~In the dark~
Jon wanted to scream. He wanted to scream all his frustrations to the world, but he could not.
The seer was trapped somewhere the Gods themselves would dread. It was dark, so dark that no stars shone because of the cold, dense fog that veiled him from the world. The ground was forever slick in something black and inky, and it was so terribly quiet and loud at the same time.
Yet despite the darkness, he could see it all.
Iris
Two weeks after the battle at the Choke, I lounge in a boardroom chair, surrounded by my supposed allies.
This is what I get for taking Rosalyn's suggestion to become the Lakelander ambassador to Norta.
"Your title is holding fast, Your Majesty," Volo announces, sitting at Cal's right. "All but two High Houses have pledged loyalty to you, the Lakelander alliance remains strong," he nods to me, "and the Scarlet Guard and Montfort have been nothing but helpful and respectful in overseeing the transition."
Cal nods, positioned at the head of the glass table. Though they couldn't be compared to that of the Lakelands', the boardrooms here aren't unworthy by any means. Stories down and a mile away lies the other end of the Capital river through the Diamondglass wall, and the floor is a charming pale green, crafted of some sort of marble. The sky is pale with fog, but it doesn't snow.
"I had my doubts about the Red alliance to be perfectly sincere," Cal admits, mimicking my slouch. The people seated around him-Volo, Anabel, a couple Lords of High Houses, and myself-are his closest confidants, and the king is allowed to slouch around us. Apparently. "Especially after my brother voiced those doubts aloud. But you're right. They've been peaceful and completely trustworthy. Besides, if they had wanted to strike, they would've done it by now, when our troops were still at their weakest."
"You never know," Anabel begins, joking. "The Reds aren't the brightest bunch."
Volo and the Lords chuckle along with the old queen, but I press my lips together. So does Cal.
"Without the Reds, we would've lost ten times over. If only based on body counts, we Silvers lost a higher percentage of men than the Reds did," I say, finding it difficult to not defend Mare and Davidson. If not for them and their transport, Bart would be dead.
The joking manner folds in on itself, but Cal rises to lift the tension. "Well, I must thank you for the report." He tilts his head towards Volo. "Now, if that's all, I best get back to my study."
The men around me nod their appreciation and file out the door, but I wait in hopes of speaking with Cal.
"Your Majesty," I say, curtsying. The Sentinels have taken their cue to leave, and only Cal and I remain in this too-big room.
Cal shakes his head mockingly. If his crooked smile and playful eyes were erased, he'd look the part of a true and horrifying king: a bloodred cape with his seal embroidered onto its back, charcoal boots, pants, and a long-sleeved tunic with scarlet whorls. "You know you can drop the pleasantries around me, Iris."
I feign a gasp. "It seems that no amount of kingly clothing can take away your humor, Cal. But in all seriousness, I wanted to ask you how you're doing as king. I don't believe I ever got the chance to congratulate you on the victory. A beautiful city you've inherited." My hand gestures outward to Archeon's skyline, it's lights pressing through the gentle fog.
"Like Volo said, it's going better than I imagined it would." He's lying. "Thank you for asking. Now I just have to make the rest of the country as beautiful as this."
I let out a palpable sigh. "Seeing the Stilts really hurt you, didn't it?"
"More than you can imagine. I've been there before, but so much has befallen me since then." He spins on his heel to scrutinize downtown Archeon, across the bridge. "I once cared more about maintaining balance than creating equality. And I was willing to let places like the Stilts exist so long as that balance stayed in place."
"Though your reign has extended over a period of two weeks, I believe that you're a good king, Cal. Moreover, a good person." I stride past the table to stand next to him at the glass. His bronze eyes flicker from one place to another, and I follow closely.
"Some might argue that if I were a good person, I'd flip this country over on itself and fabricate a democracy out of its ashes."
He watches something closely now, and I squint, pressing my chin to my neck to look down at the sidewalk, where Mare and Tyton happen to run, clad in tight training gear.
"Hey," I tap him on the shoulder. "That right there, it's only going to cause you pain."
"Was it selfish to take the throne, what is supposedly mine?"
Though I have an intuition that he's speaking to himself, I answer. "Not in the least. If you're anything like my sister, you have this...thing inside of you. Put there by your father, for certain. A feeling of duty, of obligation. I assume you've been training to ascend since before you could walk? Yes, of course, you were." I stop for a moment, looking for a memorable end. "We're all clay, constantly being molded, all with different definitions of right and wrong. Your definition is no better than anybody else's."
