King’s Cage (Red Queen Book 3)

Before my capture, I spent months crisscrossing the country, evading Maven’s hunters and recruiting newbloods. I slept on a dirt floor, ate what we could steal, spent all my waking hours either feeling too much or too little, trying my best to stay ahead of all our demons. I didn’t handle the pressure well. I shut down and shut out my friends, my family, everyone close to me. Anyone who wanted to help or understand. Of course I regret it. Of course I wish I could go back to the Notch, to Cal and Kilorn and Farley and Shade. I would do things differently. I would be different.

Sadly, no Silver or newblood can change the past. My mistakes cannot be undone, forgotten, or ignored. But I can make amends. I can do something now.

I’ve seen Norta, but as an outlaw. From the shadows. The view from Maven’s side, as part of his extensive entourage, is like the difference between night and day. I shiver beneath my coat, hands clasped together for warmth. Between the crushing power of the Arvens and my manacles, I’m more susceptible to the temperature. Despite my hatred for him, I find myself inching closer to Maven, if only to take advantage of his constant heat. On his other side, Evangeline does the opposite, keeping her distance. She focuses more on Governor Welle than the king, and mutters to him occasionally, her voice low enough not to disturb Maven’s speech.

“I’m humbled by your welcome, as well as your support for a young and untested king.”

Maven’s voice echoes, magnified by microphones and speakers. He doesn’t read from any paper and somehow seems to make eye contact with every person crowding the city square below the balcony. Like everything about the king, even the location is a manipulation. We stand above hundreds, looking down, elevated beyond the reach of mere humans. The assembled people of Arborus, Governor Welle’s own capital within his domain, stare up, faces raised in a way that makes my skin itch. The Reds jostle for a better look. They’re easy to pick out, standing in bunches, covered in mismatched layers, their faces flushed red with cold, while the Silver citizenry sit in furs. Black-uniformed Security officers dot the crowd, vigilant as the Sentinels posted on the balcony and neighboring rooftops.

“It is my hope that this coronation tour allows me not only a deeper understanding of my kingdom, but a deeper understanding of you. Your struggles. Your hopes. Your fears. Because I am certainly afraid.” A murmur goes through the crowd below, as well as the assembled party on the balcony. Even Evangeline glances sidelong at Maven, eyes narrowed over the flawless white collar of her fur wrap. “We are a kingdom on the brink, threatening to shatter under the weight of war and terrorism. It is my solemn duty to prevent this from happening, and save us from the horrors of whatever anarchy the Scarlet Guard wishes to instill. So many are dead, in Archeon, in Corvium, in Summerton. My own mother and father among them. My own brother corrupted by the insurrectionist forces. But even so, I am not alone. I have you. I have Norta.” He sighs slowly, a muscle ticking in his cheek. “And we will stand together against the enemies seeking to destroy our way of life, Red and Silver. I pledge my life to eradicating the Scarlet Guard, in any way possible.”

The cheers below sound like metal on metal to me, screeching, a horrific noise. I keep my face still, expression carefully neutral. It serves me as well as any shield.

Every day his speech becomes firmer, his words carefully chosen and wielded like knives. Not once does he say the word rebel or revolution. The Scarlet Guard are always terrorists. Always murderers. Always enemies to our way of life, whatever that may be. And unlike his parents, he is masterfully careful to not insult Reds. The tour moves through Silver estates and Red cities alike. Somehow he seems at home in both, never flinching from the worst his kingdom has to offer. We even visit one of the factory slums, the kind of place I will never forget. I try not to cringe as we pass through the teetering dormitory buildings or when we step out into the polluted air. Maven alone seems unfazed, smiling for the workers and their tattooed necks. He doesn’t cover his mouth like Evangeline or retch at the smell like so many others, myself included. He’s better at this than I ever expected. He knows, as his parents could not or refused to understand, that seducing Reds to his Silver cause is perhaps his best chance of victory.

In another Red city, on the steps of a Silver mansion, he lays the next brick in a deadly road. One thousand poor farmers look on, not daring to believe, not daring to hope. Even I don’t know what he’s doing.

“My father’s Measures were enacted after a deadly attack that left many government officials dead. It was his attempt to punish the Scarlet Guard for their evil, and, to my shame, it only punished you instead.” Before the eyes of so many, he dips his face. It is a stirring sight. A Silver king bowing in front of the Red masses. I have to remind myself that this is Maven. This is a trick. “As of today, I decree the Measures lifted and abolished. They were the mistakes of a well-meaning king, but mistakes all the same.”

