War Storm

  Maven gestures, hands open. His voice is a bucket of ice water. “What is it?”

  “We’ve located what you asked for.” I can only see the Sentinel’s eyes beneath his mask, and they flash with fear.

  “Are you sure?” The king picks at his nails again, feigning disinterest. This only piques mine.

  The Sentinel bobs his head. “Yes, sir.”

  With a cutting smile, Maven looks up from his hands and turns, putting his back to the railing. “Well, then, my thanks. I’d like to see it.”

  “Yes, sir,” the Sentinel says again, nodding once more.

  “Iris, care to join me?” Maven asks, one hand outstretched. His fingers hover half an inch from my arm, taunting me.

  Every warrior instinct I have tells me to refuse. But then I openly admit I am afraid of Maven Calore, and give him power over me. This I cannot allow. And whatever he’s looking for on the Piedmont base could be important to the Lakelands. A weapon, perhaps. Intelligence, maybe. “Why not?” I say with an exaggerated shrug.

  I ignore his hand, following the Sentinel off the balcony. My dress snaps behind me, cut low to show the whorls of water tattooed across my back.

  The base is a good size, though half as big as the major citadels where we house our fleets and armies back in the Lakelands. Wherever we’re going must be close enough to walk, as Maven’s contingent of Sentinels doesn’t bring a transport. I wish they would. Despite the many trees dotting the streets of the base, the shady areas aren’t much cooler than the sunlit streets. As we walk, flanked by a dozen Sentinel guards, I run a hand along my neck. Droplets of water form in the wake of my fingertips, each one running a soothing race down my inked spine.

  Maven follows close at the heels of his lead Sentinel, hands fisted in his pockets. He’s eager. He wants whatever we’re about to find.

  They turn us onto a street of row houses. At first it seems oddly cheerful. Red brick and black shutters, paved sidewalks, flowers blooming, and columns of pruned trees. But the emptiness is unsettling, like a city block removed of its inhabitants. A dollhouse without dolls. The people who lived here were either killed or captured, or they fled into the stinking, sinking swamps. Perhaps they left something of value behind.

  “These were officer homes,” one of the Sentinels explains. “Before the occupation.”

  I raise an eyebrow at him. “And after?”

  “Used by the enemy. Red rats, blood traitors, newblood freaks,” one of the Sentinels hisses behind his mask.

  Maven stops so quickly his leather boots leave black scuff marks on the sidewalk. He turns to the hissing guard, hands still concealed. Despite the Sentinel’s towering height, Maven doesn’t seem at all perturbed. In fact, he wears no expression at all as he stares.

  “What was that, Sentinel Rhambos?”

  Strongarm. The Sentinel could tear Maven’s arms off if he wanted. Instead his eyes widen behind his mask, a watery brown full of terror.

  “Nothing of importance, Your Majesty.”

  “I decide what is important,” Maven clips. “What did you say?”

  “I answered Her Majesty, the queen.” His eyes shift to me. Begging for some kind of protection, but I have none to give. The Sentinels are Maven’s to command. “I told her Reds lived here during the Montfort occupation. And Silvers. And newbloods.”

  “Rats. Traitors. Freaks,” Maven offers, still without any inflection or emotion. I almost wish he would explode with rage. This is far more frightening. A king who cannot be read, a king without anything in him. “Those were your exact words, weren’t they?”

  “They were, Your Majesty.”

  With a crack of his neck, Maven looks at another guard. “Sentinel Osanos, can you explain why this was a mistake?”

  The blue-eyed nymph sputters at my side, stunned to be called upon. She tries to gather herself as quickly as possible. And answer correctly. “Because . . .” She trails off, her fingers twitching in her robes. “I can’t say, sir.”

  “Hmm.” His hum is low, guttural, vibrating in the damp air. “No one?”

  I truly despise him.

  I click my tongue. “Because Sentinel Rhambos insulted Mare Barrow in your presence.”

  I suddenly regret wishing Maven would show anger instead of emptiness. His eyes go black, the pupils blowing out in fury. His mouth opens a little, showing teeth, though I expect fangs. The Sentinels around us tense, and I wonder if they would try to stop him if he moved to strike me. I don’t think they would. I’m their charge as well, but he comes first. He will always come first in this marriage.