He opens his mouth, but I add, perhaps foolishly, "Somebody extraordinarily wise once told me that if there is anything in the world more valuable than your beloved, you should forget about her. Because when love comes, in consumes you."
"It did consume me," Cal states, his voice lower than it was before.
I don't have the nerve to quarrel with him right here, with emotions running high.
"She just burnt it to the ground," he whispers.
Without context, I know he speaks of. "Can you blame her?"
He laughs scornfully. "No. I saw what it looked like in there... and it was nothing memorable. A place to live before you got shipped off to the war. Besides, her fellow townspeople didn't seem overjoyed to have her back. I suppose it was her way of erasing herself from the Stilts for good."
"I still don't understand why they treated her like that," I murmur. But then, "How's Maven doing?" I ask, swerving out've that dangerous path of conversation faster than a bat out've Hell.
The king shakes his head. "As good as an imprisoned traitor can be. The palace carpenters did a good job of converting his old rooms into a classy prison."
"Better than he would give you," I say, crossing bracelet-swathed arms.
"He wouldn't have given me so much as a cot, Iris. I would've been dead five minutes after the war ended, had he won."
"I cast so many doubts to that threat, Cal. He's your brother. Blood binds, whether he likes it or not."
"Maven stood by and allowed me to stab my father," Cal says, pressing a palm to the glass. "Nothing's changed."
"His mother is dead," I argue, placing my palm over his. "Perhaps he had the honest intention of slaughtering you. Or perhaps he did not. But it doesn't matter," I say, amending. "You won. He lost."
"You're a good friend, Ambassador Iris. You make me question myself continually, but not in that rotten method that Evangeline forces on me."
"Anytime."
Cal and I stroll out of the boardroom, climb down flights of stairs before an advisor of his tugs him away, leaving me to my lonesome and imagination.
Whitefire has changed in the week since Cal's ascension into Archeon. It's livelier than before, an invisible pressure heaved from the air. Where the halls once walked quiet servants, now walk raucous Reds and drunk Silvers. It's as though everybody knew all this time that the crown on Maven's head was wrong, like a joint that didn't bend right. The lords of Cal's court are much more outspoken than I remember them being with Maven, and the panes of Diamondglass aren't darkened quite as much.
But even passing through the halls, my eyes stray from one servant to another, carrying trays and brooms. Though the intentions of the new king are well known, the servants haven't yet been released from this place. Nobody asks, not the Reds and certainly not the Silvers.
Montfort and the Scarlet Guard earned our trust on the battlefield, and they earned my personal trust when they saved Bart from that frozen purgatory. But if Cal doesn't act soon on his promises, the fragile alliance between our blood will splinter. I'm sure of it.
"Princess," a voice comes from my back, and I whirl.
My lips are pressed against Bart's before I have the chance to take in so much as the smile that has inhabited his face ever since the Choke.
Sooner than I'd like, our lips depart each other, and I'm gazing into his green eyes.
"I love you."
Over my pewter lace dress, Bart places a cobalt shawl on my shoulders. I roll my eyes at him. "I'm not going to catch a cold out there. If anything, I should be worrying about you. Hardly two weeks have gone by since you almost got shot in the heart."
Bart smiles in return, tightening his jacket. Not the jacket of a guard, but one of a Lord. "We've been over this. The Healer removed any trace of damage the bullet left." When Cal discovered what Bart had done, trying to save me, he promoted Bart off the field and into the castle-to become a King's counselor.
"Then the Healer will remove any trace of a cold I might get," I say, batting my eyelashes at him.
He huffs in protest, but I pay my man no heed.
At most, the public crowning ceremony will last an hour. And that's only if we experience... difficulties. The palace may be a tranquil place of wine and affinity, but plenty of dwellers on the outside oppose Cal. Despite the propaganda that's pushed onto Archeon's screens every day, despite the leniency with which Cal rules, there are still Houses that haven't vowed their loyalty.
A majority of Houses were at Whitefire's doors when Cal arrived, begging and on their knees. The smart ones. But the stubborn ones are biding their time, hiding in their manors on the outskirts of town until a legion of soldiers inevitably marches to those manors.
Soon, somebody in this city of a million is going to go rogue.
"Ready?" I ask as Bart sheathes a sword.
"Oh, yes," he responds, heading towards my bedroom door. "I've waited what feels like years to see Maven publicly denounced."
I chuckle, following him out the door.
