Glass Sword (37 page)

Maven reads me well, searching for a lie that doesn’t exist. And I do the same. Despite his posturing, he
is
afraid of what I’ve done, of the lightning girl’s words and the affect they have. He came here to kill me, to put me in the ground. Now he’s found a greater prize. And I’ve given it to him willingly. He is a betrayer by nature, but this is a bargain he wants to uphold. I see it in his eyes; I heard it in his notes. He wants
me
, and will do anything to hold my leash again.

Kilorn squirms against his restraints, but it’s no use at all. “Cal, do something!” he shouts, lashing out at the body next to him. Their bonds clang together in a hollow echo. “Don’t let her!”

I can’t look at him. I want him to remember me differently. On my feet, in control. Not like this.

“Do we have a deal?” I am reduced to a beggar, pleading with Maven to put me back in his gilded cage. “Are you a man of your word?”

Above me, Maven smiles as I quote him. His teeth gleam.

The others are shouting now, shaking in their bonds. I hear none of
it. My mind has closed to all but the trade I am ready to make. I suppose Jon saw this coming.

Maven’s hand moves from my chin to my throat. His grip tightens. Softer than the strongarm, but so much more painful.

“We have a deal.”

D
ays pass. At least,
I think they’re days. I spend most of my time in dull blindness, subject to the sounder. It doesn’t hurt so much anymore. My jailors have perfected the so-called dosage, using it to keep me unconscious, but not in skull-splitting pain. Every time I come out of it, my vision spotting to show men in white robes, they turn the dial, and the device clicks again. The insect burrows in my brain, clicking, always clicking. Sometimes I feel pulled, but never enough to fully wake. Sometimes, I hear Maven’s voice. Then the white prison turns black and red, both colors too strong to stand.

This time when I come around, nothing clicks. The world is too bright, and slightly blurry, but I don’t fall back under. I truly wake up.

My chains are clear, probably plastic or even diamondglass. They bind my wrists and ankles, too tight for comfort, but loose enough to allow circulation. The manacles are the worst part, sharp and grating against the sensitive flesh. Worn wounds, shallow from stinging, ooze blood. The red seems to bite in contrast to my pale shift dress, and no one bothers to wipe it away. Now that Maven can’t hide what I am,
he must show it for all the world, for whatever twisting scheme he has now. The chains clink, and I realize I’m in an armored transport, a moving one. This must be used for prisoners, because there are no windows, and the walls have rings. My chains are hooked to one, swaying slightly.

Across from me are the two men in white, both bald as eggs. They bear a striking resemblance to Instructor Arven. His brothers or cousins, most likely. That explains the stifling sensation and my difficulty breathing. These men are silencing my ability, holding me hostage in my own skin. Strange, that they need chains too. Without my lightning, I’m just a seventeen-year-old girl, almost eighteen now. I can’t help but smile. I’ll spend my birthday a prisoner of my own volition. This time last year, I thought I’d be marching to the war front. Now I’m heading who knows where, locked into a rolling transport with two men who would very much like to kill me. Not much of an upgrade.

And I guess Maven was right. He warned me we would spend my next birthday together. It seems he
is
a man of his word.

“What day is it?” I ask, but neither responds. They don’t even blink. Their focus on me, on silencing what I am, is perfect and unbreakable.

Outside, a strange, dull roar begins to grow. I can’t place it, and don’t want to waste energy trying. I’m sure I’ll find out soon enough.

I’m not wrong. After a few more minutes, the transport eases to a stop, and the rear door is wrenched open. The roar is a crowd, an eager one. For a terrifying second, I wonder if I’m being sent back to the Bowl of Bones, to the arena where Maven tried to have me killed.
He must want to finish the job.
Someone unlatches my chains, yanking, pulling me forward. I almost fall out of the transport, but one of the Arven silencers catches me at the last moment. Not out of kindness but necessity. I must look dangerous, like the lightning girl of old. No one
cares about a weak prisoner. No one jeers at a sniveling coward. They want to see a conqueror brought lower, a living trophy. For that is what I am now.

