War Storm

by Victoria Aveyard

  Davidson reaches the floor of the chamber, making for his own seat at the center, flanked by still-standing politicians. There are empty chairs for us as well, each one marked by a drape of colored cloth. Orange for Anabel, silver for Evangeline, purple for me, scarlet for Farley, and so forth. While Davidson greets the men and women on the floor, shaking hands with an open, charismatic grin, we take to our chairs.

  No matter how many times people put me on parade, I never get used to it.

  Not so for Evangeline. She sits next to me, arranging the falling folds of her dress with a flick of her hands. She raises an eyebrow, imperious, a living painting. She was born for moments like this, and if she is afraid of them, she will never show it.

  “Kill that fear, lightning girl,” she mutters to me, fixing me with an electric stare. “It’s not like you haven’t done this before.”

  “True,” I whisper back, remembering Maven, his throne, and all the vile things I said at his side. This will be easy in comparison. This won’t rip me apart.

  Davidson doesn’t sit down, watching as the others in the room take their seats in thunderous unison.

  He clasps his hands before him, bowing his head. A lock of gray hair falls over his eyes. “Before we begin, I would like to observe a moment of silence for those who fell last night, defending our people from raider attack. They will be remembered.”

  All over the room, his politicians and officers nod approvingly before lowering their own heads. Some close their eyes. I’m not sure which is appropriate, so I mimic the premier, knitting my fingers together and dipping my chin.

  After what feels like an eternity, Davidson raises his head again.

  “My fellow countrymen,” he says, his voice carrying across the amphitheater with ease. Something about the room, I suspect, built to maximize acoustics. “I would like to thank you. Both for agreeing to this special session of the People’s Gallery—and for showing up.”

  He pauses, grinning at the responding wave of polite laughter. The bland joke is an easy tool. I can pick out exactly who his supporters are, simply by how much they laugh or grin. A few politicians remain stoic. To my surprise, they are both Red and Silver, judging by the undertones of their skin.

  Davidson pushes on, pacing as he speaks. “As we’re all aware, our nation is a young one, built by our own hands over the last two decades. I am only the third premier, and many of you are in your first terms of office. Together we represent the will of our diverse people, and their interests, and of course we work to provide for their safety. In the past months, I have done what I’ve thought is necessary to uphold what our country is, and to safeguard what our country strives to be.” His face turns stern, the lines on his forehead deepening. “A beacon of freedom. A hope. A light in the darkness surrounding us. Montfort is a country, the only one on this continent, where the color of blood does not rule. Where Red and Silver, and Ardent, work in tandem, hand in hand, to build a better future for all of our children.”

  My knuckles turn white in my lap as I squeeze my hands together. The country Davidson speaks of, what it represents—could it really be possible? A year ago, Mare Barrow, knee-deep in the mud of the Stilts, would not have believed it. Could not have. I was constrained both by what I was taught and by the only world I was allowed to see. My life was limited to the bounds of work or conscription. Each a different kind of doom. Both lives already lived by thousands, millions. There was no use dreaming that life could be different. It would only break an already broken heart.

  It’s cruel to give hope where none should be. My father told me that. And even he would never say it again. Not now, when we’ve seen that hope is real.

  And this place, this step toward a better world, is somehow real too.

  I see it before my eyes. Red representatives with their blooming flushes alongside Silver. A newblood leader walking the floor before us. Farley, her blood red as the dawn, sitting so close to a Silver king. And even me. I’m here too. My voice matters. My hope matters.

  I glance across Evangeline to the true king of Norta. He followed me here because he still loves me, a Red girl. And because he truly does try to see things for himself.

  I hope he sees what I see here. And if he does take the throne, if we are unable to stop him, I hope he hears what the premier is saying.

  He looks at his hands, his fingers clawed on the arms of his seat. His knuckles are just as white as mine.

  “And yet we cannot claim to be free, we cannot claim to be any kind of beacon, if we allow atrocity on our borders,” Davidson continues. He stalks toward the lower seats, gazing at each politician in turn. “If we can look at the horizon and know there are Reds living as slaves, Ardents slaughtered, lives crushed beneath the feet of Silver overlords.”

