War Storm

  “Who knows what they promised Bracken for his help,” Anabel curses.

  On her couch, my mother can’t help but sneer. “Well, they didn’t ally with the people who kidnapped his children,” she says coolly, inspecting her nails. “For a start.”

  I almost expect the Lerolan queen to lay hands on my mother, but she doesn’t move.

  Father maneuvers, his voice smooth. “We’re quite able to do two things at once, King Tiberias.”

  Cal responds with his usual fire. “I’m not fighting two wars, Volo. And neither are you.”

  The command lingers, shocking us all. Even Mother draws back, looking to Father with fear in her eyes. For what he might do, how he could respond to such impudence.

  They stare each other down, one king against another. The contrast is jarring. Cal is young, a tested warrior but a floundering politician. Driven by love, passion, some kind of fire that’s always burning inside him. My father is deadly in many ways, with weapons or words. And he is infinitely cold, a calculating statue, his heart nothing but an empty hole.

  This could end everything. Cut the Rift from Norta, and me with it. But no, Father would never do that. He has plans of his own, plans I cannot fathom. And they hinge on Cal keeping his throne.

  Father speaks slowly, as if restraining himself. “I’m not talking about a war with Montfort, or the Red criminals they conspire with.” He lays his hands flat on his knees, displaying many rings and bracelets. All deadly under his command. “Hit them where it hurts. Take back whatever victory they thought they won here. Be a Silver king, a king for your own people.”

  The singer lord speaks first. I brace myself for his voice, always afraid of the sound. “What are you suggesting?”

  Father doesn’t condescend to look at Julian. “Your proclamations will cripple this country,” he says to Cal. “Erase them.”

  To my surprise, Julian laughs openly. The sound is oddly kind, a gentle sort of laughter. I’m not familiar with it. “I’m sorry, Your Majesty, but my nephew can’t very well reverse what he did today. That isn’t strength. That isn’t kingly at all.”

  Now my father turns, fixing Julian with the full weight of his stare. “It’s a fitting punishment for their Red betrayal.”

  That strikes a chord in Cal. “I rule in Norta, not you,” he says, careful to speak as clearly as possible. “Or anyone else,” he adds, shooting a meaningful look at both his uncle and his grandmother. “The proclamations remain.”

  Father’s response is quick. “Not in my kingdom.”

  Like Mother, I feel myself pull back as Cal steps forward, closing the distance between himself and my father. It almost looks like a challenge. “Fine,” he grinds out, glaring at the king of the Rift.

  Again, they hold each other’s gaze, never blinking, never breaking. I wish I could give both of them a shove. Destroy all this for good.

  Anabel intervenes before either side of the scale can tip. She cuts neatly between the kings, putting a hand to Cal’s shoulder. “We’ll pick this up in the morning, when we have clearer heads and a better view of the situation.”

  Behind them, Julian rises to his feet. He adjusts his robes. “I agree, Your Majesty.”

  Mother sees reason too, and she gestures for Ptolemus to follow. I stand with them, exhausted. Only Father remains sitting. He won’t break first.

  Cal is less inclined to play such games. He turns away, dismissing all of us with a disinterested wave of one hand. “Very well, I’ll see you all in the morning.” Then he pauses, looking back. Not at Father. But at me. “Actually, Evangeline, could I have a word?” I blink at him, feeling very sly indeed. The rest of the room could not look more confused. “In private.”

  Slowly, I sit back down as the rest go. Even Father, who prowls away with the rest of my family in tow. Only Ptolemus looks back, locking eyes with me for a moment. I wave him off. I’ll be fine; there’s nothing for him to worry about here.

  Julian is quick to acquiesce to his nephew’s wishes, but Anabel lingers. “Is this something I can help with?” she asks, glancing between us.

  “No, Nanabel,” Cal replies. He walks with her, deftly herding her toward the door. She notes his intention with a sour twist of her lips, but bows her head. He is her king, and she is bound to obey.

  When the door shuts behind her, I relax a little, my posture drooping. Cal hesitates, his back to me, and I hear him take a shuddering breath.

