“I wouldn’t worry about that,” Davidson says with one of his easy, languid smiles. “I’m scheduled to speak before the Montfort assembly in the morning. I’ll make our case then.”
Cal jolts. “Tomorrow morning? Sir, you know as well as I do that time—”
“The assembly convenes in the morning. Tonight I hope you’ll join me for dinner,” Davidson says placidly.
“Premier—” Cal begins, gritting his teeth.
But the newblood is forceful and stern, albeit as apologetic as he can be. “My colleagues already agreed to hold a special session, out of season. I assure you, I’m doing what I can within the bounds of my country’s laws.”
Laws. Can they even exist in a country like this? With no throne, no crown, no one to make the ultimate decision while all the rest squabble over details? How can Montfort hope to survive? How can they hope to move forward with so many pulling in different directions?
But if Montfort cannot move, if Davidson cannot win Cal more troops, then this war may end the way I want. It may end sooner than I thought.
“To Ascendant, then?” I ask, hoping to get out of the settling cold. And get Cal closer to all the distraction this place can give. As Anabel has already claimed Cal, I offer my arm to Davidson instead. He takes it with a slight bow, his hand featherlight on my wrist.
“This way, Your Highness,” he replies.
I’m surprised to find that the touch of a newblood is not as revolting as the touch of my betrothed. He sets a good pace, leading us away from the jets and onto the paths leading into Ascendant.
The city is set high on the eastern edge of the massive mountain range, looking over the lower peaks and out over the borders. Prairie fades on the horizon, its edges known as raider country, where roving bands of Silvers aligned to no nation prey upon all who cross. The rest is empty plain, marred only by the cratered remains of what was once a city, long ago. I do not know its name.
Ascendant seems born of the mountains themselves, built upon slopes and into valleys, arching over gushing streams and the larger river picking its way back east through winding canyons. The few roads tunnel, and transports weave in and out of sight. There must be more beneath the surface, carved into the rock hearts of these mountains.
Most of the Ascendant city buildings are quarried stone—granite, marble, and rock quartz—cut and sculpted into impossibly smooth slabs of white and gray. Pine trees, some taller than spires, sprout up between buildings, their needles the same dark green as Montfort’s flag. The sunset and the mountains wash the city in alternating stripes of deep pink and darkening purple, light and shadow. Above us, marching into the western distance, snowy peaks stand triumphant beneath a sky that seems too big and too close. A few early stars pinprick the dusk. They are familiar, forming patterns I know.
I have never seen a city like this, and it worries me. I do not like surprises, nor do I like to be impressed. It means something is better than me, or my blood, or my homeland.
But Ascendant, Montfort, Davidson, they’ve done it.
I can’t help but be awed by this strange, beautiful place.
It’s less than a mile to the city, but the many steps make it seem longer. I think the premier wants to show off, so rather than stuff us all into transports, he forces us to walk and see the city fully.
If I were back in the court of a Calore king with some other noble on my arm, I wouldn’t bother making conversation. The presence of House Samos is well reputed. But here? I have to prove myself. I sigh, grit my teeth, and look to Davidson at my side.
“I understand you were elected to your position.” The word is foreign to me, rolling around my mouth like a smooth stone.
Davidson can’t help but chuckle, a small crack in his inscrutable mask. “Yes, indeed. Two years ago. The nation voted. And on the third year, next spring, we do so again.”
“Who voted, precisely?”
His mouth tightens. “All kinds, if that’s what you mean. Red, Silver, Ardent. A ballot is color-blind.”
“So you do have Silvers here.” They said as much before, but I doubted any Silver would condescend to a life alongside any Red, let alone to be ruled by one. Even a newblood. Still, it puzzles me. Why live here as an equal when they could live elsewhere as a god?
Davidson dips his chin. “We have many.”
“And they just allow this?” I scoff, not bothering to hold my tongue. I only do that around my parents, and they aren’t here, having thrown me to these red-blooded wolves.
“Allow our equal existence, you mean.” The premier’s voice takes on a sharper edge, hissing through the mountain air.