  “My wife has such an imagination,” he sneers, though I’ve struck upon the truth. An ugly one. I knew he was obsessed with her, in love with her in some corrupt and vile way, but his reaction hints at something deeper. An internal flaw of someone else’s making. His mother did this to him, for a reason I can’t fathom. Speared the pain and agony and torture of loving Mare through his heart and brain.

  In spite of my better instincts, I feel the smallest pang of pity for Maven Calore. He is not of his own making. Not entirely. Someone else perfectly cut him apart and poorly put him back together.

  His anger passes like the storm clouds, leaving the threat of trembling thunder in its wake. The Sentinels relax when it does. Maven rolls his shoulders and smooths a hand through his hair.

  “Your mistake, Sentinel Rhambos, lies in your disdain,” he says, his voice returning to the dismissive, boyish tone he uses to ensnare people. Stepping lightly, he gets us moving again, though I think the Sentinels are keeping a distance. “We are at war, yes, and these people are our enemies. But they’re still people. Many of them my rightful subjects and your own countrymen. When we claim our victory, we will welcome them back into the Kingdom of Norta. With some exceptions, of course,” he adds with a conspiratorial smirk.

  The lie comes so easily and so well I shiver in the heat.

  “Here, sir,” one of the guards finally says, indicating a row house that looks identical to the others at first glance. But upon closer inspection, I realize the flowers are better tended to. Vibrant, lush petals and verdant green leaves burst from the window boxes.

  Maven glares up at the windows, as if inspecting a corpse. He mounts the steps to the door, moving slowly. “And what freak lived here?” he finally says.

  At first the Sentinels do not answer. Fearing the trap for what it is.

  Only Osanos is brave enough to speak. She clears her throat, then responds.

  “Mare Barrow.”

  Maven nods, still for a second. Then he raises a foot, slamming his boot next to the doorknob, kicking the lock and the door open with a shatter of wood. His form recedes like a fading shadow as he enters the house.

  I remain on the pavement for a moment. Stay here. The Sentinels hesitate with me, reluctant to follow their king. Though I would personally love nothing more than an assassin to jump out of a closet and cut Maven’s throat, I know how that would destroy any chance of winning this war and keeping the Lakelands safe from the other brother and his pets in the Rift.

  “Keep up,” I growl, ascending the steps after my foul husband. The Sentinels clatter after me, their armor clinking beneath their robes of flame.

  I focus on the sound of them as we enter the dim house, empty and silent without its occupants. The walls are oddly bare; Bracken did say his base, and many of his own treasures, were stripped of valuables. Sold off for resources. I wince at the thought of my own home facing such vultures. Our shrines and temples desecrated to fund a war. Not while I live and breathe. Not while Mother holds her throne.

  I don’t bother entering the small salon or searching out the kitchen. Maven’s footsteps echo on the stairs, and I follow, pulling the Sentinels along with me. If the king wants to be alone, he doesn’t say so.

  He bangs open each door on the second floor in turn, poking his head into various bedrooms, closets, and a bathroom. Once or twice, he snarls under his breath, like a predator denied prey.
r />   At the final door, in the corner, he pauses, hesitating.

  This door he opens with one hand, gently, as if entering a holy place.

  I hang back a moment, letting him go first.

  Inside is a bedroom, with two small beds flanking a single window. I notice the oddity first. The patterned curtains are cut up, with precise chunks removed.

  “The sister,” Maven murmurs, running his hand along a sliced edge. “The seamstress.”

  As he runs the fabric through his fingers, sparks spit from his wrist. They catch and spread, eating through the curtains with speed and skill. Burning holes spread like disease. Acrid smoke stings my nostrils.

  He does the same to the wallpaper, letting it burn and peel beneath his touch. Then the window, laying a flaming hand to the glass. It cracks under the tremendous heat he throws off, shattering outward into the sunlight. The room seems to pulse and boil, like the inside of a bubbling pot. I want to step away, but I want to see him. Maven. I must know who he is if I am to defeat him.

