King's Cage
Page 103
“Daily delivery for the street,” Mom replies, tossing a braid of gray-and-brown hair over her shoulder. “This row is all Guard officers, ranking officials, and significant individuals—and their families.”
“‘Significant individuals’ meaning . . .” I try to read between the lines. “Newbloods?”
Kilorn answers instead. “If they’re officers, yeah. But newblood recruits live in the barracks with the rest of the soldiers. Thought it was better that way. Less division, less fear. We’re never going to have a proper army if most of the troops are afraid of the person next to them.”
In spite of myself, I feel my eyebrows rise in surprise.
“Told you I had a specialty,” he whispers with a wink.
My mother beams, putting the next plate of food in front of him. She ruffles his hair fondly, setting the tawny locks on end. He awkwardly tries to smooth them down. “Kilorn’s been improving relations between the newbloods and the rest of the Scarlet Guard,” she says proudly. He tries to hide the resulting blush with a hand.
“Warren, if you’re not going to eat that—”
Dad reacts faster than any of us, rapping Tramy’s outstretched hand with his cane. “Manners, boy,” he growls. Then he snatches bacon from my own plate. “Good stuff.”
“Best I’ve ever had,” Gisa agrees. She daintily but eagerly picks at eggs sprinkled with cheese. “Montfort knows their food.”
“Piedmont,” Dad corrects. “Food and stores are from Piedmont.”
I file the information away and wince at the instinct to do so. I’m so used to dissecting the words of everyone around me that I do it without thought, even to my family. You’re safe; you’re safe; it’s over. The words repeat in my head. Their rhythm levels me out a bit.
Dad still refuses to sit.
“So how do you like the leg?” I ask.
He scratches his head, fidgeting. “Well, I won’t be returning it anytime soon,” he says with a rare smile. “Takes getting used to. Skin healer’s helping when she can.”
“That’s good. That’s really good.”
I was never truly ashamed of Dad’s injury. It meant he was alive and safe from conscription. So many other fathers, Kilorn’s included, died for a nonsense war while mine lived. The missing leg made him sour, discontent, resentful of his chair. He scowled more than he smiled, a bitter hermit to most. But he was a living man. He told me once it was cruel to give hope where none should be. He had no hope of walking again, of being the man he was before. Now he stands as proof of the opposite and that hope, no matter how small, no matter how impossible, can still be answered.
In Maven’s prison, I despaired. I wasted. I counted the days and wished for an ending, no matter the kind. But I had hope. Foolish, illogical hope. Sometimes a single flicker, sometimes a flame. It also seemed impossible. Just like the path ahead, through war and revolution. We could all die in the coming days. We could be betrayed. Or . . . we could win.
I don’t even know what that looks like, or what exactly to hope for. I just know that I must keep my hope alive. It is the only shield I have against the darkness inside.
I look around at the kitchen table. Once I lamented that my family did not know me, didn’t understand what I had become. I thought myself separate, alone, isolated.
I could not be more wrong. I know better now. I know who I am.
I am Mare Barrow. Not Mareena, not the lightning girl. Mare.
My parents quietly offer to accompany me to the debriefing. Gisa does too. I refuse. This is a military undertaking, all business, all for the cause. It will be easier for me to recall in detail if my mother isn’t holding my hand. I can be strong in front of the Colonel and his officers, but not her. She makes it too tempting to break. Weakness is acceptable, forgivable, around family. But not when lives and wars hang in the balance.
The kitchen clock ticks eight a.m., and right on time an open-topped transport rolls up outside the row house. I go quietly. Only Kilorn follows me out, but not to join me. He knows he has no part in this.
“So what will you do with yourself for the day?” I ask as I wrench open the brass-knobbed door.
He shrugs. “I had a schedule up in Trial. Bit of training, rounds with the newbloods, lessons with Ada. After I came down here with your parents, I figured I’ll keep it up.”
“A schedule,” I snort, stepping out into the sunshine. “You sound like a Silver lady.”
“Well, when you’re as good-looking as I am . . . ,” he sighs.
It’s already hot, the sun blazing above the eastern horizon, and I strip off the thin jacket Mom forced me into. Leafy trees line the street, disguising the military base as an upper-class neighborhood. Most of the brick row houses look empty, their windows dark and shuttered. At the bottom of the steps, my transport waits. The driver behind the wheel pushes down his sunglasses, eyeing me over the brim. I should have known. Cal gave me all the time I needed with my family, but he couldn’t stay away long.
“Kilorn,” he calls, waving a hand in greeting. Kilorn returns the gesture with ease and a smile. Six months has killed their rivalry at the root.
“I’ll find you later,” I tell him. “Compare notes.”
He nods. “Sure thing.”
Even though it’s Cal in the driver’s seat, drawing me in like a beacon, I walk slowly to the transport. In the distance, airjet engines roar. Every step is another inch closer to reliving six months of captivity. If I turned around, no one would blame me. But it would only prolong the inevitable.