Rabbles of courtiers exit their rooms with wives and lovers, meshing into the stream that leads towards the main doors. Through the windows the fog has somewhat cleared, probably the work of a couple Windweavers. The bridge settles over the vast rift of a river, imposing in all its metal and godliness.
"What do you suppose Maven's scheduled to say?" I ask, settling into a slow walk. It's not as if Bart and I have to fight for seats.
"I can only imagine what Anabel has cooked up for Maven to recite," he says, shaking his head in bewilderment. "An admittance to his sins and lies, a promise to his old people that he is their god no more."
"Poetic," I whisper under my breath. "And I can only imagine what would happen if he were to deviate from the script."
"Something tells me that he won't. I'm sure Anabel and Volo have thought it through, taken precautions to make sure he says exactly what they need to be said."
Though the fog has left, the sky remains a pale and bleak color, a detail that the finest Windweavers won't be able to correct. A burst of cold air rushes through my shawl as we pass through the towering doors, but I don't let Bart see my chill.
The long road leading past the banks, courthouses, and halls doesn't end for far as the eye can see, just stretches and stretches. I try to forget the gaggle of palace Sentinels that stalks me from behind but focus on the path ahead, envious of the Nortan's architecture.
They have an edge to the Lakelands when it comes to this sort of technology. Their ships are more modern and cut through water likes knives, whereas we rely on our Nymphs to push our ships to be up to par with theirs. But this architecture... petrifies me.
The buildings glitter and the bridge looms.
Before I know it, I'm stepping onto the bridge, where five-hundred people already gather. Past the bridge, thousands more are settled on the streets. But the voices are hardly audible over the rush of the rapids so many stories below. I hardly noticed the dangerous push and pull of the water last time I crossed this arch when we were speeding away from the city. But now I note it. If the bridge were to collapse, I'd plummet, and nothing could be done about it.
I wouldn't drown. I would fall to the water and it would kill me as though it were cement.
Gulping down my fear, I brush hands with Bart prior to him bleeding into the crowd of High Lords past the platform nobody stands upon. They wear their fanciest clothes, representing House colors.
The upper levels of the structure yawn across the river, casting a shadow over us. The highest of nobility stand hardly five feet past the platform that contains the last king's glass throne, sparkling in the cold sunlight. Torches burn high and mightily around the metal stage's perimeter, and upon the glass table off on the side is the original Nortan crown, worn by Caesar himself. Further back, the lesser Houses are watched by columns of Sentinels standing at the bridge's edges, and common folk-mostly Silver and a couple brave Reds- are furthest away, practically on the other side of Archeon. An endless river of Nortans.
Mare walks past me, artfully menacing in the dress somebody picked out for her. It's a hue of scarlet, unsurprisingly, but the shade isn't what earns the raised eyebrows of a dozen Lords. The back of the fabric cuts downward in a severe fashion, skin exposed practically to the end of her spine. But the choice isn't meant to expose her-at least not in the way a young woman would desire it to. The lack of red shows numerous white scars, crisscrossing her back's every inch.
She wears them like diamonds.
The front is hardly preferable, curving to show off the hideous brand that Maven bestowed on her.
"Your Highness," Volo purrs, suddenly at my side. He too, eyes Mare, calculating.
"Your Majesty," I return, inclining my head. "Is it time already?"
"Indeed it is." He jerks his head towards the stage. "Excuse me."
He saunters up a set of five steps on the back side of the stage and applause echoes in my ears. Volo is a beloved figure in Nortan culture for his fierceness in war.
"Citizens of Norta and of other wheres," Volo begins, feigning disbelief and clasping his hands together. The microphone attached to his face projects his words well, not to mention towards the thousands of monitors across the continent. "Thank you for attending this fine event on this fine evening."
"Your welcome," comes from hundreds of mouths.
"For perilous months, our country was ruled by a fraud, a traitor, an unjust murderer." Sighs and growls of anger echo throughout the river. "I could go on. But why hear it from me when you can hear it from Maven Calore himself?"
Promptly, a march of synchronized boots comes forth into existence from the palace. I have a better view of the scenario than most, at my place behind the guarded stage, but still, I only see a head of black hair in between the Sentinels.
I don't have to see him to know that the clinking against cobblestone is caused by the manacles adorned by his wrists and ankles. He'll be well-groomed, tucked into expensive clothing. But the shadows will be there.
The Sentinels part for Maven to climb the steps to the stage, his expression indifferent. He didn't put up a fight in coming here, his hair perfectly groomed and his bloody red cape smooth. The boy king smiles morosely, as the citizens whisper amongst themselves. Though they don't chastise him, just whisper.
