They are Red. They are lesser. And they are happy. How can this be?

“Stop moping, Calore,” I grind out through gritted teeth. The advice is for both of us. “You forged this crown yourself—now wear it. Or don’t.”

SEVEN

Iris

The banks of the Ohius are high. It was a wet spring, with the southern farms of the Lakelands almost flooding many times. Tiora was here in the unstable borderlands just a few weeks ago, to help save the new crops as much as she was to smile and wave. Her small, rare grin won us some favor here, but not enough. Reports to the crown say that Reds are still fleeing, crossing the hills into the Rift to the east. They are fools if they believe the Silver king there will offer them a better life. The smarter ones cross the Ohius into the disputed territories, where no king or queen rules. But they have to risk the chaos of such a journey, facing Red and Silver alike between the Lakelands and northern Piedmont.

The rise above the river offers a commanding view of the valley. A good place to wait. I look south, into the woods gleaming golden beneath the waning light of afternoon. Today was easy, filled with travel across the corn and wheat. And Maven was kind enough to take his own transport, allowing me long hours of peace as we rolled south. The journey was almost a reprieve, even if it meant leaving my mother and sister behind. They’re back in the capital. I can’t say when I’ll see them again. If I ever do.

In spite of the pleasant breeze and the warm air, Maven elects to wait in his vehicle. For now. Certainly he’ll try to make some kind of entrance when the Piedmontese arrive.

“He is late,” the old woman mutters at my side.

In spite of the circumstances, I feel a corner of my mouth lift. “Patience, Jidansa.”

“My, how the current has changed, Your Majesty,” she chuckles, the wrinkles on her brown face deepening as she grins. “I can remember giving you the same counsel more than once. Usually in regard to food.”

I break my vigil, looking away from the horizon to glance at her. “In that, the current remains true.”

Her dusty laugh deepens, echoing out across the river.

Jidansa of the Merin Line has been a friend of the family for as long as I can remember, close as an aunt and doting as a nanny. She used her telky ability to amuse Ti and me as children, juggling our shoes or toys with her mind. Despite her lined face, white hair, and matronly disposition, Jidansa is a fearsome opponent, a telky talented beyond measure, one of the best in our nation.

I would ask her to return with me to Norta, if I were not so heartless. She would agree, but I know better than to make such a request. Most of her family died in the war. Living among Nortans would be a punishment she doesn’t deserve.

Her presence is calming. Even if we are in the Lakelands, I still feel unease around Maven.

The rest of my escort fans out behind me, allowing a respectful distance. The Sentinels should make me feel safe, but I can never feel at ease beneath their jeweled gaze. They would kill me if my husband commanded it. Or try, at the very least.

I fold my arms in front of me, feeling the edges of my blue traveling jacket. Even though I’m about to meet a prince of Piedmont, the ruling prince, I look woefully underdressed. Hopefully he isn’t as dedicated to appearance as most Silvers I know.

I don’t have to wait much longer to find out.

From our vantage point, we can see his convoy picking its way across the disputed territories. The land is otherwise indistinguishable from the woods of the southern Lakelands. There are no walls, no gates, no roads to mark this part of the border. Our own patrols are well hidden for now, and instructed to let the Piedmont prince pass unimpeded.

His convoy is small, even compared to our meager group of six transports and fifty or so guards. I spot only two transports, fast and agile machines, tearing low across the sparser edges of the forest. They’re painted in camouflage, a sickly green to match the landscape. As they get closer, I can see the yellow, white, and purple stars dotting their sides.

Bracken.

Behind me, metal groans and Maven steps down from his transport. He crosses the flattened grass in a few quick strides, stopping next to me with even grace. Slowly, he folds his hands. His white skin looks more golden in this light. He could almost seem human.

“I did not take Prince Bracken to be such a trusting man. He is a fool,” he says, gesturing to the prince’s small party.

“Desperation makes fools of most,” I answer coolly.

Maven barks out a single laugh. His eyes drag over me in an almost lazy fashion. “Not you.”

No, not me.

This needle must be gently threaded. Like Maven, I fold my hands together, projecting an image of strength. Determination. Steel.

Bracken’s children have been missing for months, imprisoned and used as leverage. Every moment they are gone is another bit of Piedmont bled away. Montfort has already cost them millions of crowns, using whatever they get their hands on. Guns, jets, food stores. The military base in the Lowcountry was stripped, with much of its contents shipped back to the mountains. The Montfortans are locusts, feeding upon all they can. Whatever resources Bracken has left are almost spent.

The transports coast to a halt some yards away, keeping a safe distance from our own convoy. When they open, a dozen guards troop out, resplendent in dark purple edged in gold. They carry swords and guns, though a few seem to favor war hammers or axes instead of blades.

Bracken carries no weapons at all.

He is tall, black-skinned, with a smooth complexion, full lips, and eyes like two polished stones of jet. Where Maven is draped in his cape, his medals, and his crown, Bracken seems less reliant on style. His clothes are finely made, dark purple edged in gold to match his guards, but I see no crown, no furs, no jewels. This man is here on a dire mission and has no cause for pageantry.

The prince towers over us both, with the muscular physique of a strongarm, though I know for a fact that Bracken is a mimic. If he were to touch me, he would be able to use my nymph abilities, albeit only for a time, and to a lesser extent. The same goes for any Silver. Perhaps even newbloods too.

“I wish our first meeting were under better circumstances,” he says in a deep, rumbling voice. As is custom, he ducks into a shallow bow, observing both our ranks. He might rule Piedmont, but his country is no match for ours.

“As do we, Your Highness,” I reply, offering a nod of my own.

Maven copies my motions, but too quickly. As if he wants this to be over with as soon as possible. “What do you have for us?”

I wince at the lack of tact. On instinct, I open my mouth, ready to smooth over the rough edges of such a precarious conversation. But to my surprise, Bracken grins.

“I don’t like to waste time either,” he replies, his smile taking on a hard edge. Over his shoulder, one of his guards approaches, carrying a leather-bound folio in hand. “Not when my children hang in the balance.”

“This is your intelligence on Montfort?” I ask, eyeing the papers as the guard passes them to her prince. “You pulled this together so quickly.”

“The prince has been searching for his children, and for people to help in his endeavor, for months,” Maven drawls. “I remember your envoys, the princes Alexandret and Daraeus. I’m sorry I couldn’t be of any . . . help to them.”

I almost snort aloud. One of the princes died in the Archeon palace, killed in a failed coup to overthrow Maven himself. And the other is dead too, as far as I know.