King’s Cage (Red Queen Book 3)
King’s Cage: Chapter 19

He’s late, and my heartbeat guns into overdrive. I fight the surge of fear, twisting it into fuel. Using the new energy, I shred apart the gilded frames holding portraits all down the palace hallway. The flecks of gold leaf twist into brutal, glinting shards. Gold is a weak metal. Soft. Malleable. Useless in a true fight. I let them drop. I don’t have the time or energy to waste on weak things.

The pearly rhodium plates along my arms and legs vibrate with adrenaline, their mirror-bright edges rippling like liquid mercury. Ready to become whatever I need to stay alive. A sword, a shield, a bullet. I’m not in direct danger, not right now. But if Tolly isn’t here in one minute, I’m going out there after him, and then I certainly will be.

She promised, I tell myself.

It sounds idiotic, the wish of a particularly foolish child. I should know better. The only bond in my world is blood; the only promise is family. A Silver would smile and agree with another house and break their oath in the next heartbeat. Mare Barrow is not Silver—she should have less honor than any of us. And she owes my brother, owes me, less than nothing. She would be justified in slaughtering us all. House Samos has not been kind to the lightning girl.

“We have a schedule, Evangeline,” Wren mutters next to me. She cradles one hand against her chest, doing her best not to antagonize an already-ugly burn. The skin healer wasn’t fast enough to avoid all of Mare’s returning ability. But she got the job done, and that’s all that matters. Now the lightning girl is free to wreak as much havoc as she can.

“I’m giving him another minute.”

The hallway seems to stretch before me, growing longer with every second. On this side of the palace, we can barely hear the battle in the Square. The windows look out on a still courtyard, with only dark storm clouds above. If I wanted to, I could pretend this was another day of my usual torment. Everyone smiling with their fangs, circling an increasingly lethal throne. I thought the end of the queen would mean the end of danger. It’s not like me to underestimate a person’s evils, but I certainly underestimated Maven. He has more of his mother in him than anyone realized, as well as his own kind of monster.

A monster I no longer have to suffer, thank my colors. Once we’re back home, I’ll send the Lakelander princess a gift for taking my place at his side.

He’ll be far away by now, ferried to safety by his train. The new bride and groom were already in the Treasury when I left them. Unless Maven’s disgusting obsession with Mare won out. The boy is impossible to predict where she is involved. For all I know, he could have turned around to replace her. He could be dead. I certainly hope he is dead. It would make the next steps infinitely easier.

I know Mother and Father too well to worry about them. Woe to the person, Silver or Red, who might challenge my father in open combat. And Mother has her own contingencies in place. The attack on the wedding was not a surprise to any of us. House Samos is prepared. So long as Tolly sticks to the plan. My brother has a hard time backing down from a fight, and he is impulsive. Another man impossible to predict. We’re not supposed to hurt the rebels or impede their progress in any way. Father’s orders. I hope my brother follows them.

We’ll be fine. I exhale slowly, holding on to those three words. They do little to calm my nerves. I want to be rid of this place. I want to go home. I want to see Elane again. I want Tolly to strut around the corner, safe and whole.

Instead, he can barely walk.

“Ptolemus!” I bark, forgetting every fear but one as he rounds the corner.

His blood stands out sharply against black steel armor, silver spattered down his chest like paint. I can taste the iron in it, a sharp tang of metal. Without thinking, I yank on his armor, pulling him through the air with it. Before he can collapse, I brace my torso against his, keeping him on his feet. He’s almost too weak to stand, let alone run. Icy-cold terror trails fingers down my spine.

“You’re late,” I whisper, earning a pained grin. Still alive enough for a sense of humor.

Wren works swiftly, pulling off his plates of armor, but she’s not faster than me. With another jerk of my hand, it falls from his body in a few clattering echoes. My eyes fly to his bare chest, expecting to see an ugly wound. Nothing there but a few shallow cuts, none of them serious enough to level someone like Ptolemus.

“Blood loss,” Wren explains. The skin healer pushes my brother to his knees, holding his left arm aloft, and he whimpers from the pain of it. I keep steady at his shoulder, crouching with him. “I don’t have time to heal this.”

This. I trail my gaze along his arm, over white skin gray and black with fresh bruises. It ends in a bloody, blunt stump. His hand is gone. Cut clean through the wrist. Silver blood pulses sluggishly from the severed veins, despite his meager attempts to wrap the wound.

