War Storm

by Victoria Aveyard

  But I see no other way, no other path than the one he sets.

  “Sad to miss the chaos?” Ptolemus says, pushing me back softly. “Father’s gone a bit wild making up a proper court. Silver all over the place. And he can’t decide on a throne.”

  “What about Mother?” I ask, tentative.

  Despite the heat, Ptolemus tucks my arm under his, leading me toward our transport. Behind us, others fall in line, but I have little regard for them.

  “More of the same,” he says. “Prodding after grandchildren. She escorts Elane to my rooms every night. I think she might even stand guard outside the door.”

  Bile rises in my throat, but I force it down.

  “And?” I try to keep my voice from wavering. His grip tightens.

  “We do as we all agreed.” His breath catches. “What has to be done, for this to work.”

  Hot, green envy roars in my chest.

  I thought I wouldn’t be jealous. Months ago, when all three of us came to this decision. When we decided to go through with Elane’s betrothal to my brother. At first, the betrothal was simply meant to protect her. Take her out of consideration for any other houses until we could figure something out. It would not do to have her married off to some simpering Welle greenwarden or boorish Rhambos strongarm. Both out of my reach and out of my control. She is a beautiful girl, a talented shadow. Her house is of great value. And Ptolemus is the heir to House Samos. It was an equal match, understandable, predictable. Useful for a time. When the three of us thought there were no other options. I was still betrothed to Maven, doomed to be his queen. But Ptolemus was near as his right hand, close to court. A marriage would keep Elane close too.

  We didn’t know what machinations our father had in store. Not really. Not the details.

  If I knew then what I know now . . . what decisions would have been different?

  Ptolemus would be unwed, an eligible prince. And Elane free to follow you, her princess, wherever you may go. To marry whatever courtier you chose. Not chained to your brother, in another kingdom, another country, another bedroom, for the rest of all your lives.

  Father could have stopped us, but he didn’t. He let us make this mistake. I bet he enjoyed it, knowing I was separating myself from the one person I wanted more than any crown.

  “Eve?” Ptolemus whispers, bending down. He’s at least six inches taller than me. Broader, too. The firstborn, four years my elder. The son of Volos Samos, the heir to the Kingdom of the Rift. I love my brother, but his life will always be easier than mine. And I’m allowed to resent him for it, in my small way.

  “It’s fine,” I force out between clenched teeth. It’s a good thing I’m not wearing my usual metals, or they all might crush to dust. Out of the corner of my eye, I note Tolly adjusting his bracelets as they tighten on his skin. “We chose this. We have to live with it.”

  The odd, faraway voice rises again.

  Do you?

  In my mind, I see a flash of a white suit and a green one, two men, their hands different colors, fingers interlaced. They cloud across my vision, and I rely on Ptolemus to lead me the last few steps. He almost has to lift me into the transport.

  The vision of Davidson and Carmadon is replaced with another. My brother and Elane in a familiar bedroom. My own wretched mother’s shadow at the door. There’s only one way to erase the vision threatening to burn itself onto my eyes.

  While the rest make for the newly fashioned throne room, to greet my father as a king deserves, I do the opposite. I know Ridge House as well as my own face, and it isn’t difficult to slip away in the receiving courtyard, disappear into the regimented trees and flowers. The servants’ garden connects to the kitchens, and I barely notice the Reds as I pass. They shrink from my presence, well accustomed to my moods. Currently, I feel like a storm cloud, dark and brooding, threatening to burst.

  Elane waits in my room. Our room, the windows clear, curtains open. She knows I like the sun, especially on her. She perches in one of the window seats, leaning back against a pillow, one leg dangling free, bare to her upper thigh beneath a sheer black gown. She doesn’t turn to look at me when I walk in, allowing me the time I want to adjust to her presence.

  My eyes trace her leg before jumping to her hair, red and gleaming, loose around her pale shoulders. It looks like liquid fire. Her skin seems to glow, because it does. This is her ability, her art. She manipulates the light just so, accentuating herself without any need for makeup or finery. Rarely do I feel ugly. I’m a beautiful girl, by design and nature. But after the long flight, without my usual armor of an intricate dress and painted face, I feel diminished next to her. Unworthy. I fight the urge to duck into my bathroom and sweep a little makeup on.

