Glass Sword

5

They try to convince me it’s for the best, but their poor excuses fall on unsympathetic ears. Kilorn and Bree quickly use every argument they’ve been told to say.

He’s dangerous, even to you. But I know better than any that Cal would never hurt me. Even when he had reason to, I feared nothing from him.

He’s one of them. We can’t trust him. After what Maven’s done to his legacy and reputation, Cal has nothing and no one but us now, even if he refuses to admit it.

He is valuable. A general, a prince of Norta, and the most wanted man in the kingdom. That one gives me pause, and strikes a chord of fear deep down. If the blood-eyed man decides to use Cal as leverage against Maven, to trade him or sacrifice him, it will take all I have to stop him. All my influence, all my power—and I don’t know if it will be enough.

So I do nothing but nod along with them, slowly at first, pretending to agree. Pretending to be controlled. Pretending to be weak. I was right. Shade was warning me before. Once again, he saw the turn of the tide long before it rolled in. Cal is power, fire made flesh, something to be feared and defeated. And I am lightning. What will they try to do to me if I don’t play my part?

I have not stepped into another jail, not yet, but I can feel the key in the lock, threatening to turn. Luckily, I have experience in this kind of thing.

The blood-eyed man and his soldiers march Cal into the hangar, not stupid enough to try and bind his hands. But they never lower their guns or their guard, careful to keep their distance lest one of them be burned for their boldness. I can only watch, eyes wide but mouth shut, when the hangar door slides closed again, separating the two of us. They won’t kill him, not until he gives them a reason. I can only hope Cal behaves.

“Go easy on him,” I whisper, leaning into Bree’s warmth. Even in the cold autumn rain, he feels like a furnace. Long years fighting on the northern front have made him immune to wet and cold. I think back to Dad’s old saying. The war never leaves. Now I know it firsthand, though my war is very different from his.

Bree pretends not to hear me, hurrying us both from the docks. Kilorn follows close behind, his boots catching my heels once or twice. I resist the urge to kick him, and focus on climbing the wooden steps leading to the barracks on the hill above. The steps are worn down, beaten by too many feet to count. How many came this way? I wonder. How many are here now?

We crest the hill and the island stretches out before us, revealing a military base larger than I expected. The barracks on the ridge was one of at least a dozen I see now, organized in two even rows separated by a long, concrete yard. It’s flat and well-maintained, not like the steps or the dock. There’s a white line painted down the middle of the yard, perfectly straight, leading away into the stormy night. What it goes to, I have no idea.

The whole island has an air of stillness, momentarily frozen by the storm. Come the morning, when the rain breaks and the darkness lifts, I suppose I’ll see the base in all its glory—and finally understand the people I’m dealing with. I’m developing a bad habit of underestimating others, particularly where the Scarlet Guard is concerned.

And like Naercey, Tuck is far more than it seems.

The cold I felt on the mersive and in the rain persists, even when I’m ushered into the doorway of the barracks marked with a painted black “3.” I’m cold in my bones, in my heart. But I can’t let my parents see that, for their sake. I owe them this much. They must think me whole, unbroken, unaffected by Cal’s imprisonment and my own ordeals in a palace and an arena. And the Guard must think I’m on their side—relieved to be “safe.”

But aren’t I? Didn’t I swear an oath to Farley and the Scarlet Guard?

They believe as I do, in an end to Silver kings and Red slaves. They sacrificed soldiers for me, because of me. They are my allies, my brethren, brothers and sisters in arms—but the blood-eyed man gives me pause. He is not Farley. She might be gruff and single-minded, but she knows what I’ve been through. She can be reasoned with. I doubt reason lives in the heart of the blood-eyed man.

Kilorn is strangely quiet. This silence is not like us at all. We’re used to filling the space with insults, with teasing, or in Kilorn’s case, with utter nonsense. It’s not in our nature to be quiet around each other, but now we have nothing to say. He knew what they planned to do to Cal and agreed with it. Worse, he didn’t even tell me. I would feel angry but for the cold. It eats at my emotions, dulling them into something like the electrical hum in the air.

Bree doesn’t notice the strangeness between us, not that he would. Besides being pleasantly foolish, my oldest brother left when I was a gangly thirteen-year-old who thieved for fun, not necessity, and wasn’t so cruel as I’ve become. Bree doesn’t know me as I am now, having missed almost five years of my life. But then, my life has changed more in the last two months than ever before. And only two people were with me through it. The first is imprisoned and the second wears a crown of blood.

Any sensible person would call them my enemies. Strange, my enemies know me best, and my family doesn’t know me at all.

