War Storm

by Victoria Aveyard

  “The prince has been searching for his children, and for people to help in his endeavor, for months,” Maven drawls. “I remember your envoys, the princes Alexandret and Daraeus. I’m sorry I couldn’t be of any . . . help to them.”

  I almost snort aloud. One of the princes died in the Archeon palace, killed in a failed coup to overthrow Maven himself. And the other is dead too, as far as I know.

  Bracken dismisses the apology with a wave of one large hand. “They knew the risks, as do all in my service. I’ve lost dozens to the search for my son and daughter.” There is true sorrow in his words, laced beneath the anger.

  “Let us hope we don’t lose any more,” I mutter, thinking of myself. And what my mother said. It must be you.

  Maven raises his chin, his eyes flashing between Bracken and the folio. It has to be filled with information on Montfort, their mysterious cities, their mountains, their armies. Information we need.

  “We’re prepared to do what you cannot, Bracken,” he says. Maven is a skilled performer, and he layers his words with just the right amount of sympathy. If given the chance, the young king might lure Bracken to his side before I even get a chance to play my hand. “I understand that, while the Montfortans hold your children, you can’t move against them. The smallest rescue mission could jeopardize their lives.”

  “Yes, exactly true.” Bracken nods rapidly. He’s eating up everything Maven gives him. “Even gathering intelligence was almost too dangerous.”

  The Nortan king raises an eyebrow. “And?”

  “We were able to track the children to their capital, Ascendant,” the prince offers. He extends his hand, holding out the folio to us. “It’s deep in the mountains, protected by a valley. Our maps of the city are old, but usable.”

  I take the information before one of the Sentinels can, weighing the folio. It’s heavy, worth its weigh in gold.

  “Were you able to find where they’re being held?” I ask, eager to crack open the pages and get to work.

  Bracken dips his head. “I believe so. At great cost.”

  I cross my arms, cradling the substantial book to my chest. “I won’t waste it.”

  The Piedmont prince looks me up and down, his face pulled in respectful confusion. Maven is less obvious. He doesn’t move and his expression doesn’t change. The temperature doesn’t rise a single degree. But I can smell the suspicion rolling off him. And the warning. He’s smart enough to keep his mouth shut in front of the prince, unable to stop me from spinning my web.

  “I’m leading the team myself,” I offer, fixing Bracken with my most determined stare. He doesn’t blink, resolute as a statue. Examining me, weighing me. The simple clothing was a good choice on my part. I look more like a warrior than a queen. “I’ll use Nortan soldiers and soldiers of the Lakelands, a small-enough force to pass through unnoticed. Rest assured, we’ve been hard at work since yesterday.”

  Even though it makes my skin crawl, I put a hand on Maven’s arm. His flesh is cold beneath his sleeve. I can’t see it, but I feel the tiniest tremble in him. My smile widens.

  “Maven came up with a brilliant plan.”

  He slides his hand over mine, fingers like ice. A threat plain as day.

  “Indeed I did,” Maven says, his lips pulling into a feral smile to match my own.

  Bracken sees only the offer, and the possibility, of his children’s rescue. I don’t blame him. I can only imagine what my mother would do, if Tiora and I were in the same position.

  The prince breaths a long sigh of relief. “Magnificent,” he offers, bowing his head one more time. “And in return, I can pledge to uphold the alliance we’ve had for decades. Until the blood freaks decided to intervene.” Bracken hardens. “But no more. The tide turns today.”

  I feel his words as keenly as I feel the river below, flowing in its course. Unbreakable. Unstoppable.

  “The tide turns today,” I echo, the folio tight in hand.

  This time, Maven climbs into my transport after me, and I’m tempted to kick him back out in the grass. Instead I retreat to the farthest corner of my seat, Bracken’s intelligence laid across my knees. Maven keeps his eyes on me as he sits down. His calm manner almost makes me sweat.

  I wait for him to speak, matching his icy gaze with my own. Inwardly, I curse his presence. I want to crack into the papers and start filling in the gaps in my rescue plan, but I can hardly start with Maven sneering at me. And he knows it. He’s enjoying this, as he always enjoys bothering people. I think it makes him feel better about his own demons, to make demons for everyone else.