For a moment, I feel empathy for the forsaken boy with the pristine posture up there, looking down at his crossed allies.
Then, I look at Mare again. Though Maven doesn't reciprocate her fiery gaze, she looks at him with all the hate in the world.
"I'm a liar," he says into the deafening silence. His words burn into my eardrums. "And a fraud, and a traitor, and an unjust murderer. It saddens me to see all of you on this bridge, turned against me. My people. But it isn't undeserved."
I have to remind myself to breathe, to want oxygen. Even the rapids have seemingly quieted, and the slight breeze has stopped altogether.
So then, a father telling his children a story, Maven explains. It goes on for minutes and minutes, answering to every possible concern, divulging every traitorous detail. He depicts himself as a monster.
"...Elara was never a fan of Tiberias Calore," Maven continues. "She wasn't a fan of her husband, either really. So she plotted to kill them both, under that facade that Mare Barrow, that freakish little bitch, she called her, seduced my brother into wanting the power all for himself."
Even with an army against him, Maven is eloquent. He tells the story as though it were a poem, his emotionless eyes never caught in a falter.
I pick up bits and pieces here and there. "...I had Silvers of the highest Houses sent to Corros who didn't agree with me."
"...I even blackmailed Iris Cygnet into keeping quiet when she put together the pieces of what really happened when Cal killed our father.
"So if the propaganda wasn't enough, if countless testimonies weren't enough, let it be shouted throughout this damned country that I am no longer its king. That I denounce myself."
As Maven finishes his final words, a second troop of Sentinels enters the bridge, with the same, sickening march that Maven was rewarded with. They bare flags of Norta and the House Calore, armed to the teeth.
The crowd dares not to release so much as a heavy breath when Cal and Evangeline walk up the steps, the man red and black and the woman metal and fangs. Anabel falls out of the High Lords' crowd and links elbows with Volo as he ascends the stairs once more. I do the same, linking arms with a nameless and kind Sentinel.
However rehearsed, cracks of hatred break through the glass in Maven's eyes. The brothers stand, facing one another, their profiles turned to the masses.
"Kneel," Cal demands, the black cape laid across his shoulders. The single word beckons shutters down my spine. I watched the television avidly the day Mare Barrow marched across this bridge, reduced to dirt. Maven and his brother's words are one and the same. It's an unspoken message to Maven, salt to an infected wound. But it's not like he wouldn't do the same had he gotten the opportunity.
Maven flashes his teeth-though it could be more of a bar. "I don't recall ever speaking my congratulations, brother-"
"Shut it, son." Volo plants his toe onto the backside of Maven's knee, compelling him to the ground.
His forehead nearly meets the ground as well. Beneath his eyes are Cal's boots, a polished black leather. At that precise moment, something in Maven splinters open and his mask fractures wide open. I see it in the shift in his eyes, the sapphires darkening to a black. "You are my king. I am at your mercy and your mercy alone," Maven whispers, but the microphone amplifies it.
Below, tears litter Mare Barrow's cheeks.
"I pledge myself to Tiberias Calore the Seventh, Flame of the North," he says without the conviction his voice held before.
Though I can tell that Cal does his best to keep his pity at bay, under his skin, his lips are twisted into a pained look.
Two guards haul Maven off the stage, back to wherever he came from.
Anabel, with an uninhibited grin, performs the rites that were done at the Choke. Though according to the Law, Cal is already king, it was a good idea on Anabel's part to make it seen by all the important people in the city so that nothing could be questioned.
Ceremony officials stand near by, stepping in to perform deeds that Anabel herself isn't certified to perform.
She wets Cal's forehead and hair with water from an ornate China basin, recites blessings and promises, before crowning Cal. The headpiece is silver, encrusted with strands of gold, and baptized with rubies and ambers.
The sun taunts us, just beginning to dip below the horizon, washing the earth in a gold, the color of the crown. Lights from all across the city have begun to flicker on, in the form fire and electricity. In tribute to the newly-born king.
The citizens scream their approval when it is finished, a roar emerging from utter quiet.
As per tradition, before each loyal individual exits the bridge, they light a match and throw it off the bridge to sear the water. Amidst the cries, fire falls from all these stories above.
Warm-colored fireworks explode off to the south, as Cal and Evangeline step down, heading to the direction of the palace. The invited citizens follow them, swallowing up the platform, heading to the party that was promised to them in Caesar's Square.