Feeding his ego doesn’t work, as it usually does with nobles and courtiers. His lip curls. “I try to keep my focus on things that actually exist, Iris. Like the war we’re both trying to win.”

Suit yourself. I swallow the response with cool detachment. Nonbelievers are not my problem. I can’t open their eyes, and it isn’t my job to do so. Let him meet the gods in death and see how wrong he was before he enters a hell of his own making. They’ll drown him for eternity. That is the punishment for burners in the afterlife. Just as flames would be my own damnation.

“Of course.” I dip my head, feeling the cold jewels on my brow. “The army will go to Citadel of the Lakes when they arrive, for healing and rearmament. We should be there to meet them.”

He nods. “We should.”

“And there is Piedmont to consider,” I add. I wasn’t in Norta when the lords loyal to Prince Bracken sought Maven’s aid. Our countries were still at war then. But the intelligence reports were clear enough.

A muscle feathers in Maven’s cheek. “Prince Bracken won’t fight against Montfort, not while those bastards hold his children hostage.” He speaks like I’m some kind of simpleton.

I keep my temper in check, dipping my head. “Of course,” I reply. “But if an alliance could be won in secret? Montfort would lose their base in the south, all the resources Bracken has ceded to them, and they would gain a powerful enemy. Another Silver kingdom for them to fight.”

His footsteps echo, loud and even over the walkway. I can hear him breathing, exhaling in low, humming sighs as I wait for some answer. Even though we’re almost the same height and I probably weigh as much as he does, if not more, I feel small beside Maven. Small and vulnerable. A bird in alliance with a cat. I don’t like the sensation.

“Retrieving Bracken’s children could be a goose chase. We don’t know where they are, or how well guarded they might be. They could be on the other side of the continent. They could be dead, for all we know,” Maven mutters. “Our focus should be on my brother. When he is gone, they’ll have no one left to stand behind.”

I try not to look disappointed, but I feel my shoulders droop anyway. We need Piedmont. I know we do. Leaving them to Montfort is a mistake, one that could end in our death and ruin. So I try again.

“Prince Bracken’s hands are tied. He can’t attempt a rescue of his children, even if he knew where they were,” I murmur, dropping my voice. “The risk of failure is too great. But could someone else do it for him?”

“Are you offering yourself for the job, Iris?” he clips, looking down his nose at me.

I tighten at such a foolish thought. “I am a queen and a princess, not a dog playing fetch.”

“Of course you aren’t a dog, my dear.” Maven offers a sneer, never breaking his stride. “Dogs obey.”

Instead of recoiling, I brush off the naked insult with a sigh. “I suppose you’re right, my king.” My last card to play is a good one. “After all, you have experience where hostages are concerned.”

Heat flares next to me, close enough that an instant sweat breaks out over my body. Reminding Maven of Mare—and how he lost her—is an easy way to ignite his temper.

“If the children can be found,” he growls, “then perhaps something can be arranged.”

That’s all I get from the Calore king. I consider it a successful conversation.

The walls change from polished gilding and turquoise paint to gleaming marble, marking the end of the noble sector and the beginning of the royal palace. Arches still dart the way, but they’re gated and guarded, a Lakelander soldier in stoic blue at each. More walk the length of the wall, looking down at their queen as she passes. Mother’s pace quickens slightly. She’s eager to be inside, away from prying eyes. Alone with us. Tiora follows at her heels, not to stay close to Mother, but to keep her distance from Maven. He unsettles her, as he does most people. Something about the intensity in his electric eyes. It seems wrong in someone so young. Artificial, even. Planted.

With a mother like his, it very well could be.

If she were alive, she wouldn’t be allowed in Detraon, let alone within striking distance of the royal family. In the Lakelands, her kind of Silvers, mind-controlling whispers, are not trusted. Nor do they exist anymore. The Servon Line was extinguished long ago, and for good reason. As for Norta, I have a feeling House Merandus may soon meet the same fate. I have yet to speak to a whisper since I came to Whitefire, and after Maven’s cousin died at our wedding, I think he must be keeping the rest of his mother’s brood away, if they are still living at all.

The Royelle, our palace, spirals across the vast grounds of its sector. It has canals and aqueducts of its own, their waters spilling out in fountains and falls. Some arch over our path, carried to the bay, while others run under the walkway. In winter, most of them freeze, decorating the path in icy sculptures no human hand could create. Priests from the temples will read the ice, on feast days and holidays, to communicate the will of the gods. They speak in riddles, usually, writing their words on the land and lakes for only the blessed to see, and few to understand.

It takes courage for a burner king of a recently hostile nation to enter the stronghold of the Lakelands, and Maven does it without flinching. Another might think he doesn’t have the capacity for fear. That his mother removed something so weak. But that isn’t true. I see fear in everything he does. Fear of his brother, mostly. Fear because that Barrow girl is gone and out of his grasp. And like everyone else in our world, he is deathly afraid of losing his power. It’s why he’s here. Why he married me. He will do anything to keep his crown.

Such dedication. It’s both his greatest strength and his greatest weakness.

We approach the grand gates opening on the bay, flanked both by guards and waterfalls. The men bow to Mother as she passes, and even the water ripples a little, tugged by her immense ability. Inside the bay gates is my favorite courtyard: a wide, manicured riot of blue flowers of every kind. Roses, lilies, hydrangeas, tulips, hibiscus—petals in shades from periwinkle to deep indigo. At least, they should be blue. But like the flags, like my family, the flowers mourn.

Their petals are black.

“Your Majesty, may I ask for my daughter’s presence in our shrine? As is our tradition?”

It’s the first time I’ve heard Mother speak this morning. She uses her court tone, as well as the language of Norta so Maven has no excuse to misunderstand her request. Her accent is better than mine, almost imperceptible. Cenra Cygnet is a smart woman, with an ear for languages and an eye for diplomacy.

She stops to survey Maven, turning to face him in a display of common courtesy. It would not do to show a king her back while asking something of him. Even if the request is for me, her daughter, a living person with a will of her own, I think as a sour taste rises in my mouth. But not really. He outranks you. You’re his subject now, not hers. You do as he wishes.

On the outside, at least.

I have no intention of being a queen on a leash.

Thankfully, Maven is less dismissive of religion in front of my mother. He offers a tight smile and a shallow bow. Next to Mother, with her graying hair and crow’s-feet, he seems younger. New. Inexperienced. He is anything but. “We must honor tradition,” he says. “Even in chaotic times like these. Neither Norta nor the Lakelands can forget who they are. It may be what saves us in the end, Your Majesty.”