Red Queen (11 page)

I don’t have to ask to know I have no other choice in the matter.

He leads me out of my cell and up a winding stair, to no less than twelve Security officers. Without a word, they surround me in a well-practiced formation and force me along with them. Lucas stays by me, marching in time with the others. They keep their guns in hand, as if ready for battle. Something tells me the men aren’t here to defend me but to protect everyone else.

When we reach the more beautiful upper levels, the glass walls are strangely black.
Tinted
, I tell myself, remembering what Gisa said about the Hall of the Sun. The diamondglass can darken on command to hide what shouldn’t be seen. Obviously, I must fall into that category.

With a jolt I realize that the windows change not because of some mechanism but a red-haired officer. She waves a hand at every wall we pass, and some power within her blocks out the light, clouding the glass with thin shade.

“She’s a shadow, a bender of light,” Lucas whispers, noting my awe.

The cameras are here as well. My skin crawls, feeling their electric gaze running over my bones. Normally my head would ache under the weight of so much electricity, but the pain never comes. Something in the shield has changed me. Or maybe it released something, revealing a part of myself locked away for so long.
What am I?
echoes in my head again, more threatening than before.

Only when we pass through a monstrous set of doors does the electric sensation pass.
The eyes cannot see me here.
The chamber inside could encompass my house ten times, stilts and all. And directly across from me, his fiery gaze burning into mine, is the king sitting on a diamondglass throne carved into an inferno. Behind him, a window full of daylight quickly fades to black. It might be the last glimpse of the sun I’ll ever see.

Lucas and the other officers march me forward, but they don’t stay long. With nothing but a backward glance, Lucas leads the others out.

The king sits before me, the queen standing on his left, the princes on his right. I refuse to look at Cal, but I know he must be gawking at me. I keep my gaze on my new boots, focusing on my toes so I don’t give over to the fear turning my body to lead.

“You will kneel,” the queen murmurs, her voice soft as velvet.

I
should
kneel, but my pride won’t let me. Even here, in front of Silvers, in front of the
king
, my knees do not bend. “I will not,” I say, finding the strength to look up.

“Do you enjoy your cell, girl?” Tiberias says, his kingly voice filling the room. The threat in his words is plain as day, but still I stand. He cocks his head, staring at me like I’m an experiment to puzzle over.

“What do you want with me?” I manage to force out.

The queen leans down next to him. “I told you, she’s Red through and through—” But the king waves her off like he would a fly. She purses her lips and draws back, hands clasped tightly together.
Serves her right.

“What I want concerning you is impossible,” Tiberias snaps. His glare smolders, like he’s trying to burn me up.

I remember the queen’s words. “Well, I’m not sorry you can’t kill me.”

The king chuckles. “They didn’t say you were quick.”

Relief floods through me like a cool wind through trees. Death does not wait for me here. Not yet.

The king throws down a stack of papers, all of them covered in writing. The top sheet has the usual information, including my name, birth date, parents, and the little brown smear that is my blood. My picture is there too, the one on my identification card. I stare down at myself, into bored eyes sick of waiting in line to have my picture taken. How I wish I could jump into the photo, into the girl whose only problems were conscription and a hungry belly.

“Mare Molly Barrow, born November seventeenth, 302 of the New Era, to Daniel and Ruth Barrow,” Tiberias recites from memory, laying my life bare. “You have no occupation and are scheduled for conscription on your next birthday. You attend school sparingly, your academic test scores are low, and you have a list of offenses that would land you in prison in most cities. Thievery, smuggling, resisting arrest, to name but a few. All together you are poor, rude, immoral, unintelligent, impoverished, bitter, stubborn, and a blight upon your village and my kingdom.”

The shock of his blunt words takes a moment to sink in, but when it does, I don’t argue. He’s entirely right.

“And yet,” he continues, rising to his feet. This close, I can see his crown is deathly sharp. The points can kill. “You are also something else. Something I cannot fathom. You are Red and Silver both, a peculiarity with deadly consequences you cannot understand. So what am I to do with you?”

Is he asking me?
“You could let me go. I wouldn’t say a word.”

The queen’s sharp laughter cuts me off. “And what about the High Houses? Will they keep silent as well? Will they forget the little lightning girl in a red uniform?”

No. No one will
.

“You know my advice, Tiberias,” the queen adds, her eyes on the king. “And it will solve both our problems.”

It must be bad advice, bad for me, because Cal clenches a fist. The movement draws my eye and I finally look at him fully. He remains still, stoic and quiet, as I’m sure he’s been trained to do, but fire burns behind his eyes. For a moment, he meets my gaze but I look away before I can call out and ask him to save me.

“Yes, Elara,” the king says, nodding at his wife. “We cannot kill you, Mare Barrow.”
Not yet
hangs in the air. “So we are going to hide you in plain sight where we can watch you,
protect
you, and attempt to understand you.”

The way his eyes gleam makes me feel like a meal about to be devoured.

“Father!” the word bursts from Cal, but his brother—the paler, leaner prince—grabs him by the arm, holding him back from protesting further. He has a calming effect and Cal steps back in line.

Tiberias goes on, ignoring his son. “You are no longer Mare Barrow, a Red daughter of the Stilts.”

“Then who am I?” I ask, my voice shaking with dread, thinking of all the awful things they can do to me.

“Your father was Ethan Titanos, general of the Iron Legion, killed when you were an infant. A soldier, a Red man, took you for his own and raised you in the dirt, never telling you your true parentage. You grew up believing you were nothing, and now, thanks to chance, you are made whole again. You are Silver, a lady of a lost High House, a noble with great power, and one day, a princess of Norta.”

Try as I might, I can’t hold back a surprised yelp. “A Silver—a princess?”

My eyes betray me, flying to Cal.
A princess must marry a prince.