  “Crowns are heavy, aren’t they?” I say to him.

  “Indeed.” Reluctant, he turns around. Without the pressure to perform for the council and his family, Cal slumps as I do. Exhausted by the days, ready to drop.

  I raise an eyebrow. “Worth the price?”

  Cal doesn’t respond, walking silently to the chair across from mine. He leans backward, one leg bent, the other stretched. As he moves, I think I hear a click in his knee. “Is yours?” he finally says, gesturing to my empty brow. There isn’t any animosity to his words, not like I expect. He’s too tired to fight me.

  And I see no use now in fighting him.

  “No, I don’t think so,” I mumble back.

  The admission surprises him. “Are you planning to do anything about it?” he says, voice colored by what could be hope.

  My plan is to do nothing, I think to myself.

  “There isn’t much I can do,” I say aloud. “Not with him holding my leash.” He knows who I mean.

  “Evangeline Samos on a leash,” Cal replies, forcing a false smirk. “Seems impossible.”

  I don’t have the energy to correct him properly. “I wish that were so” is all I can manage.

  He runs a hand over his face, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment. “Me too.”

  I have to scoff. The whining of men never ceases to amaze. “What leash could there be on the king of Norta?” I sneer at him.

  “More than a few.”

  “You backed yourself into this corner.” I shrug, unable to summon any real sympathy for the young man before me. “They gave you a choice, one last chance to change things before they left.”

  He bristles, leaning forward on his elbows. “And what would have happened if I’d done what they wanted? Thrown this infernal thing away?” To illustrate his point, he reaches up and grabs his own crown. He discards it with a thunk. How dramatic. “Chaos. Riots. Maybe another civil war. And certainly war with your father. Maybe my own grandmother too.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Oh, don’t preach to me, Evangeline,” he snaps, really starting to lose his temper. “You can sit here and blame me for all your problems if you want, but don’t act like you don’t have a hand in them.”

  I feel warmth rise in my cheeks as I flush. “Excuse me?”

  “You’ve got a choice too, and you keep choosing to stay right here.”

  “Because I’m afraid, Cal,” I try to snarl, but it comes out like a whisper.

  That stills him, just a little. A cool compress over a fresh burn. “So am I,” he says, his voice echoing the pain in mine.

  Without thinking, I say what I really mean. “I miss her.”

  He responds in kind. “So do I.”

  We’re talking about two different people, but the sentiment is the same. He looks down at his hands, as if ashamed of the love he feels for someone he cannot have. I know what that agony is like. What an anchor it is. How it will eventually drown us both.

  “If I tell you something, will you promise to keep it a secret?” I murmur. Like him, I lean forward, until I could take his hands if I wanted. “Even from Julian and Anabel. Especially from them.”

  Cal glances up again. He searches my eyes, looking for the trick in me. Waiting for whatever Samos trap he thinks I’m about to spring. “Yes.”

  I lick my lips and speak before my brain can tell me to stop. “I think they’re going to kill my father.”

  He blinks, confused. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Well, they won’t do it, but . . .” For the first time in my
life, I take Tiberias Calore’s hand and do not hate the sensation. I grip his fingers tightly, trying to make him understand. “Do you really think Cenra and Iris would trade Maven for someone like Salin Iral?”

  “No, I don’t,” Cal breathes. He squeezes my hand, his grasp stronger than mine. “And with your father dead . . .”

  I nod as he follows my train of thought. “The Rift dies with him. Returns to Norta,” I say. “Ptolemus won’t have the spine to fight a war with Father dead. No matter how good he is at fighting, he isn’t meant for it.”

  “I find that hard to believe,” Cal scoffs, his tone changing. Then his eyes shift, brows knitting together, before releasing like a weight cut loose. Realization washes over him. “You haven’t told your parents this, have you?”

  I shake my head.

  His mouth hangs open. “Evangeline, if you’re right—”

  “I’m going to let him die. I know,” I hiss to myself, at myself. I snatch my hand away, unable to touch or look at him. Fuming, I stare at the carpeted floor, tracing the fine patterns of Red-made artistry. “You’ve always thought me terrible. Is it nice to know you’re right?”