His eyes bore into mine, gold into charcoal gray. We continue walking, both of us sure over the many steps. He wants me to apologize. I do not.
Finally we reach a landing, a marble terrace overlooking a wide garden in full bloom. Unfamiliar flowers, purple and orange and pale blue, spiral out before us, wild and fragrant. Some yards ahead, Mare Barrow and her family pick their way through the garden, led by their own Montfort escorts. One of her brothers stoops to inspect the flowers more closely.
While the rest of our group takes in the expanse of the garden, Davidson draws closer to me, his lips almost brushing my ear. I resist the urge to slice him in two.
“Forgive me for my bluntness, Princess Evangeline,” he whispers, “but you have a female lover, don’t you? And you are forbidden to marry her.”
I swear, I’m going to cut the tongues from the mouths of everyone here. Is no secret sacred?
“I don’t know what you mean,” I growl through a clenched jaw.
“Of course you do. She’s married to your brother. Part of an arrangement, yes?”
My hands tighten around a stone railing. The cool smoothness does nothing to sooth me. I dig in my fingers, and the sharp, jeweled points of my decorative claws scratch deep. Davidson keeps on, his words a tumult, low and fast and impossible to ignore.
“If all were as you wished, if you were not a bargaining chip in a crown, and she were not wed, could you marry her? Under the best of circumstances, would the Silvers of Norta allow what you desire?”
I turn to him, teeth bared. The premier is far too close. He doesn’t flinch, or step back. I can see the tiny imperfections in his skin. Wrinkles, scars, even pores. I could claw his eyes right out of his head if I wanted to.
“Marriage has nothing to do with desire,” I snap. “Marriage is for heirs and nothing else.”
For reasons I can’t fathom, his golden eyes soften. I see pity. I see regret. I hate it. “So you are denied what you want because of what you are. A choice you never made, a piece of yourself you cannot change—and do not want to change.”
“I—”
“Look down on my country all you want,” he murmurs, and I see a shadow of the temper he works to keep hidden. “Question the way things are. Perhaps the answers will be to your liking.” Then he steps back a little, returning to the picture of a politician. An ordinary man of ordinary charm. “Of course, I hope you enjoy our dinner this evening. My husband, Carmadon, has been busy enough preparing for you all.”
What? I can only blink. Of course not. I misheard. My cheeks flush with heat, turning gray with shame. I can’t deny that my heart leapt in my chest, a burst of adrenaline coursing through me only to die in a heartbeat. It’s no use wishing for impossible things.
But the premier moves his head, the slightest nod.
I didn’t mishear and he didn’t misspeak.
“Another small thing we allow here in Montfort, Princess Evangeline.”
He drops my arm without ceremony, quickening his pace to put some distance between us. I feel my heart hammer in my chest. Is he lying? Is what he said even possible? To my bewilderment, sharp tears prick at my eyes and my chest tightens.
“Diplomacy was never your strong suit.”
Cal glowers at my shoulder, his grandmother hanging back to whisper with one of the Iral lords.
I turn my h
ead, hiding for a moment in a curtain of silver hair. Just long enough to regain some semblance of control. Luckily he’s decidedly occupied with staring after Mare, tracking her movements with pitiful longing.
“Then why did you pick me?” I finally sneer back at him, hoping he feels every ounce of my rage and pain. “Why make someone like me a queen when all I’ll be is a thorn in your side?”
“Playing dumb isn’t your strong suit either, Evangeline. You know how this works.”
“I know you had a choice, Calore. Two paths. And you chose the one that leads right through me.”
“Choice,” he barks. “You girls love that word.”
My eyes roll in my skull. “Well, you seem to be a stranger to it. Blaming everyone and everything else for a decision you made.”
