Broken Throne - Victoria Aveyard Page 0,128

he’s choosing time with his granddaughter over the delegation meetings.

“Should we go?” I breathe, gesturing for the door. Already I feel the familiar burst of nerves, my stomach fluttering at the prospect of this day.

Farley is good enough to lead. She doesn’t know how to do anything else. “We should.”

The first meeting is the largest, and can hardly be called a meeting at all. It’s more like a circus.

The assembly of delegates from every corner of the alliance takes place in the grand library of the premier’s estate, the only room large enough to hold us all comfortably. Besides the People’s Gallery, of course, but Premier Davidson didn’t like the optics of using his government’s representative hall for this sort of meeting. I think he also didn’t want to intimidate the Silvers of the Nortan States. They’re a skittish bunch, according to the few reports I read. We have to be careful with the nobles, lest we drive them away and into the waiting arms of the Lakelands and the Silver Secession.

Indeed, I assume that will be the most pressing topic for the next few days—the precarious position of the Nortan States and the always looming threat of the nymph leaders Iris and Cenra. I didn’t think of them much at the cabin. It was easy to put those two, and their kingdom, out of my head while isolated in the wilderness. But not here. I can almost feel those women hanging over me, waiting for the chance to strike.

The library unsettles me as I enter. It’s only half full. We might be late, but so is everyone else. One glance tells me the delegation from the States isn’t here yet. Good. I want to be settled and ready when Cal arrives, my face schooled to neutral perfection. Right now, dozens of eyes rove over my skin, and whispers seem to follow me. I don’t bother trying to tune them out. Most are harmless, words I’m used to. Mare Barrow, the lightning girl, she’s back. The gallery ringing the floor above us is empty, unlike last time, when it brimmed with Scarlet Guard officers. Three months ago, the premier and the Command of the Guard planned our attack and defense of Archeon here.

They interrogated Maven in this room. It was one of the last times I saw him alive. I shiver as I walk over the spot on the carpet where he stood, spitting venom even under interrogation. I can still hear him in my head. You think I can’t lie through pain, he said when Tyton got too close. You think I haven’t done it a thousand times?

He meant the torture his mother inflicted on him. I knew that then and it haunts me now. Whatever his mother did to him whenever she entered his mind—it was torture. It was pain. And it twisted him beyond repair.

I think. Still, I wonder. If more could have been done for him. If I—if Cal—if someone could have saved him from the monster she made. Like always, the thought burns and leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. I clench my jaw. I refuse to vomit in front of so many people. With a will, I empty my face of expression and raise my eyes.

Across the room, one of the Montfortan officers is silent in his chair, his back to the window. His white hair glows in the morning light.

Tyton never takes his eyes off me as I pass, and I dip my head in greeting. The other electricons aren’t as high ranking as he is and won’t be here. I doubt Ella could even sit still through ten minutes of pleasantries, let alone an hour of stilted debate. I make a note to ask after them later. We have catching up to do, both in conversation and in training. No matter how much I exercised up at the cabin, I’ve certainly gone soft during my time away.

The library is set with three long tables, each angled to face the others in something like a triangle. Premier Davidson is already seated at his own, flanked by Montfortan officers and government officials. More arrive by the minute, fluttering into the library in groups of two or three. I get the feeling some have no real use, but are just curious to see the proceedings. Their numbers certainly make for an impressive sight, all aligned in their green military uniforms or politician’s robes. Aides and assistants speed through their ranks, handing out papers and

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