King's Cage
Page 46
Those still here are devout in their loyalty. Or at least they make it look like it.
That’s probably why he summons me more now. Why I see so much of him. I’m the only one with loyalties he can trust. The only one he really knows.
He reads reports over our breakfast, eyes skimming back and forth with blistering speed. It’s useless to try to see what they are. He’s careful to keep them to his side of the table, turned over when finished, and well out of my reach. Instead of reading the reports, I have to read him. He doesn’t bother to surround himself with Silent Stone, not here in his private dining room. Even the Sentinels wait outside, posted at every door and on the other side of the tall windows. I see them, but they can’t hear us, as is Maven’s design. His uniform jacket is unbuttoned, his hair unkempt, and he doesn’t put on his crown this early in the morning. I think this is his little sanctuary, a place where he can trick himself into feeling safe.
He almost looks like the boy I imagined. A second prince, content with his place, unburdened by a crown that was never his.
Over the rim of my water glass, I watch every tick and flash across his face. Narrowed eyes, a tightening jaw. Bad news. The dark circles have returned, and while he eats enough for two people, tearing through the plates in front of us, he seems thinned by the days. I wonder if he has nightmares of the assassination attempt. Nightmares of his mother, dead by my hand. His father, dead by his action. His brother, in exile but a constant threat. Funny, Maven called himself Cal’s shadow, but Cal is the shadow now, haunting every corner of Maven’s fragile kingdom.
There are reports of the exiled prince everywhere, so prevalent that even I hear about them. They place him in Harbor Bay, Delphie, Rocasta; there’s even shaky intelligence hinting that he escaped across the border into the Lakelands. I honestly don’t know which, if any, of these rumors are true. He could be in Montfort for all I know. Gone to the safety of a faraway land.
Even though this is Maven’s palace, Maven’s world, I see Cal in it. The immaculate uniforms, drilling soldiers, flaming candles, gilded walls of portraits and house colors. An empty salon reminds me of dance lessons. If I glance at Maven from the corner of my eye, I can pretend. They’re half brothers after all. They share similar features. The dark hair, the elegant lines of a royal face. But Maven is paler, sharper, a skeleton in comparison, body and soul. He is hollowed out.
“You stare so much I wonder if you can read reflections in my eyes,” Maven suddenly muses aloud. He flips the page in front of him, hiding what it holds, as he looks up.
His attempt to startle me fails. Instead, I continue spreading an embarrassing amount of butter onto my toast. “If only I could see something in them,” I reply, meaning all things. “You’re an empty boy.”
He doesn’t flinch. “And you’re useless.”
I roll my eyes and idly tap my manacles against the breakfast table. Metal and stone rap against wood like knocking on a door. “Our talks are so fun.”
“If you prefer your room . . . ,” he warns. Another empty threat he makes every day. We both know this is better than the alternative. At least now I can pretend I’m doing something of use, and he can pretend he isn’t entirely alone in this cage he built for himself. For both of us.
It’s hard to sleep here, even with the manacles, which means I have a lot of time to think.
And plan.
Julian’s books are not only a comfort, but a tool. He’s still teaching me, even though we’re who knows how many miles apart. In his well-preserved texts, there are new lessons to be learned and utilized. The first—and most important—is divide and conquer. Maven’s already done it to me. Now I must return the favor.
“Are you even trying to hunt for Jon?”
Maven is actually startled at my question, the first mention of the newblood who used the assassination attempt to escape. As far as I know, he hasn’t been captured. Part of me is bitter. Jon escaped where I couldn’t. But at the same time, I’m glad. Jon is a weapon I want far away from Maven Calore.
After a split-second recovery, Maven returns to eating. He shoves a piece of bacon in his mouth, throwing etiquette to the wind. “You and I both know that’s not a man who is easily found.”
“But you are looking.”
“He had knowledge of an attack on his king and did nothing,” Maven states, matter-of-fact. “That’s tantamount to murder itself. For all we know, he conspired with Houses Iral, Haven, and Laris too.”
“I doubt it. If he’d helped them, they would have succeeded. Pity.”
He dutifully ignores the jab, continuing to read and eat.
I tip my head, letting my dark hair spill across one shoulder. The gray ends are spreading, leaching upward despite my healer’s best efforts. Even House Skonos cannot heal what is already dead.
“Jon saved my life.”
Blue eyes meet mine, holding firm.
“Seconds before the attack, he got my attention. He made me turn my head. Or else . . .” I run a finger along my cheekbone. Where the bullet only grazed my cheek, instead of leaving my skull a ruin. The wound healed, but not forgotten. “I must have a part to play in whatever future he sees.”
Maven focuses on my face. Not my eyes, but the place where a bullet would have obliterated my skull. “For some reason, you’re a difficult person to let die.”
For him, for the pageantry, I force a small, bitter laugh.
