King’s Cage (Red Queen Book 3)

She laughs against my neck, her touch a brush of lips and cold steel. My crown perches precariously on her red curls, steel and diamond glinting between ruby locks. With her ability, she makes the diamonds wink like luminous stars.

Reluctant, I sit up and leave my bed, the silky sheets, and Elane behind. She yelps when I throw open the curtains, letting the sunlight stream in. With a flick of her hand the window shadows, blooming with shade until the light reduces to her liking.

I dress in the dimness, donning small black undergarments and a pair of laced sandals. Today is special, and I take my time molding an outfit to my form from the metal sheets in my closet. Titanium and darkened steel ripple across my limbs. Black and silver, it reflects light in an array of brilliant colors. I don’t need a maid to complete my appearance, nor do I want one floating around in my room. I do it myself, matching sparkling blue-black lipstick to coal-dark eyeliner dotted with specially made crystals. Elane dozes through it all, until I pull the crown from her head. It fits me perfectly.

“Mine,” I tell her, leaning down to kiss her once more. She smiles lazily, her lips curving against my own. “Don’t forget, you’re supposed to be present today.”

She bows playfully. “As Your Highness commands.”

The title is so delicious I want to lick the words right out of her mouth. But at the risk of ruining my makeup, I refrain. And I don’t look back, lest I lose my grip on whatever self-control I have left these days.

Ridge House has belonged to my family for generations, sprawling across the cresting edge of the many rifts that give our region its name. All steel and glass, it’s easily my favorite of the family estates. My personal chambers face east, toward the dawn. I like rising with the sun, as much as Elane disagrees. The passage connecting my rooms to the main halls of the estate are magnetron designed, made of steel walkways with open sides. Some run along the ground, but many arch over the leafy treetops, jagged rocks, and springs dotting the property. Should battle ever come to our door, an invading force would have a difficult time fighting their way through a structure set against them.

Despite the manicured forest and luxurious grounds of the Ridge, few birds come here. They know better. As children, Ptolemus and I used many for target practice. The rest fell to my mother’s whims.

More than three hundred years ago, before the Calore kings rose, the Ridge did not exist, and neither did Norta. This corner of land was ruled by a Samos warlord, my direct ancestor. Ours is the blood of conquerors, and our fortunes have risen again. Maven is not the only king in Norta anymore.

Servants are good at making themselves scarce here, appearing only when needed or called upon. In recent weeks, they seem almost too good at their job. It isn’t hard to guess why. Many Reds are fleeing, either to the cities for safety against civil war, or to join the Scarlet Guard’s rebellion. Father says the Guard itself has escaped to Piedmont, which is all but a puppet, dancing on Montfort’s strings. He maintains channels of communication with the Montfort and Guard leaders, albeit begrudgingly. But for now, the enemy of our enemy is our friend, making us all tentative allies where Maven is concerned.

Tolly waits in the gallery, the wide, open hall running the length of the main house. Windows on all sides offer a view in every direction, over miles of the Rift. On the clearest of days, I might be able to see Pitarus to the west, but clouds hang low in the distance as spring rains race the length of the sprawling river valley. In the east, valleys and hills roll off in increasingly high slopes, ending in blue-green mountains. The Rift region is, in my correct opinion, the most beautiful piece of Norta. And it is mine. My family’s. House Samos rules this heaven.

My brother certainly looks like a prince, the heir to the throne of the Rift. Instead of armor, Tolly wears a new uniform. Silver gray instead of black, with gleaming onyx-and-steel buttons and an oil-dark sash crossing him from shoulder to hip. No medals yet, at least none that he can wear. The rest were earned in service to another king. His silvery hair is wet, plastered back against his head. Fresh from a shower. He keeps his new hand tucked in close, protective of the appendage. It took Wren the better part of a day to regrow it properly, and even then she needed an immense amount of help from two of her kin.

“Where’s my wife?” he asks, looking down the open passage behind me.

“She’ll be along eventually. Lazy thing.” Tolly married Elane a week ago. I don’t know if he’s seen her since the wedding night, but he hardly minds. The arrangement is mutually agreed upon.

He links his good arm in mine. “Not everyone can operate on as little sleep as you.”