He glances at me, just for a moment, but the moment is enough for me to know that he cares about my reaction.

The Measures. Conscription age lowered to fifteen. Restrictive curfew. Lethal punishment for any crime. All to turn the Red population of Norta against the Scarlet Guard. All gone in an instant, in one beat of a king’s black heart. I should feel happy. I should feel proud. He’s doing this because of me. Some part of him thinks this will please me. Some part thinks it will keep me safe. But watching the Reds, my own people, cheer for their oppressor only fills me with dread. I look down to find that my hands are shaking.

What is he doing? What is he planning?

To find out, I must fly as close to the flame as I dare.

He ends his appearances by walking through the crowd, shaking hands with as many Reds as he does Silvers. He cuts through them with ease, Sentinels flanking him in diamond formation. Samson Merandus always has his back, and I wonder how many feel the brush of his mind against their own. He’s a better deterrent to a would-be assassin than anything else. Evangeline and I trail behind, both of us with guards. As always, I refuse to smile, to look, to touch anyone. It’s safer for them this way.

The transports wait for us, their engines worked to an idle purr. Above, the overcast sky darkens and I smell snow. While our guards close ranks, tightening formation to allow the king to enter his transport, I quicken my pace as best I can. My heart races and my breath puffs white on the cold air.

“Maven,” I say aloud.

Despite the cheering crowd behind us, he hears me and pauses on the step of his transport. He turns with fluid grace, long cape whirling out to show bloodred lining. Unlike the rest of us, he doesn’t need to wear fur to keep warm.

I draw my coat tighter, if only to give my nervous hands something more to do. “Did you really mean that?”

At his own transport, Samson stares, eyes boring into mine. He can’t read my mind, not while I wear the manacles, but that doesn’t make him useless. I rely on my real confusion to create the mask I want to wear.

I have no illusions where Maven is concerned. I know his twisted heart, and that it feels something for me. Something he wants to get rid of, but can never part with. When he waves me to his transport, beckoning for me to join him, I expect to hear Evangeline scoff or protest. She does neither, sweeping away to her own transport. In the cold, she doesn’t glitter so brightly. She seems almost human.

The Arvens do not follow, though they try. Maven stops them with a look.

His transport is different from any other I’ve been in. The driver and front guard are separated from the passengers by a glass window, sealing us in together. The walls and windows are thick, bulletproof. The Sentinels don’t slide in either, instead climbing directly onto the transport skeleton, taking up defensive positions at every corner. It’s unsettling, to know there’s a Sentinel with a gun sitting directly above me. But not as unsettling as the king sitting across from me, staring, waiting.

He eyes my hands, watching me rub my frozen fingers together.

“Are you cold?” he murmurs.

Quickly I tuck my hands under my legs to warm them up. The transport accelerates forward. “Are you really going to do it? End the Measures?”

“You think I would lie?”

I can’t help but laugh darkly. In the back of my mind, I wish for a knife. I wonder if he could incinerate me before I slit his throat. “You? Never.”

He smirks and shrugs, shifting to get more comfortable on the plush seats. “I meant what I said. The Measures were a mistake. Enacting them did more harm than good.”

“To Reds? Or to you?”

“To both, of course. Although I would thank my father if I could. I expect righting his wrongs will win me support among your people.” The cold detachment in his voice is discomforting, to say the least. I know now it comes from memories of his father. Poisoned things, drained of any love or happiness. “I’m afraid your Scarlet Guard won’t have many sympathizers left by the time this is done. I’m going to end them without another useless war.”

“You think giving people crumbs is going to placate them?” I growl, gesturing to the windows with my chin. Farms, barren for the winter, stretch out to the hills. “Oh, lovely, the king has given me back two years of my child’s life. Doesn’t matter that they’re still going to be taken away eventually.”

His smirk only widens. “You think that?”

“I do. That’s how this kingdom is. That’s how it’s always been.”

“We’ll see.” Leaning farther, he puts a foot up on the seat next to me. He even removes his crown, spins it between his hands. Bronze and iron flames glint in the low light, reflecting my face and his. Slowly, I edge away, crowding myself into the corner.

“I suppose I taught you a hard lesson,” he says. “You missed so much last time, and now you trust nothing. You’re always watching, looking for information you’re never going to use. Have you figured out where we’re going yet? Or why?”C0pyright © 2024 Nôv)(elDrama.Org.

I take a breath. I feel like I’m back in Julian’s classroom, being tested on a map. The stakes feel much higher here. “We’re on the Iron Road now, heading northwest. To Corvium.”