“What’s so funny?”
That’s probably why he summons me more now. Why I see so much of him. I’m the only one with loyalties he can trust. The only one he really knows.
He reads reports over our breakfast, eyes skimming back and forth with blistering speed. It’s useless to try to see what they are. He’s careful to keep them to his side of the table, turned over when finished, and well out of my reach. Instead of reading the reports, I have to read him. He doesn’t bother to surround himself with Silent Stone, not here in his private dining room. Even the Sentinels wait outside, posted at every door and on the other side of the tall windows. I see them, but they can’t hear us, as is Maven’s design. His uniform jacket is unbuttoned, his hair unkempt, and he doesn’t put on his crown this early in the morning. I think this is his little sanctuary, a place where he can trick himself into feeling safe.
He almost looks like the boy I imagined. A second prince, content with his place, unburdened by a crown that was never his.
Over the rim of my water glass, I watch every tick and flash across his face. Narrowed eyes, a tightening jaw. Bad news. The dark circles have returned, and while he eats enough for two people, tearing through the plates in front of us, he seems thinned by the days. I wonder if he has nightmares of the assassination attempt. Nightmares of his mother, dead by my hand. His father, dead by his action. His brother, in exile but a constant threat. Funny, Maven called himself Cal’s shadow, but Cal is the shadow now, haunting every corner of Maven’s fragile kingdom.
There are reports of the exiled prince everywhere, so prevalent that even I hear about them. They place him in Harbor Bay, Delphie, Rocasta; there’s even shaky intelligence hinting that he escaped across the border into the Lakelands. I honestly don’t know which, if any, of these rumors are true. He could be in Montfort for all I know. Gone to the safety of a faraway land.
Even though this is Maven’s palace, Maven’s world, I see Cal in it. The immaculate uniforms, drilling soldiers, flaming candles, gilded walls of portraits and house colors. An empty salon reminds me of dance lessons. If I glance at Maven from the corner of my eye, I can pretend. They’re half brothers after all. They share similar features. The dark hair, the elegant lines of a royal face. But Maven is paler, sharper, a skeleton in comparison, body and soul. He is hollowed out.
“You stare so much I wonder if you can read reflections in my eyes,” Maven suddenly muses aloud. He flips the page in front of him, hiding what it holds, as he looks up.
His attempt to startle me fails. Instead, I continue spreading an embarrassing amount of butter onto my toast. “If only I could see something in them,” I reply, meaning all things. “You’re an empty boy.”
He doesn’t flinch. “And you’re useless.”
I roll my eyes and idly tap my manacles against the breakfast table. Metal and stone rap against wood like knocking on a door. “Our talks are so fun.”
“If you prefer your room . . . ,” he warns. Another empty threat he makes every day. We both know this is better than the alternative. At least now I can pretend I’m doing something of use, and he can pretend he isn’t entirely alone in this cage he built for himself. For both of us.
It’s hard to sleep here, even with the manacles, which means I have a lot of time to think.
And plan.
Julian’s books are not only a comfort, but a tool. He’s still teaching me, even though we’re who knows how many miles apart. In his well-preserved texts, there are new lessons to be learned and utilized. The first—and most important—is divide and conquer. Maven’s already done it to me. Now I must return the favor.
“Are you even trying to hunt for Jon?”
Maven is actually startled at my question, the first mention of the newblood who used the assassination attempt to escape. As far as I know, he hasn’t been captured. Part of me is bitter. Jon escaped where I couldn’t. But at the same time, I’m glad. Jon is a weapon I want far away from Maven Calore.
After a split-second recovery, Maven returns to eating. He shoves a piece of bacon in his mouth, throwing etiquette to the wind. “You and I both know that’s not a man who is easily found.”
“But you are looking.”
“He had knowledge of an attack on his king and did nothing,” Maven states, matter-of-fact. “That’s tantamount to murder itself. For all we know, he conspired with Houses Iral, Haven, and Laris too.”
“I doubt it. If he’d helped them, they would have succeeded. Pity.”
He dutifully ignores the jab, continuing to read and eat.
I tip my head, letting my dark hair spill across one shoulder. The gray ends are spreading, leaching upward despite my healer’s best efforts. Even House Skonos cannot heal what is already dead.
“Jon saved my life.”
Blue eyes meet mine, holding firm.
“Seconds before the attack, he got my attention. He made me turn my head. Or else . . .” I run a finger along my cheekbone. Where the bullet only grazed my cheek, instead of leaving my skull a ruin. The wound healed, but not forgotten. “I must have a part to play in whatever future he sees.”
Maven focuses on my face. Not my eyes, but the place where a bullet would have obliterated my skull. “For some reason, you’re a difficult person to let die.”
For him, for the pageantry, I force a small, bitter laugh.
“What’s so funny?”