“Well, what about you? I’ve heard all that work on your hand has led to some late nights with Lady Wren,” I reply, leering. “Or am I misinformed?”

Tolly grins, sheepish. “Is it that even possible?”

“Not here.” In Ridge House, it’s near impossible to keep secrets. Especially from Mother. Her eyes are everywhere, in mice and cats and the occasional daring sparrow. Sunlight angles through the gallery, playing across many sculptures of fluid metal. As we pass, Ptolemus twists his new hand in the air, and the sculptures twist with it. They re-form, each one more complex than the last.

“Don’t dawdle, Tolly. If the ambassadors arrive before we do, Father might spike our heads to the gate,” I scold him. He laughs at the common threat and old joke. Neither of us has ever seen such a thing. Father has killed before, certainly, but never so crudely or so close to home. Don’t bleed in your own garden, he would say.

We wind our way down from the gallery, keeping to the outer walkways so as to better enjoy the spring weather. Most of the interior salons look out on the walkway, their windows polished plate glass or their doors thrown open to catch the spring breeze. Samos guards line one, and they nod their heads when we approach, paying deference to their prince and princess. I smile at the gesture, but their presence unsettles me.

The Samos guards oversee a violent operation: the making of Silent Stone. Even Ptolemus pales as we pass. The smell of blood overpowers us both for a moment, filling the air with sharp iron. Two Arvens sit inside the salon, chained to their seats. Neither is here willingly. Their house is allied to Maven, but we have need for Silent Stone, and so they are here. Wren hovers between them, noting their progress. Both their wrists have been slit open, and they bleed freely into large buckets. When the Arvens reach their limit, Wren will heal them up and stimulate their blood production, all to begin again. Meanwhile, the blood will be mixed with cement, hardened into the deadly blocks of ability-suppressing stone. For what, I don’t know, but Father certainly has plans for it. A prison, maybe, like the one Maven built for Silvers and newbloods both.

Our grandest receiving chamber, the aptly named Sunset Stretch, is on the western slope. I suppose now it’s technically our throne room as well. As we approach, courtiers of my father’s newly created nobility dot the way, thickening with every forward step. Most are Samos cousins, elevated by our declaration of independence. A few of closer blood, my father’s siblings and their children, claim princely titles for themselves, but the rest remain lords and ladies, content as always to live off my father’s name and my father’s ambitions.

Bright colors stand out among the usual black and silver, an obvious indication of today’s assembly. Ambassadors from the other houses in open revolt have come to treat with the kingdom of the Rift. To kneel. House Iral will argue. Attempt to bargain. The silks think their secrets can buy them a crown, but power is the only currency here. Strength the only coin. And they surrendered both by entering our territory.

Haven has come as well, the shadows basking in sunlight, while the Laris windweavers in yellow keep close to each other. The latter have already given their allegiance to my father, and they bring with them the might of the Air Fleet, having seized control of most air bases. I care more about House Haven, though. Elane won’t say it, but she misses her family. Some have pledged loyalty to Samos already, but not all, including her own father, and it tears at her to see her house splinter. In truth, I think it’s why she didn’t come down here with me. She can’t bear the sight of her house divided. I wish I could make them kneel for her.

In the morning light, the Sunset Stretch is still impressive with its smooth river-rock flooring and sweeping views of the valley. The Allegiant River winds like a blue ribbon over green silk, lazily curving back and forth into the distant rainstorm.

The coalition has not arrived yet, allowing Tolly and me time to take our seats—thrones. His on Father’s right, mine on Mother’s left. All are made of the finest steel, polished to a mirror sheen. It’s cold to the touch, and I tell myself not to shiver as I sit. Goose bumps rise on my skin anyway, mostly in anticipation. I am a princess, Evangeline of the Rift, of the royal house of Samos. I thought my fate was to be someone else’s queen, subject to someone else’s crown. This is so much better. This is what we should have been planning for all along. I almost regret the years of my life wasted training only to be someone’s wife.

Father enters the hall with a crowd of advisers, his head dipped to listen. He doesn’t speak much by nature. His thoughts are his own, but he listens well, taking all into consideration before making decisions. Not like Maven, the foolish king who only followed his own flawed compass.