  Only after the transport is moving, hurtling away from the borderlands at high speed, does he speak.

  “What exactly are you doing?” he asks, his voice smooth and devoid of all emotion. It’s his favorite tactic, giving no indication as to his mood. It’s useless to search his eyes or his face for any feeling, to try to read him as I would any other person. He’s too skilled for that.

  I answer simply, head held high. “Winning Piedmont for us.”

  Us.

  Maven hmms deep in his throat, before settling back for the long journey. “Very well,” he says, and speaks no more.

  EIGHT

  Mare

  The Montfort escort leads us toward a palatial compound set high on a ridge overlooking the central valley, where the rest of Ascendant clings to the slopes. Everywhere, dark green banners drift in the sweet evening breeze, bearing the mark of the white triangle. A mountain, I realize, feeling silly for not having figured out their symbol sooner. Their uniforms have the same marking.

  My own clothes are plain, not even a uniform, just items cobbled together from stores in both Corvium and Piedmont. Probably owned by a Silver, judging by the fine make of the jacket, pants, boots, and shirt. Farley tromps along in her version of a uniform, with Clara swaddled on her hip. She wears red all over, with three metal squares at her collar. The mark of a Command general.

  The Silvers behind us are more flashy, and I expect nothing less from their kind. They cut a rainbow of vibrant, sharp colors against the white walkways of Ascendant that wind through the city. Cal is difficult to ignore in his burning red cloak, but I certainly try. He walks with Evangeline, and I half expect her to shove him off one of the more treacherous terraces or stairways.

  I keep close to my father’s side, listening to him breathe. The steps of Ascendant are many, and he is an old man with a regrown leg, not to mention his repaired lung. The thin air can’t be helping either.

  He works hard not to stumble, his red face the only hint of how much effort this takes. Mom flanks him on the left, sharing my thoughts. Her hands trail behind him, fingers splayed to help him if he falters.

  I would call for some kind of aid, a strongarm maybe, or even just Bree and Tramy, if Dad asked. But I know he won’t. He forges ahead, touching my arm once or twice. Grateful for my presence, and equally grateful for my restraint.

  The steps level eventually, carrying us through an archway carved to look like tree trunks and leaves. We pass through into a central plaza, its stonework a checkered spiral of hewn green granite and milky limestone. Pines of every kind line the arches bounding the place, some of them tall as towers and just as thick. I’m struck by the overpowering swell of birdsong, chittering against the purpled sky.

  Behind me, Kilorn lets loose a low whistle. He stares through the trees to a long, pillared building set into and up the cresting slope. It’s a strange mix of tumbled stone, like the bottom of a riverbed, with lacquered timber and marble detail. Balconies dot its many wings, some bursting with wildflowers. All of them face into the valley, to watch over Ascendant.

  This is the premier’s house, I’m certain of it. A palace in all but name. It makes me uneasy, while the rest of my family is rightfully dazzled. I’ve had enough of palaces to know I shouldn’t trust what lingers behind sculpted beauty and gleaming windows.

  There are no walls around the palace, and no gates. There don’t seem to be any sur
rounding Ascendant either. Or at least not the kind I can see. I get the feeling the geography of this city, this country, is its own kind of boundary. Montfort is strong enough not to need walls. Or stupid enough not to build them. Judging by Davidson, I doubt the latter very much.

  Farley must be thinking the same thing. Her eyes pass over the arches, the pines, the palace, noting each one with focused precision. Then she looks back at the Silvers as they troop in after us, all of them trying not to seem impressed by Davidson’s home.

  The premier only waves us forward, deeper and deeper into the heart of his country.

  As in Piedmont, the Barrow family is given much nicer living quarters than we’re used to. The apartments within Davidson’s home are vast, large enough to give each of us our own bedroom. Kilorn and Gisa busy themselves with exploring, poking around the various rooms. Bree is less inclined to move, taking over one of the velvet couches in the long salon. I can hear him snoring now, from where I stand on our terrace. This is temporary, until more permanent lodging can be procured in the city.