“‘Significant individuals’ meaning . . .” I try to read between the lines. “Newbloods?”
Kilorn answers instead. “If they’re officers, yeah. But newblood recruits live in the barracks with the rest of the soldiers. Thought it was better that way. Less division, less fear. We’re never going to have a proper army if most of the troops are afraid of the person next to them.”
In spite of myself, I feel my eyebrows rise in surprise.
“Told you I had a specialty,” he whispers with a wink.
My mother beams, putting the next plate of food in front of him. She ruffles his hair fondly, setting the tawny locks on end. He awkwardly tries to smooth them down. “Kilorn’s been improving relations between the newbloods and the rest of the Scarlet Guard,” she says proudly. He tries to hide the resulting blush with a hand.
“Warren, if you’re not going to eat that—”
Dad reacts faster than any of us, rapping Tramy’s outstretched hand with his cane. “Manners, boy,” he growls. Then he snatches bacon from my own plate. “Good stuff.”
“Best I’ve ever had,” Gisa agrees. She daintily but eagerly picks at eggs sprinkled with cheese. “Montfort knows their food.”
“Piedmont,” Dad corrects. “Food and stores are from Piedmont.”
I file the information away and wince at the instinct to do so. I’m so used to dissecting the words of everyone around me that I do it without thought, even to my family. You’re safe; you’re safe; it’s over. The words repeat in my head. Their rhythm levels me out a bit.
Dad still refuses to sit.
“So how do you like the leg?” I ask.
He scratches his head, fidgeting. “Well, I won’t be returning it anytime soon,” he says with a rare smile. “Takes getting used to. Skin healer’s helping when she can.”
“That’s good. That’s really good.”
I was never truly ashamed of Dad’s injury. It meant he was alive and safe from conscription. So many other fathers, Kilorn’s included, died for a nonsense war while mine lived. The missing leg made him sour, discontent, resentful of his chair. He scowled more than he smiled, a bitter hermit to most. But he was a living man. He told me once it was cruel to give hope where none should be. He had no hope of walking again, of being the man he was before. Now he stands as proof of the opposite and that hope, no matter how small, no matter how impossible, can still be answered.
In Maven’s prison, I despaired. I wasted. I counted the days and wished for an ending, no matter the kind. But I had hope. Foolish, illogical hope. Sometimes a single flicker, sometimes a flame. It also seemed impossible. Just like the path ahead, through war and revolution. We could all die in the coming days. We could be betrayed. Or . . . we could win.
I don’t even know what that looks like, or what exactly to hope for. I just know that I must keep my hope alive. It is the only shield I have against the darkness inside.
I look around at the kitchen table. Once I lamented that my family did not know me, didn’t understand what I had become. I thought myself separate, alone, isolated.
I could not be more wrong. I know better now. I know who I am.
I am Mare Barrow. Not Mareena, not the lightning girl. Mare.
My parents quietly offer to accompany me to the debriefing. Gisa does too. I refuse. This is a military undertaking, all business, all for the cause. It will be easier for me to recall in detail if my mother isn’t holding my hand. I can be strong in front of the Colonel and his officers, but not her. She makes it too tempting to break. Weakness is acceptable, forgivable, around family. But not when lives and wars hang in the balance.
The kitchen clock ticks eight a.m., and right on time an open-topped transport rolls up outside the row house. I go quietly. Only Kilorn follows me out, but not to join me. He knows he has no part in this.
“So what will you do with yourself for the day?” I ask as I wrench open the brass-knobbed door.
He shrugs. “I had a schedule up in Trial. Bit of training, rounds with the newbloods, lessons with Ada. After I came down here with your parents, I figured I’ll keep it up.”
“A schedule,” I snort, stepping out into the sunshine. “You sound like a Silver lady.”
“Well, when you’re as good-looking as I am . . . ,” he sighs.
It’s already hot, the sun blazing above the eastern horizon, and I strip off the thin jacket Mom forced me into. Leafy trees line the street, disguising the military base as an upper-class neighborhood. Most of the brick row houses look empty, their windows dark and shuttered. At the bottom of the steps, my transport waits. The driver behind the wheel pushes down his sunglasses, eyeing me over the brim. I should have known. Cal gave me all the time I needed with my family, but he couldn’t stay away long.
“Kilorn,” he calls, waving a hand in greeting. Kilorn returns the gesture with ease and a smile. Six months has killed their rivalry at the root.
“I’ll find you later,” I tell him. “Compare notes.”
He nods. “Sure thing.”
Even though it’s Cal in the driver’s seat, drawing me in like a beacon, I walk slowly to the transport. In the distance, airjet engines roar. Every step is another inch closer to reliving six months of captivity. If I turned around, no one would blame me. But it would only prolong the inevitable.
