Glass Sword (Red Queen #2)(26)
“Kilorn Warren.” I scold him like I would a child, like his mother did before she abandoned him. She would shriek when he skinned his knees or spoke out of turn. I don’t remember much else of her, but I remember her voice, and the withering, disappointed glares she saved for her only son. “You know that’s not true.”
The words come out hard, a low, visceral growl. He squares his shoulders, fists balled at his sides. “Prove it.”
To that, I have no answer. I have no idea what he wants from me.
“I’m sorry,” I choke out, and this time I mean it. “I’m sorry for being—”
“Mare.” A warm hand on my arm stops my stumbling. He stands above me, close enough to smell. Thankfully the scent of blood is gone, replaced by salt. He’s been swimming.
“You don’t need to apologize for what they did to you,” he mum-bles. “You never have to do that.”
“I-I don’t think you’re stupid.”
“That might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.” He chuck-les after a long moment. He pastes on a grin, ending the conversation.
“I take it you’ve got a plan?”
“Yes. Are you going to help?”
Shrugging, he spreads his arms wide, gesturing at the rest of the base. “Not much else for the fish boy to do.”
I shove him again, drawing a genuine smile from him. But it doesn’t last.
*
Along with the key, Farley gave me detailed directions to Barracks 1.
As on the mainland, the Scarlet Guard still favors their tunnels, and Cal’s prison is, of course, located underground.
Technically, underwater. The perfect prison for a burner like Cal. Built beneath the dock, hidden by the ocean, guarded by blue waves and the Colonel’s blue uniforms. It’s not only the island prison but also the armory, the Lakelander bunks, and the Colonel’s own headquarters.
The main entrance is a tunnel leading from the beach hangars, but Farley assured me of another way. You might get wet, she warned with a wry smile. While the prospect of diving into the ocean unsettles me, even so close to the beach, Kilorn is annoyingly calm. In fact, he’s probably excited, happy to put his long years on the river to good use.
The protection of the ocean dulls the usually alert Guard, and even the Lakelanders soften as the day wears on. Soldiers focus more on the cargo loads and storage hangars rather than patrolling. The few who keep their posts, pacing the length of the concrete yard with guns against their shoulders, walk slowly, easily, often stopping to talk to each other.
I watch them for a long while, pretending to listen to Mom or Gisa as they chatter over their work. Both sort blankets and clothing into separate piles, unloading a collection of unmarked crates along with several other refugees. I’m supposed to help, but my focus is clearly elsewhere. Bree and Tramy are gone, back with Shade in the infirmary, while Dad sits by. He can’t unload, but still grumbles orders all the same. He’s never folded clothes in his life.
He catches my eye once or twice, noting my twitching fingers and darting glances. He always seems to know what I’m up to, and now is no different. He even rolls his chair back, allowing me a better view of the yard. I nod at him, quietly thankful.
The guards remind me of the Silvers back in the Stilts, before the Measures, before Queenstrial. They were lazy, content in my quiet vil-lage, where insurrection was rare. How wrong they were. Those men and women were blind to my thieving, to the black market, to Will Whistle and the slow creep of the Scarlet Guard. And these Guardsmen are blind too, this time to my advantage.
They don’t notice me watching, or Kilorn when he approaches with a tray of fish stew. My family eats gratefully, Gisa most of all.
She twists her hair when Kilorn isn’t looking, letting it curl over one shoulder in a ruby fall of red.
“Fresh catch?” she says, indicating the bowl of stew.
He wrinkles his nose and pretends to grimace at the gray glops of fish meat. “Not from me, Gee. Old Cully would never sell this. Except to the rats, maybe.”
We laugh together, me out of habit, following a half second later.
For once, Gisa is less ladylike than I am and she giggles openly, hap-pily. I used to envy her practiced, perfect ways. Now I wish I wasn’t so trained, and could shed my forced politeness as easily as she has.
While we force down the lunch, Dad pours out his bowl when he thinks I’m not looking. No wonder he’s getting thin. Before I can scold him—or, worse, Mom can—he runs a hand over a blanket, feeling the fabric.
“These are Piedmont made. Fresh cotton. Expensive,” he mutters when he realizes I’m standing next to him. Even in the Silver court, Piedmont cotton was considered very fine, a common alternative to silk, reserved for high-ranking Security, Sentinel, and military uniforms. I remember Lucas wore it, up until the moment he died. I realize now I never saw him out of uniform. I can’t even picture it. And his face is already fading. A few days and I’m forgetting him, a man I sent to his death.
“Stolen?” I wonder aloud, running a hand over the blanket, if only for distraction.
Dad continues his investigation and runs a hand down the side of a crate. Sturdy, wide planks of wood, freshly painted white. The only distinguishing mark is a dark green triangle, smaller than my hand, stamped in the corner. What it means, I don’t know.