Mother follows alone, in her usual green, without ladies or advisers. Most give her a wide berth. Probably because of the two-hundred-pound black panther padding at her heels. It keeps pace with her, breaking from her side only when she reaches her throne. Then it weaves around me, nuzzling its massive head against my ankle. I keep still out of habit. Mother’s control of her creatures is well practiced, but not perfect. I’ve seen her pets take bites out of many servants, whether she willed it or not. The panther shakes its head once before returning to Mother, taking a seat on her left, between us. She rests a single hand blazing with emeralds on its head, strokes its silky black fur. The gigantic cat blinks slowly, its yellow eyes round.

I meet Mother’s gaze over the animal, raising a single brow. “Hell of an entrance.”

“It was the panther or the python,” she replies. Emeralds flash across the crown of her head, expertly set into silver. Her hair falls in a thick, black sheet, perfectly straight and smooth. “I couldn’t find a gown to match the snake.” She gestures down at the jade folds of her chiffon dress. I doubt that’s the reason, but I don’t say so out loud. Her machinations will become apparent soon enough. Smart as she is, Mother has little talent for subterfuge. Her threats come openly. Father is a good match for her in this way. His maneuvers take years, always moving in the shadows.

But for now, he stands in bright sunlight. His advisers fall back at a wave of his hand, and he ascends to sit with us. A powerful sight. Like Ptolemus, he wears clothes of brocaded silver, his old black robes abandoned. I can feel the suit of armor beneath his regalia. Chromium. Just like the simple band across his brow. No gems for Father. He has little use for them.

“Cousins of iron,” he says quietly to the Sunset Stretch, looking out on the many Samos faces dotting the receiving crowd.

“Kings of steel!” they shout back, putting fists to the air. The force of it thrums in my chest.

In Norta, in the throne rooms of Whitefire or Summerton, someone always crowed the name of the king, announcing his presence. As with gems, Father doesn’t care about such needless displays. Everyone here knows our name. To repeat it would only show weakness, a thirst for reassurance. Father has neither.

“Begin,” he says. His fingers drum on the arm of his throne, and the heavy iron doors at the far end of the hall swing open.

The ambassadors are few but high-ranking, leaders of their houses. Lord Salin of Iral seems to be wearing all the jewels my father lacks, his broad collar of rubies and sapphires stretching from shoulder to shoulder. The rest of his clothes are equally patterned in red and blue, and his robes billow around his ankles. Another might trip, but an Iral silk has no such fear. He moves with lethal grace, eyes hard and dark. He does his best to measure up to the memory of his predecessor, Ara Iral. His escorts are silks as well, just as flamboyant. They are a beautiful house, with skin like cold bronze and lush black hair. Sonya is not with him. I considered her a friend at court, as much as I consider anyone a friend. I don’t miss her, and it’s probably for the best she isn’t here.

Salin’s eyes narrow at the sight of my mother’s panther, now purring beneath her touch. Ah. I had forgotten. His mother, the murdered lady of Iral, was called the Panther in her youth. Subtle, Mother.

Half a dozen Haven shadows ripple into being, their faces decidedly less hostile. In the back of the room, I notice Elane appear as well. But her face stays in shadow, hiding her pain from everyone else in the crowded room. I wish I could seat her next to me. But even though my family has been more than obliging where she is concerned, that can never happen. She’ll sit behind Tolly one day. Not me.

Lord Jerald, Elane’s father, is the leading member of the Haven delegation. Like her, he has vibrant red hair and glowing skin. He seems younger than his years, softened by his natural ability to manipulate light. If he knows his daughter is in the back of the room, he doesn’t show it.

“Your Majesty.” Salin Iral inclines his head just enough to be polite.

Father does not bend. Only his eyes move, flickering between the ambassadors. “My lords. My ladies. Welcome to the kingdom of the Rift.”

“We thank you for your hospitality,” Jerald offers.

I can almost hear my father grind his teeth. He despises wasted time, and such pleasantries are certainly that. “Well, you traveled all this way. I hope it is to uphold your pledge.”

“We pledged to support you in coalition, to supplant Maven,” Salin says. “Not this.”

