glide into the underground station. What we might find in
the skies above, white fog or orange-winged airjets, I do not know. The
others don’t seem to mind, exiting the Undertrain with great purpose.
In their silence, the armed and masked Guard looks like true soldiers,
but I know better. They’re no match for what is coming.
“Prepare yourself.” Cal’s voice hisses in my ear, making me shiver.
It reminds me of days long past, of dancing in moonlight. “Remember
how strong you are.”
Kilorn shoulders his way to my side, separating us before I can tell
Cal my strength and my ability are all I’m sure of now. The electricity
in my veins might be the only thing I trust in this world.
I want to believe in the Scarlet Guard, and certainly in Shade and
Kilorn, but I won’t let myself, not after the mess my trust, my blindness toward Maven got us into. And Cal is out of the question altogether.
He is a prisoner, a Silver, the enemy who would betray us if he could—
if he had anywhere else to run.
But still, somehow, I feel a pull to him. I remember the burdened
boy who gave me a silver coin when I was nothing. With that one ges-
ture he changed my future, and destroyed his own.
And we share an alliance—an uneasy one forged in blood and
6 v i c t o r i a a v e y a r d
GlassSword_txt_des1_CS6.indd 6
5/28/15 1:29 PM
betrayal. We are connected, we are united—against Maven, against all
who deceived us, against the world about to tear itself apart.
Silence waits for us. Gray, damp mist hangs over the ruins of Naercey,
bringing the sky down so close I might touch it. It’s cold, with the chill
of autumn, the season of change and death. Nothing haunts the sky yet,
no jets to rain destruction down upon an already destroyed city. Farley
sets a brisk pace, leading up from the tracks to the wide, abandoned
avenue. The wreckage yawns like a canyon, more gray and broken than
I remember.
We march east down the street, toward the shrouded waterfront.
The high, half-collapsed structures lean over us, their windows like
eyes watching us pass. Silvers could be waiting in the broken hollows
and shadowed arches, ready to kill the Scarlet Guard. Maven could
make me watch as he struck rebels down one by one. He would not
give me the luxury of a clean, quick death. Or worse, I think. He would not let me die at al .
The thought chills my blood like a Silver shiver’s touch. As much
as Maven lied to me, I still know a small piece of his heart. I remember
him grabbing me through the bars of a cell, holding on with shaking
fingers. And I remember the name he carries, the name that reminds
me a heart still beats inside him. His name was Thomas and I watched him die. He could not save that boy. But he can save me, in his own twisted way.
No. I will never give him the satisfaction of such a thing. I would
rather die.
But try as I might, I can’t forget the shadow I thought him to be, the
lost and forgotten prince. I wish that person were real. I wish he existed
somewhere other than my memories.
g l a s s s w o r d 7
GlassSword_txt_des1_CS6.indd 7
5/28/15 1:29 PM
The Naercey ruins echo strangely, more quiet than they should be.
With a start, I realize why. The refugees are gone. The woman sweeping mountains of ash, the children hiding in drains, the shadows of my Red
brothers and sisters—they have all fled. There’s no one left but us.
“Think what you want of Farley, but know she isn’t stupid,” Shade
says, answering my question before I get a chance to ask. “She gave the
order to evacuate last night, after she escaped Archeon. She thought
you or Maven would talk under torture.”
She was wrong. There was no need to torture Maven. He gave his
information and his mind freely. He opened his head to his mother,
letting her paw through everything she saw there. The Undertrain, the
secret city, the list. It is all hers now, just like he always was.
The line of Scarlet Guard soldiers stretches out behind us, a disorga-
nized rabble of armed men and women. Kilorn marches directly behind
me, his eyes darting, while Farley leads. Two burly soldiers keep Cal
on her heels, gripping his arms tensely. With their red scarves, they
look like the stuff of nightmares. But there are so few of us now, maybe
thirty, all walking wounded. So few survived.
“There’s not enough of us to keep this rebellion going, even if we
escape again,” I whisper to my
| | |
|