“A decision I had to make.” He turns to me, eyes flashing. “Or what? You think Anabel and your father and the rest would have allied with the Reds anyway? Without getting something in the bargain? You think they wouldn’t find someone else to back, someone worse? At least, if it’s me, I can—”
I step neatly in front of him, putting us chest to chest. My shoulders square, ready for battle. A lifetime of Training hardens beneath my skin. “What? Make things better? When all the fighting is done, you think you can sit on your new throne and wave your stupid flames and change the way the world is?” With a sneer, I size him up, my eyes ripping a path from his boots to his forehead. “Don’t make me laugh, Tiberias Calore. You’re a puppet as much as I am, but at least you had a chance to cut your strings.”
“And you don’t?”
“I would if I could,” I whisper, and I think I mean it. If Elane were here, if there were some way we could stay . . .
“When—when the time comes, when we have to marry . . .” He stumbles over the words. It isn’t like a Calore to stammer. “I’ll try to make things as easy as I can. State visits, meetings. You and Elane can do as you like.”
A chill runs through me. “As long as I hold up my end of the bargain.”
The prospect disgusts us both, and we look away from each other. “I’m not doing anything without your consent,” he mutters.
Even though I’m not surprised, a tiny burst of relief blooms in my heart. “I’d cut something off if you tried.”
Cal offers a weak laugh, little more than an expulsion of air.
“What a mess,” he mumbles, so low he might not expect me to hear.
I suck in a shaky breath. “You can still choose her.”
The words hang in the air, torturing us both.
He doesn’t reply, now glaring at his booted feet. In the garden, Mare keeps her back to him, following close at her sister’s heels. Despite their differing hair colors, I see the resemblance. They move in the same way. Careful, quiet, deliberate, like mice. The sister picks a flower as they go, a pale green bloom with vibrant petals, then tucks it into her hair. As I watch, the tall Red boy, the one Mare insists on dragging everywhere, does the same. The flower looks silly behind his ear, and both Barrow sisters double over. Their laughter echoes over us, a taunt more than anything.
They are Red. They are lesser. And they are happy. How can this be?
“Stop moping, Calore,” I grind out through gritted teeth. The advice is for both of us. “You forged this crown yourself—now wear it. Or don’t.”
SEVEN
Iris
The banks of the Ohius are high. It was a wet spring, with the southern farms of the Lakelands almost flooding many times. Tiora was here in the unstable borderlands just a few weeks ago, to help save the new crops as much as she was to smile and wave. Her small, rare grin won us some favor here, but not enough. Reports to the crown say that Reds are still fleeing, crossing the hills into the Rift to the east. They are fools if they believe the Silver king there will offer them a better life. The smarter ones cross the Ohius into the disputed territories, where no king or queen rules. But they have to risk the chaos of such a journey, facing Red and Silver alike between the Lakelands and northern Piedmont.
The rise above the river offers a commanding view of the valley. A good place to wait. I look south, into the woods gleaming golden beneath the waning light of afternoon. Today was easy, filled with travel across the corn and wheat. And Maven was kind enough to take his own transport, allowing me long hours of peace as we rolled south. The journey was almost a reprieve, even if it meant leaving my mother and sister behind. They’re back in the capital. I can’t say when I’ll see them again. If I ever do.
In spite of the pleasant breeze and the warm air, Maven elects to wait in his vehicle. For now. Certainly he’ll try to make some kind of entrance when the Piedmontese arrive.
“He is late,” the old woman mutters at my side.
In spite of the circumstances, I feel a corner of my mouth lift. “Patience, Jidansa.”
“My, how the current has changed, Your Majesty,” she chuckles, the wrinkles on her brown face deepening as she grins. “I can remember giving you the same counsel more than once. Usually in regard to food.”
I break my vigil, looking away from the horizon to glance at her. “In that, the current remains true.”
Her dusty laugh deepens, echoing out across the river.
Jidansa of the Merin Line has been a friend of the family for as long as I can remember, close as an aunt and doting as a nanny. She used her telky ability to amuse Ti and me as children, juggling our shoes or toys with her mind. Despite her lined face, white hair, and matronly disposition, Jidansa is a fearsome opponent, a telky talented beyond measure, one of the best in our nation.
