The sun dips lower as the convoy turns off after the third cheering town, moving in practiced formation onto a connecting roadway. Heading west. I try to swallow the dip of sadness rising inside. North pulls at me, beckoning even though I cannot follow. The places I know stretch farther and farther away.
I try to keep the compass in my head. West is the Iron Road. The way to the Westlakes, the Lakelands, the Choke. West is war and ruin.
Egg and Trio don’t let me move much, so I have to crane my neck to see. I bite my lip as we pass through a set of gates, trying to spot a sign or a symbol. There isn’t anything, just bars of wrought iron beneath shockingly green vines of flowering ivy. Well out of season.
The estate is palatial, at the far end of a road lined by immaculate hedges. We spit out into a wide square of stone, with the estate house occupying one side. Our convoy circles in front of it, stopping with the transports splayed out in an arced row. No crowds here, but guards are already waiting outside. The Arvens move quickly and I’m ushered from the transport.
I glare up at charming red brick and white trim, rows of polished windows hung with blooming flower boxes, fluted columns, florid balconies, and the largest tree I’ve ever seen bursting from the middle of the mansion. Its branches arc over the pointed roof, growing in conjunction with the structure. Not a twig or leaf out place, perfectly sculpted like a piece of living art. Magnolia, I think, judging by the white flowers and the perfumed smell. For a moment, I forget it’s winter.
“Welcome, Your Majesty.”
The voice isn’t one I recognize.
Another girl, my age but tall, lean, pale as the snow that should be here, steps down from one of the many transports that joined ours. Her attention is on Maven, now clambering out of his own transport, and she glides by me to curtsy in front of him. I know her at a glance.
Heron Welle. She competed in Queenstrial long ago, drawing mighty trees out of earth while her house cheered her on. Like so many, she hoped to become a royal bride, chosen to marry Cal. Now she stands at Maven’s command, eyes downcast, waiting for his order. She pulls her green-and-gold coat tighter around herself, a defense against the cold and Maven’s stare.
Hers is one of the few houses I knew before I was forced into the Silver world. Her father governs the region I was born in. I used to watch his ship pass by on the river, and wave at its green flags with other stupid children.
Maven takes his time, needlessly donning his gloves for the short walk between his transport and the mansion. As he moves, the simple crown nestled in his black curls captures the waning sunlight, winking red and gold.
“Charming place, Heron,” he says, making idle small talk. It sounds sinister coming from him. A threat.
“Thank you, Your Majesty. All is well in order for your arrival.”
As I’m maneuvered closer, Heron spares a single glance for me. Her only acknowledgment of my existence. She has birdlike features, but on her angular figure they look elegant, refined, and sharply beautiful. I expect her eyes to be green, like everything else about her family and ability. Instead, they are a vibrant deep blue, set off by porcelain skin and auburn hair.
The rest of the transports empty their passengers. More colors, more houses, more guards and soldiers. I spot Samson among them, looking foolish in leather and fur dyed blue. The color and the cold make him paler than ever, a blond icicle of bloodlust. The others give him a wide berth as he prowls to Maven’s side. I count a few dozen courtiers at a glance. Enough to make me wonder if even Governor Welle’s mansion can hold us all.
Maven acknowledges Samson with a nod of his head before he sets off at a brisk pace, trotting toward the ornate stairs leading up from the square. Heron follows at his heels, as do the Sentinels in their usual flock. Everyone else follows, pulled along by an invisible tether.
A man who can only be the governor rushes from oak-and-gold doors, bowing as he walks. He seems bland in comparison to his home, unremarkable with his weak chin, dirty-blond hair, and a body neither fat nor thin. His clothes make up for it, and then some. He wears boots, butter-soft leather pants, and a jacket worked in ornate brocade, set with flashing emeralds at the collar and hems. They are nothing compared to the ancient medallion around his neck. It bounces against his chest as he walks, a jeweled emblem of the tree guarding his home.
“Your Majesty, I can’t tell you how pleased we are to host you,” he blusters, bowing one last time. Maven purses his lips into a thin smile, amused by the display. “It’s such an honor to be the first destination on your coronation tour.”
Disgust curls in my stomach. I’m seized by the image of me parading through the country, a few steps behind Maven, always at his beck and call. On-screen, in front of cameras, it feels degrading, but in person? Before crowds of people like the ones in the town? I may not survive it. Somehow I think I would prefer the prison of Whitefire.
Maven clasps hands with the governor, his smile spreading into something that could pass for genuine. He’s good at the act, I’ll give him that. “Of course, Cyrus, I could think of no better place to start. Heron speaks so highly of you,” he adds, waving her to his side.
She steps quickly, eyes flashing to her father. A look of relief passes between them. Like everything Maven does, her presence is a careful manipulation and a message.
“Shall we?” Maven gestures to the mansion. He sets off, making the rest of us keep up. The governor hurries to flank Maven, still trying to at least look like he has some manner of control here.