He has the gall to wink. “Close.”

“We’re not . . .” I blink quickly, trying to think. My brain buzzes through all the pieces I’ve jealously collected over the days. Shards of news, bits of gossip. “Rocasta? Are you going after Cal?”

Maven settles back farther, amused. “So small-minded. Why would I waste time chasing rumors of my exiled brother? I have a war to end and a rebellion to prevent.”

“A war to . . . end?”

“You said yourself, the Lakelands will overthrow us if given the chance. I’m not going to let that happen. Especially with Piedmont focused elsewhere, on their own multitude of troubles. I have to handle these matters myself.” Despite the warmth of the transport, due in large part to the fire king sitting in front of me, I feel a finger of ice trail down my spine.

I used to dream of the Choke. The place where my father lost his leg, where my brothers almost lost their lives. Where so many Reds die. A waste of ash and blood.

“You’re not a warrior, Maven. You’re not a general or a soldier. How can you possibly hope to defeat them when—”

“When others couldn’t? When Father couldn’t? When Cal couldn’t?” he snaps. Each word sounds like the crack of bone. “You’re right, I’m not like them. War is not what I was made for.”

Made. He says it with such ease. Maven Calore is not his own self. He told me as much. He is a construct, a creation of his mother’s additions and subtractions. A mechanical, a machine, soulless and lost. What a horror, to know that someone like this holds our fates in the palm of his quivering hand.

“It will be no loss, not truly,” he drones on to distract us both. “Our military economy will simply turn its attention to the Scarlet Guard. And then whoever we decide to fear next. Whatever avenue is best for population control—”

If not for the manacles, my rage would certainly turn the transport into a heap of electrified scrap. Instead, I jump forward, lunging, hands stretched out to grab him by the collar. My fingers worm beneath the lapels of his jacket and I seize fabric in both fists. Without thinking, I shove, pushing, smashing him back into his seat. He flinches, a hand’s breadth from my face, breathing hard. He’s just as surprised as I am. No easy thing. I immediately go numb with shock, unable to move, paralyzed by fear.

He stares up at me, eye to eye, lashes dark and long. I’m so close to him I can see his pupils dilate. I wish I could disappear. I wish I were on the other side of the world. Slowly, steadily, his hands find mine. They tighten on my wrists, feeling manacle and bone. Then he pries my fists from his chest. I let him move me, too terrified for anything else. My skin crawls at his touch, even beneath gloves. I attacked him. Maven. The king. One word, one tap on the window, and a Sentinel will rip out my spine. Or he could kill me himself. Burn me alive.

“Sit back down,” he whispers, every word sharp. Giving me one single chance.

Like a scrambling cat, I do as he says, retreating to my corner.

He recovers faster than I do and shakes his head with the ghost of a smile. Quickly he smooths his jacket and brushes back a lock of rumpled hair.

“You’re a smart girl, Mare. Don’t tell me you never connected those particular dots.”

My breath comes hard, as if there’s a stone sitting on my chest. I feel heat rise in my cheeks, both out of anger and shame. “They want our coast. Our electricity. We want their farmlands, resources . . .” I stumble over the words I was taught in a ramshackle schoolhouse. The look on Maven’s face only becomes more amused. “In Julian’s books . . . the kings disagreed. Two men arguing over a chessboard like spoiled children. They’re the reason for all this. For a hundred years of war.”

“I thought Julian taught you to read between the lines. To see the words left unsaid.” He shakes his head, despairing of me. “I suppose even he could not undo your years of poor education. Another well-used tactic, I might add.”

That I knew. That I’ve always known, and lamented. Reds are kept stupid, kept ignorant. It makes us weaker than we already are. My own parents can’t even read.

I blink away hot tears of frustration. You knew all this, I tell myself, trying to calm down. The war is a ruse, a cover to keep Reds under control. One conflict may end, but another will always begin.

It twists my insides to realize how rigged the game has been, for everyone, for so very long.

“Stupid people are easier to control. Why do you think my mother kept my father around for so long? He was a drunk, a heartbroken imbecile, blind to so much, content to keep things as they were. Easy to control, easy to use. A person to manipulate—and blame.”

Furious, I swipe at my face, trying to hide any evidence of my emotions. Maven watches anyway, his expression softening a little. As if that helps anything. “So what are two Silver kingdoms going to do once they stop throwing Reds at each other?” I hiss. “Start marching us off cliffs at random? Pull names out of a lottery?”