  The first bed he ignores, somehow knowing it wasn’t hers.

  The second he sinks into, as if testing the firmness. He smooths the coverlet beneath his hands, then the pillow. Feeling where her head used to rest. I almost expect him to lie down and breathe in whatever scent might linger.

  Instead his fire consumes. Feather and fabric. Wood frame. It leaps across to the other bed, gobbling it up.

  “Give me a minute, please,” he whispers, almost inaudible over the roar of controlled flame.

  We do as we are told, fleeing before the shining heat.

  A minute is all he needs. We’re barely back on the street before he emerges from the door, an inferno jumping to life behind him.

  I realize I’m sweating with fear as we walk away and the row house crumbles.

  What will Maven burn next?

  The snarl of transports echoes outside the holding bunker. The soldiers must have returned, and I wonder if they managed to track down anyone in the swamps. The noise filters through the high windows cut into the concrete slab walls. This room is cool, partially underground, bisected by a long aisle dividing two rows of barred cells. By the official count, we have forty-seven captured held here, two or three to a cell. All red-blooded, but still under heavy Silver guard. Some could be newbloods, quietly waiting for a chance to use their abilities and escape. The Silvers of Montfort—the blood traitors, as the Sentinel called them—are being held elsewhere, restrained by silents and the most powerful of guards.

  Maven idly knocks his knuckles against each bar as we pass. The prisoners shrink back or stand firm, afraid or defiant in the face of the king of Norta. Strange, he seems relaxed here, surrounded by cells. He barely seems to notice the prisoners at all.

  I do the opposite. I count as we go, to see if they match the official tally. To look for any flash of rebellion or determination that might spark into something inconvenient. I wish I could separate Red from newblood. Every cell I pass makes me uneasy, knowing a snake could be waiting in each one.

  At the far end of the bunker, another contingent of royal Silvers approaches, their colors yellow, white, and purple, all done up in gold armor and weapons better suited to decorating a banquet hall. Prince Bracken smiles broadly, but the children clutching his hands cower. Michael and Charlotta alternate between burying their faces in their father’s purple-spangled robes and looking at their golden-shod feet.

  While I feel a surge of sorrow for the children and what they endured at the hands of the Montfort monsters, I am also grateful to see that they are well enough to accompany their father. When we slipped out of the mountain kingdom with them, they could barely speak, despite the wretched healer’s fine work. For no skin healer can mend a mind.

  If only they could, I think to myself, glancing sidelong at my husband.

  “Prince Bracken,” Maven says, dipping his head with all the charm he can muster. Then he sinks further, to eye level with the approaching children. “And Michael, Charlotta. The bravest pair of siblings I ever saw.”

  Michael hides his face again, but Charlotta offers the smallest of smiles. The polite kind, hammered into her by some etiquette instructor, no doubt.

  “Very brave indeed,” I add, winking at the pair of them.

  Bracken stops before us, still smiling, and his guards and retainers glide to a halt with him. I spot another Piedmont prince in their midst, marked by a crown of emeralds, but I can’t say which one.

  “Your Majesties,” Bracken offers, sweeping out his hands to bow as low as he can. His children, still holding his fingers, do the same with practiced grace. Even shy, shivering little Michael. “There are neither enough words nor enough gold in the world to express my gratitude, but rest assured, you have it.” The prince’s eyes stray to me and I meet his gaze, raising my chin. I saved his children with my own two hands. That will not be forgotten. “Just as you have use of my military installation, and any resources Piedmont can offer in this war against the very nature of our world.”

  With a flick of his fingers, Maven gestures for Bracken to stand.

  “You have my gratitude as well for such a mighty pledge,” Maven replies, all performance and posture. “Together we can end what my brother began.”

  Something flashes in Bracken’s eye. Amusement, maybe. Does he see the lie for what it is? Tiberias Calore did not start this war, not by any stretch of the imagination. That sin lies with the Red rebels. I swallow, my throat suddenly dry. The Scarlet Guard began in the Lakelands, spurred on by necessary actions my own father took. Still, if they are sinners, we enabled their existence, allowing it to spread. We share in the sin and shame.