I willingly stepped into this cage.

I always do.

My body quivers when I realize where I am.

The Bridge of Archeon. Once, I watched it crumble and burn, but the symbol of power and strength is rebuilt. And I must walk across it, my feet cut and bare, my chains and captors close at hand. I stare at the ground, unable to look up. I don’t want to see the faces of so many people, so many cameras. I can’t let them see me break. That is what Maven wants, and I will never give it to him.

I thought it would be easy to be put on parade—after all, I’m used to it by now. But this is so much worse than before. The tremors of relief I felt in the forest clearing are gone now, giving way to dread. Every eye crawls over me, looking for the cracks in my famous face. They find many. I try not to listen to their shouting, and for a few seconds, I succeed. Then I realize what most of them are saying, and the horrible things they hold up for me to see.
Names. Photographs. All the Silvers dead or missing.
I had a hand in all their fates. They scream at me, throwing words more harmful than any object.

By the time I reach the far end of the Bridge and the crowded Caesar’s Square, the tears come too fast and hard to stop. Everyone sees. With every step, my body tightens. I reach for what I cannot have, for the ability that cannot save me. I can barely breathe, as if the noose is already tight around my neck.
What have I done?

There are many gathered on the steps of Whitefire Palace, eager to see my downfall. The nobles and generals are all in mourning black, this time for the queen. Evangeline’s own gown is hard to ignore,
midnight spikes of crystal, glinting as she moves.

One person alone wears gray, the only color that suits him.
Jon.
Somehow, he stands with the rest of them and watches my approach. His eyes, bloodred, hold an apology I will never accept.
I should have never let him go.
I curse to myself.

Once, he said I would rise alone. Now I know he was lying. For I have certainly fallen.

The front of the platform is empty, raised above all else. A good place for an execution, if Maven is so inclined. He sits there, waiting, seated on a throne I don’t recognize.

My jailers pull me toward him, forcing me to approach the king. I wonder if he’ll murder me in front of everyone, and paint the steps of his palace with my blood. I flinch as he stands. We face each other as betrothed people would, stark and alone before a crowd of faces. But this is not a wedding. This might be my funeral, my ending.

Something glints in his grip.
His father’s sword? An executioner’s blade?
I feel shivering cold as he clamps the something around my neck.
A collar.
Jeweled, gilded, sharp-edged, a beautiful thing of horrors. My blurred tears make it hard to see, until I’m sure of nothing but the black-armored king before me, and the brand scalding my collarbone.

There’s a chain attached to the collar. A leash.
I am nothing more than a dog.
He holds it tightly in his fist, and I expect him to drag me from the platform. Instead, he stands firm.

He tugs smartly, testing the chain in hand, making me stumble toward him. The points of the collar dig in. I almost choke.

“You put her body on display.” His lips brush my ear as he forces the words through clenched teeth. Pain hums in his voice. “I’ll do the same to you.”

His expression is unreadable, but his meaning is clear. With one hand, he points at his feet. His fingers are whiter than I remember.

I do as he says.

I kneel.

Before I thank any
one person, I would like to thank the leftover pizza I’m currently eating. It’s really good.

As with the last time around, I owe thanks to so many people, and I’m going to do my best to include them all here. First and foremost, to my parents, Heather and Louis, who continue their disgusting level of support. I honestly could not have done this, and continue to do this, without you both. And, of course, my baby brother, Andrew, who is somehow now an adult. When that happened, I don’t know, but I’m so proud of you and so excited to see you continue to grow up. So much love and thanks to my grandparents—George and Barbara, Mary and Frank—I treasure you all and miss two of you so much. And to the rest of the extended family, aunts, uncles, cousins, etc., thank you for your support and friendship. Special thanks and congratulations to Michelle, who is an author herself on the publishing road.

Last year’s acknowledgments ran very long, so I’m going to try to be a bit less wordy this time around. Thank you to all my friends on both coasts. Sorry for being weird. A sincere thank-you to Morgan and
Jen, who tolerate and sometimes encourage my nonsense.