He rests a hand on his chin. “I can’t believe Cal never told you any of this. Although he wasn’t really jumping at the opportunity to change things, not even for you. Probably didn’t think you could handle it—or, well, perhaps he didn’t think you would understand it—”

My fist slams against the bulletproof glass of the window. It smarts instantly, and I bury myself in the pain, using it to keep any thoughts of Cal at bay. I can’t let myself fall into that drowning spiral, even if it’s true. Even though Cal was once willing to uphold these horrors. “Don’t,” I snap at him. “Don’t.”

“I’m not a fool, little lightning girl.” His snarl matches my own. “If you’re going to play in my head, I’m going to play in yours. It’s what we’re good at.”

I was cold before, but now the heat of his anger threatens to consume me. Feeling sick, I press my cheek against the cool glass of the window and shut my eyes. “Don’t compare me to you. We’re not the same.”

“People like us,” he scoffs. “We lie to everyone. Especially ourselves.”

I want to punch the window again. Instead, I tuck my fists tight under my arms, trying to make myself smaller. Maybe I’ll just shrink away and disappear. With every breath, I regret getting into his transport more and more.

“You’ll never get the Lakelands to agree,” I say.

I hear him laugh deep in his throat. “Funny. They already have.”

My eyes fly open in shock.

He nods, looking pleased with himself. “Governor Welle facilitated a meeting with one of their top ministers. He has contacts in the north and is easily . . . persuaded.”

“Probably because you hold his daughter hostage.”

“Probably,” he agrees.

So that’s what this tour is. A solidifying of power, the creation of a new alliance. A twisting of arms and bending of wills by whatever means necessary. I knew it was for something other than spectacle, but this—this I could not fathom. I think of Farley, the Colonel, their Lakelander soldiers pledged to the Scarlet Guard. What will a truce do to them?

“Don’t look so glum. I’m ending a war millions died for, and bringing peace to a country that no longer knows the meaning of the word. You should be proud of me. You should be thanking me. Don’t—” He puts his hands up in defense as I spit at him.

“You really need to figure out another way to express your anger,” he grumbles, wiping at his uniform.

“Take off my manacles and I’ll show you one.”

He barks out a laugh. “Yes, of course, Miss Barrow.”

Outside, the sky darkens and the world fades to gray. I put a palm to the glass, willing myself to fall through. Nothing happens. I’m still here.

“I must say, I am surprised,” he adds. “We have far more in common with the Lakelands than you think.”

My jaw tightens and I speak through gritted teeth. “You both use Reds as slaves and cannon fodder.”

He sits up so quickly I flinch. “We both want to end the Scarlet Guard.”

It’s almost comical. Every step I take explodes in my face. I tried to save Kilorn from conscription and maimed my sister instead. I became a maid to help my family and within hours became a prisoner. I believed Maven’s words and Maven’s false heart. I trusted Cal to choose me. I raided a prison to free people and ended up clutching Shade’s corpse. I sacrificed myself to save the people I love. I gave Maven a weapon. And now, try as I might to thwart his reign from the inside, I think I’ve done something much worse. What will a united Lakelands and Norta look like?

Despite what Maven said, we head to Rocasta anyway, barreling on after more coronation stops throughout the Westlakes region. We won’t stay. Either there isn’t a stately home suitable enough for Maven’s court, or he simply doesn’t want to be there. I can see why. Rocasta is a military city. Not a fortress like Corvium, but built to support the army all the same. An ugly thing, formed for function. The city sits several miles off the banks of Lake Tarion, and the Iron Road runs through its heart. It bisects Rocasta like a blade, separating the wealthier Silver sector of the city from the Red. With no walls to speak of, the city creeps up on me. The shadows of houses and buildings appear out of the white blindness of a blizzard. Silver storms work to keep our road clear, battling the weather to keep the king on schedule. They stand on top of our transports, directing the snow and ice around us with even motions. Without them, the weather would be much worse, a hammer of brutal winter.

Still, snow blasts against the windows of my transport, obscuring the world outside. There are no more windweavers from the talented House Laris. They’re either dead or gone, having fled with the other rebelling houses, and the Silvers remaining can only do so much.

From what little I can see, Rocasta carries on despite the storm. Red workers move to and fro, clutching at lanterns, their lights bobbing through the haze like fish in murky water. They’re used to this kind of weather so close to the lakes.

I settle down into my long coat, glad for the warmth, even if the coat is a bloodred monstrosity. I glance at the Arvens, still clad in their usual white.

