impossible to redeem or cure. And it makes things easier. I can do what must be done to survive, without thought, without restraint. To make it all worth what I’ve done. Nothing is beyond possibility.
The two chairs in my lavish excuse for a cell are drawn together near the windows, facing each other as if prepared for a meeting. I sneer at them and lie flat on the long couch instead, enjoying the cool feel of golden silk beneath my skin. The salon is fine enough, a forgotten sitting room instead of the dungeon I deserve. Foolish Cal, trying to show me mercy—or show the rest of them how merciful he is, how different he is from me. He is as predictable as a sunrise.
I focus on the feel of the smooth fabric instead of the dead weight of Silent Stone, pressing down with every breath I take. The ceiling above me is molded plaster, sculpted into intricate shapes of wreathed flame. This part of the Ocean Hill palace is foreign to me. It was a favorite of Cal’s mother’s, and my father didn’t bring the court here much.
I wonder if I’ll live long enough to return to Whitefire. My fists clench at the thought of my brother invading my room there. Not because it’s mine by right, but because he’ll see too much of me in it. The smallness of my bedchamber, the emptiness of the one place I was ever alone. It feels like exposing a weakness to him—and Cal is just so good at taking advantage of weakness once he finds it. Usually it takes him quite a long time to do so, but I’ve made it easy for him. Maybe he’ll finally know what abyss there is in me, what a cliff I stand upon and throw myself off.
Or maybe he won’t see at all. Cal has always had a blind spot where I am concerned, for better or worse. He could just be the same shortsighted, bullheaded, honor-bound and over-proud dullard he’s always been. There’s a chance this war has not changed him or his ability to see me for what I am. A good chance.
I comfort myself with such thoughts—my idiot brother, the golden son blinded by his own light. It isn’t his fault, really. The Calores are warrior kings, the heirs raised to battle and blood. Not exactly a breeding ground for intelligence or intuition. And he didn’t have a mother watching over him to balance what our father wanted of a son. Not like me. Mother made sure I learned to fight beyond the battlefield, on a throne as well as in a sparring circle.
And look where you are now, at the end of it. Look where he is.
Snarling to myself, I sit up and seize the closest thing to me, then hurl it against the wall. Glass, water, and flowers smash, a momentary balm to the sting inside. No wonder Mare did this so much, I think, remembering how many times she threw her meals at the walls of her own cell. I throw the other decorative vase in the room for good measure, this time against the window. The glass pane doesn’t even crack, but I feel a bit better.
The relief doesn’t last. It never does. First I think of her, of Mother. Like always, her voice comes to me in silent moments, a whisper and a ghost. I’ve long since learned not to try to block her out, because it doesn’t work. In fact, that only makes her worse.
Lash for lash, she says to me, an echo of words spoken before her death. Cut for cut. If they’re going to hurt me, I must hurt them too. I must do worse.
If only she had better advice. I’m truly stuck, imprisoned by a brother with no choice but to execute me. And I see no way out of that fate. If it were just Cal’s decision, then yes, I would survive. I wouldn’t worry at all. Even now, he doesn’t have the spine to kill me. But he has the crown again, and a kingdom to convince. He can’t show weakness, especially with me. What’s more, I don’t deserve his mercy. But I shall do as my mother says. I’ll hurt him as much as I can, as deeply as possible, before my time is ended. It will be some small consolation to know he bleeds as I bleed.
And Mare too. There are still wounds in her, wounds I made,