King’s Cage (Red Queen Book 3)

The doors of Corvium’s administrative tower are solid oak, but their hinges and trimmings are iron. They glide open in front of us, bowing before the Royal House of Samos. We enter the council chamber gracefully, in front of the eyes of our patchwork excuse for an alliance. Montfort and the Scarlet Guard sit on the left, simple in their green uniforms, our Silvers on the right in their varying house colors. Their respective leaders, Premier Davidson and Queen Anabel, watch us enter in silence. Anabel wears her crown now, marking herself as a queen, albeit to a long-dead king. It’s a beaten ring of rose gold, set with tiny black gems. Simple. But it stands out all the same. She drums her deadly fingers on the flat of the table, eagerly displaying her wedding ring. A fiery red jewel, also set in rose gold. Like Davidson, she has the look of a predator, never blinking, never distracted. Prince Tiberias and Mare Barrow are not here, or else I can’t see them. I wonder if they’ll split to their respective sides and colors.

Windows on every side of the tower room open on the land, where the air still smolders with ash and the western fields are choked in mud, flooded and swamped by the extraseasonal catastrophe. Even this high up, everything smells like blood. I scrubbed my hands for what seemed like hours, washing every inch, and still I can’t get rid of the scent. It clings like a ghost, harder to forget than the faces of the people I killed on the field. The metallic tang infects everything.

Despite the commanding view, all eyes focus on the more commanding person leading our family. Father has no black robes, just his chromium armor shimmering like a mirror melded to his trim form. A warrior king in every inch. Mother does not disappoint either. Her crown of green stones matches the emerald boa constrictor draped around her neck and shoulders like a shawl. It slithers slowly, scales reflecting the afternoon light. Ptolemus looks similar to Father, though the armor painted to his broad chest, narrow waist, and lean legs is black as oil. Mine is a mix of both, striped in skintight layers of chromium and black steel. It isn’t the armor I wore on the field, but the armor I need now. Terrible, threatening, showing every ounce of Samos pride and power.

Four chairs like thrones are set against the windows, and we sit as one, presenting a united front. No matter how much I want to scream.

I feel like a traitor to myself, having let days, weeks pass without opposition. Without so much as a whisper of how much Father’s plan terrifies me. I don’t want to be queen of Norta. I don’t want to belong to anyone. But what I want doesn’t matter. Nothing will threaten my father’s machinations. King Volo is not one to be denied. Not by his own daughter, his flesh and blood. His possession.

An all-too-familiar ache rises in my chest as I settle onto my throne. I do my best to keep composed, quiet, and dutiful. Loyal to my blood. It’s all I know.

I haven’t spoken to my father in weeks. I can only nod to his commands. Words are beyond my ability. If I open my mouth, I fear my temper will get the best of me. It was Tolly’s idea to stay quiet. Give it time, Eve. Give it time. But time for what, I have no idea. Father doesn’t change his mind. And Queen Anabel is hell-bent on pushing her grandson back to the throne. My brother is just as disappointed as I am. Everything we did—marrying him to Elane, betraying Maven, supporting Father’s kingly ambitions—was so we could stay together. All for nothing. He’ll rule in the Rift, married to the girl I love, while I’m shipped off like a crate of ammunition, once more a gift to a king.

I’m grateful for the distraction when Mare Barrow decides to grace the council with her presence, Prince Tiberias trailing at her heels. I forgot what a tragic puppy he became in her presence, all wide eyes begging for attention. His keen soldier sense trains on her instead of the task at hand. Both of them are still vibrating with adrenaline from the siege, and no wonder. It was a brutal thing. Barrow still has blood on her uniform.

Both trek down the central aisle splitting the council. If they feel the weight of their action, they don’t show it. Most conversation reduces to a murmur or stops altogether to watch the pair, waiting to see which side of the room they choose.

Mare is quick, stalking past the front row of green uniforms to lean against the far wall. Out of the spotlight.

The prince, the rightful king of Norta, doesn’t follow. He approaches his grandmother instead, one hand outstretched to embrace her. Anabel is much smaller than him, reduced to an old woman in his presence. But her arms encircle him easily. They have the same eyes, burning like heated bronze. She grins up at him.

