Then his body blurs, moving so quickly I barely see his movements. He is suddenly right beside me. Swift. Not as fast as my brother, but fast enough to send a shock of adrenaline coursing through me. I still don’t know what Alexandret can do. I can only pray he isn’t a whisper, that I won’t have to face such torture again.
“Is the Scarlet Guard operating in Piedmont?” Alexandret asks as he looms over me, his deep eyes boring into mine. Unlike Daraeus, there is no smile in him.
I wait for the telltale sting of another mind crashing into my own. It never comes. The manacles—they won’t allow an ability to penetrate my cocoon of silence.
My voice cracks. “What?”
“I want to hear what you know of the Scarlet Guard’s operations in Piedmont.”
Every interrogation I’ve been subjected to has been performed by a whisper. It’s odd to have someone ask me questions freely, and trust my answers without splitting open my skull. I suppose Samson has already told the princes everything he learned from me, but they don’t trust what he said. Smart, then, to see if my story matches up with his.
“The Scarlet Guard is good at keeping secrets,” I reply, my thoughts a blur. Do I lie? Do I throw more fuel to the fire of distrust between Maven and Piedmont? “I wasn’t allowed much information regarding their operations.”
“Your operations.” Alexandret furrows his brow, forming a deep crease in the center of his forehead. “You were their leader. I refuse to believe you can be so useless to us.”
Useless. Two months ago I was the lightning girl, a storm in human form. But before that I was as he says. Useless to everyone and everything, even my enemies. Back in the Stilts I hated it. Now I’m glad. I’m a poor weapon for a Silver to wield.
“I am not their leader,” I tell Alexandret. Behind me, I hear Maven shift, settling back into his seat. I hope he’s squirming. “I never even met their leaders.”
He doesn’t believe me. But he doesn’t believe what he’s already been told either. “How many of your operatives are in Piedmont?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who is funding your endeavors?”
“I don’t know.”
It starts as a prickle in my fingers and toes. A tiny sensation. Not pleasant but not uncomfortable. Like when a limb goes numb. Alexandret never lets go of my jaw. The manacles, I tell myself. They will protect me from him. They must.
“Where are Prince Michael and Princess Charlotta?”
“I don’t know who those people are.”
Michael, Charlotta. More names to memorize. The prickling continues, now in my arms and legs. I draw hissing breath through my teeth.
His eyes narrow in concentration. I brace myself for an explosion of pain born of whatever ability he will subject me to. “Have you had any contact with the Free Republic of Montfort?”
Still the prickling is bearable. Only his tight grip on my jaw is truly painful.
“Yes,” I bite out.
Then he pulls back, letting my chin go with a sneer. He glances at my wrists, then forcibly raises one sleeve to see my bindings. The buzzing in my arms and legs recedes as he scowls.
“Your Majesty, I wonder if I might question her without manacles of Silent Stone?” Another demand disguised as a request.
This time, Maven denies him. Without my manacles, his ability will be unbound. It must be enormous for it to have penetrated even a little through my cage of silence. I’ll be tortured. Again.
“You may not, Your Highness. She is far too dangerous for that,” Maven says with a curt shake of his head. In spite of all my hatred, I feel the smallest bloom of gratitude. “And, as you said, she’s valuable. I can’t have you breaking her.”
Samson doesn’t bother to hide his disgust. “Someone should.”
“Is there anything else I can do for Your Highnesses, or for Prince Bracken?” Maven pushes on, speaking over his demonic cousin. He unfolds himself from his chair, using one hand to smooth his dress uniform studded with medals and badges of honor. But he keeps one hand on the seat, clawed around an arm of Silent Stone. It is his anchor and his shield.
Daraeus bows low enough for both princes, smiling again. “I did hear rumors of a feast.”
“For once,” Maven replies with a sharp grin in my direction, “the rumors are true.”
Lady Blonos never taught me the protocol for entertaining royalty of an ally nation. I’ve seen feasts before, balls, a Queenstrial I inadvertently ruined, but never anything like this. Perhaps because Maven’s father was not so concerned with appearance, but Maven is his mother’s son in flesh and bone. To look powerful is to be powerful, she said once. Today he takes that lesson to heart. His advisers, his Piedmont guests, and I are seated at a long table where we can overlook all the rest.
I’ve never set foot in this ballroom before. It dwarfs the throne room, the galleries, and the feasting chambers of the rest of Whitefire. It fits the entire assembled court, all the lords and ladies and their extended families, with ease. The chamber is three stories tall, towering windows of crystal and colored glass, each one depicting the colors of the High Houses. The result is a dozen rainbows arcing over a marble floor veined with black granite, each beam of light a prism shifting through the diamond facets of chandeliers worked into trees, birds, sunbeams, constellations, storms, infernos, typhoons, and a dozen other symbols of Silver strength. I would spend the entire meal staring at the ceiling if not for own my precarious position. At least I’m not next to Maven this time. The princes have to suffer him tonight. But Jon is on my left and Evangeline on my right. I keep my elbows tucked sharply to my sides, not wanting to accidentally touch either of them. Evangeline might stab me, and Jon might share another nauseating premonition.