King’s Cage (Red Queen Book 3)

I rise to my feet when he lets me.

The chain jerks me up, pulling on the thorned collar at my throat. Its points dig in, not enough to draw blood—not yet. But I’m already bleeding from the wrists. Slow wounds, worn from days of unconscious captivity in rough, ripping manacles. The color stains my white sleeves dark crimson and bright scarlet, fading from old blood to new in a testament to my ordeal. To show Maven’s court how much I’ve suffered already.

He stands over me, his expression unreadable. The tips of his father’s crown make him seem taller, as if the iron is growing out of his skull. It gleams, each point a curling flame of black metal shot with bronze and silver. I focus on the bitterly familiar thing so I don’t have to look into Maven’s eyes. He draws me in anyway, tugging on another chain I can’t see. Only feel.

One white hand circles my wounded wrist, somehow gentle. In spite of myself, my eyes snap to his face, unable to stay away. His smile is anything but kind. Slim and sharp as a razor, biting at me with every tooth. And his eyes are worst of all. Her eyes, Elara’s eyes. Once I thought them cold, made of living ice. Now I know better. The hottest fires burn blue, and his eyes are no exception.

The shadow of the flame. He is certainly ablaze, but darkness eats at his edges. Bruise-like splotches of black and blue surround eyes bloodshot with silver veins. He has not slept. He’s thinner than I remember, leaner, crueler. His hair, black as a void, has reached his ears, curling at the ends, and his cheeks are still smooth. Sometimes I forget how young he is. How young we both are. Beneath my shift dress, the M brand on my collarbone stings.

Maven turns quickly, my chain tight in his fist, forcing me to move with him. A moon circling a planet.

“Bear witness to this prisoner, this victory,” he says, squaring his shoulders to the vast audience before us. Three hundred Silvers at least, nobles and civilians, guards and officers. I’m painfully aware of the Sentinels on the edge of my vision, their fiery robes a constant reminder of my quickly shrinking cage. My Arven guards are never out of sight either, their white uniforms blinding, their silencing ability suffocating. I might choke on the pressure of their presence.

The king’s voice echoes across the opulent stretches of Caesar’s Square, reverberating through a crowd that responds in kind. There must be microphones and speakers somewhere, to carry the king’s bitter words throughout the city, and no doubt the rest of the kingdom.

“Here is the leader of the Scarlet Guard, Mare Barrow.” In spite of my predicament, I almost snort. Leader. His mother’s death has not stemmed his lies. “A murderer, a terrorist, a great enemy to our kingdom. And now she kneels before us, bare to her blood.”

The chain jerks again, sending me scuttling forward, arms outstretched to catch my balance. I react dully, eyes downcast. So much pageantry. Anger and shame curl through me as I realize the amount of damage this simple act will do to the Scarlet Guard. Reds across Norta will watch me dance on Maven’s strings and think us weak, defeated, unworthy of their attention, effort, or hope. Nothing could be further from the truth. But there isn’t anything I can do, not now, not here, standing on the knife edge of Maven’s mercy. I wonder about Corvium, the military city we saw burning on our way to the Choke. There was rioting after my broadcast message. Was it the first gasp of revolution—or the last? I have no way of knowing. And I doubt anyone will bother to bring me a newspaper.

Cal warned me against the threat of civil war a long time ago, before his father died, before he was left with nothing but a tempestuous lightning girl. Rebellion on both sides, he said. But standing here, leashed before Maven’s court and his Silver kingdom, I see no division. Even though I showed them, told them of Maven’s prison, of their loved ones taken away, of their trust betrayed by a king and his mother—I am still the enemy here. It makes me want to scream, but I know better. Maven’s voice will always be louder than mine.

Are Mom and Dad watching? The thought of it brings a fresh wave of sorrow, and I bite hard against my lip to keep more tears at bay. I know there are video cameras nearby, focused on my face. Even if I can’t feel them anymore, I know. Maven would not miss the opportunity to immortalize my downfall.

Are they about to see me die?

The collar tells me no. Why bother with this spectacle if he’s just going to kill me? Another might feel relieved, but my insides turn cold with fear. He will not kill me. Not Maven. I feel it in his touch. His long, pale fingers still cling to my wrist, while his other hand still holds my leash. Even now, when I am painfully his, he won’t let go. I would prefer death to this cage, to the twisted obsession of a mad boy king.

I remember his notes, each one ending with the same strange lament.

Until we meet again.