  Everyone leaves me alone, either unknowingly or on purpose. I don’t mind either way.

  Ascendant glitters below, a constellation on the mountainside. I can feel the electricity in it, distant and constant, winking in the many lights. It all looks like a reflection of the sky above. The stars seem impossibly clear here, close enough to touch. I breathe deep, sucking in the wild freshness of the mountains. This is a good place to leave them. The best place I could ask for.

  Along the balcony edge, flowers bloom from pots and boxes, in all colors. The ones before me are purple and strangely shaped, with odd petals like a tail.

  “They call them elephant flowers.”

  Tramy sidles next to me, planting an elbow on the railing. He leans out to stare at the city below. Despite the season, a deep chill settles with the night. I must be shivering, because he offers a shawl with one hand.

  As I take it, wrapping the knitted fabric around my shoulders, he furrows his brow. “I don’t know what elephant means.”

  The word rings a distant bell, but I shake my head and shrug. “Neither do I. It could be an animal, I think. Julian would know.” I speak his name without thinking, and I almost wince. A twinge of pain snaps in my chest.

  “You can ask him tonight at dinner,” my brother says, thoughtful as he runs a hand through his scratchy beard.

  I shrug again, trying to brush off all mention of Julian Jacos. “You need to shave, Tramy,” I snicker. Inhaling the sweet air again, I turn back to the city lights. “And ask Julian yourself at dinner tonight.”

  “No.”

  Something in his voice gives me pause, a low tremor of resolve. Boldness. Tramy isn’t the kind to refuse any of us. He’s too used to following Bree around, or smoothing over family troubles. He is a peacemaker, far from the kind to plant his feet and dig in.

  I glance up at him, expecting an explanation.

  He clenches his jaw, dark brown eyes boring into mine. He has Mom’s eyes, like I do. “It’s no place for us.”

  Us.

  His meaning is clear. This is as far as we go. The Barrows aren’t politicians or warriors. They have no reason to share the spotlight, or the danger I live with. But the prospect of standing alone, without them—the fear is endless and selfish and sudden.

  “It can be,” I say too quickly, taking his wrist. Tramy quickly covers my hand with his own. “It should be your place. All of you. You’re my family—”

  A door creaks open onto the terrace, then shuts behind Gisa and Kilorn. My sister surveys us, eyes shining. “How many people have power they shouldn’t simply because their family gives it to them?” she asks.

  She means the Silvers. The royals and the nobles who hand power to their children, no matter how unsuited they might be. The obsession with blood, with dynasty, is the reason Maven is on the throne in the first place. A twisted boy king ruling a country when he can’t even rule his own mind.

  “That’s different,” I mutter back, though my retort is halfhearted. “You’re not like them.”

  Gisa reaches out to me, adjusting my shawl. She dotes on me the way a big sister should, even though I’m years older. The flower is still tucked behind her ear, pale as dawn. Slowly, I touch the petals, then run a lock of her hair through my fingers. The flower suits her. Will Montfort?

  “Like Tramy said,” she replies, “your meetings, your councils, the war you’re fighting, that’s no place for us. And we don’t want it to be.” Gisa stares back at me, eye to eye. We’re the same height for now, but I hope she keeps growing. She doesn’t deserve to see the world the way I do.

  “Okay,” I breathe, pulling her close. “Okay.”

  “They agree,” she mumbles against me.

  Mom. And even Dad.

  Something in me releases, letting go of a great weight. But is it an anchor pulling me down, or an anchor keeping me steady? It could be both in equal measure. Without my parents or siblings hanging in the balance, who will I become?

  Who I must.

  With my head tucked on Gisa’s shoulder, it’s hard not to look at Kilorn standing behind her. His face is dark, a storm cloud as he watches us both. We lock eyes when he feels my gaze, and I see determination in him. He joined the Scarlet Guard long ago, and he won’t take the opportunity to break that pledge. Not even to stay here, in safety, with the only family he knows.

  “Now,” Gisa says, pulling back. “Let’s get you ready for this mess of a dinner party.”