  Finally she turns, giving me full view of her face. Again I feel a little bit of shame in coming to her so disheveled. But want quickly chases away any other sensation. She laughs as I kick the door shut and cross the room to take her face in my hands. Her skin is smooth and cool beneath my fingers, a perfect alabaster. Still, she doesn’t speak, letting me look over her features.

  “No crown,” she says, raising her hand to my temple.

  “No need for it. They all know who I am.”

  Her touch brushes lightly, sweeping down my cheekbone as she tries to smooth away my cares. “Did you sleep on your journey back?”

  I huff, running my thumbs along the underside of her jaw. “Is that your way of saying I look tired?”

  Her fingers continue over my face, down to my neck. “I’m saying you can sleep if you want.”

  “I’ve slept enough.”

  She smirks, lips twisting in the split second before I kiss her.

  It breaks my heart to know she isn’t really mine.

  A fist collides with my door, pounding directly on the entrance to my bedroom. Not even the salon outside, where visitors are meant to wait. My bedroom, our bedroom, directly. I shoot up from my pillows, untangling myself from the sheets with fury. With a flick of my wrist, I draw a knife from the chest across the room and make quick work of the silk twisting around my legs.

  Elane doesn’t blink when the blade passes within an inch of her bare skin. She just yawns, my lazy cat, and rolls over to cradle a pillow. “So rude,” she murmurs, meaning both me and whatever idiot decided to interrupt us.

  “Practicing for that foul creature,” I reply, cutting the last sheet. “What an unlucky messenger.”

  I stand, naked, before tying a soft robe around myself with the blade still in hand.

  The knocking continues, followed by a muffled voice. I recognize it, and some of my delicious, righteous anger evaporates. No scaring the colors out of anyone right now. Annoyed, I throw the knife at the wall. It sticks, blade sinking into the woodwork.

  “What, Ptolemus?” I sigh, wrenching open the bedroom door. He looks similarly disheveled, his hair messy and his eyes burning. I suspect he was interrupted as I was. He and Wren Skonos like their afternoon trysts.

  “We’re needed in the throne room,” he says firmly. “Right now.”

  “Is Father that upset I haven’t kissed his feet yet? It’s only been a few minutes.”

  “It’s been two hours,” Elane calls, not bothering to raise her head. “Hello, Husband,” she adds, tipping a dainty hand. “Be a dear and call for some lunch?”

  I tighten the robe, annoyed. “So, what am I walking into? A public lashing? Will he finally make good on the promise to spike our heads to the gate?” I sneer, chuckling darkly.

  “Strangely, this isn’t about you,” my brother replies, his voice sharp and dry. “There’s been an attack.”

  Quickly, I look over my shoulder. Elane lies sprawled, partially covered by the sheets. She isn’t glowing now, without any reason to concentrate as she drifts back to sleep. She is defenseless, vulnerable. Even to words. “Out here,” I mutter, pushing my brother into the adjoining salon. I can protect her from this, at least, if nothing else.

  I lead him to one of the couches, a cool gree
n to match the hilly vista in the window. Rough river stone paves the floor, strewn with soft blue carpets. “What happened? Attack where?” For some reason, I picture Montfort, and my heart plunges in my chest.

  Ptolemus doesn’t sit. He paces instead, hands on his hips. The tendons in his forearms flex. “Piedmont.”

  I can’t help but scoff. “Maven’s a fool,” I snarl. “He’s only hurting Bracken’s resources, not ours. I didn’t think he was this stupid—”

  “Maven didn’t hit Bracken,” my brother snaps. “Bracken hit us. The Piedmont base. Two hours ago, but we just got the call for help.”

  “What?” I blink, admittedly confused. I raise a hand, clutching the collar of my robe, pulling it shut. As if silk can save me from anything.

