Iris did not like Whitehall. There was no color. The walls of the castle were white stone, the land was grey stone, and the mountains crouched along the western horizon were grayish-black.

In her father’s house, down in Rhondivar, you could always see the ocean, and it was the most beautiful, clear turquoise you could imagine. In the markets there were people speaking all different languages and wearing all different kinds of clothing, and the smells of sweet tropical fruits and fresh hot pastries mixed deliciously with the salty sea breeze—it was always so exciting.

But they might not go back there for a long time. They weren’t even able to make it back for her father’s funeral, and who knew when they would be able to see their friends and family in Rhondivar again—everyone sent letters, but it took weeks for them to arrive, and by then Iris felt like she was reading the ghost of someone’s comfort for her.

Iris worried about her mother. In her history lessons she found herself reading more and more about Ordivicia, its history and customs, even though she did not like it here. She found herself making plans of how to help her mother, when she was old enough, because it seemed that her mother could use help. Iris very much wanted to be of use to her mother here, but maybe it was just because then she would be able to see her more often.

It was two weeks since the news of her father came, and still Iris was having trouble believing it was true. After telling Iris and Clive what the letter said, their mother stayed with them all night.

Iris preferred the times that her mother was just her mother, not a queen, and this was one of those times. That was what she focused on that night, because she was certain they would soon get more news telling them that it had been a mistake. Her father was still sitting in his study reading with his big glasses on, and when they visited him next, he would laugh about this mistake that someone had made, telling them he had died.

Her father would meet them on the docks when they arrived in Rhondivar, like he always did. He would hug her and Clive, then pick up their mother and kiss her and twirl her around, and they would all laugh together about this silly mistake.

That news had not come, but Iris could hardly wrap her head around the idea of going to Rhondivar and seeing their house, but their father not being there. It didn’t make any sense. He was always there. In her mind, the city of Ilyich existed to hold his house.

Iris and Clive went back to their studies a few days after the news, and occasionally were updated on what was happening in the war.

Your mother’s emissaries to the McDougal clan were successful, and they are joining us.

The emissaries to the coastal clans never returned. They were likely taken prisoner.

They were not taken prisoner. We are sending forces to attack the coastal clans.

A rebellion against your mother has risen up in Breden.

The coastal clans have joined us.

The rebellion in Breden was ended swiftly.

The mountain clans are attacking our supply lines. They have cut off the food supply to the third regiment.

On and on it went. Her mother was attempting something that had not been done in hundreds of years, Iris knew—to join all of the people of Ordivicia under one flag and law.

“Her dream is clear, and it’s right,” Oliver said to them often. “Many powerful leaders support her, and so do her people. After this is over, Ordivicia will prosper like never before.”

Iris started having dreams of seeing her father again, of falling into his embrace. He would pick her up and spin her around, or just hug her and tell her it was going to be all right.

She would wake up in tears, sometimes, and then have to get dressed and go to her studies like always. Mathematics. Literature. Language. History. Sometimes she had the same lessons as Clive, and though her little brother never ceased to be obnoxious, she had to admit she was glad of the company. There was no one else in this castle—which was functioning as a military fortress at the moment—anywhere near their age.

She did enjoy the riding lessons, though they were limited to the courtyards of Whitehall. They could never leave the castle’s walls. It was not safe. If one of her mother’s enemies got ahold of her children, everything could be lost. So Iris and Clive were kept behind lock and key, and always had a guard nearby.

“What happened to the emissaries who went to talk to the coastal tribes?” Clive asked one evening, sitting at Oliver’s feet and looking up at him. The fireplace, live and dancing with shadows and flame, illuminated Clive’s young face as he waited for a response. He always sat on the floor, she didn’t know why. He said he preferred the rug over a chair—they were in their mother’s rooms, and the rugs here were very soft. But so were the chairs.