“You have to,” Ptolemus grinds out, his voice hoarse with agony.

I nod fervently. “Wren, it’ll only take a few minutes.” No magnetron is a stranger to a lost finger. We’ve been playing with knives since we could walk. We know how quickly a digit can be regrown.

“If he ever wants to use that hand again, you’ll do as I say,” she replies. “It’s too complicated to do quickly. I have to seal the wound for now.” He makes another strangled noise, choking on the thought and the pain.

“Wren!” I plead.

She doesn’t back down. “For now!” Her beautiful eyes, gray Skonos eyes, bore into mine with urgency. I see fear in her, and no wonder. A few minutes ago she watched me murder four guards and free a prisoner of the crown. She is also complicit in the treason of House Samos.

“Fine.” I squeeze Tolly’s shoulder, imploring him to listen. “For now. The second we’re in the clear, she’ll fix you.”

He doesn’t reply, only nodding as Wren gets to work. Tolly turns his head, unable to watch the skin grow over his wrist, sealing up the veins and bones. It happens quickly. Blue-black fingers dance across his pale flesh as she knits him together. Skin growth is easy, or so I’m told. Nerves, bones, those are more complex.

I do my best to distract him from the blunt end of his arm. “So who did it?”

“Another magnetron. Lakelander.” He forces out each word. “Saw me breaking off to leave. Sliced me before I knew what was happening.”

Lakelanders. Frozen fools. All stern in their hideous blue. To think Maven traded the might of House Samos for them. “I hope you repaid the favor.”

“He no longer has a head.”

“That’ll do.”

“There,” Wren says, finishing up the wrist. She runs her hands along his arm and down his spine to the small of his back. “I’ll stimulate your marrow and kidneys, raise your blood production as much as I can. You’ll still be weak, though.”

“That’s fine. As long as I can walk.” He already sounds stronger. “Help me up, Evie.”

I oblige, bracing his good arm over my shoulder. He’s heavy, almost deadweight. “Ease up on the desserts,” I grumble. “Come on now, move with me.”

Tolly does what he can, forcing one foot after the other. Nowhere near fast enough for my taste. “Very well,” I mutter, reaching out to his discarded armor. It flattens and re-forms into a sheet of rippled steel. “Sorry, Tolly.”

I push him down onto it, using my ability to hold up the sheet like a stretcher.

“I can walk . . . ,” he protests, but weakly. “You need your focus.”

“Then focus for both of us,” I shoot back. “Men are useless when injured, aren’t they?”

Keeping him elevated takes a corner of my ability, but not all of it. I sprint as fast as I can, one hand on the sheet. It follows on an invisible tether, flanked by Wren on the other side.

Metal sings on the edge of my perception. I note each piece as we press on, filing them away on instinct. Copper wiring—a garrote with which to strangle. Door locks and hinges—darts or bullets. Window frames—iron hilts with glass daggers. Father used to quiz me on such things, until it became second nature. Until I couldn’t enter a room without marking its weapons. House Samos is never caught off guard.

Father devised our swift getaway from Archeon. Through the barracks and down the northern cliffs to boats waiting in the river. Steel boats, specially made, fluted for speed and silence. Between Father and me, they’ll cut through the water like needles through flesh.

We’re behind schedule, but only by a few minutes. In the chaos, it will take hours before anyone in Maven’s court realizes House Samos has disappeared. I don’t doubt other houses will take the same opportunity, like rats fleeing a sinking ship. Maven is not the only person with an escape plan. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if every house has one of its own. The court is a powder keg with an increasingly short fuse and a spitfire king. You’d have to be an idiot not to expect an explosion.

Father felt the winds shift the moment Maven stopped listening to him, as soon as it became clear that allying to the Calore king would be our downfall. Without Elara, no one could hold Maven’s leash. Not even my father. And then the Scarlet Guard rabble became more organized, a real threat rather than an inconvenience. They seemed to grow with each passing day. Operating in Piedmont and the Lakelands, whispers of an alliance with Montfort far to the west. They’re much larger than anyone anticipated, better organized and more determined than any insurrection in memory. All the while, my wretched betrothed lost his grip. On the throne, on his sanity, on anything but Mare Barrow.