  Months of life on rebel bases has only sharpened my sister’s keen eye for color, fabric, and fashion. Somehow she scares up a few different outfits from the palace to choose from, all of them relaxed but formal, in a range of styles. None of the gemmed monstrosities the Nortan Silvers wear, of course, but still suitable for a table of kings and leaders. I have to admit, I like dressing up in this way. Running my fingers over cotton or silk. Deciding how to wear my hair. It’s a good distraction. And necessary.

  Tiberias will certainly be sitting at the table with me, glowering in his crimson clothes. Pouting because I held to my principles, while he spit on them. Let him see exactly what he turned his back on, and who. I get a sick, but satisfying, pleasure from the thought.

  Though Gisa favors the more complex outfits for me, we eventually settle on a dress both of us like. Simple, a deep plum red, long-sleeved with a trailing skirt. No jewelry but my earrings. Pink for Bree, red for Tramy, purple for Shade, green for Kilorn. The final red stone, scarlet as fresh blood, is tucked away in my things. I won’t wear the earring Tiberias gave me, but I can’t throw it away either. It sits, undisturbed but not forgotten.

  Gisa quickly sews some gold braid, an intricate piece of already-made embroidery, to the cuff of each sleeve. I don’t know where she swiped a sewing kit from, or if Davidson’s staff knew to leave her one. Her nimble fingers are equally skilled at fixing my hair, twisting my mud-brown locks into something like a crown. It hides my gray ends nicely, even though they’ve spread so much. The strain of the days has certainly taken its toll on me, something I don’t miss in the mirror. I look washed out, sunken, my eyes circled by bruise-like shadows. I have scars of every kind, from Maven’s brand, from wounds not properly healed, from my own lightning. But I am not a ruin. Not yet.

  The premier’s palace is vast, but the layout is simple enough, and it takes little time for me to descend to the ground floor, where the public rooms are. Eventually I can just follow the smell of food, letting it lead me through room after room of grand salons and galleries. I pass a dining area the size of a ballroom, dominated by a table big enough for forty, as well as a massive stone fireplace. But the table is bare and no flame crackles in the grate.

  “Miss Barrow, isn’t it?”

  I turn to the kindly voice, finding an even kinder face. A man beckons from one of the many arched doorways leading out onto another terrace. He is perfectly bald, with midnight skin, almost purple in hue, and his smile flashes like a white cr
escent above an even whiter silk suit.

  “Yes,” I reply evenly.

  He grins wider. “Very good. We’ll be eating out here, under the stars. I thought it best to do so, on your first visit.”

  The man gestures and I follow, crossing the grand dining room to meet him. With smooth motions, he takes my arm, locking his elbow with mine as he leads me out into the cool night air. The smell of food intensifies, making my mouth water.

  “So tense,” he chuckles, moving his arm a little to contrast my own tight muscles. His air is easy, so much so that I want to mistrust him. “I’m Carmadon, and I cooked the dinner. So if you have any complaints, keep them to yourself.”

  I bite my lip, trying to hide a smirk. “I’ll do my best.”

  He only taps his nose in reply.

  The spider veins in his eyes are gray, branching across white. His blood is silver. I swallow around a sudden lump in my throat.

  “May I ask what ability you possess, Carmadon?”

  His response is a thin smile. “Is it not obvious?” He gestures to the many plants and flowers, both on the terrace and dangling from the many balconies and windows. “I am but a humble greenwarden, Miss Barrow.”

  For the sake of appearance, I force a smile of my own. Humble. I’ve seen corpses with roots curling from their eyes and mouths. There is no such thing as a humble Silver, or a harmless one. They all have the ability to kill. But then, I suppose, so do we. So does every human on earth.

  We walk across the terrace, toward the smell and soft lights and the low murmur of stilted conversation. This part of the palace juts out over the ridge, allowing an unobstructed view over the pines, the valley, and the snowy peaks in the distance. They seem to glow under the light of a rising moon.

  I try not to look eager or interested or even angry. Nothing to hint at my emotions. Still, I feel my heart jump, adrenaline pumping, at the sight of Tiberias’s familiar silhouette. Again he stares out at the landscape, unable to face anyone else around him. I feel my lip curl in distaste. Since when are you a coward, Tiberias Calore?