Everything was soft and beautiful in her mother’s chambers. Colorful tapestries hung from the stone walls, making it feel cozy, and the bed was huge. The furniture all shone in the light of the fire because it was polished regularly. The rest of the room was swallowed by shadow; it was very late at night, now, and their mother was still not back.

“They were probably tortured to death,” Oliver answered blandly. He looked tired.

Oliver had always come to visit Iris and Clive when he had time, being their father’s cousin, but he had spent so much time with them in the past two weeks that she wasn’t sure how he was even doing his job. She had begun to suspect that he was actually under orders from their mother to keep them company. But Iris didn’t mind, because she enjoyed his company, for he always answered their questions honestly. Unlike their tutors, who said they were too young to hear details of their own mother’s war.

“Why?” Clive asked.

Oliver shrugged. “Ordics do that to people they don’t like. Sends a message, I suppose.”

“Why?”

“To intimidate, Clive, I don’t know.”

Iris smiled a bit. Oliver was finally learning what she had to deal with all of the time. Her brother was ten, four years younger than her, and he never stopped talking.

“Who were they intimidating?”

“Your mother.”

“Did it work?”

“No. She attacked them and won.”

“Oh.”

Oliver leaned his chin on his hand and looked into the fire, eyes drooping.

“Oliver—“

“Clive,” Iris interrupted, “why don’t you go find a book to read?”

Clive shrugged, then got up to go find a book.

The fire crackled and sputtered, and Iris lost her gaze in it. This chimney was made of the same stone as the one in her father’s living room.

“Are you doing all right?” Oliver asked, looking her way.

Iris nodded. She was sitting in a chair like a normal person, and had a history book open in her lap, but she was getting too tired to read it. She had seen something curious in it earlier, though—something she had recently heard in passing. “Do you know anything about the Crown of Iridis?” she asked him.

“Reading about your namesake?”

She nodded, fiddling with the pages.

Oliver sat up straighter in his chair, then decided that wasn’t comfortable either and put one leg over the arm rest. “Sure, I’ve heard of it. Iridis was the last person to unite Ordivicia, and she had a special crown made for herself—and named a city after herself, of course. She seemed like a pretty humble person. All the rulers of Iridia after her wore it, too. But when that city fell, and Ordivicia dissolved back into warring tribes, the crown was lost.” He yawned. “That’s what I learned in my history lessons, at least.”

“But why has it come up recently? I keep hearing people talk about it, but my tutor says it doesn’t matter.”

“Well, some people say that if your mother can find and claim that crown, she will be the rightful ruler of Ordivicia. I don’t know about that, but there are certainly some clans that would take her more seriously.”

Clive appeared at Oliver’s shoulder clutching a book to his chest. “But if it’s lost, how could Mother find it?”

Oliver jumped at his appearance, then closed his eyes and let out a breath. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

Iris kept watching him, because she thought there was more that the adults weren’t telling her. “We don’t have any idea where it is?”

Oliver hesitated. He saw them both looking at him, and caved. “Your . . . father was looking into it. He thought the crown had been hidden purposefully, and that he could figure out where. But we don’t even know how far he got into his research.” After a moment he sighed and rubbed his face.

Iris imagined her father in his study, pouring over books in strange languages late into the night. He would be the one who would be able to figure it out. But she didn’t suppose there was anyone who would be able to take over his research to continue it. She stared into the fire and felt her heart contract at the thought of his empty study, his abandoned books. Who would read them now?

Maybe she would learn all of the dead languages that he had known, and continue his research herself. That would keep her occupied for a few years. But by the time she finished, her mother’s war would probably already be over.

“But if the crown—“ Clive started.

“Clive,” Iris said, “could you go get us some water?”

Clive frowned at her, then disappeared back into the dark room.

Oliver gave her a strange look. “Did you train him, or . . . ?”

Iris shrugged modestly. “Older sister power.”

“Hmm. I wouldn’t know.” Oliver was the youngest of five brothers. She had only met a couple of the others, but she already liked him the best.

