King's Cage
Page 80
He scratches a hand along his scalp and huffs, childlike. “As if that has anything to do with it.”
“Well, she is the first new relationship you’ll have since your mother died. It’ll be interesting to see how that plays without her poison in you.” I drum my fingers at my side. The words sink in slowly, and he barely nods. Agreeing. I feel a surge of pity for him. I fight it tooth and nail. “And you were betrothed two months ago. It seems fast, faster than your engagement to Evangeline at least.”
“That tends to happen when an entire army hangs in the balance,” he says sharply. “Lakelanders are not known for their patience.”
I scoff. “And House Samos is so accommodating?”
A corner of his mouth lifts in ghost of that crooked smile. He fiddles with one of his flamemaker bracelets, slowly spinning the silver circle around a fine-boned wrist. “They have their uses.”
“I thought Evangeline would have turned you into a pincushion by now.”
His smile spreads. “If she kills me, she loses whatever chance she thinks she has, however fleeting. Not that her father would ever allow it. House Samos maintains a position of great power, even if she isn’t queen. But what a queen she would have made.”
“I can only imagine.” The thought shudders through me. Crowns of needles and daggers and razors, her mother in jeweled snakes and her father holding Maven’s puppet strings.
“I can’t,” he admits. “Not really. Even now, I only ever see her as Cal’s queen.”
“You didn’t have to choose her after you framed him—”
“Well, I couldn’t exactly choose the person I wanted, could I?” he snaps. Instead of heat, I feel the air around us turn cold. Enough to make goose bumps prickle across my skin as he glares at me, his eyes a livid, burning blue. The steam on the air clears on the current of cooler air, removing the faint barrier between us.
Shivering, I force myself to the closest window, putting my back to him. Outside, the magnolia trees shudder on a light breeze, their blossoms white and cream and rosy in the sunshine. Such simple beauty has no place here without the corruption of blood or ambition or betrayal.
“You threw me into an arena to die,” I tell him slowly. As if either of us could forget. “You keep me chained up in your palace, guarded night and day, You let me waste away, sick—”
“You think I enjoy seeing you like this?” he murmurs. “You think I want to keep you a prisoner?” Something hitches in his breath. “It’s the only way you’ll stay with me.” Water sloshes over his hands as he draws them back and forth.
I focus on the sound instead of his voice. Even though I know what he’s doing, even though I can feel his grip on me tightening, I can’t stop it from pulling me under. It would be too easy to let myself drown. Part of me wants to.
I keep my eyes on the window. For once, I’m glad for the all-too-familiar ache of Silent Stone. It is an undeniable reminder of what he is, and what his love means for me.
“You tried to murder everyone I care about. You killed children.” A baby, bloodstained, a note in its little fist. I remember it so vividly it could be a nightmare. I don’t try to force the image away. I need to remember it. I need to remember what he is. “Because of you, my brother is dead.”
I spin to him, barking out a harsh, vengeful laugh. Anger clears my head.
He sits up sharply, his naked torso almost as white as the bathwater.
“And you killed my mother. You took my brother. You took my father. The second you fell into the world, the wheels were in motion. My mother looked into your head and saw opportunity. She saw a chance she had been looking for forever. If you hadn’t—if you had never—” He stumbles, the words coming faster than he can stop them. Then he grits his teeth, clamping down on anything more damning. Another breath of silence. “I don’t want to know what would have been.”
“I know,” I snarl. “I would’ve ended up in a trench, obliterated or torn apart or barely surviving as the walking dead. I know what I would have become, because a million others live it. My father, my brothers, too many people.”
“Knowing what you know now . . . would you go back? Would you choose that life? Conscription, your muddy town, your family, that river boy?”
So many are dead because of me, because of what I am. If I were just a Red, just Mare Barrow, they would be alive. Shade would be alive. My thoughts hinge on him. I would trade so many things to have him back. I’d trade myself a thousand times. But then there are the newbloods found and saved. Rebellions aided. A war ended. Silvers tearing at one another. Reds uniting. I had a hand in all of it, however small. Mistakes were made. My mistakes. Too many to count. I am worlds away from perfect, or even good. The true question eats at my brain. What Maven is really asking. Would you give up your ability, would you trade your power, to go back? I don’t need time to figure out an answer.
“No,” I whisper. I don’t remember moving so close to him, my hand closing on one side of the porcelain bath. “No, I wouldn’t.”
The confession burns worse than flame, eating at my insides. I hate him for what he makes me feel, what he makes me realize. I wonder if I can move fast enough to incapacitate him. Clench a fist, bust his jaw with the hard manacle. Can skin healers regrow teeth? No real point in trying. I wouldn’t live to find out.