Inside the barracks is blissfully dry, humming with lights and wires bundled along the ceiling. The thick concrete walls turn the corridor into a maze, with no markers to guide the way. Every door is shut, steel gray and unremarkable, but a few bear the signs of life within. Some woven beach grass adorning a knob, a broken necklace strung across a doorway, and so on. This place holds not just fearsome soldiers but the refugees of Naercey and who knows where else. After the enactment of the Measures, commanded from my own lips, many Guardsmen and Reds alike fled the mainland. How could they stay, threatened by conscription and execution? But how did they manage to get away? And how did they make it here?

Another question joins my steadily growing list.

Despite my distraction, I keep careful notice of the twists and turns my brother takes. Right here, one, two, three corners, left by the door with “PRAIRIE” carved into it. Part of me wonders if he’s taking a roundabout route on purpose, but Bree isn’t smart enough for that. I guess I should be thankful. Shade would have no problems playing the trickster, but not Bree. He’s brute strength, a rolling boulder easy to dodge. He’s a Guardsman too, freed from one army just to join another. And based on how he held me on the docks, he owes his allegiance to the Guard and nothing else. Tramy will probably be the same, always eager to follow, and occasionally guide, our older brother. Only Shade has the good sense to keep his eyes open, to wait and see what fate awaits us newbloods.

The door ahead of us stands ajar, as if waiting. Bree doesn’t need to tell me this is our family’s bunk, because there’s a purple scrap of fabric tied around the doorknob. It’s frayed at the edges and clumsily embroidered. Lightning bolts of thread spark across the rag, a symbol that is neither Red nor Silver, but mine. A combination of the colors of House Titanos, my mask, and the lightning that surges inside of me, my shield.

As we approach, something wheels behind the door, and a bit of warmth moves through me. I would know the sound of my father’s wheelchair anywhere.

Bree doesn’t knock. He knows everyone’s still awake, waiting for me.

There’s more room than in the mersive, but the bunk is still small and cramped. At least there’s space to move, and plenty of beds for the Barrows, with even a bit of living space around the doorway. A single window, cut high in the far wall, is closed tight against the rain, and the sky seems a bit lighter. Dawn is coming.

Yes it is, I think, taking in the overwhelming amount of red. Scarves, rags, scraps, flags, banners, red on every surface and hanging from every wall. I should’ve known it would come to this. Gisa sewed dresses for Silvers once; now she painstakingly makes flags for the Scarlet Guard, decorating whatever she can find with the torn sun of resistance. They aren’t pretty, with uneven stitches and simple patterns. Nothing compared to the art she used to weave. That’s my fault too.

She sits at the little metal table, frozen with a needle in her half-healed claw of a hand. For a moment, she stares, and so do the rest. Mom, Dad, Tramy, staring but not knowing the girl they’re looking at. The last time they saw me, I couldn’t control myself. I was trapped, weak, confused. Now I am injured, nursing bruises and betrayals, but I know what I am, and what I must do.

I have become more, more than we could ever have dreamed. It frightens me.

“Mare.” I can barely hear my mother’s voice. My name trembles on her lips.

Like back in the Stilts, when my sparks threatened to destroy our home, she is the first to embrace me. After a hug that isn’t nearly long enough, she pulls me to an empty chair.

“Sit, baby, sit,” she says, her hands shaking against me. Baby. I haven’t been called that in years. Strange that it returns now, when I’m anything but a child.

Her touch ghosts over my new clothes, feeling for the bruises beneath like she can see right through the fabric. “You’re hurt,” she mutters, shaking her head. “I can’t believe they let you walk, after—well, after all that.”

I’m quietly glad she doesn’t mention Naercey, the arena, or before. I don’t think I’m strong enough to relive them, not so soon.

Dad chuckles darkly. “She can do as she pleases. There’s no let to it.” He shifts and I notice more gray in his hair than ever. He’s thinner too, looking small in the familiar chair. “Just like Shade.”

Shade is common ground, and easier for me to talk about. “You’ve seen him?” I ask, letting myself relax against the cold metal seat. It feels good to sit.

Tramy gets up from his bunk, his head nearly scraping the ceiling. “I’m going to the infirmary now. Just wanted to make sure you’re—”

Okay is no longer a word in my vocabulary.

“—still standing.”

I can only nod. If I open my mouth, I might tell them about everything. The hurt, the cold, the prince who betrayed me, the prince who saved me, the people I’ve killed. And while they might already know, I can’t bring myself to admit what I’ve done. To see them disappointed, disgusted, afraid of me. That would be more than I can bear tonight.