Father sighs. “Maven has been supplanted in the Rift. And with your allegiance, that can spread.”

“With you as king. One dictator for another.” Mutters break out among the crowd, but we remain silent as Salin spits his nonsense.

Next to me, Mother leans forward. “It’s hardly fair to compare my husband to that addled prince who has no business sitting his father’s throne.”

“I won’t stand by and let you seize a crown that is not yours,” Salin growls back.

Mother clucks her tongue. “You mean a crown you didn’t think to seize yourself? Pity the Panther was murdered. She would have planned for this, at least.” She continues stroking the glossy predator at her side. It growls low in its throat, baring fangs.

“The fact remains, my lord,” Father cuts in, “while Maven is floundering, his armies and resources vastly outnumber our own. Especially now that the Lakelanders have bound themselves to him. But together, we can defend. Strike out in force. Wait for more of his kingdom to crumble. Wait for the Scarlet Guard—”

“The Scarlet Guard.” Jerald spits on our beautiful floor. His face colors with a gray flush. “You mean Montfort. The true power behind those wretched terrorists. Another kingdom.”

“Technically—” Tolly begins, but Jerald presses on.

“I’m beginning to think you care not for Norta, but only for your title and your crown. On keeping whatever you piece you can while greater beasts devour our nation,” Jerald snaps. In the crowd, Elane flinches and shuts her eyes. No one speaks to my father this way.

The panther snarls again, matching Mother’s rising temper. Father just sits back against his throne, watching the open threat ripple through the Sunset Stretch.

After a long, trembling moment, Jerald sinks to a knee. “My apologies, Your Majesty. I misspoke. I did not intend . . .” He trails off under the king’s watchful eye, the words dying on his fleshy lips.

“The Scarlet Guard will never take hold here. No matter what radicals may be backing them.” Father speaks resolutely. “Reds are inferior, beneath us. That is the work of biology. Life itself knows we are their masters. Why else are we Silver? Why else are we their gods, if not to rule them?”

The Samos cousins cheer. “Kings of steel!” echoes through the chamber again.

“If newbloods want to throw their lot in with insects, let them. If they want to turn their backs on our way of life, let them. And when they return to fight us, to fight nature, kill them.”

The cheer grows, spreading from our house to Laris. Even a few in the delegations clap or nod along. I doubt they’ve ever heard Volo Samos speak this much—he’s been saving his voice and his words for the moments that matter. This is certainly that.

Only Salin remains still. His dark eyes, rimmed with black liner, stand out sharply. “Is that why your daughter let a terrorist go free? Why she slaughtered four Silvers of a noble house to do so?”

“Four Arvens sworn to Maven.” My voice snaps like a whip crack. The Iral lord turns his gaze on me and I feel electrified, almost rising in my seat. These are my first words as a princess, my first words spoken with a voice that is truly my own. “Four soldiers who would take everything you are if their wretched king asked. Do you mourn them, my lord?”

Salin scowls in disgust. “I mourn the loss of a valuable hostage, nothing more. And obviously I question your decision, Princess.”

Another drop of derision in your voice and I’ll cut out your tongue.

“The decision was mine,” Father says evenly. “Like you said, the Barrow girl was a valuable hostage. We took her from Maven.” And loosed her on the Square, like a beast from its cage. I wonder how many of Maven’s soldiers she took with her that day. Enough to fulfill Father’s plan at least, to cover our own escape.This is property © of NôvelDrama.Org.

“And now she’s in the wind!” Salin implores. His temper slips, inch by inch.

Father shows no signs of interest and states the obvious. “She is in Piedmont, of course. And I assure you, Barrow was more dangerous under Maven’s command than she’ll ever be under theirs. Our concern should be eliminating Maven, not radicals destined to fail.”

Salin blanches. “Fail? They hold Corvium. They control a vast amount of Piedmont, using a Silver prince as a puppet. If that is failure—”

“They seek to make equal that which is not fundamentally equal.” My mother speaks coldly, and her words ring true. “It is foolish, like balancing an impossible equation. And it will end in bloodshed. But it will end. Piedmont will rise up. Norta will throw back Red devils. The world will keep turning.”

