off their hinges. But I stop short, perplexed. Instead of a luxurious suite fit only for the king of Norta, I find empty rooms stripped of furnishings and even paint. No curtains, no rugs. Nothing but a haphazard collection of cleaning supplies.
Cal isn’t sleeping here. Not while bits of me still linger. Coward.
This time I really do punch a wall, leaving my knuckles raw and smarting.
I have no way of knowing which room might be his. The residence wings are home to dozens of bedrooms, and I hardly have time to search them all. I’ll have to settle for stealing what I can outside the city. Flint and steel make sparks as easily as any bracelet. I can acquire that. Somehow.
My vision blurs at the edges, an odd haze that pulses in time with my rapidly increasing heartbeat. I shake my head, trying to make the sensation dissipate, but it stays put. A pain springs up in my skull, digging into the bone. I suck down another breath, forcing myself to take big gasps of air in an attempt to calm down. As in the tunnel, the walls feel too close and like they’re getting closer by the second. I wonder if the windows are about to shatter all over me, cutting my flesh to ribbons.
I trip on the stairs as I make my way back down to the throne room. No choice, Maven, Mother croons to me as I slip in again. That’s all I get. She was never one to advise retreat or surrender. Elara Merandus gave no ground in life, and she instilled the same instinct in me. My headache spreads, arcing across my skull in a web of sharp pain.
Above me, the lights kick on again, so brightly they whine in their bulbs. The electricity surge is too strong.
One by one, they pop, raining smashed glass along the polished floor behind me. I manage to dodge as the bulb directly above me shrieks apart.
The filaments continue to burn, sparking white.
And purple.
Stoic, calm and deadly, Mare Barrow stands firm, silhouetted in the narrow opening. Without blinking, she slides through and shuts the door behind her. Locking us both in. Together.
“It’s over, Maven,” she whispers.
This time, I sprint for the other side of the throne and burst into another set of rooms usually reserved for the queen. I made my own modifications to them. Modifications that would disagree with most.
Mare is faster than I am, but she follows at a languid pace. Haunting me. Teasing me. She could run me down at any second. Electrocute me with one well-aimed bolt of lightning.
Good, I think. Keep on coming, Barrow.
I feel the telltale twinge up ahead. The empty ache that plagues all Silvers and newbloods. One more door to push open. One last chance to survive where so many others would die.
I will not fail, Mother.
Grinning, I turn around, letting her watch me as I back farther into the dark chamber. The single window is small, and a weak light fills the space. Illuminating the dark walls, patterned like a checkerboard of gray and black. The gray bits gleam dully, showing ribbons of liquid silver. Arven blood, Silence blood.
She hesitates at the threshold, feeling the press of Silent Stone. I watch it ruin her.
The color drains from her face, and she almost looks Silver in the cold, gray light. I keep walking, back and back. To the next door. The next passage. My chance.
She doesn’t stop me.
Her throat bobs as she swallows around the fear clawing at her. I gave her this wound. I locked her away in chains, drained her ability, made her live like a wasting ghost. If she steps forward, she’ll have no weapons at all. No shield. No guarantee.
The letter opener in my hand feels suddenly heavy.
I could drop it. Leave the blade and run.
I could let her live.
Or I could kill her.
The choice is easy. And so very difficult.
I hold my ground.
My grip tightens on the iron.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Mare
The room is a coffin. A maw of stone that will swallow me whole. I feel dead, even on the threshold, hesitating to fully succumb to this place and the person who built it.
My heart pounds so loudly I know Maven can hear it.
His eyes trace over me in a way that is too familiar and too close, despite the yards between us. He focuses on my throat, on the vein pulsing with all my fear. I expect him to lick his lips. My hand flexes in vain, attempting