Thank you so much to the team at Benderspink, who continue to make great strides in the battle to bring
Red Queen
to the movie theater, not to mention keeping my own screenwriting career afloat. Christopher Cosmos, Daniel Vang, the Jakes, JC, David, and all the interns and their coverage. And, of course, thank you to Gennifer Hutchinson and Sara Scott, as well. I can’t wait to see where we go from here. Finally, to my lawyer, Steve Younger, who always has my back no matter what.

I could write pages thanking the team at New Leaf Literary, but I’ll spare you and summarize: they are, without question, the best. Top to bottom, side to side, every single person at my agency is outrageously talented and I thank my lucky stars I landed with them. To Jo, Pouya, Danielle, Jackie, Jaida, Jess, Kathleen, and Dave—thank you for existing and condescending to deal with me. To Suzie, I say it all the time, but only because it’s true: You are wonderful and unparalleled and the reason I can do what I do.

In case my gushing wasn’t quite gross enough, I’m going to continue. I truly consider the success of
Red Queen
to be a minor miracle, which I guess makes the people at HarperTeen saints. First and foremost, Kari Sutherland, my first editor, my first and only offer, who believed in my manuscript and made it so. To my other gem of an editor, Kristen Pettit, a shepherd in great clothes with an even greater sense of story. Thank you for your continued work and perseverance in shaping my clay ideas into lovely story sculptures. And also to Elizabeth Lynch(pin), you work so hard and tolerate me so well. The rest of the Harper team is no different: Kate Jackson (even if your food blog haunts me), Susan Katz, Suzanne Murphy, Jen Klonsky, wizards all. In marketing, the tireless Elizabeth Ward, Kara Brammer, actual celebrity superstar Margot Wood, and the rest of Epic Reads.
Red Queen
would
never have made such a splash without any of you. To Gina, my lovely publicist, who makes it possible to see even more lovely readers. In managing editorial and production, my gratitude to Alexandra Alexo, Lillian Sun, Stephanie Evans, Erica Ferguson, Gwen Morton, and Josh Weiss. If not for you,
Red Queen
and
Glass Sword
would be an incoherent lump. In sales, Andrea Pappenheimer, Kerry Moynagh, Kathy Faber, Susan Yeager, and Jen Wygand. And a shout-out to Kaitlin Loss, who helps coordinate with my international publishers. Last, but in no way least, the design team, who I think might be actual magical beings? Seriously, have you seen my covers? There’s no way humans made those. But thank you for the art and I am on to you: Sarah Kaufman, Alison Donalty, Barb Fitzsimmons, and Toby & Pete.

Having now been published and officially in the living world of literature, I realize how expansive it is—and how scary it can be. Thank you so much to all the people who’ve made my transition from baby author to published author so smooth and easy. To the bloggers, vloggers, tweeters, readers, carrier pigeon-ers who continue to push
Red Queen
and now
Glass Sword
, thank you, thank you, thank you. To the fellow writers who are nothing but support, I’m so grateful for your friendship. I’d name names, but there’s too many of you, and honestly it feels like bragging to call you guys my friends. And once again, to Emma Theriault, who is greedy for
RQ
, generous with notes, and always willing to chat.

As is tradition, I will also thank a few things that are not people. Well, the first is a collection of people. To the New England Patriots. Last year I thanked you and you won the Super Bowl. Let’s keep that tradition going. Free Brady. To Wikipedia, the National Park Service, Scotland, Target, San Diego Comic-Con, the changing of the seasons, cashmere scarves, my excellent new printer, globes, coffee with too
much cream, my Delta points, and brunch. And to my personal inspirations: Tolkien, Rowling, Martin, Spielberg, Lucas, Jackson, Bay. Yes, I said Michael Bay, get out of my face.

Nearly there. These are repeats, but they’re important, so if you’ve made it this far, you might as well read on. To Morgan. To Suzie. And again to my parents. This starts and ends with you.