All argument seems to die with Mother’s voice. Like Father, she sits back, satisfied. For once, she is without her familiar hiss of snakes. Just the great panther, purring under her touch.

Father forges on, eager to land the killing strike. “Our objective is Maven. The Lakelands. Cleaving the king from his new ally will leave him vulnerable, mortally so. Will you support us in our quest to rid this poison from our country?”

Slowly, Salin and Jerald exchange glances, their eyes meeting across the empty space between them. Adrenaline surges in my veins. They will kneel. They must kneel.

“Will you support House Samos, House Laris, House Lerolan—”

A voice cuts him off. The voice of a woman. It echoes—from nowhere. “You presume to speak for me?”

Jerald twists his wrist, his fingers moving in a rapid circle. Everyone in the chamber gasps, including me, when a third ambassador blinks into existence between Iral and Haven. Her house appears behind her, a dozen of them in clothes of red and orange, like the setting sun. Like an explosion.

Mother jolts beside me, surprised for the first time in many, many years. My adrenaline becomes spikes of ice, chilling my blood.

The leader of House Lerolan takes a daring step forward. Her appearance is severe. Gray hair tied into a neat bun, her eyes burning like heated bronze. The older woman does not know the name of fear. “I will not support a Samos king while a Calore heir lives.”

“I knew I smelled smoke,” Mother mutters, pulling her hand back from the panther. It immediately tenses, shifting to stand as its claws slide into place.

She just shrugs, smirking. “Easy to say, Larentia, now that you see me standing here.” Her fingers drum at her side. I watch them closely. She is an oblivion, able to explode things with a touch. If she got close enough, she could obliterate my heart in my chest or my brain in my skull.

“I am a queen—”

“So am I.” Anabel Lerolan grins wider. Though her clothes are fine, she wears no jewelry that I can see, no crown. No metal. My fist claws at my side. “We will not turn our backs on my grandson. The throne of Norta belongs to Tiberias the Seventh. Ours is a crown of flames, not steel.”

Father’s anger gathers like thunder and breaks like lightning. He stands from his throne, one fist clenching. The metal reinforcements of the chamber itself twist, groaning under the strain of his fury.

“We had a deal, Anabel!” he snarls. “The Barrow girl for your support.”

She just blinks.

Even from the far side, I can hear my brother hiss. “Have you forgotten the reason the Guard has Corvium? Did you not see your grandson fighting his own in Archeon? How can the kingdom stand behind him now?”

Anabel doesn’t flinch. Her lined face remains still, her expression open and patient. A kindly old woman in everything but the waves of ferocity emanating from her. She waits for my brother to push on, but he doesn’t, and she inclines her head. “Thank you, Prince Ptolemus, for at least not furthering the outrageous falsity of my son’s murder and my grandson’s exile. Both committed at the hands of Elara Merandus, both spread through the kingdom in the worst propaganda I have ever seen. Yes, Tiberias has done terrible things to survive. But they were to survive. After every one of us turned on him, abandoned him, after his own poisoned brother tried to kill him in the arena like a base criminal. A crown is the least we can give him in apology.”

Behind her, Iral and Haven stand firm. A curtain of tension falls over the hall. Everyone feels it. We’re Silvers, born to strength and power. All of us train to fight, to kill. We hear the tick of a clock in every heart, counting down to bloodshed. I glance at Elane, lock eyes with her. She presses her lips into a grim line.

“The Rift is mine,” Father growls, sounding like one of Mother’s beasts. The noise shudders in my bones, and I am instantly a child.

It has no such effect on the old queen. Anabel just tips her head to the side. Sunlight glints down the straight, iron strands of her hair gathered at the nape of her neck.

“Then keep it,” she replies with a shrug. “As you said, we had a deal.”

And just like that, the coiling turmoil threatening to engulf the room sweeps away. A few of the cousins, as well as Lord Jerald, visibly exhale.

Anabel spreads her hands wide, an open gesture. “You are the king of the Rift, and may you reign for many prosperous years. But my grandson is the rightful king of Norta. And he will need every ally we can muster to take his kingdom back.”

Even Father did not foresee this turn. Anabel Lerolan has not been to court in many years, electing to remain in Delphie, her house’s seat. She despised Elara Merandus and could not be near her—that, or she feared her. I suppose now, with the whisper queen gone, the oblivion queen can return. And return she has.