Oliver sighed, stretched his legs, and stood up. Then he sat down on the rug. “Hmm,” he said after a moment, touching the rug. “He might be right. This is pretty comfortable.” He lay on his back and closed his eyes like he was going to fall sleep. He looked quite handsome in the light of the fire, Iris thought. She had always thought so. His hair looked dark when cut short like this, but really it was blond. His strong face and bold eyes were contradicted by his mischievously pointed nose, which she thought described him perfectly.

“One of my tutors said that all five of you and your brothers are famous,” she said.

He opened his eyes and gave her an odd look. “What, really?”

“That’s what he said.” She mimicked the old man’s voice: “That Torrey boy, you know his whole family is famous, right? All five of those Torreys—they’ll all be in the history books.”

Oliver snorted. “I highly doubt that.”

Clive reappeared and handed Iris one cup of water, then Oliver the other. “It’s comfortable, isn’t it?” he asked, sitting next to Oliver’s head.

“It is a nice rug,” Oliver admitted, sitting up to take a drink of water.

When he finished half the glass and just looked into the fire again, Iris prompted, “What have you and all of your brothers done?”

Oliver put down his water and shrugged. “I don’t know, I mean . . .” He blew out a hot breath. “Well, there’s Lydian, of course. He, you know, deserted the Cambrian military to go help his friend the Emperor of Astheld ascend to the throne.” He rolled his eyes. “Lydian has a habit of taking all of the attention. Of Mother. Of our country. Then the entire world. The joke’s on him, though—he can’t show his face in the East ever again. Legally, at least.”

Clive was listening with wide eyes, even though he already knew all of that. Iris was repressing a smile.

“Sebastian was one of the youngest people to graduate the Academy of Endal as a doctor, and now he’s one of the best in the world.” Oliver gestured aggressively. “Josiah is a fantastic writer, also graduated from the Academy, and who knows, he’s probably published something famous by now. And Lucas represents Cambria on the Alliance council.” He looked rather annoyed, especially with that one.

“And you’re our mother’s guard,” Clive said helpfully.

Oliver turned to look at him. “Yes, thank you, Clive. I am also her children’s nanny on the side.”

Iris and Clive both giggled.

Just then, the door swung open and their mother strode in. She looked around the dark rooms quickly, saw them all around the fire, and relaxed.

Oliver got to his feet as the queen approached. Iris saw that her mother had her red hair pulled back in a tight braid down her back, and she was in a dark green dress—the one with the thin steel plate embedded in the corset, to protect her heart.

“Everyone doing all right?” the queen asked, leaning on the back of Iris’s chair and looking around at them. She must have been far more exhausted than any of them, but she did not look it. She looked regal, sharp-eyed, and ready for more.

“We’re all good in here,” Oliver answered, stretching his arms over his head.

Her mother leaned down and kissed Iris on the cheek, then knelt to hug Clive. She said something quietly to him, and he giggled. She smiled. Then she stood and walked Oliver to the door. When they were out of earshot, their mother started talking in whispers. Oliver nodded a few times, his eyes never leaving her face as she spoke.

Iris exchanged a look with her brother. This was common. Adults talking about serious things, just out of earshot. She wished they would just be more honest.

She tried hard to listen, but the only thing she could hear her mother saying was, “Thank you,” at the end as she took his elbow and led him out.

Oliver hesitated at the door. He turned back and asked the queen something quietly. She looked up at him—for he was far taller than her—but it took her a few seconds to nod. Oliver sighed and hugged her. She accepted it, but after just a moment she let go, wiped her eyes, and opened the door for him.

“Good night,” Oliver called to Iris and Clive, waving. They echoed him, and then he left.

Their mother stood at the door for a moment longer, leaning her forearm against it with her head bowed. Then she took a deep breath, stood up straight, and walked back to Iris and Clive. Her eyes were red, but she smiled at them.

“How was your day?” she asked.

As Clive went on a rambling explanation of his day, Iris took her mother’s hand and squeezed it. Her mother put a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“Can we . . . stay here tonight?” Clive asked when he was done.

