dares. A boy king, but a king all the same, about to look into the eyes of someone who is supposedly his greatest opponent. The crown on his head seems natural now, refitted to sit low across his brow. It spits bronze and iron flames through his glossy black hair. Even in the gray light of the Choke, his medals and badges gleam, silver and ruby and onyx. A cape, patterned with brocade red as flame, completes the ensemble and the image of a fiery king. But the Choke consumes us all. Dirt speckles his polished black boots as he walks forward, fighting the deep instinct to fear this place. Impatient, he casts one look over his shoulder, eyeing the dozens he dragged here. His fire-blue eyes are warning enough. We must go with him. I am not afraid of death, and so I am the first to follow him into what could be a grave.

The king of the Lakelands is already waiting.

He sprawls in a simple chair, a small man against the massive flag hung behind him. It is cobalt, worked with a four-petaled flower in silver and white. His milky-blue metal transports splay out on the other side of the pavilion, arranged in mirror image to our own. I count more than a dozen at a glance, all of them crawling with the Lakelander version of Sentinel guards. More flank the Lakeland king and his entourage. They don’t wear masks or robes, but tactical armor in flashing plates of deep sapphire. They stand, silent, stoic, with faces like carved stone. Each one a warrior trained from birth or close to it. I know none of their abilities, nor those of the king’s companions. The court of the Lakelands is not something I studied in my lessons with Lady Blonos centuries ago.

As we approach, the king comes into better focus. I stare at him, trying to see the man beneath the crown of white gold, topaz, turquoise, and dark lapis lazuli. For as much as Maven favors red and black, this king favors his blue. After all, he is a nymph, a manipulator of water. It’s fitting. I expect his eyes to be blue as well—instead, they are storm gray, matching the hard iron of his long, straight hair. I find myself comparing him to Maven’s father, the only other king I’ve ever known. He stands in stark contrast. Where Tiberias the Sixth was hefty, bearded, his face and body bloated by alcohol, the Lakelander king is slight, clean-shaven, and clear-eyed with dark skin. As with all Silvers, a gray-blue undertone cools his complexion. When he stands, he is graceful, his sweeping movements akin to a dancer’s. He wears no armor or dress uniform. Only robes of shimmering silver and cobalt, bright and foreboding as his flag.

“King Maven of House Calore,” he says, inclining his head just so as Maven steps onto the pavilion. Black silk slithers over white marble.Content held by NôvelDrama.Org.

“King Orrec of House Cygnet,” Maven responds in kind. He is careful to bow lower than his opponent, with a smile fixed firmly upon his lips. “If only my father were here to see this.”

“Your mother too,” Orrec says. No bite to the words, but Maven straightens up quickly, as if suddenly presented with a threat. “My condolences. You are far too young to experience so much loss.” He has an accent, his words finding a strange melody. His eyes twitch over Maven’s shoulder, past me, to Samson following us in his Merandus blues. “You were informed of my . . . requests?”

“Of course.” Maven juts a chin over his shoulder. He glances at me for a second; then, like Orrec’s, his gaze slides to Samson. “Cousin, if you would not mind waiting in your transport.”

“Cousin—” Samson says with as much opposition as he dares. Still, he stops in his tracks, feet planted several yards from the pavilion platform. There is no argument to make, not here. King Orrec’s guards tighten, hands moving to their array of weapons. Guns, swords, the very air around us. Anything they might call upon to keep a whisper from getting too close to their king and his mind. If only the court of Norta were the same.

Finally, Samson relents. He bows low, arms sweeping out at his sides in sharp, practiced movements. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

Only when he turns around, walks back to the vehicles, and disappears from sight do the Lakelander guards relax. And King Orrec smiles tightly, waving Maven forward to face him. Like a child invited to beg.

Instead, Maven turns to the seat set opposite. It isn’t Silent Stone, isn’t safe, but he settles into it without a blink of hesitation. He leans back and crosses his legs, letting his cape drape over one arm while the other lies free. His hand dangles—with his flamemaker bracelet clearly visible.

The rest of us congregate around him, taking seats to match the court of the Lakelands now facing us. Evangeline and Ptolemus take Maven’s right, as does their father. When he joined our convoy, I don’t know. Governor Welle is here too, his green robes sickly against the gray of the Choke. The absence of Houses Iral, Laris, and Haven seems glaring to my eye, their ranks replaced by other advisers. My four Arven guards flank me as I sit, so close I can hear them breathing. I focus instead on the people in front of me, the Lakelanders. The king’s closest advisers, confidants, diplomats, and generals. People to be feared almost as much as the king himself. No introductions are made, but I quickly realize who is most important among them. She sits at the king’s right-hand side, the place Evangeline currently occupies.

A very young queen, maybe? No, the family resemblance is too strong. She has to be the princess of the Lakelands, with eyes like her father’s and her own crown of flawless blue gems. Her straight black hair gleams, beaded with pearl and sapphire. As I stare, she feels my eyes—and she stares right back.

Maven speaks first, breaking my observations. “For the first time in a century, we find ourselves in agreement.”

“That we do.” Orrec nods. His jeweled brow flashes in the weakening sunlight. “The Scarlet Guard and all its ilk must be eradicated. Quickly, lest their disease spread further than it already has. Lest Reds in other regions be seduced by their false promises. I hear rumors of trouble in Piedmont?”

“Rumors, yes.” My black-hearted king concedes nothing more than he wants to. “You know how the princes can be. Always arguing among themselves.”

Orrec almost smirks. “Indeed. The Prairie lords are quite the same.”

“In regard to the terms—”

“Not so fast, my young friend. I should like to know the state of your house before I walk through the door.”

Even from my seat I can feel Maven tighten. “Ask what you wish.”

“House Iral? House Laris? House Haven?” Orrec’s eyes sweep down our line, missing nothing. His gaze skirts over me, faltering for half a second. “I see none of them here.”

“So?”

“So the reports are true. They have rebelled against their rightful king.”

“Yes.”

“In support of an exile.”

“Yes.”

“And what of your army of newbloods?”

“It grows with every passing day,” Maven says. “Another weapon we all must learn to wield.”

“Like her.” The king of the Lakelands tips his head in my direction. “The lightning girl is a mighty trophy.”

My fists clench on my knees. Of course, he’s right. I’m little more than a trophy for Maven to drag around, using my face and my forced words to draw more to his side. I don’t flush, though. I’ve had a long time to get used to my shame.

If Maven looks my way, I don’t know. I won’t look at him.

“A trophy, yes, and a symbol too,” Maven says. “The Scarlet Guard is flesh and blood, not ghosts. Flesh and blood can be controlled, defeated, and destroyed.”

The king clucks his tongue, as if in pity. Quickly, he stands, his robes swirling around him like a tossing river. Maven stands too, and meets him in the center of the pavilion. They size each other up, one devouring the other. Neither wants to be the first to break. I feel the very air around me tighten: hot, then cold, then dry, then clammy. The will of two Silver kings rages around us all.

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.

Her first words are in a language I do not know. Lakelander. It is heartbreakingly beautiful, one word flowing into the next like a spoken song, like water. Then, in accented Nortan—

“I put my hand in yours, and pledge my life to yours,” she replies, after her own traditions and the customs of her kingdom. “I accept, Your Majesty.”

He puts his bare hand out to take hers, the bracelet at his wrist sparking as he moves. A current of fire hits the air, snakelike and curling around their joined fingers. It does not burn her, though it certainly passes close enough to try. Iris never flinches. Never blinks.

And so one war is ended.