Glass Sword
Page 118

He barely nods.
“And after, well, I will go north, to the Choke, to the ones I’ve so willingly abandoned. You can do as you like, Your Highness.”
“Mare.” He grazes my arm and I flinch away, almost hitting the wall.
“Don’t touch me anymore.”
The words sound like a slamming door. I suppose they are.
Tuck is quiet and disgustingly bright. No clouds, no wind, just brisk autumn and sunlight. Shade shouldn’t have died on such a beautiful day, but he did. Too many did.
I am the first to step down from the cargo plane, with two covered stretchers close behind. Kilorn and Farley hover by one, each of them resting a hand on Shade. But the other stretcher is what I care about now. The men holding her up seem afraid of her body, just like I was. The last few hours of quiet reflection, staring at Elara’s cold corpse, have been a strange comfort. She is not going to wake up. Just like Cal will never speak to me again, not after everything we said to each other. I don’t know where he is in the line, or if he’s even coming down at all. I tell myself not to worry. Thinking about him is a waste.
I have to shield my eyes to see the Colonel’s blockade across the runway. He perches atop a medical transport, surrounded by nurses in white shifts. Ada must have radioed ahead to tell him we would sorely need help. Her Blackrun is already here, the only dark shadow in sight. When the first of the prisoners hit the runway behind me, the familiar black ramp descends from the other jet. Fewer than I thought get out, following Ada. She begins the brisk march toward the wall of armed Lakelanders, stoic Guardsmen, and curious onlookers. Quietly, I curse myself. My family will be back there, waiting to see their children, but they’ll find only one of us.
You don’t care about your family. Maybe Cal was right, because I certainly forget them more than any sane person should.
“That’s far enough, Miss Barrow,” the Colonel barks, holding up a hand. I do as he asks, halting five yards away. From this close, I can see the guns pointed at us, but more important, the men behind the bullets. They’re alert, but not on edge. They have no kill orders, not yet. “Have you come to return what you’ve stolen?”
I force a laugh, putting us both at ease. “I come with a gift, Colonel.”
The corner of his mouth lifts. “Is that what you call these”—he searches for the right word to describe the ragged folk following me—“people?”
“They were prisoners until this morning, at a secret facility called Corros. Jailed by the command of King Maven, left to be experimented on, tortured, and murdered.” I glance behind me, expecting to see broken hearts and minds. Instead, I see unflagging pride. The little girl, the one who almost fell off the catwalk, looks close to tears, but her tiny fists clench at her sides. She won’t cry. “They are newbloods like me.” Behind the girl, a protective teenager with too-pale skin and orange hair stands like her guard. “And Silvers too, Colonel.”
He reacts as I expect him to. “You fool, you brought Silvers here?!” he shouts, panicking. “Ready guns!”
The line of Lakelanders, two deep, and probably about twenty wide, does as he commands. Their guns click in unison, sliding bullets into chambers. Ready to fire. Behind me, the prisoners flinch, drawing back. But no one begs. They are done begging.
“Hollow threats.” I fight the urge to smile.
His hand flies to the pistol at his hip. “Don’t try me.”
“I know your orders, Colonel, and they are not to kill the lightning girl. Command wants me alive, don’t they?” I remember Ellie Whistle, one of many Guardsmen instructed to help me in my endeavors. She was no match for the Colonel, but the Colonel is no match for Command, whoever they may be.
The Colonel loses some of his edge, but doesn’t back down.
“Bring her forward,” I snap, looking to the stretchers. The two men do as I say as quickly as they can. They lay Elara’s stretcher at my feet. The guns follow their every shaking step. I feel the crosshairs even now, on my heart, my brain, over every inch.
“Your gift, Colonel.” I toe the stretcher, nudging the body beneath the white sheet. “Don’t you want to see it?”
His good eye flashes, almost too quick to discern. It finds Farley in the crowd, and the crease in his brow disappears a little. With a sickening jolt, I realize why. He thought I killed her.
“Who is it, Barrow? The prince? Have you murdered the best bargaining chip you had?”
“Hardly,” a voice calls from the crowd. Cal.
I don’t turn to look at him, electing to focus on the Colonel instead. He holds my gaze, never wavering. Slowly, one hand raised, the other reaching, I pull away the sheet, laying her out for everyone to see. Her limbs have gone stiff. Her fingers are especially twisted, and bits of bone show through the flesh of her right hand. The gunmen are the first to react, lowering their weapons a little. One or two even gasp, covering their mouths to stifle the sound. The Colonel is completely silent and still, content to stare. After a long moment, he blinks.
“Is that who I think it is?” he says hoarsely.
I nod. “Elara of House Merandus, Queen of Norta. Mother to the king. Killed by newbloods and Silvers, in the prison she built for them.” That explanation should stay his hand for the moment.
His red eye gleams. “What do you plan to do with this?”
“The king and this country deserve a chance to say good-bye to her, don’t you think?”