  His fingers are hot beneath my chin, tipping my face up to look him. “Evangeline,” he murmurs, but I don’t want his pity. I push him away.

  “I hope the gods of Iris Cygnet aren’t real. I can’t imagine what punishments they have in store for me.”

  Cal rests his mouth against his knuckles, idly running his hand back and forth over his lips. Eyes far away, he nods in agreement.

  “For all of us.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Iris

  Citadel of the Lakes is the safest place I could ever be, and yet I’m on edge, nervous, constantly looking over my shoulder. I see only familiar guards in their blues, almost blending into the mist of a rainy summer morning. Jidansa is here too, the old telky trailing my mother and me as we walk the pathways arching over the vast training grounds. She has a calming presence, much like my mother, and I try to relax with them so close. Below us, regiments of the Lakelander army prepare for war. Those who have already fought, legions ceded to Maven while we were allied, have earned some well-needed rest. The soldiers here are fresh, ready to fight. Eager to win a country for the glory of the Lakelands. The hills and rivers, the beaches of Norta. Their powerful tech towns, bursting with electricity and economic value. The Kingdom of Norta is a gold mine just waiting to be claimed.

  Thousands upon thousands of soldiers drill in the rain, unbothered by the wet weather. The same will be true across our kingdom. From Citadel of the Snows to Citadel of the Rivers, the call has gone out. We are mobilizing all we can gather, Silver and Red. The army of the Lakelands is assembled and ready to strike. We have the numbers; we have the abilities. Our enemy is already crippled, and we need only put it out of its misery.

  So why do I feel so unsettled, deep in my heart?

  Reviewing troops doesn’t require royal finery, and both of us are dressed like the soldiers we support, in blue uniforms edged with glinting silver and gold. Even Mother has stopped wearing her mourning blacks. But we haven’t forgotten Father, or our vengeance. It weighs on us all like a heavy stone. I feel it with every step.

  We cross the last bridge, stepping onto one of the many balconies ringing the central structure of the citadel. The windows glow, beckoning with warmth. Despite the calming effect of the rain, I’m eager to get out of the weather. My mother moves quickly, setting our pace, and leads us inside. We’re supposed to meet Tiora for lunch, but by the time we reach the room prepared for our meal, she still isn’t there.

  It isn’t like my sister to be late.

  I glance at my mother for some kind of explanation, but she merely takes her seat at the head of the table. If Queen Cenra isn’t bothered by Tiora’s absence, then I won’t be either.

  Like Mother, I take my seat, ready to wait for Tiora to arrive. The guards hang back at the door, taking up flanking positions, but Jidansa sits. She is a noble of the Merin Line, an ancient and distinguished family here in the Lakelands, and she has served us for many years. While the queen helps herself to some fluffy bread, I inspect the vast array of silverware. Forks, spoons—knives especially. I count the possible weapons on the table out of habit, careful to include the filled water glasses. More deadly than any knife in my hands.

  I stare at the water, letting it fill my perception as it fills each glass. The sense is as familiar as my own face. But somehow different now. After what I helped my mother do.

  It’s been days since we made our trade, and I can’t get it out of my head. The sound especially. How the Iral lord choked on his last breaths, unable to fight us off. The Calore king’s uncle, someone named Jacos, is a singer, and he removed any fight from the man before we could get our hands on him. Maybe if he could have fought back, I wouldn’t feel so strange. He deserved to die. Deserved worse punishment than we gave. But the memory still fills me with the strange, foreign sense of shame. As if I have betrayed the gods in some way. Gone against their will and their nature.

  I’ll pray some more tonight, and hope to find an answer in their wisdom.

  “Eat before the food gets cold,” Mother says, gesturing to the plates before us. “Tiora will be with us in a moment.”

  I nod and move mechanically, serving myself. Precautions have to be taken. No Red servants, not while we discuss the path ahead. The Scarlet Guard has ears and eyes everywhere. We must be vigilant.