He tried to let her go, or so Elane told me. Maven knew as well as any of us what a danger his obsession would become. Kill her. Be done. Be rid of her poison, he used to mutter. Elane listened undetected, quiet in her corner of his private quarters. The words were only words. He could never part with her. So it was easy to push her into his path—and push him off course. The equivalent of waving a red flag in front of a bull. She was his hurricane, and every nudge pulled him deeper into the eye of the storm. I thought she was an easy tool to use. A distracted king makes for a more powerful queen.

But Maven shut me out of a place that was rightfully mine. He didn’t know to look for Elane. My lovely, invisible shadow. Her reports came later, under the cover of night. They were very thorough. I feel them still, whispered against my skin with only the moon to listen. Elane Haven is the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen in any capacity, but she looks best in moonlight.

After Queenstrial, I promised her a consort’s crown. But that dream disappeared with Prince Tiberias, as most dreams do with the harsh break of day. Whore. That’s what Maven called her after the attempt on his life. I almost killed him where he stood.

I shake my head, refocusing on the task at hand. Elane can wait. Elane is waiting, just as my parents promised. Safe in our home, tucked away in the Rift.

The back courtyards of Archeon open onto flourishing gardens, which in turn are bounded by the palace walls. A few wrought-iron fences ward the flowers and shrubbery. Good for spears. The wall and garden patrols used to be guards of many different house—Laris windweavers, silks of Iral, vigilant Eagrie eyes—but things have changed in recent months. Laris and Iral stand in opposition to Maven’s rule, alongside House Haven. And with a battle raging, the king himself in danger, the other palace guards are scattered. I look up through the greenery, magnolia and cherry blossoms bright against the dark sky. Figures in black prowl the diamondglass ramparts.

Only House Samos remains to man the wall.

“Cousins of iron!”

They snap toward my voice, responding in kind.

“Cousins of steel!”

Sweat trickles down my neck as the wall looms closer. From fear, from exertion. Only a few more yards. In preparation, I thicken the pearly metal of my boots, hardening my last steps.

“Can you get yourself up?” I ask Ptolemus, reaching for Wren as I speak.

With a groan, he swings off the stretcher, forcing himself onto unsteady feet. “I’m not a child, Eve; I can cover thirty feet.” To prove his point, the black steel re-forms to his body in sleek scales.

If we had more time, I would point out the weaknesses in his usually perfect armor. Holes at the sides, thinning across the back. Instead, I only nod. “You first.”

He lifts a corner of his mouth, trying to smirk, trying to lessen my concern. I exhale in relief as he rises into the air, rocketing up to the ramparts of the wall. Our cousins above catch him deftly, drawing him in with their own ability.

“Our turn.”

Wren clings to my side, safe beneath my arm. I haul in a breath, holding on to the feel of the rhodium metal curving beneath my toes, up my legs, over my shoulders. Rise, I tell my armor.

Pop.

The first sensation my father made me memorize was a bullet. I slept with one around my neck for two years. Until it became as familiar to me as my colors. I can name rounds from a hundred yards. Know their weight, their shape, their composition. Such a small piece of metal is the difference between another person’s life and my death. It could be my killer, or my savior.

Pop, pop, pop. The bullets exploding in their chambers feel like needles, sharp, impossible to ignore. They’re coming from behind. My toes hit the ground again as my focus narrows, my hands flying up to shield against the sudden onslaught.

Armor-piercing rounds, fat copper jackets with brutal tungsten cores and tapered tips, arc before my eyes, flying backward to land harmlessly in the grass. Another volley comes from at least a dozen guns, and I throw out an arm, protecting myself. The thunder of automatic gunfire drowns out Tolly shouting above me.

Each bullet ripples against my ability, taking another piece of it, of me. Some halt midair; some crumple. I throw everything I can to create a cocoon of safety. From the wall, Tolly and my cousins do the same. They lift the weight enough to actually let me figure out who is shooting at me.

Red rags, hard eyes. Scarlet Guard.

I grit my teeth. The bullets in the grass would be easy to toss back into their skulls. Instead, I rip apart the tungsten like wool, spinning it into glinting thread as fast as I can. Tungsten is incredibly heavy and strong. It takes more energy to work. Another bead of sweat rolls along my spine.

The threads splay out in a web, hitting the twelve rebels head-on. In the same motion, I wrench the guns from their hands, shredding them to pieces. Wren clings to me, holding tightly, and I feel myself pulled back and up, sliding along perfect diamondglass.

Tolly catches me, as he always does.