Bree goes with Tramy, patting me gruffly on the back before following our brother out the door. Kilorn remains, still silent, leaning against the wall as if he wants to fall into it and disappear.

“Are you hungry?” Mom says, busying herself at a tiny excuse for a cabinet. “We saved some dinner rations, if you want.”

Though I haven’t eaten in I don’t even know how long, I shake my head. My exhaustion makes it hard to think of anything but sleep.

Gisa notes my manner, her bright eyes narrowed. She pushes back a piece of rich, red hair the color of our blood. “You should sleep.” She speaks with so much conviction I wonder who the older sister really is. “Let her sleep.”

“Of course, you’re right.” Again, Mom pulls me along, this time out of the chair and toward a bunk with more pillows than the rest. She nannies, fussing with the thin blankets, putting me through the motions. I only have the strength to follow, letting her tuck me in like she never has before. “Here we are, baby, sleep.”

Baby.

I’m safer than I’ve been in days, surrounded by the people I love most, and yet I’ve never wanted to cry more. For them, I hold back. I curl inward and bleed alone, inside, where no one else can see.

It isn’t long before I’m dozing, despite the bright lights overhead and the low murmurs. Kilorn’s deep voice rumbles, speaking again now that I’m out of the equation.

“Watch her” is the last thing I hear before I sink into darkness.

Sometime in the night, somewhere between sleep and waking, Dad takes my hand. Not to wake me up, but just to hold on. For a moment, I think he is a dream, and I’m back in a cell beneath the Bowl of Bones. That the escape, the arena, the executions were all a nightmare I must soon relive. But his hand is warm, gnarled, familiar, and I close my fingers on his. He is real.

“I know what it is to kill someone,” he whispers, his eyes faraway, two pinpricks of light in the blackness of our bunk. His voice is different, just as he is different in this moment. A reflection of a soldier, one who survived too long in the bowels of war. “I know what it does to you.”

I try to speak. I certainly try.

Instead, I let him go, and I drift away.

The tang of salt air wakes me the next morning. Someone opened the window, letting in a cool autumn breeze and bright sunlight. The storm has passed. Before I open my eyes, I try to pretend. This is my cot, the breeze is coming from the river, and my only choice is whether to go to school. But that is not a comfort. That life, though easier, is not one I would return to if I could.

I have things to do. I must see to Julian’s list, to begin preparations for that massive undertaking. And if I request Cal for it, who are they to refuse me? Who could say no in the face of saving so many from Maven’s noose?

Something tells me the blood-eyed man might, but I push it away.

Gisa sprawls in the bunk across from me, using her good hand to pick loose a few threads from a piece of black cloth. She doesn’t bother to watch as I stretch, popping a few bones when I move.

“Good morning, baby,” she says, barely hiding a smirk.

She gets a pillow to the face for her trouble. “Don’t start,” I grumble, secretly glad for the teasing. If only Kilorn would do that, and be a little bit of the fisher boy I remember.

“Everyone’s in the mess hall. Breakfast is still on.”

“Where’s the infirmary?” I ask, thinking of Shade and Farley. For the moment, she’s one of the best allies I have here.

“You need to eat, Mare,” Gisa says sharply, finally sitting up. “Really.”

The concern in her eyes stops me short. I must look worse than I thought, for Gisa to treat me so gently. “Then where’s the mess?”

She huffs as she stands, tossing her project down on the bunk. “I knew I’d get stuck babysitting,” she mutters, sounding very much like our exasperated mother.

This time she dodges the pillow.

The maze of the barracks goes by quicker now. I remember the way, at least, and mentally note the doors as we pass. Some are open, revealing empty bunk rooms or a few idling Reds. Both tell the tale of Barracks 3, which seems to be the designated “family” structure. The people here don’t look like soldiers of the Guard, and I doubt most of them have ever been in a fight. I see evidence of children, even a few babies, who fled with their families or were taken to Tuck. One room in particular overflows with old or broken toys, its walls hastily painted a sickly yellow in an attempt to brighten the concrete. There’s nothing written on the door, but I understand who the room is for. Orphans. I quickly avert my eyes, looking anywhere but the cage for living ghosts.

Piping runs the length of the ceiling, carrying with it a slow but steady pulse of electricity. What powers this island, I don’t know, but the deep hum is a comfort, reminding me of who I am. At least that is something no one can take away, not here, so far from the silencing ability of the now dead Silver Arven. Yesterday he almost killed me, stifling my ability with his own, turning me back into the Red girl with nothing but the dirt beneath her fingernails. In the arena, I barely had time to be frightened of such a prospect, but now it haunts me. My ability is my most prized possession, even though it separates me from everyone else. But for power, for my own power, it is a price I am willing to pay.