  The royal Silvers with us do not flinch. But they don’t do anything to deny what the premier is saying either. Anabel, Tiberias, and Evangeline keep their eyes forward, their expressions locked in place.

  Davidson paces back, completing a circle of the floor. “One year ago, I petitioned for the ability to interfere. To use a fraction of our armies to aid the Scarlet Guard in their infiltration of Norta, the Lakelands, and Piedmont, all kingdoms built on tyranny. It was a risk. It exposed our nation, which had been growing in secret. But you graciously agreed.” He steeples his fingers, half bowing to the Gallery. “And so I ask again. For more soldiers, more money. For the ability to overthrow murderous regimes, and for the right to look ourselves in the face. So we can tell our children we did not stand by and watch as children just like them were murdered or condemned. It is our duty to witness, and to fight now that we can.”

  In the seats of the Gallery, one of the politicians stands. A Silver man, with wispy blond hair, bone-white skin, and robes of deep emerald green. His nails are oddly long and polished to a high shine. “You speak of overthrowing a regime, Premier,” he says. “But I see beside you a young man with Silver blood and a crown upon his head. I see no other crowns in this room. And you know, as well as I do, the crowns we had to destroy to forge our country. How much we had to burn to rise from the ashes.”

  The politician touches his own brow. His meaning is clear. One of the crowns given up was his own. I clench my teeth, fighting the urge to look at Tiberias. I want to yell at him, See? It can be done.

  Davidson offers a deep bow of his head. “Very true, Representative Radis. The Free Republic is a nation made from war, from sacrifice, and above all things from opportunity. Before we rose up, the mountains were a patchwork of petty kingdoms and worse, fighting for dominance. There was no unity. It was easy to worm ourselves into the cracks and break apart what was already breaking.” He pauses, eyes alight. “I see a similar opportunity now, in the Silver kingdoms of the east. Room to change things in Norta. To remake things for the better.”

  Another politician stands from the Gallery ranks, a Red woman with smooth copper skin, close-cropped black hair, and a white gown crossed with an olive sash. “Does Your Majesty agree?” she asks, fixing her eyes on Tiberias.

  He hesitates, surprised at her directness. Tiberias isn’t as quick with his words as his cursed brother. “Norta is in a state of civil war,” he replies, his voice wavering. “More than a third of the nation has seceded, some pledging fealty to the Kingdom of the Rift. Where my betrothed’s father is king.” Clenching his jaw, he gestures to Evangeline next to him. She doesn’t react. “The rest are pledged to me. To putting me back on my own father’s throne, and casting out my brother.” A muscle jumps in his cheek. “Who murdered his way to it.”

  Tiberias lowers his eyes slowly. I can see his chest rising and falling rapidly beneath the folds of his red cape. The thought of Maven still wounds us both, Tiberias even more than me. I was there when Maven and Elara forced him to murder his own father, the old king. I see that terrible moment written on his grim face, clear as letters in a book.

  The representative is not satisfied. She tips her head, bringing long fingers together. “Report
s say that King Maven is beloved among the people. The ones still loyal to him, I mean,” she adds. “Curious, that the Red populace of Norta is counted in that regard.”

  A low current of heat ripples across my exposed skin. Not a lot, but enough to communicate Tiberias’s discomfort. I curl my fingers into a fist, speaking before he is forced to.

  “King Maven is greatly skilled in manipulation,” I tell the woman. “He easily uses his own image, the boy king forced to the throne, and tricks anyone who doesn’t truly know him.”

  And even sometimes those who do. Tiberias, most of all. He told me once he was looking for newblood whispers, stronger than Queen Elara, perhaps able to fix what she broke in his brother. An impossible wish, a terrible dream. I’ve seen Maven without her machinations. She is dead, and he is still the monster she forced him to be.