  “He cut off the base, stormed it with his own army and an alliance of the other Piedmont princes. He’s taking it back. Killing anyone they could get their hands on. Nortan Red, Montfort Silver. Newbloods.” Ptolemus prowls to the window, putting a hand to the glass. He stares east, at the haze of a hot afternoon. “We suspect Maven and the Lakelands are helping behind the scenes.”

  I look at the floor, my bare feet on the carpet. “But his children. Montfort will have to kill them.” What a trade. Your children for your crown. I wonder if my own father would make the same choice.

  Slowly, Ptolemus shakes his head. “We received word from Montfort too. The children—they’re gone. Replaced with Red corpses healed to look like Princess Charlotta and Prince Michael. Someone got to them, and got them out.” He growls low in his throat. “Montfort idiots don’t know how it happened. How anyone got into their precious mountains and out again.”

  I wave a hand, dismissing the point. It doesn’t matter right now. “So Piedmont is finished?”

  His jaw tightens. “Piedmont is with Maven now.”

  “And what can we do?” I suck in a dragging breath. My mind whirls. There was a garrison left back in Piedmont, soldiers from the Scarlet Guard and Montfort. Red, newblood, and Silver, people we need for our armies. I grit my teeth, wondering how many might have survived.

  At least my father’s own army is here in the Rift, having returned after we destroyed Corvium. The same can be said of Anabel’s alliance. Our Silver strength is preserved, but the loss of the base—and Piedmont—will have devastating consequences.

  I swallow hard, my voice shaking as I speak again. “What can we do against the Lakelands, Maven’s Norta, and Piedmont?”

  My brother’s look is grim, and I shiver to my core.

  “We’re about to find out.”

  THIRTEEN

  Iris

  I’ve never been this far south.

  The Piedmont base is so thick with humidity I feel as if I could weaponize the air itself. My bare arms prickle with the sensation of moisture, minuscule droplets too small to see dancing over my skin. I stretch a little, moving my fingers in tiny circles, stirring up the cloying warmth hanging over the balcony of the base headquarters.

  Thunderheads chase across the horizon, trailing gray shadows of lashing rain out over the swamps. Lightning forks once or twice, and the distant rumble takes four or five seconds to reach us. The light breeze smells of fires doused by the passing rain, and smoke trails over near the main gate of the base. Bracken’s own soldiers marched in through open gates before turning on all inside in a blitz of swift and strongarm, revealing exactly where their bought allegiances lie. With Maven. And with me.

  The king of Norta lays his bone-white hands flat on the balcony railing, leaning forward an inch or two over the edge.

  It isn’t far to the ground. Just two stories. If I pushed him over the rail, he would live, albeit with a few broken bones. He squints, dark brow furrowed beneath a simple crown of iron and ruby. No cloak today. Too hot. Instead he has his usual black uniform, unbuttoned at the throat, the fabric flapping in the slight, damp breeze. A sheen of sweat gleams on his neck. Not from the heat. A fire king would be far more comfortable than anyone else at these temperatures. The sweat isn’t from exertion either. He took no part in the storming of the base. Neither did I, though both our nations provided Silver soldiers for Bracken’s endeavor. We waited until it was clear, until victory was sure, before setting foot here.

  I think Maven is nervous. Afraid. And enraged.

  She wasn’t here.

  I watch him quietly, waiting for him to speak. His throat works, bobbing between the open folds of his collar. He looks oddly vulnerable in spite of our triumph.

  “How many escaped?” he asks without meeting my gaze. His eyes stay fixed on the storm.

  I bite back a rush of annoyance. I’m not some lieutenant, some officer’s aide meant to stand and give figures. But I tell him what he wants, and I do it with a tight smile.

  “One hundred into the swamps,” I reply, running a hand through the flowers blooming from boxes along the balcony. The dirt around them is still wet from the passing rains and a particularly exuberant gardener. Behind us, more flowering vines run up the brick walls and columns of the administrative building. The Piedmontese love their flowers. They explode in various shades, thriving in this climate. White, yellow, purple, pink, and a bit of comforting blue. The sun strengthens overhead, and I wish I’d worn white instead of my royal blue dress. The linen is light, at least, thin enough that I can feel the wind on my skin.

