view over the valley and the Allegiant River. Everything gleams beneath the too-bright lights the broadcast crew has assembled, now pointed at the raised platform where my family once sat. Whoever cleaned was very thorough, scouring everything from floor to ceiling. I assume it was the Scarlet Guard. Reds have more practice with such things.
The Nortan States didn’t send much of a delegation. I only count two of them. They don’t have uniforms, not like Montfort or the Guard. But it’s easy to tell who represents the new country to the east, still rebuilding itself from the ashes of the old. And these two are even easier to recognize. While the Guard busies themselves arranging cameras and perfecting their lightning, the two Nortans hang back. Not to avoid the work, but to avoid getting in the way.
I don’t blame them. Julian Jacos and Tiberias Calore are useless here, reduced to spectators. They look even more out of place than the armed Reds scuffing up my mother’s floors.
I haven’t seen Cal since his last visit to Montfort. And that was brief, only a few days. Barely enough time to shake hands with the premier and exchange pleasantries at one of Carmadon’s dinners. He’s been busy shoring up alliances and relationships, acting as a go-between for the Silver nobles of his former kingdom and the new government taking shape. Not an easy job, by any means. He’s exhausted—anyone can see that—his burning eyes ringed by dark shadows. Sometimes I wonder if he’d rather be at the head of an army instead of the negotiating table.
He catches my eye and the corner of his mouth twitches, the best smile he can muster.
I do the same, ducking my head.
How far the two of us have come from Queenstrial.
Cal isn’t my future anymore, and for that I am eternally grateful.
It’s the uncle who worries me, making my stomach swoop.
Jacos stands as he always does, looking small at Cal’s shoulder. The singer stares at the floor, unwilling to meet my gaze or my brother’s. I can’t tell if it’s guilt or pity guiding him. After all, he killed our father. Sometimes Jacos is in my nightmares, his teeth fanged, his tongue like a snake. So different from the bookish, unassuming reality.
When we approach, Julian is good enough to excuse himself, head still bowed. Only Wren gives him a smile as we pass, small as it is. One of her cousins is his companion, and even with the Nortan court in ruins, the bonds of the old nobility still hold tight.
Ptolemus reaches Cal first, clasping his hand firmly as he offers the warmest smile he can muster. No mean feat for my brother. Cal responds in kind, lowering his chin.
“Thank you for doing this, Ptolemus,” he says, one abdicated king to another. Cal looks odd in his plain jacket, without a uniform dripping with medals. Especially in comparison to my brother, all dressed up in his colors and armor.
Tolly releases his grip. “And thank you for coming. It wasn’t necessary.”
“Of course it is,” Cal replies, his tone light. “It’s an exclusive club you’re joining. I have to be on hand to welcome you into the Abdicators.”
My lip curls. All the same, I take Cal’s arm, pulling him into a stiff but quick embrace. “Please don’t start calling us that,” I growl.
“I think it has a nice ring to it,” Elane interjects. She tips her head, finding the light. Everyone else looks skeletal or garish beneath the harsh fluorescent of the lighting gear, but of course she doesn’t. “Good to see you, Cal.”
“And you, Elane. All of you,” he adds, his eyes sweeping over me to Wren. They keep moving, searching the room. Hunting for someone else.
But Mare Barrow isn’t here.
“Are you all the States sent to witness?” I ask, and he looks glad for the question. Happy to change the subject, happy for a distraction.
“No, the other representatives are with General Farley,” he replies. “Two Red organizers, the newblood Ada Wallace, and one of the former governor Rhambos’s children.” With a twist of his fingers, he points to the far side of the throne room. I don’t bother to turn. I’ll see them in a moment. And truthfully, I don’t want to look and find Diana Farley staring daggers at Ptolemus. My stomach twists the way it usually does whenever I’m near the Red general. Stop it, I tell myself. I’m already afraid of the cameras. I don’t have the energy to be afraid of her too.