Tiberias lingers in her embrace, just for a moment, holding on to the last piece of his family. The seat beside his grandmother is empty, but he doesn’t take it. He elects to join Mare at the wall. He crosses his arms over his broad chest, fixing Father with a heated stare. I wonder if he knows what she has planned for the two of us.

No one takes the seat he left behind. No one dares take the place of the rightful heir to Norta. My beloved betrothed echoes in my head. The words taunt me worse than my mother’s snakes.

Suddenly, with a flick of his hand, Father drags Salin Iral by his belt buckle, pulling him up from his seat, over his table, and across the oak floor. No one protests, or makes a sound.

“You’re supposed to be hunters.”

Father’s voice rumbles low in his throat.

Iral didn’t bother to wash off after the battle, evidenced by the sweat matting his black hair. Or maybe he’s just petrified. I wouldn’t blame him. “Your Majesty—”

“You ensured Maven would not escape. I believe your exact words, my lord, were ‘no snake can escape a silk fist.’” Father doesn’t condescend to look at this failure of a lord, an embarrassment to his house and his name. Mother watches enough for both of them, seeing with her own eyes as well as the eyes of the green snake. It notices me staring and flicks its forked pink tongue in my direction.

Others watch Salin’s humiliation. The Reds look dirtier than Salin, some of them still caked in mud and blue with cold. At least they aren’t drunk. Lord General Laris sways in his chair, sipping conspicuously from a flask larger than anything one should have in polite company. Not that Father or Mother or anyone else will begrudge him the liquor. Laris and his house did their job beautifully, bringing airjets to the cause while dissipating that infernal storm threatening to snow Corvium under. They proved their worth.

As did the newbloods. Silly as their chosen name sounds, they held off the attack for hours. Without their blood and sacrifice, Corvium would be back in Maven’s hands. Instead, he failed a second time. He has been defeated twice. Once by rabble, and now at the hands of a proper army and a proper king. My gut twists. Even though we won, the victory feels like defeat to me.

Mare glowers at the exchange, her entire body tensing like a twisting wire. Her eyes tick between Salin and my father, before straying to Tolly. I feel a tremor of fear for my brother, even though she promised not to kill him. In Caesar’s Square she unleashed a wrath like I’ve never seen. And on the Corvium battlefield she held her own, even surrounded by an army of Silvers. Her lightning is far deadlier than I remember. If she chose to murder Tolly right now, I doubt anyone could stop her. Punish her, of course, but not stop her.

I have a feeling she won’t be terribly pleased by Anabel’s plan. Any Silver woman in love with a king would be content to be a consort, bound though not married—but I don’t believe Reds think that way. They have no idea how important the house bonds are, or how deeply vital heirs of strong blood have always been. They think love matters when wedding vows are spoken. I suppose that is a small blessing in their lives. Without power, without strength, they have nothing to protect and no legacy to uphold. Their lives are inconsequential, but still, their lives are their own.

As I thought mine was, for a few brief, foolish weeks.

On the battlefield, I told Mare Barrow not to make a habit of letting me save her. Ironic. Now I hope she saves me from a queen’s gilded prison, and a king’s bridal cage. I hope her storm destroys the alliance before it even takes root.

“. . . prepares for escape as well as attack. Swifts were in place, transports, airjets. We never even saw Maven.” Salin keeps up his protest, hands raised above his head. Father lets him. Father always gives a person enough rope to hang themselves. “The Lakelander king was there. He commanded his troops himself.”

Father’s eyes flash and darken, the only indication of his sudden discomfort. “And?”

“And now he lies in a grave with them.” Salin glances up at his steel king, a child searching for approval. He trembles down to his fingertips. I think of Iris left behind in Archeon, a new queen on a poisoned throne. And now without her father, cut off from the only family who came south at her side. She was formidable, to say the least, but this will weaken her immensely. If she weren’t my enemy, I might feel pity.

Slowly, Father rises from his throne. He looks thoughtful. “Who killed the king of the Lakelands?”

The noose tightens.

Salin grins. “I did.”