  The politician turns her eyes on me, and I continue. “He brokered the Lakeland alliance, ending a war my people were sent to fight. He lifted the restrictions his father made on their lives. It isn’t hard to understand why he has support. It’s easy to win the favor of the people you feed.” As I speak, I think about myself, my family. The Stilts. Cameron and the slum towns full of Reds trapped to their lives. Where would we be, if someone had not broken through the wall around us? Shown us how the world really should be? “Especially when you control what they are given, both on the table and on the video screen.”

  She grins at me, showing gapped teeth. “You’ve been a thorn in his side, Mare Barrow. And a boon to him as well. We’ve seen videos from your capture. Your words swayed people to him too.”

  The heat I feel next isn’t from Tiberias, but from my own embarrassment. It claws over my face, warming my cheeks. “Yes. And I am ashamed of it,” I tell her bluntly.

  On my left, Farley clenches a fist on the seat of her chair. She leans forward. “You can’t blame her for things said to the business end of a gun.”

  The Red woman tightens. “I do not, of course. But your face and your voice have been used so many times, Miss Barrow. You will be little use in trying to sway your own people back in Norta. And, I apologize, but it makes it difficult to trust what you say now, and who you speak for.”

  “Then speak to me,” Farley snaps, her voice echoing throughout the Gallery. My flush recedes, chased away by cool relief. I glance sidelong, more grateful for Farley than ever before. She keeps her temper in check, using it as fuel. “I am a general of the Scarlet Guard, a high officer of Command. My organization has been working in the shadows for years, from the frozen shores of the Hud to the Piedmont lowlands, and everywhere in between. We’ve done very much with very little. Imagine what we can do with more.”

  On the opposite side of the chamber, another one of the Montfort representatives puts up a hand winking with golden rings. He’s Red, his smile sharp and slick. “Much, you say? Forgive me, General. But before you began working with us, your Scarlet Guard was little more than a network of allied criminals. Smugglers. Thieves. Murderers, even.”

  Farley just sniffs. “We did what we had to. The premier speaks of working through cracks—we made them. And we transported thousands out of danger. Reds who needed our help. Newbloods too. Your own premier is Nortan-born, isn’t he?” She points her chin at Davidson, who holds her gaze. “Nearly executed for the crime of what he was born as. We saved people like him every day.”

  The sly man shrugs his shoulders. “Our point is that you cannot do this alone, General,” he says. “And while your cause is just, accordances must be made. You are a group with no nation, no citizens to answer to. Your methods are beyond the usual bounds of war. We have our own to think of.”

  “We answer to everyone, sir,” Farley replies coolly. She turns her head just so, letting the scarred side of her mouth catch the light from the dome overhead. “Especially those who think no one is listening. We are listening, and we are doing, and we will keep fighting. To the last rattle of our last breath, the Scarlet Guard will do what it can to fix what is broken. With or without your aid.”

  Still pacing, Davidson passes by her. He shoots her a glance I cannot decipher, lips pressed into a neutral line, eyes locked on her face. I can’t tell if he’s pleased or infuriated.

  The Silver representative named Radis stands again. He doesn’t look a day over thirty-five, and he’s old enough to remember what this country was before Montfort. He eyes us all. “So you propose we support another Silver monarch and help him to a throne.”

  On my right, Evangeline grins, and I can see she capped her eyeteeth with pointed silver. Gruesome, I think to myself. And a message like the rest of her image. She will bite out the heart of anyone in her way. Including all of us.

  “Two, actually,” she says, projecting her voice across the amphitheater. “My father, the king of the Rift, must also be recognized as a legitimate ruler.”

  A corner of Tiberias’s mouth twitches, and Anabel purses her lips. As before in Corvium, Evangeline does her best to sidetrack any progress her betrothed might make.

  Radis sneers back at her, gray eyes flashing. “But as you told us, Premier,” he says, “the Free Republic was built from such kingdoms. We know what they are, what they become.” His gaze ticks from Evangeline to Tiberias. “No matter how noble, how true, how honorable the king or queen.”

  Premier Davidson’s blank mask threatens to slip, betraying a frown. He bows his head slightly, acknowledging Radis’s point. Others murmur around the room, ruminating on the same flaw in this alliance. Of course, Davidson and the Guard have a longer game, with no intention of propping up more kings and queens, but we can’t exactly argue that in front of the Silvers.

