world.”
With a flick of his fingers, Maven gestures for Bracken to stand.
“You have my gratitude as well for such a mighty pledge,” Maven replies, all performance and posture. “Together we can end what my brother began.”
Something flashes in Bracken’s eye. Amusement, maybe. Does he see the lie for what it is? Tiberias Calore did not start this war, not by any stretch of the imagination. That sin lies with the Red rebels. I swallow, my throat suddenly dry. The Scarlet Guard began in the Lakelands, spurred on by necessary actions my own father took. Still, if they are sinners, we enabled their existence, allowing it to spread. We share in the sin and shame.
“Together with the Lakelands,” Bracken adds.
Another flash of amusement in the prince, and I feel heat rise in my cheeks. “Of course. We back Maven Calore to the last.” With as little as we can afford to send. Fewer troops, less weaponry, less money. The rest of it jealously guarded and hoarded for when we need it most.
My cheek burns, flaming hot, as Maven’s lips brush my face in a chaste but symbolic kiss. “We’re a good match, aren’t we?” he says, turning back to Bracken.
I fight the urge to make good on my promise and pin Maven to the floor where I can drown him to my heart’s content.
“Quite,” Bracken murmurs, his black eyes darting between us. “Unfortunately, we don’t seem to be making much headway. I’ve sent for whispers and singers from Prince Denniarde’s lands.” He gestures to the prince behind him, resplendent in his emeralds and sheer, green silk. “But they’ve yet to arrive, and I’m afraid I don’t want to risk further damaging any of the prisoners before they can be properly interrogated.”
I turn to the nearest cell, hoping to hide my disgust at the thought of whispers and singers coming here. Neither should be trusted, but I hold my tongue.
The man in the cell stares back at me, his eyes like bright coals in the dim light of his prison. His skin is as brown as mine, although with a reddish undertone, and his black hair is curly, as is his oiled and groomed beard. The uniform he wears is dark green, the color of Montfort. It has rips in it, missing patches on the breast and upper arms. They dangle broken thread. From insignia removed, badges and honors torn away. I narrow my eyes, and he does the same.
“What’s your rank, soldier?” I sneer, crossing to the bars.
Behind me, Bracken and Maven quiet.
The bearded man says nothing. As I come closer, I realize he has a scar below his eye. Too uniform to be an accident. A well-healed and perfectly straight line.
I jerk my chin at it. “Someone gave you that mark, didn’t they?”
“You speak as if a Silver holding me down and scarring my face were a gift,” he replies slowly. His words are oddly stilted, broken apart. As if he has to think through each as it weighs on his tongue.
I trace the scar again, looking it over. I wonder what he did, or didn’t do, to warrant such a punishment.
“When your whispers come,” I say, looking over my shoulder to Bracken. “Start with him. He’s of higher rank. He’ll know more than most.”
Maven’s lips twitch and he almost smiles.
“Of course,” Bracken replies. “We’ll start with that foolish Red, won’t we?” he adds, crooning to his children as he leads them away. They nod in tandem, seeming far younger than ten and eight. “Then you’ll see they are nothing to be frightened of. Not anymore. They’re nothing to you. Nothing.”
Again Michael hides his face, shoving his head under his father’s arm.
Charlotta does the opposite, putting her tiny chin in the air. She has freckles, a dusting over her brown skin. In Montfort, her hair was simple, smoothed back into a single, tight knot. Here she dresses like the princess she is, in patterned white silk, with amethysts studding her many braids. I watch her as she follows her father, small gown trailing over concrete. Her outfit reminds me of a bride’s dress, and I wonder who she will be traded to, as I was traded, when the time comes.
We continue on our way, surveying the cells, and I return to my counting. Maven swings his arms back and forth, almost joyful. So the victory has had an effect after all.
“I didn’t know you were capable of happiness,” I mutter, and he laughs outright. It cuts like glass.
He grins at