  Maven plucks a single indigo bloom from the flowers at his side. “And another two hundred dead.” Not a question. He knows the death toll well enough.

  “They’re being identified now to the best of our ability.”

  He shrugs. “Use the prisoners. Perhaps a few will do the work for us.”

  “I doubt that,” I reply. “The Scarlet Guard and the Montfortans are loyal creatures. They won’t do a thing to help us.”

  With a long, low sigh he straightens up, pushing back from the balcony. He squints as another crack of lightning flashes, closer this time. What little color he has left drains from his face when the sound of thunder rolls over us. Is he thinking of the lightning girl?

  “I have some Merandus cousins who could be the judge of that.”

  I grit my teeth. “You know how I feel about whispers,” I say, too quick and too harsh. His mother was one, I remind myself, bracing for some kind of reprimand.

  But Maven remains silent. He lays the flower on the railing, petals up, and fusses with his fingernails. They’re short, worn by teeth and anxiety. I would expect a king to keep his nails finely manicured, suited to the arms of a throne. Or maybe roughed by Training or combat, as I’m sure his brother’s are. Not ruined by nervous habits better suited to a child.

  “And I think I know how you feel as well, Maven,” I hear myself say. Daring to turn over one of my many cards on the table.

  Again he doesn’t respond, and I know I’m right. Whatever his mother did, however her whispers crawled across his brain, left scars and marks. He doesn’t want to risk more.

  I sense a chink in his armor, a hole in the wall he keeps up. What if I could slip through? If I could grab hold of a piece of him the way Mare Barrow has—could I hold the reins of a king?

  “We can remove them from court, if you want,” I murmur slowly. I school my features into something softer, more caring, as I shift closer to him. I angle my body so my collarbone juts out, and my dress slips just so, showing exactly as much skin as I need. “Blame it on me. My Lakeland superstitions. Call it a short-lived measure to please your new wife.”

  It’s like circling a whirlpool, trying to keep to its edges. To stay within its bounds without drowning.

  The corner of his mouth lifts, tugging his lips. He cuts a sharp profile, all edges of straight nose, proud brow, and sculpted cheekbones. “You’re nineteen, aren’t you, Iris?”

  I blink at him, confused. “And?”

  Grinning, he moves faster than I expect, putting one hand to my face. I flinch as his fingers slide behind my ear, his thumb beneath my chin. The latter digs a little, pressing into the flesh of
my throat. His skin flares, hot but not burning. We’re almost the same height, but he has an inch or so over me, and I’m forced to look up into eyes like a tundra sky. Frozen, unforgiving, endless. To anyone watching, we might look like enamored newlyweds.

  “You’re very good at this already,” he says, his oddly cool breath washing over my face. “But so am I.”

  I step back, meaning to pull from his grip, but he releases me before I force any kind of struggle. He seems amused, which makes my stomach churn. I give no indication of my disgust. Only cold indifference. I raise an eyebrow and smooth my hair over one shoulder, gleaming black and oil-smooth. I try to channel my mother’s regal, fearless nature.

  “Touch me without my consent again, and we’ll see how long you can hold your breath.”

  Slowly, he lifts the flower again, and his fist tightens around it. One by one, the petals fall, and he flicks his wrist, sparking his bracelet. The petals burn before they hit the ground, disappearing in a burst of red flame and ash and open threat.

  “Forgive me, my queen,” he says, smiling. Lying. “The stress of this war can be such a ruin on my nerves. I only hope my brother can be made to see reason, and the traitors with him are brought to justice so we might finally have some peace in our lands.”

  “Of course.” My words are just as false as his. I dip my head, ignoring any shame I feel in the action. “Peace is the goal we all share.”

  After my mother feasts on your country and tosses your throne into the ocean. After we bleed the Samos king dry and kill every person responsible for my father’s death.

  After we take your crown, Maven Calore, and drown you and your brother both.

  “Your Majesty?”

  We both turn to find one of Maven’s Sentinels, his mask black and glittering, standing in the doorway to the balcony. He bows low, his robes a swirl of woven fire. I can’t imagine how sweltering their armor and robes must be right now.