  The lie comes easily for me, because it isn’t entirely false.

  “You said something else before, Premier,” I say quickly, pushing out of my chair. “Before the second battle of Corvium, when we were still in Piedmont.”

  Davidson whirls to me, an eyebrow raised.

  “Inches for miles,” I explain, sharpening each letter on my tongue.

  The full strength of the Gallery’s attention makes me shiver with desperation. They must agree. We need their support if we’re going to end Maven’s reign and stop Tiberias from picking up the crown he leaves behind. “Change can be quick, or it can be slow. But the movement should always be forward. I know some of you look at King Tiberias, at Queen Anabel and Princess Evangeline, and wonder, how are they different? How is spilling your own blood to give them a throne better than staying alive and letting Maven keep his?”

  Radis looks down his long nose at me. “Because you claim Maven Calore is a monster. A wayward boy with no leash.”

  I toss my head, flicking my braid over my shoulder. Like Farley, I let my scars tell their own story. The M on my collarbone cooks beneath a hundred pairs of eyes. “Because Maven Calore is, without question, without argument, the worse option,” I say, directing my words to all of them. “Not only will he never move his country forward, but he will also drag Norta backward. He has no regard for Red life, or even Silver. No thoughts of equality. Not even an inkling of anything beyond his broken circle of vengeance and the desire to be loved. And unlike Tiberias, unlike King Volo in the Rift, unlike perhaps any Silver monarch breathing today, he is willing to do anything to keep his crown.”

  Slowly, Radis sits. He gestures with a white hand, asking me to continue. Not that I need his permission. Still, pride surges in me.

  “Yes,” I tell them. “Under most circumstances, you would be better off staying here, protected by your mountains, insulated against the world. If you can find it in your stomachs to ignore the atrocities of Norta and her allies.” Some of them squirm in their chairs. “But not now. Not with the Lakelands on his side. You can take your time deciding whether to give us more aid, but that bell has already rung. You voted to help us before. Your soldiers were there when I was rescued from Whitefire Palace. Your army helped us hold the walls of Corvium. And Maven Calore will never forget what you did. He will never forget how
you stole me from him.”

  You’re like Thomas was, Maven told me once. I hear him still muttering in my head. You are the only person I care about, the only person who reminds me I am alive. Not empty. And not alone.

  He was a monster then, keeping me trapped in his palace, trapped inside my own skin. I wonder what kind of beast he is now, with nothing and no one but the splintered pieces in his head.

  I grit my teeth, trying to picture his next moves. Not in the coming days, but months from now. Years. “One day, his armies will be at your door. The Nortans, the Lakelanders.” They swim before my eyes, the High Houses in their colors, the Lakelanders in their royal blue. “All of them with all their fury, marching behind a shield of Red soldiers you’ll be forced to kill. You might win, but many of your own will die with them. How many, I can’t say. I can only assure you, it will be more.”

  The Red woman with black hair tips her hand, calling for attention. She looks past me, to Farley still in her seat. “Do you agree, General?” she asks, and then points to Tiberias. “Will this Silver king be better than the one already on the throne?”

  Farley scoffs, all but rolling her eyes. “Ma’am, I care very little for Tiberias Calore,” she replies. I can’t help but wince, hissing out a breath. Farley.

  But she isn’t finished. “So you can believe me when I say he will be.”

  The representative bobs her head, satisfied with such an answer. She isn’t the only one. Many of the politicians around the room, both Red and Silver, exchange whispers. “Well, Your Majesty?” the woman adds, turning her attention on Tiberias.

  He shifts in his chair. On his right, Anabel touches his arm with fleeting fingers. I have enough experience with Silver mothers to know that Queen Anabel would be considered overly maternal, too gentle, too loving with her kin.

  I sit as he gets up, stepping onto the floor. Davidson acquiesces, finally taking his own chair to let Tiberias stand alone. He cuts a magnificent sight against the white marble and granite, and the swirling green dome over our heads. The red of his cape seems a livid flame, a swath of fresh blood.