I tell myself not to panic. Blindsided as Father may be, this is not surrender. We keep the Rift. We keep our home. We keep our crowns. It’s only been a few weeks, but I’m loath to give away what we’ve planned for. What I deserve.

“I wonder how you intend to restore a king who wants no part in a throne,” Father muses. He steeples his fingers and surveys Anabel over them. “Your grandson is in Piedmont—”

“My grandson is an unwilling operative of the Scarlet Guard, which in turn is controlled by the Free Republic of Montfort. You’ll find that their leader, the one calling himself premier, is quite a reasonable man,” she adds with the air of someone discussing the weather.

My stomach twists, and I feel vaguely sick. Something in me, a deep instinct, screams for me to kill her before she can continue.

Father raises an eyebrow. “You’ve made contact with him?”

The Lerolan queen smiles tightly. “Enough to negotiate. But I speak to my grandson more often these days. He’s a talented boy, very good with machines. He reached out in his desperation, asking for only one thing. And thanks to you, I delivered.”

Mare.

Father narrows his eyes. “Does he know of your plans, then?”

“He will.”

“And Montfort?”

“Is eager to ally themselves with a king. They will support a war of restoration in the name of Tiberias the Seventh.”

“As they have in Piedmont?” If no one else will point out her folly, I certainly must. “Prince Bracken dances on their strings, controlled. Reports indicate they have taken his children. You would so willingly let your grandson become their puppet too?”

I came here eager to see others kneel. I remain seated, but I feel bare before Anabel as she grins. “As your mother said so eloquently, they seek to make equal that which is not fundamentally equal. Victory is impossible. Silver blood cannot be overthrown.”

Even the panther is quiet, watching the exchange with ticking eyes. Its tail flicks slowly. I focus on its fur, dark as the night sky. An abyss, just like the one we edge toward. My heart drums a harried rhythm, pumping both fear and adrenaline throughout my body. I don’t know which way Father will lean. I don’t know what will become of this path. It makes my skin crawl.

“Of course,” Anabel adds, “the kingdom of Norta and the kingdom of the Rift would be tightly bound by their alliance. And by marriage.”

The floor seems to tip beneath me. It takes every ounce of will and pride to remain on my cold and vicious throne. You are steel, I whisper in my head. Steel does not break or bend. But I can already feel myself bowing, giving way to my father’s will. He’ll trade me in a heartbeat, if it means keeping the crown. The kingdom of the Rift, the kingdom of Norta—Volo Samos will take whatever he can grasp. If the latter is out of reach, he will do whatever he can to maintain the first. Even if it means breaking his promise. Selling me off one more time. My skin prickles. I thought all this was behind us. I am a princess now, my father a king. I don’t need to marry anyone for a crown. The crown is in my blood, in me.

No, that isn’t true. You still need Father. You need his name. You are never your own.

Blood thunders in my ears, the roar of a hurricane. I can’t bring myself to look up at Elane. I promised her. She married my brother so we would never be parted. She upheld her side of the bargain, but now? They’ll send me to Archeon. She’ll stay here with Tolly as his wife and, one day, his queen. I want to scream. I want to rip the infernal chair under me to shreds and tear everyone in this room apart. Including myself. I can’t do this. I can’t live like this.

A few weeks of the closest thing to freedom I’ve ever known—and I can’t let it go. I can’t go back to living for someone else’s ambitions.

I breathe through my nose, trying to keep my rage in check. I have no gods, but I certainly pray.

Say no. Say no. Say no. Please, Father, say no.

No one looks at me, my only relief. No one watches my slow unraveling. They only have eyes for my father and his decision. I try to detach. Try to put my pain in a box and tuck it away. It’s easy to do in Training, in a fight. But it’s almost impossible now.

Of course. The voice in my head laughs sadly. Your path always led here, no matter what. I was made to marry the Calore heir. Physically made. Mentally made. Constructed. Like a castle, or a tomb. My life has never been my own, and it never will be.

My father’s words drive nails into my heart, each one another burst of bloody sorrow.

“To the kingdom of Norta. And the kingdom of the Rift.”