“And down again,” he mutters. His grip on my arm is crushing.

Wren gulps, leaning to look. Her eyes widen. “Bit farther this time.”

I know. It’s a hundred feet down sheer cliff, and then another two hundred over sloping rock to twist around to the river’s edge. In the shadow of the bridge, Father said.

In the garden, the rebels struggle, straining against my net. I feel them push and pull it, as the metal itself strains to break apart. It eats at my focus. Tungsten, I curse to myself. I need more practice.

“Let’s go,” I tell them all.

Behind me, the tungsten cracks apart into dust. A strong, heavy thing, but brittle. Without a magnetron’s hand, it breaks before it bends.

House Samos is done with both.

We will not break, and we will no longer bend.

The boats cut soundlessly through the water, gliding across the surface. We make good time. Our only obstacle is the pollution of Gray Town. The stink of it clings to my hair, still foul in my body even as we break through the second ring of barrier trees. Wren senses my discomfort and puts a hand on my bare wrist. Her healing touch clears my lungs and chases away my exhaustion. Pushing steel through water becomes tiring after a while.

Mother leans over the sleek side of my boat, trailing one hand in the flowing Capital. A few catfish rise to her touch, their whiskers twining with her fingers. The slimy beasts don’t bother her, but I shudder with disgust. She isn’t concerned by whatever they tell her, meaning they can’t sense anyone pursuing us. Her falcon overhead keeps watch as well. When the sun sets, Mother will replace him with bats. As expected, not a scratch on her, or Father. He stands at the prow of the lead boat, setting our path. A black silhouette against the blue river and green hills. His presence calms me more than the peaceful valley.

No one speaks for many miles. Not even the cousins, who I can usually count on for nonsense chatter. Instead, they focus on discarding their Security uniforms. Emblems of Norta float in our wake, while the jewel-bright medals and badges sink into darkness. Hard earned with Samos blood, marks of our allegiance and loyalty. Now lost to the depths of the river and the past.

We are not Nortans anymore.

“So it’s decided,” I murmur.

Behind me, Tolly straightens up. His ruined arm is still bandaged. Wren won’t risk regrowing an entire hand on the river. “Was there ever any doubt?”

“Was there ever a choice?” Mother turns to look over her shoulder. She moves with the lean grace of a cat, stretching out in her bright green gown. The butterflies are long gone. “A weak king we could control, but there’s no handling madness. As soon as Iral decided to oppose him outright, our play was decided for us. And choosing the Lakelander”—she rolls her eyes—“Maven cut the last bonds between our houses himself.”

I almost scoff in her face. No one decides anything for my father. But laughing at Mother is not a mistake I’m stupid enough to make. “Will the other houses back us, then? I know Father was negotiating.” Leaving his children alone, at the mercy of Maven’s increasingly volatile court. More words I would never dare say aloud to either of my parents.

Mother senses them anyway. “You did well, Eve,” she croons, putting a hand to my hair. She runs a few silver strands through her wet fingers. “And you, Ptolemus. Between that mess in Corvium and the house rebellions, no one doubted your allegiance. You bought us time, valuable time.”

I keep my focus on steel and water, ignoring her cold touch. “I hope it was worth it.”

Before today, Maven faced multiple rebellions. Without House Samos, our resources, our lands, our soldiers, how could he stand to win? But before today, he didn’t have the Lakelands. Now I have no idea what might unfold. I don’t like the feeling at all. My life has been a study in planning and patience. An uncertain future frightens me.

In the west, the sun sinks red against the hills. Red as Elane’s hair.

She’s waiting, I tell myself again. She’s safe.

Her sister was not so fortunate. Mariella died poorly, hollowed out by the seething Merandus whisper. I avoided him as much as I could, glad I knew nothing of Father’s plans.

I saw the depths of his punishment in Mare. After the interrogation, she flinched from him like a kicked dog. It was my fault. I forced Maven’s hand. Without my interference, he might have never let the whisper have his way—but then he would have stayed away from Mare altogether. He would not have been so blinded by her. Instead, he did as I hoped, and drew her closer. I expected them to drown each other. How easy. Sink two enemies with one anchor. But she refused to break. The girl I remember, the masquerading, terrified servant who believed every lie, would have submitted to Maven months ago. Instead, she donned a different mask. Danced on his strings, sat by his side, lived a half-life without freedom or ability. And still held on to her pride, her fire, her anger. It was always there, burning in her eyes.