The noose snaps, and so does Father. With a clenched fist, in the blink of an eye, he twists Salin’s buttons off his jacket, rolling them into thin spindles of iron. Each one wraps around his neck, pulling, forcing Salin to stand. They keep rising, until his toes scrabble against the floor, searching for purchase.

At the tables, the Montfort leader leans back in his chair. The woman next to him, a very severe blonde with facial scars, curls her lips into a scowl. I remember her from the attack on Summerton, the one that almost took my brother’s life. Cal tortured her himself and now they’re practically side by side. She’s Scarlet Guard, highly ranked, and, if I’m not mistaken, one of Mare’s closest allies.

“Your orders—” Salin chokes out. He claws at the iron threads around his neck, digging into his flesh. His face grays as blood pools beneath his flesh.

“My orders were to kill Maven Calore or prevent his escape. You did neither.”

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“Killed a king of sovereign nation. An ally of Norta who had no reason to do anything but defend the new Lakelander queen. But now?” Father scoffs, using his ability to draw Salin closer. “You’ve given them a rather wonderful incentive to drown us all. The ruling queen of the Lakelands will not stand for this.” He slaps Salin across the face with a resounding crack. The blow is meant to shame, not hurt. It works well. “I strip you of your titles and responsibilities. House Iral, redistribute them as you see fit. And get this worm out of my sight.”

Salin’s family is quick to drag him from the chamber before he can dig a deeper hole. When the iron threads spring free, all he does is cough and perhaps cry. His sobs echo in the hall but are quickly cut off by the slamming of the doors. A pathetic man. Though I’m glad he didn’t kill Maven. If the Calore brat died today, there would be no obstacle between Cal and the throne. Cal and me. This way, at least, there is some dark hope.

“Does anyone have anything useful to contribute?” Father sits back down smoothly and runs a finger down the spine of Mother’s snake. Its eyes slide shut in pleasure. Disgusting.

Jerald Haven looks like he wants to disappear in his chair, and he just might. He stares at his folded hands, willing my father not to humiliate him next. Luckily, he’s saved by the scowling Scarlet Guard commander. She stands, scraping back her seat.

“Our intelligence indicates that Maven Calore now relies on eyes to keep him safe. They can see the immediate future—”

Mother clucks her tongue. “We know what an eye is, Red.”

“Good for you,” the commander replies without hesitation.

If not for Father and our precarious position, I expect Mother would ram her emerald snake down the Red’s throat. She just purses her lips. “Control your people, Premier, or I will.”

“I’m a Command general of the Scarlet Guard, Silver,” the woman spits back. I catch Mare smirking behind her. “If you want our help, you’re going to show some respect.”

“Of course,” Mother concedes graciously. Her gems sparkle as she dips her head. “Respect where respect is due.”

The commander still glowers, her rage boiling. She eyes my mother’s crown with disgust.

Thinking quickly, I clap my hands together. A familiar sound. A summons. Quietly, a Red maid of House Samos scampers into the chamber, a glass of wine in hand. She knows her orders and darts to my side, offering me the drink. With slow, exaggerated movements, I take the cup. I never break eye contact with the Red commander as I drink. My fingers drum along the etched glass to hide my nerves. At worst, I’ll make Father angry. At best . . .

I smash the glass goblet on the floor. Even I flinch at the sound and the implication. Father tries not to react, but his mouth tightens. You should know me better than this. I’m not giving up without a fight.

Without hesitation, the maid kneels to clean it up, sweeping shards of glass into her bare hands. And without hesitation, the fierce Red woman vaults over her table, setting off a flurry of motion. Silvers jump to their feet, as do Reds, and Mare herself pushes off the wall, angling herself across her friend’s path.

The Red commander towers over her, but Barrow holds her back all the same.

“How can we accept this?” the woman shouts at me, thrusting a fist at the maid on the floor. The tang of blood increases tenfold as she slices her hands. “How?”

Everyone in the room seems to be wondering the same thing. Shouts rise between more volatile members of each side. We are Silver houses of noble and ancient blood, allied with rebels, criminals, servants, and thieves. Abilities or not, our ways of life stand in direct opposition. Our goals are not the same. The council chamber is a powder keg. If I’m lucky it will explode. Blow apart any threat of marriage. Destroy the cage they want to put me back in.