He continues speaking, but his voice dulls in my head, the whine of a hornet coming too close, making every nerve stand on edge. I look over my shoulder. My eyes drift through the crowd of courtiers behind us. All of them stand proud and vile in their mourning black. Lord Volo of House Samos and his son, Ptolemus, are splendid in polished, ebony armor with scaled silver sashes from hip to shoulder. At the sight of the latter, I see scarlet, raging red. I fight the urge to lunge and rip the skin from Ptolemus’s face. To stab him through his heart the way he did my brother Shade. The desire shows, and he has the spine to smirk at me. If not for the collar and the silent guards restricting everything I am, I would turn his bones to smoking glass.

Somehow his sister, an enemy of so many months ago, isn’t looking at me. Evangeline, her gown spiked with black crystal, is ever the glittering star of such a violent constellation. I suppose she’ll be queen soon, having suffered her betrothal to Maven long enough. Her gaze is on the king’s back, dark eyes fixed with burning focus on the nape of his neck. A breeze picks up, stirring her glossy curtain of silver hair, blowing it back from her shoulders, but she doesn’t blink. Only after a long moment does she seem to notice me staring. And even then, her eyes barely flick to mine. They are empty of feeling. I am no longer worthy of her attention.

“Mare Barrow is a prisoner of the crown, and she will face the crown and council’s judgment. Her many crimes must be answered for.”

With what? I wonder.

The crowd roars in response, cheering his decree. They are Silvers, but “common,” not of noble descent. While they revel in Maven’s words, his court does not react. In fact, some of them turn gray, angry, stone-faced. None more so than House Merandus, their mourning garb slashed with the dark blue of the dead queen’s wretched colors. While Evangeline did not notice me, they fix on my face with startling intensity. Eyes of burning blue from every direction. I expect to hear their whispers in my head, a dozen voices burrowing like worms through a rotten apple. Instead, there is only silence. Perhaps the Arven officers flanking me are not just jailers, but protectors as well, smothering my ability as well as the abilities of anyone who would use them against me. Maven’s orders, I assume. No one else may hurt me here.

No one but him.

But everything hurts already. It hurts to stand, hurts to move, hurts to think. From the jet crash, from the sounder, from the crushing weight of the silencing guards. And those are only physical wounds. Bruises. Fractures. Pains that will heal if given the time. The same cannot be said of the rest. My brother is dead. I am a prisoner. And I don’t know what really happened to my friends however many days ago when I struck this devil’s bargain. Cal, Kilorn, Cameron, my brothers Bree and Tramy. We left them behind in the clearing, but they were wounded, immobilized, vulnerable. Maven could have sent any number of assassins back to finish what he started. I traded myself for them all, and I don’t even know if it worked.

Maven would tell me if I asked him. I can see it in his face. His eyes dart to mine after every vile sentence, punctuating every lie performed for his adoring subjects. To make sure I’m watching, paying attention, looking at him. Like the child he is.

I will not beg him. Not here. Not like this. I have pride enough for that.

“My mother and father died fighting these animals,” he rails on. “They gave their lives to keep this kingdom whole, to keep you safe.”

Defeated as I am, I can’t help but glare at Maven, meeting his fire with a hiss of my own. We both remember his father’s death. His murder. Queen Elara whispered her way into Cal’s brain, turning the king’s beloved heir into a deadly weapon. Maven and I watched as Cal was forced to become his father’s killer, cutting off the king’s head and any chance Cal had of ruling. I have seen many horrible things since then, and still the memory haunts me.

I don’t remember much of what happened to the queen outside the walls of Corros Prison. The state of her body afterward was testament enough to what unbridled lightning can do to human flesh. I know I killed her without question, without remorse, without regret. My ravaging storm fed by Shade’s sudden death. The last clear image I have of the Corros battle is of him falling, his heart pierced by Ptolemus’s needle of cold, unforgiving steel. Somehow Ptolemus escaped my blind rage, but the queen did not. At least the Colonel and I made sure the world knew what happened to her, displaying her corpse during our broadcast.

I wish Maven had some of her ability, so he could look into my head and see exactly what kind of ending I gave his mother. I want him to feel the pain of loss as terribly as I do.

His eyes are on me as he finishes his memorized speech, one hand outstretched to better display the chain binding me to him. Everything he does is methodical, performed for an image.

“I pledge myself to do the same, to end the Scarlet Guard and the monsters like Mare Barrow, or die in the attempt.”

Die, then, I want to scream.

The roar of the crowd drowns out my thoughts. Hundreds cheer on their king and his tyranny. I cried on the walk across the bridge, in the face of so many blaming me for their loved ones’ deaths. I can still feel the tears drying on my cheeks. Now I want to weep again, not in sadness, but anger. How can they believe this? How can they stomach these lies?