“You will marry my son Maven and you’ll do it without putting a toe out of line.”

I swear I hear my jaw hit the floor. A wretched, embarrassing sound escapes my mouth as I search for something to say, but I’m honestly speechless. In front of me, the younger prince looks equally confused, sputtering just as loudly as I want to. This time, it’s Cal’s turn to restrain him, though his eyes are on me.

The young prince manages to find his voice. “I don’t understand,” he blurts out, shrugging off Cal. He takes quick steps toward his father. “She’s—why—?” Usually I’d be offended, but I have to agree with the prince’s reservations.

“Quiet,” his mother snaps. “You will obey.”

He glares at her, every inch the young son rebelling against his parents. But his mother hardens and the prince backs down, knowing her wrath and power as well as I do.

My voice is faint, barely audible. “This seems a bit . . . much.” There’s simply no other way to describe it. “You don’t want to make me a lady, much less a princess.”

Tiberias’s face cracks into a grim smile. Like the queen, his teeth are blindingly white. “Oh but I do, my dear. For the first time in your rudimentary little life, you have a purpose.” The jab feels like a slap across the face. “Here we are, in the early stages of a badly timed rebellion, with terrorist groups or freedom fighters, or whatever the hell these idiotic Red fools call themselves, blowing things up in the name of equality.”

“The Scarlet Guard.”
Farley. Shade.
As soon as the name crosses my mind, I pray Queen Elara stays out of my head. “They bombed—”

“The capital, yes.” The king shrugs, scratching his neck.

My years in the shadows have taught me many things. Who carries the most money, who won’t notice you, and what liars look like.
The king is a liar
, I realize, watching as he forces another shrug. He’s trying to be dismissive, and it’s just not working. Something has him scared of Farley, of the Scarlet Guard. Something much bigger than a few explosions.

“And you,” he continues, leaning forward. “You might be able to help us stop there from being any more.”

I’d laugh out loud if I wasn’t so scared. “By marrying—sorry what’s your name again?”

His cheeks go white in what I assume is the Silver version of a blush. After all, their blood is silver. “My name is Maven,” he says, his voice soft and quiet. Like Cal and his father, his hair is glossy black, but the similarities end there. While they are broad and muscled, Maven is lean, with eyes like clear water. “And I still don’t understand.”

“What Father is trying to say is that she represents an opportunity for us,” Cal says, cutting in to explain. Unlike his brother, Cal’s voice is strong and authoritative. It’s the voice of a king. “If the Reds see her, a Silver by blood but Red by nature, raised up with us, they can be placated. It’s like an old fairy tale, a commoner becoming the princess. She’s their champion. They can look to her instead of terrorists.” And then, softer, but more important than anything else: “She’s a distraction.”

But this isn’t a fairy tale, or even a dream.
This is a nightmare
. I’m being locked away for the rest of my life, forced into being someone else.
Into being one of them. A puppet. A show to keep people happy, quiet, and trampled.

“And if we get the story right, the High Houses will be satisfied too. You’re the lost daughter of a war hero. What better honor can we give you?”

I meet his eyes, silently pleading. He helped me once, maybe he can do it again. But Cal tips his head from side to side, shaking his head slowly.
He can’t help me here.

“This isn’t a request, Lady Titanos,” Tiberias says. He uses my new name, my new
title
. “You will go through with this, and you will do it
properly
.”

Queen Elara turns her pale eyes on me. “You will live here, as is the custom for royal brides. Every day will be scheduled at my discretion and you will be tutored in everything and anything possible to make you”—she searches for the word, chewing on her lip—“
suitable
.” I don’t want to know what that means. “You will be scrutinized. From now on you live on the edge of a knife. One false step, one wrong word, and you will suffer for it.”

My throat tightens, like I can feel the chains the king and queen are wrapping around me. “What about my life—?”

“What life?” Elara crows. “Girl, you have fallen head over heels into a miracle.”

Cal squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, as if the sound of the queen’s laughter pains him. “She means her family. Mare—the girl has a family.”

Gisa, Mom, Dad, the boys, Kilorn—a life taken away.

“Oh, that,” the king huffs, plopping back down into his chair. “I suppose we’ll give them an allowance, keep them
quiet
.”

“I want my brothers brought home from the war.” For once, I feel like I’ve said something right. “And my friend, Kilorn Warren. Don’t let the legions take him either.”

Tiberias responds in half a heartbeat. A few Red soldiers mean nothing to him. “Done.”

It sounds less like a pardon and more like a death sentence.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

NINE

Lady Mareena Titanos, born
to Lady Nora Nolle Titanos and Lord Ethan Titanos, general of the Iron Legion. Heiress to House Titanos. Mareena Titanos. Titanos.

My new name echoes in my head as the Red maids prepare me for the coming onslaught. The three girls work quickly and efficiently, never speaking to each other. They don’t ask me questions either, even though they must want to.
Say nothing
, I remember. They’re not allowed to speak to me, and they certainly aren’t allowed to talk about me to anyone else. Even the strange things, the
Red
things, I’m sure they see.

Over many agonizing minutes, they try to make me
suitable
, bathing me, styling me,
painting
me into the silly thing I’m supposed to be. The makeup is the worst, especially the thick white paste applied to my skin. They go through three pots of it, covering my face, neck, collarbone, and arms with the glittery wet powder. In the mirror, it looks like the warmth is leeched from me, as if the powder has covered the heat in my skin. With a gasp, I realize it’s supposed to hide my natural flush, the red bloom in my skin, the red
blood.
I’m pretending to be Silver, and when they finish painting my face, I actually look the part. With my newly pale skin, and darkened eyes and lips, I look cold, cruel, a living razor. I look Silver. I look beautiful. And I hate it.