  “Together with the Lakelands,” Bracken adds.

  Another flash of amusement in the prince, and I feel heat rise in my cheeks. “Of course. We back Maven Calore to the last.” With as little as we can afford to send. Fewer troops, less weaponry, less money. The rest of it jealously guarded and hoarded for when we need it most.

  My cheek burns, flaming hot, as Maven’s lips brush my face in a chaste but symbolic kiss. “We’re a good match, aren’t we?” he says, turning back to Bracken.

  I fight the urge to make good on my promise and pin Maven to the floor where I can drown him to my heart’s content.

  “Quite,” Bracken murmurs, his black eyes darting between us. “Unfortunately, we don’t seem to be making much headway. I’ve sent for whispers and singers from Prince Denniarde’s lands.” He gestures to the prince behind him, resplendent in his emeralds and sheer, green silk. “But they’ve yet to arrive, and I’m afraid I don’t want to risk further damaging any of the prisoners before they can be properly interrogated.”

  I turn to the nearest cell, hoping to hide my disgust at the thought of whispers and singers coming here. Neither should be trusted, but I hold my tongue.

  The man in the cell stares back at me, his eyes like bright coals in the dim light of his prison. His skin is as brown as mine, although with a reddish undertone, and his black hair is curly, as is his oiled and groomed beard. The uniform he wears is dark green, the color of Montfort. It has rips in it, missing patches on the breast and upper arms. They dangle broken thread. From insignia removed, badges and honors torn away. I narrow my eyes, and he does the same.

  “What’s your rank, soldier?” I sneer, crossing to the bars.

  Behind me, Bracken and Maven quiet.

  The bearded man says nothing. As I come closer, I realize he has a scar below his eye. Too uniform to be an accident. A well-healed and perfectly straight line.

  I jerk my chin at it. “Someone gave you that mark, didn’t they?”

  “You speak as if a Silver holding me down and scarring my face were a gift,” he replies slowly. His words are oddly stilted, broken apart. As if he has to think through each as it weighs on his tongue.

  I trace the scar again, looking it over. I wonder what he did, or didn’t do, to warrant such a punishment.

  “When your whispers come,” I sa
y, looking over my shoulder to Bracken. “Start with him. He’s of higher rank. He’ll know more than most.”

  Maven’s lips twitch and he almost smiles.

  “Of course,” Bracken replies. “We’ll start with that foolish Red, won’t we?” he adds, crooning to his children as he leads them away. They nod in tandem, seeming far younger than ten and eight. “Then you’ll see they are nothing to be frightened of. Not anymore. They’re nothing to you. Nothing.”

  Again Michael hides his face, shoving his head under his father’s arm.

  Charlotta does the opposite, putting her tiny chin in the air. She has freckles, a dusting over her brown skin. In Montfort, her hair was simple, smoothed back into a single, tight knot. Here she dresses like the princess she is, in patterned white silk, with amethysts studding her many braids. I watch her as she follows her father, small gown trailing over concrete. Her outfit reminds me of a bride’s dress, and I wonder who she will be traded to, as I was traded, when the time comes.

  We continue on our way, surveying the cells, and I return to my counting. Maven swings his arms back and forth, almost joyful. So the victory has had an effect after all.

  “I didn’t know you were capable of happiness,” I mutter, and he laughs outright. It cuts like glass.

  He grins at me unkindly, a wild, manic gleam in his eye. “Your impression of Mare Barrow is very good.”

  I sneer back, dancing on the knife edge. “Well, you want her to be your queen, so I might as well play the part.”

  Another peal of laughter. He blinks at me, as if inspecting a painting. “Is this jealousy, Iris?” I tighten under his scrutiny, my muscles tense as coiled wire. “No, no, it’s not,” he sighs, still smiling. “As I said before, we’re a good match.”

  Hardly.

  “Did someone say my name?”

  Maven stops short next to me, his brows furrowing in open confusion. He tips his head to one side and looks over his shoulder, blinking back at the cell behind us.

  The voice belongs to the bearded man. He leans against his bars, dangling his hands into the central aisle. He peers at us, an eyebrow raised like some kind of challenge.