Broken Throne (Red Queen #4.5)(95)

“You should get in line.”





TWO

Cal

It’s just past sunset in the mountains; the snowy peaks are still painted blood red. A fitting color for this place. I watch through the jet window as we fly in, weaving toward the now-familiar valley outside Ascendant. As one of the representatives going between the Nortan States and the Republic, I feel like I’ve done this a thousand times. There’s always a great deal of movement within the alliance, and Montfort is always at its center. I’ve been back and forth so much by now, enough to know what to expect from approach. The craft rattles, hitting pockets of turbulence over the peaks. It hardly registers. The updrafts of mountain air make the landing bumpy, and I jostle against my buckles when we touch down onto the runway.

Even though we land safely, my heart rate climbs and my hands tremble as I unfasten myself. It takes more willpower than it should not to sprint from the jet.

Nanabel certainly takes her time getting off the craft. She plays up the charade of an old woman, leaning on the seat backs for support as she walks down the aisle. “Can’t imagine how you do this so much, Cal,” she grumbles to me. Her voice is louder than it needs to be, even over the drone of the airjet. “I’m stiff all over.”

I roll my eyes behind her back. It’s all an act—I know firsthand how spry she is. My grandmother is no wilting flower. She just wants to slow me down, keep me from looking overeager. Like a puppy hoping for a treat, she hissed to me when I volunteered to go to the Samos abdication. Not to see Evangeline or Ptolemus, not even really to show my support to royal Silvers making the same choice I did. She knew I thought Mare might be there. And just the chance was enough for me.

But she never showed, to my disappointment.

Don’t be unfair, I tell myself. She had no reason to go to the Rift. She’s had more than her fill of Silvers struggling to give up their crowns.

Uncle Julian is good enough to take Nanabel by the arm, helping her along at a quicker step. She offers a bloodless smile in thanks, clutching at him with strong, lethal hands. He pales under her grasp, knowing exactly how deadly the hands of an oblivion can be.

Thank you, I mouth to him, and he nods in reply.

Julian is excited to be here too, albeit for very different reasons. He enjoys the Republic as only a scholar can, and my uncle is eager to show the country to Sara. She walks in front of him, setting a good pace in quiet determination. Like me, Julian and Sara have ceased wearing house colors. I’m still not used to seeing my uncle in anything but faded gold, or Sara in colors that aren’t red and silver.

Nanabel, of course, keeps to the old tradition. I don’t think she owns anything that isn’t red, orange, or black. Her long silk coat trails as she walks down the jet, displaying explosive red brocade set with chips of black stone. No one would ever know we aren’t royal anymore if they looked in her closet.

And she isn’t the only one to still dress like the old days. Today, the Nortan States delegation has four other Silvers in it, two of them from the High Houses. One is from House Laris, a representative for us as well as the now-returned Rift. Her yellow clothing seems garish in wartime. The other, Cyrus Welle, is a former governor and an old man, run ragged and thin by war. His green robes are clean, but they seem faded. His medallion, a jeweled tree, barely reflects the lights inside the jet as he walks. He catches my glance and offers a smile weaker than his chin. At least he’s here, I remind myself.

The other two Silvers aren’t nobles at all, but selected from the many merchants, craftsmen, career soldiers, and other professionals who volunteered from the lower houses. Naturally, they’re less opposed to restructuring than any noble would be.

The rest of the Nortan States delegation files off the jet with us, some of them already stamping their feet against the chill. It isn’t quite this cold at home, and most of the delegation, the Reds especially, have never been to such high altitude.

Ada Wallace weaves among them, speaking in a low voice. Probably explaining exactly how high we are, why the air is so thin, and what that does to the human body. She keeps telling them to drink more water, with an encouraging smile. Though I’ve only known her a year, Ada feels like an old friend, and a relic of a different life. Like Mare, she’s a newblood, one of the many we recruited so many months ago. She’s more valuable than ever now, perhaps the most valuable member of the States’ reconstruction effort. And a real comfort. Someone who knows me as more than an abdicated king.

Not like the Silvers. Though I’m glad to have some nobles of the High Houses working with us, I never let my guard down around them. Not Welle, not Laris, not Rhambos or any of the others. Not even my cousins of House Lerolan. I’d be stupid to think they’re here because they believe in blood equality, and not because they know they’ll lose any effort to return Norta to her former self. Not because this is the only way to keep their heads above water.

The same cannot be said of the Secession, the Silvers of both Norta and the Rift refusing reconstruction. A familiar ache twists behind my eyes when I think of them, so many powerful nobles lined up against us. They might not be well organized yet or have a numbers advantage, but they’re strong, they have resources, and they have the Lakelands to back them up. Their danger can only grow, and I know it certainly will if they unite properly.

This war is far from over, and my job is far from done.