I have to respect her for that. Even though she took so much from me.

She was a constant reminder of what I was supposed to be. A princess. A queen. I was born ten months after Tiberias. I was made to marry him.

My first memories are of Mother’s snakes hissing in my ears, breathing her whispers and promises. You are a daughter of fangs and steel. What are you meant for, if not to rule? Every lesson in the classroom or the arena was preparation. Be the best, the strongest, the smartest, the most deadly and the most cunning. The most worthy. And I was everything.

Kings are not known for their kindness or their compassion. Queenstrial is not meant to make happy marriages, but strong children. With Cal, I had both. He would not have begrudged me my own consort, or tried to control me. His eyes were soft and thoughtful. He was more than I had ever hoped for. And I had earned him with every drop of blood I’d spilled, all my sweat, all my tears of pain and frustration. Every sacrifice of who my heart wanted to be.

The night before Queenstrial, I dreamed what it would be like. My throne. My royal children. Subject to no one, not even Father. Tiberias would be my friend and Elane my lover. She would marry Tolly, as planned, ensuring none of us could ever be parted.

Then Mare fell into our lives and blew that dream away like sand.

Once, I thought the crown prince would do the unthinkable. Push me aside for the long-lost Titanos with strange ways and an even stranger ability. Instead, she was a deadly pawn, sweeping my king from the board. The paths of fate have strange twists. I wonder if that newblood seer knew about today. Does he laugh at what he sees? I wish I’d gotten my hands on him just once. I hate not knowing.

On the banks ahead, manicured lawns come into view. The edges of the grass tinge gold and red, giving the estates lining the river a lovely glow. Our own manor house is close, just one more mile. Then we turn west. Toward our true home.

Mother never answered my question.

“So, was Father able to convince the other houses?” I ask her.

She narrows her eyes, her entire body tightening. Coiling up, like one of her snakes. “House Laris was already with us.”

That I knew. Along with controlling most of the Nortan Air Fleet, the Laris windweavers govern the Rift. In truth, they rule by our command. Eager puppets, willing to trade anything to maintain our iron and coal mines.

Elane. House Haven. If they aren’t with us—

I lick lips that are suddenly dry. A fist clenches at my side. The boat groans beneath me. “And . . .”

“Iral has not agreed to the terms, and more than half of Haven won’t either.” Mother sniffs. She folds her arms across her chest, as if insulted. “Don’t worry, Elane isn’t one of them. Please stop crushing the boat. I don’t feel like swimming the last mile.”

Tolly nudges my arm, a slight touch. Exhaling, I realize my grip on the steel was a bit too strong. The bow smooths again, rippling back into shape.

“Apologies,” I mutter quickly. “I’m just . . . confused. I thought the terms were already agreed upon. The Rift will rise in open defiance. Iral brings on House Lerolan and all of Delphie. An entire state will secede.”

Mother glances past me, to Father. He angles his boat toward the shore, and I follow his lead. Our familiar estate peeks through the trees, backlit by dusk. “There was some debate over titles.”

“Titles?” I sneer. “How stupid. What could their argument possibly be?”

Steel hits stone, bumping up to the low retaining wall running along the water. With a small burst of focus, I hold the metal firm against the current. Wren helps Tolly out first, stepping up onto the lush carpet of grass. Mother watches, her gaze lingering on his missing hand while the cousins follow.

A shadow falls over us both. Father. He stands over her shoulder. A light wind ripples his cloak, playing along the folds of void-black silk and silver thread. Hidden beneath is a suit of blue-tinged chromium so fine it could be liquid.

“‘I will not kneel to another greedy king,’” he whispers. Father’s voice is always soft as velvet, deadly as a predator. “That’s what Salin Iral said.”

He reaches down, offering my mother his hand. She takes it deftly and steps from the boat. It doesn’t move under her, held by my ability.

Another king.

“Father . . . ?”

The word dies in my mouth.

“Cousins of iron!” he shouts, never breaking our stare.

Behind him, our Samos cousins drop to a knee. Ptolemus does not, looking on with as much confusion as I feel. Blood members of a house do not kneel to one another. Not like this.

They respond as one, their voices ringing. “Kings of steel!”

Quickly, Father extends his hand, catching my wrist before my shock ripples the boat beneath.

His whisper is almost too low to hear.

“To the Kingdom of the Rift.”