“Are you scared?” I chatter to the empty air. I don’t wait for their nonexistent response, all of them quietly focused on ignoring my voice. “We could lose you in a storm like this.” I sigh to myself, crossing my arms. “Wishful thinking.”

Maven’s transport rolls ahead of mine, spotted with Sentinel guards. Like my coat, they stand out sharply in the snowstorm, their flaming robes a beacon to the rest of us. I’m surprised they don’t take off their masks despite the low visibility. They must revel in looking inhuman and frightening—monsters to defend another monster.

Our convoy turns off the Iron Road somewhere near the center of the city, speeding down a wide avenue crisscrossed with twinkling lights. Opulent town houses and walled city manors rise up from the street, their windows warm and inviting. Up ahead, a clock tower fades in and out of visibility, occasionally obscured by drifting gusts of snow. It tolls three o’clock as we approach, gonging peals of sound that seem to reverberate inside my rib cage.

Dark shadows plunge along the street, deepening with every passing second as the storm gets stronger. We’re in the Silver sector, evidenced by the lack of trash and bedraggled Reds roaming the alleys. Enemy territory. As if I’m not already as deeply behind enemy lines as possible.

At court, there were rumors about Rocasta, and Cal in particular. A few soldiers had received a tip that he was in the city, or some old man had thought he’d seen him and wanted rations in exchange for the information. But the same could be said of so many places. He’d be stupid to come here, to a city still firmly under Maven’s control. Especially with Corvium so close by. If he’s smart, he is far away, well hidden, helping the Scarlet Guard as best he can. Strange to think that House Laris, House Iral, and House Haven rebelled in his honor, for an exiled prince who will never claim the throne. What a waste.

The administrative building beneath the clock tower is ornate compared to the rest of Rocasta, more akin to the columns and crystal of Whitefire Palace. Our convoy glides to a halt before it, spitting us out into the snow.

I hustle up the steps as quickly as I can, drawing up the infuriating red collar against the cold. Inside, I expect warmth and a waiting audience to hang on Maven’s every calculated word. Instead, we find chaos.

This was once a grand meeting hall: the walls are lined with plush benches and seating, now pushed aside. Most have been stacked on top of one another, cleared to make room on the main floor. I’m seized by the scent of blood. A strange thing for a hall full of Silvers.

But then I see: it is not so much a hall as a hospital.

All the wounded are officers, laid out on cots in neat rows. I count three dozen at a glance. Their liveried uniforms and neat medals mark them as military of varying ranks, with insignia from any number of High Houses. Skin healers attend as fast as they can, but only two are on duty, marked by the red-and-silver crosses on their shoulders. They sprint back and forth, seeing to injuries in order of seriousness. One jumps up from a moaning man to kneel over a woman coughing up silver blood, her chin metal-bright with the liquid.

“Sentinel Skonos,” Maven says gravely. “Help who you can.”

One of his masked guards reacts with a stilted bow, breaking rank with the rest of the king’s defenders.

More of us file in, crowding an already-crowded room. A few members of court abandon propriety to search the soldiers, looking for family. Others are simply horrified. Their kind aren’t meant to bleed. Not like this.

Ahead of me, Maven looks back and forth, hands on his hips. If I didn’t know him better, I would think him affected, angry or sad. But this is about to be another performance. Even though these are Silver officers, I feel a pang of pity for them.

The hospital hall is proof my Arvens are not made of stone. To my surprise, Kitten is the one to break first, her eyes watering with tears as she looks around. She fixes her gaze on the far end of the hall. White shrouds cover bodies. Corpses. A dozen dead.

At my feet, a young man hisses out a breath. He keeps a hand pressed to his chest, putting pressure on what must be an internal wound. I lock eyes with him, noting his uniform and his face. Older than me, classically handsome beneath streaks of silver blood. Black-and-gold house colors. House Provos, a telky. It doesn’t take him long to recognize me. His brows raise a little in realization, and he struggles for another breath. Beneath my gaze, he shakes. He’s afraid of me.

“What happened?” I ask him. In the din of the hall, my voice is barely more than a whisper.

I don’t know why he responds. Maybe he thinks I’ll kill him if he doesn’t. Maybe he wants someone to know what’s really going on.

“Corvium,” he murmurs back. The Provos officer wheezes, fighting to push out the words. “Scarlet Guard. It’s a massacre.”

Fear shivers in my voice. “For who?”

He hesitates, and I wait.

Finally he draws a ragged breath.

“Both.”