“Something funny, Mare Barrow?” she purrs.
“Nothing, Your Highness.”
Her eyes rove over me. They linger on my wrists, at the long sleeves hiding my manacles. Slowly, she touches one and draws in a breath. Despite the Silent Stone and the instinctive fear it inspires, she doesn’t flinch. “My father keeps pets as well. Perhaps it’s something kings do.”
Months ago, I would have snapped at her. I’m not a pet. But she isn’t wrong. Instead, I shrug. “I haven’t met enough kings to know.”
“Three kings for a Red girl born to poor nothings. One must wonder if the gods love or hate you.”
I don’t know whether to laugh or sneer. “There are no gods.”
“Not in Norta. Not for you.” Her expression softens. She glances over her shoulder, at the many courtiers and nobles as they mill about. Most don’t bother to hide their ogling. If it annoys her, she doesn’t show it. “I wonder if they can hear me in a godless place like this. There isn’t even a temple. I must ask Maven to build me one.”
Many strange people have passed through my life. But all of them have pieces I can understand. Emotions I know, dreams, fears. I blink at Princess Iris and realize that the more she speaks, the more confusing she becomes. She seems intelligent, strong, self-assured, but why would a person like that agree to marry such an obvious monster? Certainly she sees him for what he is. And it can’t be blind ambition driving her here. She’s a princess already, daughter of a king. What does she want? Or did she even have a choice? Her talk of gods is even more confusing. We have no such beliefs. How can we?
“Are you memorizing my face?” she asks quietly as I try to read her. I get the sense she is doing the same, observing me like I’m a complicated piece of art. “Or simply trying to steal a few more moments outside a locked room? If the latter, I do not blame you. If the former, I have a feeling you’ll be seeing a great deal of me, and I of you.”
From anyone else, it might sound like a threat. But I don’t think Iris cares enough about me for that. At least she doesn’t seem the jealous type. That would require her to have any sort of feeling for Maven, something I sorely doubt.
“Take me to the throne room.”
My lips twitch, wanting to smile. Usually the people here make requests that are truly iron commands. Iris is the opposite. Her command sounds like a question. “Fine,” I mutter, letting my feet guide us. The Arvens don’t dare try to pull me away. Iris Cygnet is not Evangeline Samos. Crossing her could be considered an act of war. I can’t help smirking over my shoulder at Trio and Egg. Both glower back. Their irritation makes me grin, even through the itch of my scars.
“You are an odd sort of prisoner, Miss Barrow. I did not realize that, while Maven paints you as a lady in his broadcasts, he requires you to be one at all times.”
Lady. The title never truly applied to me, and never will. “I’m just a well-dressed and tightly leashed lapdog.”
“What a peculiar king to keep you as he does. You’re an enemy of the state, a valuable piece of propaganda, and somehow treated as near royalty. But then boys are so strange with their toys. Especially those accustomed to losing things. They hold on more tightly than the rest.”
“And what would you do with me?” I answer back. As queen, Iris could hold my life in her hands. She could end it, or make it even worse. “If you were in his position?”
Iris dodges the question artfully. “I won’t ever make the mistake of trying to put myself in his head. That is not a place any sane person should be.” Then she laughs to herself. “I assume his mother spent a good amount of time there.”
For as much as Elara hated me and my existence, I think she would hate Iris more. The young princess is formidable to say the least. “You’re lucky you never had to meet her.”
“And I thank you for that,” Iris replies. “Though I hope you don’t keep up the tradition of killing queens. Even lapdogs bite.” She blinks at me, gray eyes piercing. “Will you?”
I’m not stupid enough to respond. No would be a naked lie. Yes could land me yet another royal enemy. She smirks at my silence.
It’s not a long walk to the grand chamber where Maven holds court. After so many days before the broadcast cameras, forced to stomach newblood after newblood pledging their loyalty to him, I know it intimately. Usually the dais is crowded with seats, but they’ve been removed in our absence, leaving only the gray, forbidding throne. Iris glares at it as we approach.
“An interesting tactic,” she mutters when we reach it. As with my manacles, she runs a finger down the blocks of Silent Stone. “Necessary too. With so many whispers allowed at court.”
“Allowed?”
“They are not welcome in the court of the Lakelands. They cannot pass through the walls of our capital, Detraon, or enter the palace without proper escorts. And no whisper is permitted within twenty feet of the monarch,” Iris explains. “In fact, I know of no noble families who can claim such an ability in my country.”
“They don’t exist?”
“Not where I come from. Not anymore.”
The implication hangs in the air like smoke.
She pulls away from the throne, tipping her head back and forth. She doesn’t like whatever she sees. Her lips purse into a thin line. “How many times have you felt the touch of a Merandus in your head?”