Over Mare’s shoulder, the commander sneers at me, her eyes like two blue daggers. If this room and my own clothes weren’t dripping with metal, I might be afraid. I stare back at her, looking every inch the Silver princess she was raised to hate. At my feet, the maid finishes her work and shuffles away, her hands pincushioned with pieces of glass. I make a mental note to send Wren to heal her later.

“Poorly done,” Mother whispers in my ear. She pats my arm and the snake slithers along her hand, curling over my skin. Its flesh is clammy and cold.

I grit my teeth against the sensation.

“How can we accept this?”

The prince’s voice cuts the chaos. It stuns many into silence, including the sneering Red commander. Mare bodily removes her, escorting her back to her chair with some difficulty. The rest turn to the exiled prince, watching him as he straightens. The months have been good to Tiberias Calore. A life of war suits him. He seems vibrant and alive, even after narrowly escaping death on the walls. In her seat, his grandmother allows herself the smallest smile. I feel my heart sink in my chest. I don’t like that look. My hands claw the arms of my throne, nails digging into wood instead of flesh.

“Every single person in this room knows we have reached a tipping point.” His eyes wander to find Mare. He draws his strength from her. If I were a sentimental person, I might be moved. Instead, I think of Elane, left safely behind at Ridge House. Ptolemus has need of an heir, and neither of us wanted her in the battle. Even so, I wish she were here to sit beside me. I wish I didn’t have to suffer this alone.

Cal was trained to statecraft, and he is no stranger to speeches. Still, he’s not as talented as his brother, and he trips up more than a few times as he prowls the floor. Unfortunately, no one seems to mind. “Reds have lived their lives as glorified slaves, bonded to their lots. Be it in a slum town, in one of our palaces—or in the mud of a river village.” A flush spreads across Mare’s cheeks. “I used to think as I was taught. That our ways were set. Reds were inferior. Changing their place would never come to pass, not without bloodshed. Not without great sacrifice. Once, I thought those things were too high a cost to pay. But I was wrong.

“To those of you who disagree”—he glares at me, and I tremble—“who believe yourself better, who believe yourself gods, you are wrong. And not because people like the lightning girl exist. Not because we suddenly find ourselves in need of allies to defeat my brother. Because you are simply wrong.

“I was born a prince. I knew more privilege than almost anyone here. I was raised with servants at my beck and call, and I was taught that their blood, because of a color, meant less than mine. ‘Reds are stupid; Reds are rats; Reds are incapable of controlling their own lives; Reds are meant to serve.’ These are words we’ve all heard. And they are lies. Convenient ones that make our lives easier, our shame nonexistent, and their lives unbearable.”

He stops next to his grandmother, tall at her side. “It can’t be tolerated anymore. It simply can’t be. Difference is not division.”

Poor, naive Calore. His grandmother nods in approval, but I remember her in my own house, and what she said. She wants her grandson on the throne, and she wants the old world.

“Premier,” Tiberias says, gesturing to the Montfort leader.

With a clearing of his throat, the man stands. Taller than most, but weedy. He has the look of a pale fish with an equally empty expression. “King Volo, we thank you for your aid in the defense of Corvium. And here, now, before the eyes of our leadership and your own, I would like to know your sentiments on what Prince Tiberias has just said.”

“If you have a question, Premier, ask it,” Father rumbles.

The man keeps his face still, unreadable. I get the sense he hides as many secrets and ambitions as the rest of us. Would that I could put the screws to him. “Red and Silver, Your Majesty. Which color rises in this rebellion?”

A muscle quivers in one pale cheek as my father exhales. He runs a hand through his pointed beard. “Both, Premier. This is a war for us both. On this you have my word, sworn on the heads of my children.”

Thank you so much, Father. The Red commander would collect that price with a smile if given the opportunity.

“Prince Tiberias speaks truthfully,” Father continues, lying though his teeth. “Our world has changed. We must change with it. Common enemies make strange allies, but we are allies all the same.”