  Most of the meal is fish. Butterflied trout, sliced open and fried with butter and lemon. Yellow perch, crusted with pepper and salt. A warming stew of lamprey eel, the heads removed and proudly displayed at the center of the table. Their rows of spiraling teeth gleam in the soft light of the dining room. The other plates hold ears of golden corn, greens tossed in spiced oil, braided breads—the usual bounty from Lakelander crops. Our farms are far-flung and prosperous, able to feed our country twice over. Lakelanders never want for food, not even the lowest Red.

  I help myself to a little of each, careful to leave the lamprey for Tiora. It’s an acquired taste, not to mention her favorite.

  Another minute goes by in silence, marked only by the kindly ticking of a clock on the wall. Outside, the rain picks up, lashing the windows in merciless sheets.

  “The army should break until this clears,” I mutter. “No use letting our soldiers get sick, and feed an epidemic of colds.”

  “True,” Mother replies around bites of food. She tips a hand at Jidansa, who stands quickly.

  She ducks into a curt bow. “I’ll make it so, Your Majesty,” she says before setting off to deliver the order.

  “The rest of you, wait outside,” my mother continues, glancing at each of our guards in turn. They don’t hesitate, almost leaping to follow her commands.

  I watch the room empty, my nerves prickling. Whatever Mother wants to say to me isn’t meant for an audience. When the door shuts again, leaving us alone, she steeples her fingers together and leans forward.

  “It isn’t the rain that bothers you, monamora.”

  For a second, I debate denying it. Pasting on a smile, forcing a laugh and a dismissal. But I don’t like to wear masks with my mother. It’s dishonest. And besides, she sees right through them.

  I sigh, setting aside my fork. “I keep seeing his face.”

  She softens, wavering from queen to mother. “I miss your father too.”

  “No.” The word stumbles out, too quick, startling my mother. Her eyes widen a little, darker than usual in the dim light. “I do think about him, all the time but . . .” I search for the proper way to say this. Instead I put it bluntly. “I’m talking about the man who killed him.”

  “Who we then killed,” Mother says, her voice even. It isn’t an accusation, but a simple statement of fact. “At your suggestion.”

  Once more, I feel rare shame. A flush creeps over my cheeks. Yes, it was my idea to take up Queen Anabel’s offer. To trade Maven for the man who killed my father. And
later on, the man he killed my father for. But that part of the bargain has yet to be paid.

  “I’d do it again,” I mutter, playing with my food for some distraction. I feel exposed beneath my mother’s gaze. “He deserves to die a hundred times, but—”

  She tightens, as if in pain. “You’ve killed before. In defense of your own life.” I open my mouth to try to explain, only to find her still speaking. “But not like that,” she adds, laying one hand on mine. Her eyes shine, full of understanding.

  “No,” I admit, bitter and disappointed in myself. This was a righteous kill, payment for the death of my father. It shouldn’t be this way.

  Mother’s fingers grip mine. “Of course it would feel different. Feel wrong somehow.”

  My breath catches in my throat as I stare at our joined hands. “Will it go away?” I murmur, forcing myself to look back up at her.

  But Mother isn’t looking at me. She glances out the window, into the obscuring rain. Her eyes dance with the lashing water. How many people has she killed? I wonder. I have no way of knowing, and no way of finding out. “Sometimes,” she finally says. “Sometimes not.”

  Before I can tug on that thread to unravel exactly what she means, Tiora enters the room, her own guards left behind in the hallway, like ours. While Mother came to Norta briefly, against all traditions of the Lakelands, Tiora stayed behind to keep our nation’s borders safe. And our armies ready for the next step in our journey. She was well suited to the job, and it seems to cheer her, even as we leap between wars.

  The heiress to the Lakelander throne looks like just another soldier, her uniform wrinkled, without any livery or insignia to it. She could be a simple messenger, if not for the Cygnet look. High cheekbones and a higher opinion of oneself.

  She sits with our father’s grace, folding her long limbs into the chair across from mine.

  “Lovely, I’m famished,” she says, picking at the spread with both hands. I nudge the stew in her direction, along with the display of lamprey heads. As children, we used to throw them at each other. Tiora remembers, and she offers a tiny grin in reply.