Like a doll, I am turned from the sight. With the last of my strength, I crane my neck over one shoulder, hunting for the cameras, the eyes of the world. See me, I beg. See how he lies. My jaw tightens, my eyes narrow, painting what I pray is a picture of resilience, rebellion, and rage. I am the lightning girl. I am a storm. It feels like a lie. The lightning girl is dead.

But it is the last thing I can do for the cause, and for the people I love still out there. They will not see me stumble in this final moment. No, I will stand. And though I have no idea how, I have to keep fighting, even here in the belly of the beast.

Another tug forces me to spin around to face the court. Cold Silvers stare back, their skin undertoned by blue and black and purple and gray, leached of life, with veins of steel and diamond rather than blood. They focus not on me, but on Maven himself. In them I find my answer. In them I see hunger.

For a split second, I pity the boy king alone on his throne. Then, deep down, I feel the teasing breath of hope.

Oh, Maven. What a mess you’re in.

I can only wonder who will strike first.

The Scarlet Guard—or the lords and ladies ready to slit Maven’s throat and take everything his mother died for.

He hands my leash over to one of the Arvens as soon as we flee the Whitefire steps, retreating into the yawning entrance hall of the palace. Strange. He was so fixated on getting me back, on putting me into his cage, but he tosses my chains away without so much as a glance. Coward, I tell myself. He can’t bring himself to look at me when it isn’t for spectacle.

“Did you keep your promise?” I demand, breathless. My voice sounds raspy from days of disuse. “Are you a man of your word?”

He doesn’t answer.

The rest of the court falls in behind us. Their lines and rows are well practiced, based on the complicated intricacies of status and rank. Only I am out of place, the first one to follow the king, walking a few steps behind where a queen should be. I could not be further from the title.

I glance at the larger of my jailers, hoping to see something besides blind loyalty in him. He wears a white uniform, thick, bulletproof, zipped tight up his throat. Gloves, gleaming. Not silk, but plastic—rubber. I flinch at the sight. Despite their silencing ability, the Arvens won’t take any chances with me. Even if I manage to slip a spark past their continuous onslaught, the gloves will protect their hands and allow them to keep me collared, chained, caged. The big Arven doesn’t meet my gaze, his eyes focused ahead while his lips purse in concentration. The other is just the same, flanking me in perfect step with his brother or cousin. Their naked scalps gleam, and I’m reminded of Lucas Samos. My kind guard, my friend, who was executed because I existed, and because I used him. I was lucky then, that Cal gave me such a decent Silver to keep me prisoner. And, I realize, I am lucky now. Indifferent guards will be easier for me to kill.

Because they must die. Somehow. Some way. If I am to escape, if I want to reclaim my lightning, they are the first obstacles. The rest are easy to guess. Maven’s Sentinels, the other guards and officers posted throughout the palace, and of course Maven himself. I’m not leaving this place unless I leave behind his corpse—or mine.

I think about killing him. Wrapping my chain around his neck and squeezing the life from his body. It helps me ignore the fact that every step takes me deeper into the palace, over white marble, past gilded, soaring walls, beneath a dozen chandeliers with crystal lights carved of flame. As beautiful and cold as I remember. A prison of golden locks and diamond bars. At least I won’t have to face its most violent and dangerous warden. The old queen is dead. Still, I shiver at the thought of her. Elara Merandus. Her shadow ghosts through my head. Once she tore through my memories. Now she’s one of them.

An armored figure cuts through my glare, sidling around my guards to plant himself between the king and me. He keeps pace with us, a dogged guardian even though he doesn’t wear the robes or mask of a Sentinel. I suppose he knows I’m thinking about strangling Maven. I bite my lip, bracing myself for the sharp sting of a whisper’s assault.

But no, he is not of House Merandus. His armor is obsidian dark, his hair silver, his skin moon white. And his eyes, when he looks over his shoulder at me—his eyes are empty and black.

Ptolemus.

I lunge teeth first, not knowing what I’m doing, not caring. So long as I leave my mark. I wonder if Silver blood tastes different from Red.

I never find out.

My collar snaps backward, pulling me so violently my spine arches and I crash to the floor. A bit harder and I would’ve broken my neck. The crack of marble on skull makes the world spin, but not enough to keep me down. I scramble, my sight narrowing to Ptolemus’s armored legs, now turning to face me. Again I lurch for them, and again the collar pulls me back.

“Enough of this,” Maven hisses.

He stands over me, halting to watch my poor attempts to repay Ptolemus. The rest of the procession has stopped too, many crowding forward to see the twisted Red rat fight in vain.

The collar seems to tighten, and I gulp against it, reaching for my throat.

Maven keeps his eyes on the metal as it shrinks. “Evangeline, I said enough.”