“What’s it like?” Gisa says, following my gaze to the ceiling. She focuses on the wiring, trying to feel what I can, but comes back empty. “The electricity?”

I don’t know what to tell her. Julian would explain quite easily, probably debating himself in the process, all while detailing the history of abilities and how they came to be. But Maven told me only yesterday that my old teacher never escaped. He was captured. And knowing Maven, not to mention Elara, Julian is most likely dead, executed for all he gave to me, and for crimes committed long ago. For being the brother of the girl the old king truly loved.

“Power,” I finally say, wrenching open the door to the outside world. Sea air presses against me, playing in my ratty hair. “Strength.”

Silver words, but true all the same.

Gisa is not one to let me off the hook so easily. Still, she falls silent. She understands her questions are not any I want to answer.

In the daylight, Tuck seems both less and more ominous. The sun shines bright overhead, warming the autumn air, and past the barracks, the sea grass gives way to a sparse collection of trees. Nothing like the oaks and pines of home, but good enough for now. Gisa leads us across the concrete yard, navigating through the bustle of activity. Guardsmen in their red sashes unload mobiles, stacking more crates like the ones I saw on the mersive. I slow a little, hoping to get a glance of their cargo, but strange soldiers in new uniforms give me pause. They wear blue, not the bright color of House Osanos, but something cold and dark. It’s familiar but I can’t place it. They look like Farley, tall and pale, with bright blond hair cut aggressively short. Foreign, I realize. They stand over the cargo piles, rifles in hand, guarding the crates.

But guarding them from who?

“Don’t look at them,” Gisa mutters, grabbing onto my sleeve. She tugs me along, eager to get away from the blue soldiers. One in particular watches us go, his eyes narrowed.

“Why not? Who are they?”

She shakes her head, tugging again. “Not here.”

Naturally, I want to stop, to stare at the soldier until he realizes who and what I am. But that is a foolish, childish need. I must maintain my mask, must seem the poor girl broken by the world. I let Gisa lead on and away.

“The Colonel’s men,” she whispers as soon as we’re out of earshot. “They came down with him from the north.”

The north. “Lakelanders?” I reply, almost gasping in surprise. She nods, stoic.

Now the uniforms, the color of a cold lake, make sense. They are soldiers of another army, another king, but they’re here, with us. Norta has been at war with the Lakelands for a century, fighting over land, food, and glory. The kings of fire against the kings of winter, with both red and silver blood in between. But the dawn, it seems, is coming for them all.

“The Colonel’s a Lakelander. After what happened in Archeon”—her face pains, though she doesn’t know the half of my ordeal there—“he came to ‘sort things out,’ according to Tramy.”

There’s something wrong here, tugging at my brain like Gisa tugging on my sleeve. “Who is the Colonel, Gisa?”

It takes me a moment to realize we’ve reached the mess, a flat building just like the barracks. The din of breakfast echoes behind the doors, but we don’t pass through. Even though the smell of food makes my stomach rumble, I wait for Gisa’s answer.

“The man with the bloody eye,” she finally says, pointing to her own face. “He’s taken over.”

Command. Shade whispered the word back on the mersive, but I didn’t think much of it. Is this what he meant? Is the Colonel who he was trying to warn me about? After his sinister treatment of Cal last night, I have to think so. And to know such a man is in charge of this island, and everyone on it, is no particular comfort.

“So Farley’s out of a job.”

She shrugs. “Captain Farley failed. He didn’t like that.”

Then he’ll hate me.

She reaches for the door, one small hand outstretched. The other has healed better than I thought it would, with only her fourth and fifth fingers still oddly twisted, curled inward. Bones gone wrong, in punishment for trusting her sister in a time long ago.

“Gisa, where did they take Cal?” My voice is so low I’m afraid she doesn’t hear me. But then her hand stills.

“They talked about him last night, when you went to sleep. Kilorn didn’t know, but Tramy, he went to see him. To watch.”

A sharp pain shoots through my heart. “Watch what?”

“He said just questions for now. Nothing that would hurt.”

Deep inside, I scowl. I can think of many questions that would hurt Cal more than any wound. “Where?” I ask again, putting a bit of steel in my voice, speaking like a Silver-born princess should.

“Barracks One,” she whispers. “I heard them say Barracks One.”

As she opens the door to the mess, I look past her, to the line of barracks marching toward the trees. Their numbers are clearly painted, black against sun-bleached concrete: 2, 3, 4 …

A sudden chill runs down my spine.

There is no Barracks 1.