As with Salin, I sense a noose tightening. It loops around my neck, threatening to hang me above the abyss. Is this what the rest of my life will feel like? I want to be strong. This is what I trained and suffered for. This is what I thought I wanted. But freedom was too sweet. One gasp of it and I can’t let go. I’m sorry, Elane. I’m so sorry.

“Do you have other questions about the terms, Premier Davidson?” Father pushes on. “Or shall we continue planning the overthrow of a tyrant?”

“And what terms would those be?” Mare’s voice sounds different, and no wonder. I knew her last as a prisoner, smothered almost beyond recognition. Her sparks have returned with a vengeance. She glances between Father and her premier, looking to them for answers.

Father is almost gleeful as he explains, and I hold my breath. Save me, Mare Barrow. Loose the storm I know you have. Bewitch the prince as you always do.

“The Kingdom of the Rift will stand in sovereignty after Maven is removed. The kings of steel will reign for generations. With allowances made for my Red citizens, of course. I have no intention of creating a slave state like the one Norta is.”

Mare looks far from convinced, but holds her tongue.

“Of course, Norta will need a king of her own.”

Her eyes widen. Horror bleeds through her, and she whips her head to Cal, looking for answers. He seems just as taken aback as she fumes. The lightning girl is easier to read than the pages of a children’s book.

Anabel rises from her seat to stand proudly. Her lined face beams as she turns to Cal, putting a hand to his cheek. He’s too shocked to react to her touch. “My grandson is the rightful king of Norta, and the throne belongs to him.”

“Premier . . . ,” Mare whispers, now looking at the Montfort leader. She is almost begging. A flicker of sadness pierces his mask.

“Montfort pledges to back the installment of Ca—” He stops himself. The man looks anywhere but at Mare Barrow. “King Tiberias.”

A current of heat ripples on the air. The prince is angry, violently so. And the worst is yet to come, for all of us. If I’m lucky, he’ll burn the tower down.

“We will cement the alliance between the Rift and the rightful king in the usual way,” Mother says, twisting the knife. She enjoys this. It takes everything to keep my tears inside, where no one else can see.

The implication of her words is not lost on anyone. Cal gives a strangled sort of yelp, a gasp very unbecoming of a prince, let alone a king.

“Even after all this, Queenstrial still brought forth a royal bride.” Mother runs a hand over mine, her fingers crossing where my wedding ring will be.

Suddenly the high chamber feels stifling, and the smell of blood crashes through my senses. It’s all I can think about, and I lean into the distraction, letting the sharp iron bite overwhelm me. My jaw clenches, teeth tight against all the things I want to say. They rattle in my throat, begging to be loose. I don’t want this anymore. Let me go home. Each word is a betrayal to my house, my family, my blood. My teeth grate against one another, bone on bone. A locked cage for my heart.

I feel trapped inside myself.

Make him choose, Mare. Make him turn me aside.

She breathes heavily, her chest rising and falling at rapid speed. Like me, she has too many words she wants to scream. I hope she sees how much I want to refuse.

“No one thought to consult me,” the prince hisses, pushing his grandmother away. His eyes burn. He has perfected the art of glaring at a dozen people at once. “You mean to make me a king—without my consent?”

Anabel has no fear of flame and seizes his face again. “We’re not making you anything. We’re simply helping you be what you are. Your father died for your crown, and you want to throw it away? For who? Abandon your country? For what?”

He has no answer. Say no. Say no. Say no.

But already I see the tug. The lure. Power seduces all, and it makes us blind. Cal is not immune to it. If anything, he is particularly vulnerable. All his life he watched a throne, preparing for a day it would be his. I know firsthand that’s not a habit a person can easily break. And I know firsthand that few things taste sweeter than a crown. I think of Elane again. Does he think of Mare?

“I need some air,” he whispers.

Of course, Mare follows him out, sparks trembling in her wake.

On instinct, I almost call for another cup of wine. But I refrain. Mare isn’t here to stop the commander if she snaps again, and more alcohol will just make me sicker than I already am.

“Long live Tiberias the Seventh,” Anabel says.

The chamber echoes the sentiment. I only mouth the words. I feel poisoned.