Glass Sword (Red Queen #2)(133)

Above me, Maven smiles as I quote him. His teeth gleam.

The others are shouting now, shaking in their bonds. I hear none of it. My mind has closed to all but the trade I am ready to make. I suppose Jon saw this coming.

Maven’s hand moves from my chin to my throat. His grip tightens.

Softer than the strongarm, but so much more painful.

“We have a deal.”





E PI LOGU E


Days pass. At least, I think they’re days. I spend most of my time in dull blindness, subject to the sounder. It doesn’t hurt so much anymore. My jailors have perfected the so-called dosage, using it to keep me uncon-scious, but not in skull-splitting pain. Every time I come out of it, my vision spotting to show men in white robes, they turn the dial, and the device clicks again. The insect burrows in my brain, clicking, always clicking. Sometimes I feel pulled, but never enough to fully wake.

Sometimes, I hear Maven’s voice. Then the white prison turns black and red, both colors too strong to stand.

This time when I come around, nothing clicks. The world is too bright, and slightly blurry, but I don’t fall back under. I truly wake up.

My chains are clear, probably plastic or even diamondglass. They bind my wrists and ankles, too tight for comfort, but loose enough to allow circulation. The manacles are the worst part, sharp and grating against the sensitive flesh. Worn wounds, shallow from stinging, ooze blood. The red seems to bite in contrast to my pale shift dress, and no one bothers to wipe it away. Now that Maven can’t hide what I am, he must show it for all the world, for whatever twisting scheme he has now. The chains clink, and I realize I’m in an armored transport, a moving one. This must be used for prisoners, because there are no win-dows, and the walls have rings. My chains are hooked to one, swaying slightly.

Across from me are the two men in white, both bald as eggs. They bear a striking resemblance to Instructor Arven. His brothers or cous-ins, most likely. That explains the stifling sensation and my difficulty breathing. These men are silencing my ability, holding me hostage in my own skin. Strange, that they need chains too. Without my lightning, I’m just a seventeen-year-old girl, almost eighteen now. I can’t help but smile. I’ll spend my birthday a prisoner of my own volition.

This time last year, I thought I’d be marching to the war front. Now I’m heading who knows where, locked into a rolling transport with two men who would very much like to kill me. Not much of an upgrade.

And I guess Maven was right. He warned me we would spend my

next birthday together. It seems he is a man of his word.

“What day is it?” I ask, but neither responds. They don’t even blink.

Their focus on me, on silencing what I am, is perfect and unbreakable.

Outside, a strange, dull roar begins to grow. I can’t place it, and don’t want to waste energy trying. I’m sure I’ll find out soon enough.

I’m not wrong. After a few more minutes, the transport eases to a stop, and the rear door is wrenched open. The roar is a crowd, an eager one. For a terrifying second, I wonder if I’m being sent back to the Bowl of Bones, to the arena where Maven tried to have me killed.

He must want to finish the job. Someone unlatches my chains, yanking, pulling me forward. I almost fall out of the transport, but one of the Arven silencers catches me at the last moment. Not out of kindness but necessity. I must look dangerous, like the lightning girl of old. No one cares about a weak prisoner. No one jeers at a sniveling coward. They want to see a conqueror brought lower, a living trophy. For that is what I am now.

I willingly stepped into this cage.

I always do.

My body quivers when I realize where I am.

The Bridge of Archeon. Once, I watched it crumble and burn, but the symbol of power and strength is rebuilt. And I must walk across it, my feet cut and bare, my chains and captors close at hand. I stare at the ground, unable to look up. I don’t want to see the faces of so many people, so many cameras. I can’t let them see me break. That is what Maven wants, and I will never give it to him.

I thought it would be easy to be put on parade—after all, I’m used to it by now. But this is so much worse than before. The tremors of relief I felt in the forest clearing are gone now, giving way to dread.

Every eye crawls over me, looking for the cracks in my famous face.

They find many. I try not to listen to their shouting, and for a few seconds, I succeed. Then I realize what most of them are saying, and the horrible things they hold up for me to see. Names. Photographs. All the Silvers dead or missing. I had a hand in all their fates. They scream at me, throwing words more harmful than any object.

By the time I reach the far end of the Bridge and the crowded Cae-sar’s Square, the tears come too fast and hard to stop. Everyone sees.

With every step, my body tightens. I reach for what I cannot have, for the ability that cannot save me. I can barely breathe, as if the noose is already tight around my neck. What have I done?

There are many gathered on the steps of Whitefire Palace, eager to see my downfall. The nobles and generals are all in mourning black, this time for the queen. Evangeline’s own gown is hard to ignore, midnight spikes of crystal, glinting as she moves.

One person alone wears gray, the only color that suits him. Jon.

Somehow, he stands with the rest of them and watches my approach.

His eyes, bloodred, hold an apology I will never accept. I should have never let him go. I curse to myself.