He stares up at me. “Those who know what it’s like in the dark will do anything to stay in the light.”
“Well, she is the first new relationship you’ll have since your mother died. It’ll be interesting to see how that plays without her poison in you.” I drum my fingers at my side. The words sink in slowly, and he barely nods. Agreeing. I feel a surge of pity for him. I fight it tooth and nail. “And you were betrothed two months ago. It seems fast, faster than your engagement to Evangeline at least.”
“That tends to happen when an entire army hangs in the balance,” he says sharply. “Lakelanders are not known for their patience.”
I scoff. “And House Samos is so accommodating?”
A corner of his mouth lifts in ghost of that crooked smile. He fiddles with one of his flamemaker bracelets, slowly spinning the silver circle around a fine-boned wrist. “They have their uses.”
“I thought Evangeline would have turned you into a pincushion by now.”
His smile spreads. “If she kills me, she loses whatever chance she thinks she has, however fleeting. Not that her father would ever allow it. House Samos maintains a position of great power, even if she isn’t queen. But what a queen she would have made.”
“I can only imagine.” The thought shudders through me. Crowns of needles and daggers and razors, her mother in jeweled snakes and her father holding Maven’s puppet strings.
“I can’t,” he admits. “Not really. Even now, I only ever see her as Cal’s queen.”
“You didn’t have to choose her after you framed him—”
“Well, I couldn’t exactly choose the person I wanted, could I?” he snaps. Instead of heat, I feel the air around us turn cold. Enough to make goose bumps prickle across my skin as he glares at me, his eyes a livid, burning blue. The steam on the air clears on the current of cooler air, removing the faint barrier between us.
Shivering, I force myself to the closest window, putting my back to him. Outside, the magnolia trees shudder on a light breeze, their blossoms white and cream and rosy in the sunshine. Such simple beauty has no place here without the corruption of blood or ambition or betrayal.
“You threw me into an arena to die,” I tell him slowly. As if either of us could forget. “You keep me chained up in your palace, guarded night and day, You let me waste away, sick—”
“You think I enjoy seeing you like this?” he murmurs. “You think I want to keep you a prisoner?” Something hitches in his breath. “It’s the only way you’ll stay with me.” Water sloshes over his hands as he draws them back and forth.
I focus on the sound instead of his voice. Even though I know what he’s doing, even though I can feel his grip on me tightening, I can’t stop it from pulling me under. It would be too easy to let myself drown. Part of me wants to.
I keep my eyes on the window. For once, I’m glad for the all-too-familiar ache of Silent Stone. It is an undeniable reminder of what he is, and what his love means for me.
“You tried to murder everyone I care about. You killed children.” A baby, bloodstained, a note in its little fist. I remember it so vividly it could be a nightmare. I don’t try to force the image away. I need to remember it. I need to remember what he is. “Because of you, my brother is dead.”
I spin to him, barking out a harsh, vengeful laugh. Anger clears my head.
He sits up sharply, his naked torso almost as white as the bathwater.
“And you killed my mother. You took my brother. You took my father. The second you fell into the world, the wheels were in motion. My mother looked into your head and saw opportunity. She saw a chance she had been looking for forever. If you hadn’t—if you had never—” He stumbles, the words coming faster than he can stop them. Then he grits his teeth, clamping down on anything more damning. Another breath of silence. “I don’t want to know what would have been.”
“I know,” I snarl. “I would’ve ended up in a trench, obliterated or torn apart or barely surviving as the walking dead. I know what I would have become, because a million others live it. My father, my brothers, too many people.”
“Knowing what you know now . . . would you go back? Would you choose that life? Conscription, your muddy town, your family, that river boy?”
So many are dead because of me, because of what I am. If I were just a Red, just Mare Barrow, they would be alive. Shade would be alive. My thoughts hinge on him. I would trade so many things to have him back. I’d trade myself a thousand times. But then there are the newbloods found and saved. Rebellions aided. A war ended. Silvers tearing at one another. Reds uniting. I had a hand in all of it, however small. Mistakes were made. My mistakes. Too many to count. I am worlds away from perfect, or even good. The true question eats at my brain. What Maven is really asking. Would you give up your ability, would you trade your power, to go back? I don’t need time to figure out an answer.
“No,” I whisper. I don’t remember moving so close to him, my hand closing on one side of the porcelain bath. “No, I wouldn’t.”
The confession burns worse than flame, eating at my insides. I hate him for what he makes me feel, what he makes me realize. I wonder if I can move fast enough to incapacitate him. Clench a fist, bust his jaw with the hard manacle. Can skin healers regrow teeth? No real point in trying. I wouldn’t live to find out.
He stares up at me. “Those who know what it’s like in the dark will do anything to stay in the light.”