“Of course, darling.”

“She needs to sleep, Clive,” Iris protested.

“It’s all right,” their mother said. “It’s a big bed, and I could use the company. You can both stay.”

“I won’t kick,” Clive swore.

Their mother smiled. “All right. Iris, will you help me with my dress?”

Iris followed her mother into the dark bedroom, and they had to stop and light some candles before heading to the dressing room. Iris went to work unlacing the dress, one string at a time.

“You can tell us to leave,” she told her mother. “This is the only time of the day you get to be alone.”

“Actually, this part of the day is the only part that I don’t feel alone.” She sighed. “I wish I could spend more time with you two, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s all right,” Iris murmured. “You’re doing everything you can.”

Her mother smiled. “Stop acting so grown-up, Iris.”

Iris did not smile. “I’d rather be a grown-up, so people would be honest with me.”

“Who isn’t being honest with you?”

“Everyone? Except Oliver, he tells us the truth.”

“What is it that you want to know?”

“Lots of things.”

“Like what?”

“What would happen if you died?”

Her mother turned around to stare at her. “What?”

Iris didn’t meet her mother’s eyes. “I just . . . ” She had recently had to come to the very grown-up realization that everyone died, and sometimes you had no warning at all. Your entire world could change with just one letter, and there was nothing you could do about it. Nothing at all.

“Iris . . . ”

Iris steeled herself and held her mother’s gaze. “Logically. What would happen?”

Her mother took a deep breath. “Well, the council would take control until they decided who should be in charge. Oliver would make sure you two were safe, and the first chance he got, he would take you down to Rhondivar to stay with your grandmother. You wouldn’t ever have to come back up here.”

“Or,” Iris said slowly, “I could stay and be a public figurehead while the council rules the country. It would help the people’s sentiments, wouldn’t it? To continue a traditional monarchy?” She didn’t know if those were the right words, but they sounded good.

Her mother blinked. “Why would you want to do that?”

“I want to help. I want to help your dream come true.” And she did not want to go back down to Rhondivar and find out if her father’s house truly was empty or not.

Tears filled her mother’s eyes and she hugged Iris to herself. Iris held on tight, hoping to all the world that her mother would always be there for her, even though she knew it was impossible.

 

Iris woke to the sound of something musical. Bells, in the distance. Was it the morning bells already? She felt she had just managed to fall asleep. Her hand was still entwined in her mother’s, her head resting on very soft feather pillows of her mother’s bed.

The bells kept going, and as she came fully awake, she realized it was an aggressive, constant bell. An alarm. She shot up and shook her mother’s shoulder.

“What?” her mother asked quickly. “What’s the m—“ she heard the bells and froze. Her eyes widened.

They both jumped as someone pounded on the door. “QUEEN TAHLIA!”

Her mother threw the blankets off the bed and Iris quickly got out of her way so her mother could run to the door.

“What’s happening?” Clive asked groggily.

Iris reached over to grab her brother and drew him close to herself, her heart pounding.

Torchlight spilled into the room as their mother unlocked the door and opened it. The door was pushed all the way open as the queen’s guard piled inside—three, five, ten of them.

Then Oliver came in, hastily dressed in armor, sword at his belt. He grabbed the queen’s arm. “Armor!” he yelled at her. “Now!”

Iris tensed. She’d never heard him shout like that before. Clive squeezed her hand tight.

“What’s happening?” the queen demanded as Oliver pushed her toward the closet that held her armor.

“They’re inside the walls!”

“What? How?”

“We don’t know!”

“Oliver, the children!”

Oliver looked over at the bed with wild eyes and swore colorfully.

“Take them!” the queen ordered him. “Get them out of here!”

More soldiers piled into the room. Iris didn’t know where they were all coming from.

“Get her in armor,” Oliver demanded of one of her guards, and shoved him toward the queen. Then he went to the bed, grabbed Clive under his arms and pulled him out, and grabbed Iris’s arm and yanked her along as well.

