“Together with the Lakelands,” Bracken adds.

Another flash of amusement in the prince, and I feel heat rise in my cheeks. “Of course. We back Maven Calore to the last.” With as little as we can afford to send. Fewer troops, less weaponry, less money. The rest of it jealously guarded and hoarded for when we need it most.

My cheek burns, flaming hot, as Maven’s lips brush my face in a chaste but symbolic kiss. “We’re a good match, aren’t we?” he says, turning back to Bracken.

I fight the urge to make good on my promise and pin Maven to the floor where I can drown him to my heart’s content.

“Quite,” Bracken murmurs, his black eyes darting between us. “Unfortunately, we don’t seem to be making much headway. I’ve sent for whispers and singers from Prince Denniarde’s lands.” He gestures to the prince behind him, resplendent in his emeralds and sheer, green silk. “But they’ve yet to arrive, and I’m afraid I don’t want to risk further damaging any of the prisoners before they can be properly interrogated.”

I turn to the nearest cell, hoping to hide my disgust at the thought of whispers and singers coming here. Neither should be trusted, but I hold my tongue.

The man in the cell stares back at me, his eyes like bright coals in the dim light of his prison. His skin is as brown as mine, although with a reddish undertone, and his black hair is curly, as is his oiled and groomed beard. The uniform he wears is dark green, the color of Montfort. It has rips in it, missing patches on the breast and upper arms. They dangle broken thread. From insignia removed, badges and honors torn away. I narrow my eyes, and he does the same.

“What’s your rank, soldier?” I sneer, crossing to the bars.

Behind me, Bracken and Maven quiet.

The bearded man says nothing. As I come closer, I realize he has a scar below his eye. Too uniform to be an accident. A well-healed and perfectly straight line.

I jerk my chin at it. “Someone gave you that mark, didn’t they?”

“You speak as if a Silver holding me down and scarring my face were a gift,” he replies slowly. His words are oddly stilted, broken apart. As if he has to think through each as it weighs on his tongue.

I trace the scar again, looking it over. I wonder what he did, or didn’t do, to warrant such a punishment.

“When your whispers come,” I say, looking over my shoulder to Bracken. “Start with him. He’s of higher rank. He’ll know more than most.”

Maven’s lips twitch and he almost smiles.

“Of course,” Bracken replies. “We’ll start with that foolish Red, won’t we?” he adds, crooning to his children as he leads them away. They nod in tandem, seeming far younger than ten and eight. “Then you’ll see they are nothing to be frightened of. Not anymore. They’re nothing to you. Nothing.”

Again Michael hides his face, shoving his head under his father’s arm.

Charlotta does the opposite, putting her tiny chin in the air. She has freckles, a dusting over her brown skin. In Montfort, her hair was simple, smoothed back into a single, tight knot. Here she dresses like the princess she is, in patterned white silk, with amethysts studding her many braids. I watch her as she follows her father, small gown trailing over concrete. Her outfit reminds me of a bride’s dress, and I wonder who she will be traded to, as I was traded, when the time comes.

We continue on our way, surveying the cells, and I return to my counting. Maven swings his arms back and forth, almost joyful. So the victory has had an effect after all.

“I didn’t know you were capable of happiness,” I mutter, and he laughs outright. It cuts like glass.

He grins at me unkindly, a wild, manic gleam in his eye. “Your impression of Mare Barrow is very good.”

I sneer back, dancing on the knife edge. “Well, you want her to be your queen, so I might as well play the part.”

Another peal of laughter. He blinks at me, as if inspecting a painting. “Is this jealousy, Iris?” I tighten under his scrutiny, my muscles tense as coiled wire. “No, no, it’s not,” he sighs, still smiling. “As I said before, we’re a good match.”

Hardly.

“Did someone say my name?”

Maven stops short next to me, his brows furrowing in open confusion. He tips his head to one side and looks over his shoulder, blinking back at the cell behind us.

The voice belongs to the bearded man. He leans against his bars, dangling his hands into the central aisle. He peers at us, an eyebrow raised like some kind of challenge.

“You heard me, Maven,” he says, and his voice is different from before. Still his own, but stronger, faster, more forceful. A sharp edge on stone.

We look back at him, perplexed. At least, I am.

Maven looks torn between murderous fury and . . . hope?

The man grins.

“Have you missed me?” he says. “I think you have.”

I hear bone on bone. Grinding teeth. Maven clenches his jaw and forces out a single word.

“Mare.”

FOURTEEN

Mare

“He knows it’s you.”

We all seem to inhale at the same time, and my breath feels ragged. Suddenly, the small room tucked away in the Samos palace is much too tight. On instinct, my eyes snap to Farley. She stares back at me. Her throat works, swallowing hard, and I trace the action. She steels before my eyes, hardening with determination.

I bite my lip and wish I could do this alone. But she isn’t going anywhere, standing over Ibarem. Close enough to stop this if things get beyond my control. Ibarem’s eyes burn into mine, alight and intense as his mind bridges the divide between Ridge House and Piedmont. He already vomited out as much information as he could about the prison on the Piedmont base, the bunker half buried with east-facing windows. Which prisoners his brother can see, exactly who he’s captured with, who he saw die, who he saw escape. To my relief, Ella and Rafe were among the survivors who made it into the swamps. That intelligence alone was vital, but this—Maven, right in front of us. So close I feel like I could almost reach out and touch him.

I want to see what Ibarem sees. I want to tip forward, plunge through the russet depths of his eyes, and emerge in the matching pair staring out of a cell hundreds of miles away. Look Maven in the face again. Read him as I know I can. Every tick and pull of muscle under skin. The smallest flashes across ice-blue eyes, speaking of secrets and weaknesses he tries to bury.

Ibarem’s connection to his brother will have to do. Their bond is strong despite the distance, almost immediate. Ibarem describes everything he senses through Rash as it comes.

“Maven is approaching the bars—he’s leaning in, inches away. There’s sweat on his neck. It’s hot in Piedmont. It just rained.” Ibarem tightens before me, laying his palms flat on his thighs. He draws back, and I imagine Maven right here in the room with us, crowding into his face. Ibarem’s lip curls in distaste. “He’s searching us. Our eyes.”

I flinch and feel the cold phantom of familiar breath on my skin.

In spite of the sunlight streaming in through the single window, I feel darkness pool in this small, forgotten room hidden in Ridge House. I wish I’d never thought of this, had never summoned Ibarem to do this. He was supposed to be our link to Tahir and Davidson, an easy connection to Montfort. Not to his other brother, captured in Piedmont. Not to Maven.

I force myself to keep still, locking my muscles and my expression. But my heart gallops in my chest, rising to a dull, constant thud.

Farley tries not to pace, and her odd lack of activity makes me even more nervous than I already am. This place disagrees with both of us. Ridge House seems like little more than a trap waiting to be sprung. Every room has metal in some form, beamed or columned or even woven into the floor itself. The house is a weapon only a few can wield. And they surround us at all times.

Even the chair beneath me is cold steel. I shiver where it touches my bare skin.

The knock on the door makes us both jump, startled out of our skin. I whirl, teeth clenched, to see the knob turn, catching fast against a lock. Farley crosses to the door in two long strides, ready to turn away whatever servant or snooping noble waits on the other side.

To my dismay, she throws the door wide and steps back, allowing a broad, familiar silhouette to step into the room.