Glass Sword (Red Queen #2)(110)
I can’t sit any longer, and get out of my chair as fast as I can. The safety belts dangle in my wake, jingling together. I do what I must, what I wish I didn’t have to, and take Nanny by the arm. She even feels like Maven.
“Look through people,” I tell her, my voice muffled by the helmet.
“Smile without kindness. No small talk, no court talk. Act as if you have a million secrets, and you’re the only one important enough to know them all.”
She nods, taking this all in stride. After all, Cal and I have both instructed her on how to pass as Maven. This is merely a reminder, a last glance at the book before the test. “I’m not a fool,” she replies coldly, and I almost punch her in the jaw. She is not Maven rings in my head, louder than a bell.
“I think you’ve got it,” Kilorn says as he stands. He grabs my arm, pulling me slightly away. “Mare nearly killed you.”
“Everyone ready?” Farley shouts from the rear of the jet. Her hand hovers next to the ramp release, eager to press it.
“Form up!” Cal barks, sounding a bit too much like a drill sergeant.
But we respond, falling into the ordered lines he taught us, with Nanny at the head. He takes her side, falling into the role of her most lethal bodyguard.
“Let’s make some bad decisions,” Farley says. I can almost hear her smiling as she pushes the release.
A hiss—then gears turn, wires pulse, and the back of the jet yawns open to greet the last morning some of us will ever see.
A dozen soldiers wait a respectable distance from the Blackrun, their formation tight and practiced. At the sight of the newblood masquer-ading as their king, they snap into stiff, perfect salutes. One hand to the heart, one knee to the ground. The world looks darker behind the shield of my flight helmet, but it doesn’t hide the clouded gray of their military uniforms, or the squat, unassuming compound behind them.
No bronze gates, no diamondglass walls—there aren’t even windows.
Just a single, flat brick of concrete stretching out into the abandoned fields of this wasteland. Corros Prison. I allow myself one glance back at the craft and the runway stretching into the distance where shadows and radiation dance. I can just see a pair of airjets idling in the gloom, their metal bellies full and round. Prison planes, used to transport the captured. And if all goes to plan, they’ll see action again soon.
We approach Corros in silence, trying to march in step. Cal flanks Nanny, one fist permanently clenched at his side, while I trail just behind, with Cameron on my left and Shade on the right. Farley and Kilorn keep to the center of the formation, never letting go of their guns. The air itself seems electrified, coursing with danger.
It is not death I fear, not anymore. I’ve faced dying too many times to be afraid of it. But the prison itself, the thought of being captured, forced into chains, turned into the Queen’s mindless puppet— that I cannot bear. I would rather die a hundred times than face such a fate.
So would any of us.
“Your Highness,” one of the soldiers says, daring to look up at the person he believes to be king. The badge on his breast, three crossed swords in red metal, mark him as a captain. The bars on his shoulders, bright red and blue, can only be his house colors. House Iral. “Welcome to Corros Prison.”
As instructed, Nanny looks straight through him, waving one pale hand in dismissal. That should be enough to convince anyone of her supposed identity. But as the soldiers stand, the captain’s eyes flick over us, noting our own uniforms—and the lack of Sentinels accompanying the royal sovereign. He hesitates on Cal, one razored glance focusing on his helmet. He says nothing, however, and his soldiers fall into formation next to us, their footsteps echoing with ours. Haven, Osanos, Provos, Macanthos, Eagrie—I note the familiar colors on a few uniforms.
The last, House Eagrie, the House of Eyes, is our first target. I tug on Cameron’s sleeve, nodding gently toward the bearded blond man with darting eyes and white-and-black stripes on his shoulder.
She inclines her head, and her fists ball at her sides in quiet concentration. The raid has begun.
The captain takes Nanny’s other side, stepping in front of me so smoothly I barely notice. A silk. He has the same tanned skin, gleaming black hair, and angled features of Sonya Iral and her grandmother, the sleekly dangerous Panther. I can only hope the captain is not so talented at intrigue as she is, or else this is going to be much more difficult than expected.
“Your specifications are nearly completed, Your Highness,” he says. There’s a prickling air to his words. “Every cell block is individu-ally sealed, as instructed, and the next shipment of Silent Stone arrives tomorrow with the new unit of guards.”
“Good,” Nanny replies, sounding uninterested. Her pace quickens a little, and the captain adjusts in kind, keeping up with her. Cal does the same, and we follow. It looks like a chase.
While the Security Center of Harbor Bay was a beautiful structure, a vision of carved stone and sparkling glass, Corros is as gray and hopeless as the waste around it. Only the entrance, a single, black-iron door set flush against the wall, breaks the monotony of the prison. No hinges, no lock or handle—the door looks like an abyss, like a gaping mouth. But I feel electricity, bleeding around the edges, originating from a small square panel set next to it. The key switch. Just like Cameron said. The key itself dangles from a black chain at Iral’s neck, but he doesn’t pull it loose.