Oliver stopped in the doorway and looked back at the queen. “You should come with us.” His tone was dark. “They’re here for you, Tahlia. You should run.”

“Get my children out of here,” her mother snapped.

“They’re already inside—“

“Take them!”

Oliver hesitated no longer. He pulled Iris and Clive out of the room and into the hallway, which was swarming with even more guards.

“Where are we going?” Iris asked, gasping in pain as Oliver dragged her around a corner.

“Escape route,” he said shortly.

“How did they get in?” Clive asked in a small voice, starting to fall behind. Oliver responded by grabbing the boy around the waist and hefting him up into his arms.

“Run,” he told Iris, and she ran with him through the halls. They turned corners and went down a staircase, turned another corner, and then Oliver yanked Iris behind him and pressed himself against a wall.

Men yelling in a strange language ran down the hallway perpendicular to them. They were dressed in green and blue, and their hair and beards were woven in wild braids. She recognized the colors from her history books—coastal Ordic clan. They were laughing and crowing as they ran past, thankfully none looking over, but they were all heading for the staircase that Oliver had just brought them down.

“No,” Iris whispered. They were heading toward her mother’s room.

Guards dressed in her mother’s colors chased after them, shouting. Oliver hailed one of them, who stopped and looked over at them. Oliver motioned for him to come with them. The man took one step toward them, then an arrow whizzed through the air and struck him right through the throat.

Iris screamed.

Oliver yanked her arm, and they were running again. Iris looked back and saw the guard on the ground, blood squirting into the air from his neck. His wide eyes followed her.

They turned a corner, and it was gone.

“Down!” Oliver ordered, and she ducked as he led her across a balcony that overlooked the main courtyard of Whitehall. The clanging of the bells was so loud out here that Iris flinched and tried to cover her ears as she looked out at the yard. The pale light of early morning revealed the chaos below—the clansmen were everywhere, howling like animals and scuffling with guards.

Then they were back inside. They ran down another staircase, turned left, and then Oliver slammed his back against a wall again. Iris flattened herself against the wall as well, but then realized he wasn’t hiding—he was opening a door. The wall opened inward and Oliver pulled her inside a secret room, looked both ways down the hallway, then shut the door behind them.

Silence encased them, and Oliver put Clive back on his feet.

Iris could see Oliver’s face clearly, for there was dim sunlight coming from somewhere above them. She could see how terrified he was, breathing hard and looking them both over. It made her own panic far too real. Would that be the last time she saw her mother alive?

Clive was crying. Iris was trembling. But they were all uninjured. The room’s walls were bare stone and the floor just dirt. In the far wall there was a large, gaping black hole.

“Come on,” Oliver said breathlessly, starting toward the tunnel.

“No,” Iris said stubbornly. “Go back.”

Oliver stared at her.

“Go back and protect her!” she shouted.

He flinched. “I have to protect you.”

“We’ll stay right here, no one will find us!”

“No, you have to get away from here—“

“We’ll go down the tunnel, then,” she hissed. “You go back there and protect my mother.”

“I can’t—“

“I don’t want to be an orphan!” she screamed, her voice echoing down the tunnel.

Oliver held a single finger to his lips. His chest was still heaving from the run.

“What will they do to her if they get her?” Iris whispered, frantic tears spilling over.

Oliver looked away, jaw clenched.

“All we have to do is walk,” she said firmly. “We will be fine.” She planted her feet and shoved him toward the door. He fell a step back. “Go,” she ordered. “You can tell them that you were covering our escape.”

He hesitated for just a second longer. Then he pulled a dagger from his belt and closed her hand around the hilt. “The tunnel leads to Roquefort,” he told her. “Keep going until you reach it, I will find you there. Do not stop for anything. Don’t come back this way.”

She nodded firmly, then grabbed her sobbing brother’s hand and walked into the gaping hole in the wall.

“Run!” Oliver called after her, and she broke into a run, dragging Clive behind her.