“Mother can attend to the prisoners later,” he says, addressing the king. “But the people upstairs will want to see their king and know he is safe. So many have died. You should comfort them, Father. And you as well, Cal.”
He’s playing for time. Brilliant Maven is trying to buy us a chance.
Even though it makes my skin crawl, I reach out to touch Cal’s shoulder. He kissed me once. He might still listen when I speak. “He’s right, Cal. This can wait.”
Still on the floor, Evangeline bares her teeth. “The court will want answers, not embraces! This must be done now! Your Majesty, rip the truth from them—”
But even Tiberias sees the wisdom of Maven’s words. “They will keep,” he echoes. “And tomorrow the truth will be known.”
My grip tightens on Cal’s arm, feeling the tense muscles beneath. He relaxes into my touch, looking like a great weight has fallen off him.
The Sentinels jump to attention and pull Farley back into the broken cell. Her eyes stay on me, wondering what the hell I have in mind. I wish I knew.
Evangeline half drags Ptolemus out, letting the bars knit together behind her. “You are weak, my prince,” she hisses into Cal’s ear.
I resist the urge to look back at Kilorn, as his words echo in my head. Stop trying to protect me.
I will not.
Blood drips from my sleeve, leaving a spotted silver trail in my wake as we march to the throne room. Sentinels and Security guard the immense door, their guns raised and aimed at the passageway. They don’t move as we pass, frozen in place. Their orders are to kill, should the need arise. Beyond, the grand chamber echoes with anger and sorrow. I want to feel some shred of victory, but the memory of Kilorn behind bars dampens any happiness I might have. Even the colonel’s glassy eyes haunt me.
I move to Cal’s side. He barely notices, his eyes burning at the floor. “How many dead?”
“Ten so far,” he mutters. “Three in the shooting, eight in the explosion. Fifteen more wounded.” It sounds like he’s listing groceries, not people. “But they’ll all heal.”
He jerks his thumb, gesturing to the healers running among the injured. I count two children among them. And beyond the wounded are the bodies of the dead, laid out before the king’s throne. Belicos Lerolan’s twin sons lie next to him, with their weeping mother holding vigil over the bodies.
I have to put a hand to my mouth to keep from gasping. I never wanted this.
Maven’s warm hands take mine, pulling me past the gruesome scene to our place by the throne. Cal stands close by, trying in vain to wipe the red blood off his hands.
“The time for tears is over,” Tiberias thunders, fists clenching at his sides. In complete unison, the sobs and sniffles through the chamber die out. “Now we honor the dead, heal the wounded, and avenge our fallen. I am the king. I do not forget. I do not forgive. I have been lenient in the past, allowing our Red brothers a good life full of prosperity, of dignity. But they spit upon us, they reject our mercy, and they have brought upon themselves the worst kind of doom.”
With a snarl, he throws down the silver spear and red rag. It clatters across the floor with a sound like a funeral bell. The torn sun stares at us all.
“These fools, these terrorists, these murderers, will be brought to justice. And they will die. I swear on my crown, on my throne, on my sons, they will die.”
A rumbling murmur goes through the crowd as each Silver stirs. They stand as one, wounded or not. The metallic smell of blood is almost overpowering.
“Strength,” the court screams. “Power! Death!”
Maven glances at me, his eyes wide and afraid. I know what he’s thinking, because I think it too.
What have we done?
21
Back in my room, I rip the ruined dress off, letting the silk fall to the floor. The king’s words replay in my head, peppered with flashes of this terrible night. Kilorn’s eyes stand out through it all, a green fire burning me up. I must protect him, but how? If only I could trade myself for him again, my freedom for his. If only things were that simple anymore. Julian’s lessons have never felt so sharp in my mind: the past is so much greater than this future.
Julian. Julian.
The residence halls crawl with Sentinels and Security, every one of them on edge. But I’ve long perfected the art of slipping by unnoticed, and Julian’s door is not far away. Despite the hour, he’s awake, poring over books. Everything looks the same, like nothing’s happened. Maybe he doesn’t know. But then I notice the bottle of brown liquor on the table, occupying a spot usually reserved for tea. Of course he knows.
“In light of recent events, I would think our lessons have been canceled for the time being,” he says over the pages of his book. Still, he shuts it with a snap, turning his full attention on me. “Not to mention it’s quite late.”
“I need you, Julian.”
“Does this have anything to do with the Sun Shooting? Yes, they’ve already thought up a clever name.” He points to the dark video screen in the corner. “It’s been on the news for hours now. The king’s addressing the country in the morning.”
I remember the fluffy blond newswoman reporting the capital bombing more than a month ago. There were few injuries then, and still the marketplace rioted. What will they do now? How many innocent Reds will pay?
“Or is this about the four terrorists currently locked in the cells of this structure?” Julian presses on, measuring my response. “Excuse me, I mean three. Ptolemus Samos certainly lives up to his reputation.”
“They’re not terrorists,” I reply calmly, trying to keep myself in check.
“Shall I show you the definition of terrorism, Mare?” His tone stings. “Their cause might be just, but their methods . . . besides, what you say doesn’t matter.” He gestures to the video screen again. “They have their own version of the truth, and that’s the only one people will hear.”
My teeth grind together painfully, bone on bone. “Are you going to help or not?”
“I am a teacher and somewhat of an outcast, in case you haven’t noticed. What can I possibly do?”
“Julian, please.” I can feel my last chance slipping through my fingers. “You’re a singer, you can tell the guards—make them do anything you want. You can set the prisoners free.”
But he remains still, sipping peacefully at his drink. He doesn’t grimace like men normally do. The bite of alcohol is familiar to him.
“Tomorrow they’ll be interrogated. And no matter how strong they are, no matter how long they hold out, the truth will be found.” Slowly, I take Julian’s hand, holding fingers worn rough by paper. “This was my plan. I’m one of them.” He doesn’t need to know about Maven. It will only make him angrier.
The half lie does its job well. I can see it in Julian’s eyes.
“You? You did this?” he stammers. “The shooting, the bombing—?”
“The bomb was . . . unexpected.” The bomb was a horror.
He narrows his eyes, and I can see the cogs turning in his mind. Then he snaps entirely. “I told you, I told you not to get in over your head!” He slams a fist down on the table, looking angrier than I’ve ever seen him before. “And now,” he breathes, staring at me with so much sorrow it makes my heart hurt, “now I must watch you drown?”