Despite the pain, I turn to see her at my back, one fist clenched at her side. Like him, she stares at my collar. It pulses as it moves. It must match her heartbeat.

“Let me loose her,” she says, and I wonder if I misheard. “Let me loose her right here. Dismiss her guards, and I’ll kill her, lightning and all.”

I snarl back at her, every inch the beast they think I am. “Try it,” I tell her, wishing with all my heart that Maven would agree. Even with my wounds, my days of silence, and my years of inferiority to the magnetron girl, I want what she offers. I beat her before. I can do it again. It is a chance, at least. A better chance than I could ever hope for.

Maven’s eyes snap from my collar to his betrothed, his face falling into a tight, searing scowl. I see so much of his mother in him. “Are you questioning the orders of your king, Lady Evangeline?”

Her teeth flash between lips painted purple. Her shroud of courtly manner threatens to fall away, but before she can say something truly damning, her father shifts just so, his arm brushing her own. His message is clear: Obey.Content protected by Nôv/el(D)rama.Org.

“No,” she growls, meaning yes. Her neck bends, inclining her head. “Your Majesty.”

The collar releases, widening back to size around my neck. It might even be looser than before. Small blessing that Evangeline is not so meticulous as she strives to appear.

“Mare Barrow is a prisoner of the crown, and the crown will do with her as it sees fit,” Maven says, his voice carrying past his volatile bride. His eyes sweep through the rest of the court, making his intentions clear. “Death is too good for her.”

A low murmur ripples through the nobles. I hear tones of opposition, but even more agreement. Strange. I thought all of them would want me executed in the worst way, strung up to feed vultures and bleed away whatever ground the Scarlet Guard has gained. But I suppose they want worse fates for me.

Worse fates.

That’s what Jon said before. When he saw what my future held, where my path led. He knew this was coming. Knew, and told the king. Bought a place at Maven’s side with my brother’s life and my freedom.

I find Jon standing in the crowd, given a wide berth by the others. His eyes are red, livid; his hair prematurely gray and tied into a neat tail. Another newblood pet for Maven Calore, but this one wears no chains that I can see. Because he helped Maven stop our mission to save a legion of children before it could even begin. Told Maven our paths and our future. Gift-wrapped me for the boy king. Betrayed us all.

Jon is already staring at me, of course. I don’t expect an apology for what he did, and do not receive one.

“What about interrogation?”

A voice I do not recognize sounds to my left. Still, I know his face.

Samson Merandus. An arena fighter, a savage whisper, a cousin to the dead queen. He shoulders his way toward me, and I can’t help but flinch. In another life I saw him make his arena opponent stab himself to death. Kilorn sat by my side and watched, cheering, enjoying the last hours of his freedom. Then his master died, and our entire world shifted. Our paths changed. And now I sprawl across flawless marble, cold and bleeding, less than a dog at the feet of a king.

“Is she too good for interrogation, Your Majesty?” Samson continues, pointing one white hand in my direction. He catches me beneath the chin, forcing me to look up. I fight the urge to bite him. I don’t need to give Evangeline another excuse to choke me. “Think of what she’s seen. What she knows. She’s their leader—and the key to unraveling her wretched kind.”

He’s wrong, but still my heartbeat thrums in my chest. I know enough to be of great damage. Tuck flashes before my eyes, as well as the Colonel and the twins from Montfort. The infiltration of the legions. The cities. The Whistles across the country, now ferrying refugees to safety. Precious secrets carefully kept, and soon to be revealed. How many will my knowledge put in danger? How many will die when they crack me open?

And that’s just military intelligence. Worse still are the dark parts of my own mind. The corners where I keep my worst demons. Maven is one of them. The prince I remembered and loved and wished were real. Then there’s Cal. What I’ve done to keep him, what I’ve ignored, and what lies I tell myself about his allegiances. My shame and my mistakes eat away, gnawing on my roots. I can’t let Samson—or Maven—see such things inside me.

Please, I want to beg. My lips do not move. As much as I hate Maven, as much as I want to see him suffer, I know he’s the best chance I have. But pleading for mercy before his strongest allies and worst enemies will only weaken an already-weak king. So I keep quiet, trying to ignore Samson’s grip on my jaw, focusing only on Maven’s face.

His eyes find mine for the longest and shortest of moments.

“You have your orders,” he says brusquely, nodding to my guards.

Their grip is firm but not bruising as they lift me to my feet, using hands and chains to guide me out of the crowd. I leave them all behind. Evangeline, Ptolemus, Samson, and Maven.

He turns on his heel, heading in the opposite direction, toward the only thing he has left to keep him warm.

A throne of frozen flames.