I would ask her to return with me to Norta, if I were not so heartless. She would agree, but I know better than to make such a request. Most of her family died in the war. Living among Nortans would be a punishment she doesn’t deserve.
Her presence is calming. Even if we are in the Lakelands, I still feel unease around Maven.
The rest of my escort fans out behind me, allowing a respectful distance. The Sentinels should make me feel safe, but I can never feel at ease beneath their jeweled gaze. They would kill me if my husband commanded it. Or try, at the very least.
I fold my arms in front of me, feeling the edges of my blue traveling jacket. Even though I’m about to meet a prince of Piedmont, the ruling prince, I look woefully underdressed. Hopefully he isn’t as dedicated to appearance as most Silvers I know.
I don’t have to wait much longer to find out.
From our vantage point, we can see his convoy picking its way across the disputed territories. The land is otherwise indistinguishable from the woods of the southern Lakelands. There are no walls, no gates, no roads to mark this part of the border. Our own patrols are well hidden for now, and instructed to let the Piedmont prince pass unimpeded.
His convoy is small, even compared to our meager group of six transports and fifty or so guards. I spot only two transports, fast and agile machines, tearing low across the sparser edges of the forest. They’re painted in camouflage, a sickly green to match the landscape. As they get closer, I can see the yellow, white, and purple stars dotting their sides.
Bracken.
Behind me, metal groans and Maven steps down from his transport. He crosses the flattened grass in a few quick strides, stopping next to me with even grace. Slowly, he folds his hands. His white skin looks more golden in this light. He could almost seem human.
“I did not take Prince Bracken to be such a trusting man. He is a fool,” he says, gesturing to the prince’s small party.
“Desperation makes fools of most,” I answer coolly.
Maven barks out a single laugh. His eyes drag over me in an almost lazy fashion. “Not you.”
No, not me.
This needle must be gently threaded. Like Maven, I fold my hands together, projecting an image of strength. Determination. Steel.
Bracken’s children have been missing for months, imprisoned and used as leverage. Every moment they are gone is another bit of Piedmont bled away.
Montfort has already cost them millions of crowns, using whatever they get their hands on. Guns, jets, food stores. The military base in the Lowcountry was stripped, with much of its contents shipped back to the mountains. The Montfortans are locusts, feeding upon all they can. Whatever resources Bracken has left are almost spent.
The transports coast to a halt some yards away, keeping a safe distance from our own convoy. When they open, a dozen guards troop out, resplendent in dark purple edged in gold. They carry swords and guns, though a few seem to favor war hammers or axes instead of blades.
Bracken carries no weapons at all.
He is tall, black-skinned, with a smooth complexion, full lips, and eyes like two polished stones of jet. Where Maven is draped in his cape, his medals, and his crown, Bracken seems less reliant on style. His clothes are finely made, dark purple edged in gold to match his guards, but I see no crown, no furs, no jewels. This man is here on a dire mission and has no cause for pageantry.
The prince towers over us both, with the muscular physique of a strongarm, though I know for a fact that Bracken is a mimic. If he were to touch me, he would be able to use my nymph abilities, albeit only for a time, and to a lesser extent. The same goes for any Silver. Perhaps even newbloods too.
“I wish our first meeting were under better circumstances,” he says in a deep, rumbling voice. As is custom, he ducks into a shallow bow, observing both our ranks. He might rule Piedmont, but his country is no match for ours.
“As do we, Your Highness,” I reply, offering a nod of my own.
Maven copies my motions, but too quickly. As if he wants this to be over with as soon as possible. “What do you have for us?”
I wince at the lack of tact. On instinct, I open my mouth, ready to smooth over the rough edges of such a precarious conversation. But to my surprise, Bracken grins.
“I don’t like to waste time either,” he replies, his smile taking on a hard edge. Over his shoulder, one of his guards approaches, carrying a leather-bound folio in hand. “Not when my children hang in the balance.”
“This is your intelligence on Montfort?” I ask, eyeing the papers as the guard passes them to her prince. “You pulled this together so quickly.”
War Storm Page 10