War Storm
Page 26
Am I infinitely alone?
I suppose that is easier. I want no connection to Norta. Nothing to tie me to this place when Maven’s brother overthrows him, unless my mother does it first.
My queenly duties are the only distraction from my isolation. Today my schedule takes me across the great bridge spanning the Capital River, to the other side of the city. As far away from Maven as I can still get within the diamondglass walls of Archeon. He appears outside the palace less and less, occupying himself with endless councils. Or long hours alone.
I hear the whispers of the servants. His clothes end up burned most days, charred beyond repair. It means he’s losing control, or he doesn’t care to keep himself in check. I think it could be both.
East Archeon mirrors the western side of the city, rising up from the river’s edge to the cliff-like banks that roll off into gentle slopes. Everything is green this time of year. That reminds me of home, at least, though little else does. Even the water is wrong. Salt, not fresh, and tainted with the whispers of pollution from the tech slum upstream. They think the barrier trees get the most of it, but any nymph would know better with a single sniff.
The buildings here are tall and oppressive, all columns of granite and marble, their roofs crowned in sculpted birds with splayed wings and arched necks. Swans, falcons, eagles. Their feathers are copper and steel, polished to a blinding sheen.
Even in the middle of a war, the capital itself carries on in ignorant bliss. Reds walk the streets, marked by their crimson bracelets or the colors of their employing houses. Silvers in their transports roll between their destinations. Museums, the galleries, the theater are all still in operation without change or delay.
I suppose they’re used to war, as the Lakelands are. Even within the borders of their own kingdom.
Today I’m attending a memorial luncheon, to honor the soldiers lost when Maven’s brother and his rebels took Corvium. My Sentinels follow as always, garish in their flaming robes. Though I wear my usual colors, a nod to my native home, my blue blouse and jacket are trimmed with Maven’s black and red. I feel wrong tainting myself like this, but no one would know from looking at me.
I smile and nod with the best, trading idle conversation with the many lords and ladies who wish to favor their new queen. No one says anything of any real use. It’s all for show, even with the families of those who died. They clearly don’t want to be here, preferring to face their grief alone. Instead they’re trotted out like actors in a performance, put on display. One after the other explains how their loved ones died, all murdered by some Red terrorist or Montfort freak. A few are barely able to finish their speeches.
A clever tactic, one I’m sure my husband is behind. Anyone who might oppose this war, or even prefer Maven’s brother on the throne, would have a difficult time holding to their convictions after such a show. And I play my part in it well enough.
“We are here today to mourn, but also to send a message. We will not be controlled by fear,” I say as firmly as I can, staring out at a chamber crowded with sharp-eyed lords and ladies. They look on with rapt attention. Either to be polite, or to look for cracks. Hunt for weakness. Many, I know, would abandon Maven’s Norta if they thought it was the right play for their houses.
It’s my job to convince them otherwise. To stay. To fight. To die.
“We will not give in to the will of rebels and terrorists, and power-hungry criminals hiding behind false promises. We will not throw away everything our country is, our ideals, what Norta is built on, what our very lives are built on.” My elocution lessons come to mind. Although I was never as talented at speechcraft as Tiora, I do my best. Holding a dozen gazes at once, never flinching, never stumbling. I clench a fist at my side, hidden in my skirts. “Norta is a Silver country, born from our strength, our power, our achievements, and our sacrifices. No Red will take what we have or change who we are. They are nothing to us, no matter who their allies are.
“Maven Calore will prevail. True Norta will prevail. Strength and power.” I bite back a grin as I slip familiar words into the previously approved speech. “Let them face our flood.”
Despite all my restraint, I can’t help but smile as the crowd claps and cheers for Lakelander words. My mother’s words. Get used to it, Nortans. You’ll bow to my colors soon enough.
The heat wave has broken, making the walk back to my waiting convoy of transports pleasant. I want to linger on the street, enjoying the fresh air and gentle sunlight, and I move as slowly as I can. My Sentinels edge me along, their gloved hands and masked faces flanking me in practiced formation. We’re ahead of schedule, by my count. I only have to return to the palace and prepare for tonight’s dinner.
Still, the open transport door comes too quickly. With a huff, I step up and in, my eyes downcast as the door shuts behind me.
“Good afternoon, Your Majesty.”
Two faces stare back from inside the transport, on the seats across from mine. One is familiar, and one I can guess at. Both are enemies.
I yelp, sliding back against the leather seating. On instinct I reach for the canteen of water I keep close. My other hand scrambles for the pistol under the backseat.
Fingers catch me under my chin, forcing me to look up. I expect them to belong to the singer, the uncle who can murmur away all thought in my head. Turn me inside out.
Instead I look up to find it’s the grandmother who holds me, her bronze eyes alight and determined. I freeze, knowing exactly what Anabel Lerolan’s touch can do. I picture her grip changing, shifting, and then my skull exploding open, spewing brain and bone all over the transport interior.
“Some advice, from one queen to another, my dear,” Anabel says, still holding my chin. “Do not do anything stupid.”
“Fine,” I whisper, showing my empty palms. No gun, no canteen. No weapons but the air in the transport with us. I glance over her shoulder, at the silhouette of my driver and the Sentinel guard. Both on the other side of the glass.
Julian Jacos follows my gaze, then sighs. He raps his knuckles on the divider. Neither of my guards moves. “They won’t be able to hear you for some time, I’m afraid,” he says. “And they’ve been instructed to take the scenic route back to the palace.” With an empty smile, he peeks out the window as we weave down unfamiliar alleys. “We’re not here to hurt you, Iris.”
“Good. I didn’t think you were foolish enough to try,” I shoot back, a little impeded by Anabel’s lethal grip. “Do you mind?” I sneer at her.
With a patronizing bow of her head, she releases me, but doesn’t back away. Keeping me within easy reach. Under my clothes, I try to gather moisture on my skin, pulling it from the air. And the cold, terrified sweat breaking out over my body. Maybe I can get some kind of shield ready if she tries to obliterate my fingers.
“If you want to send Maven a message, use the proper channels,” I toss at her, throwing up a brazen wall of attitude.
She scoffs, looking disgusted. “This isn’t a message for that wretched brat.”
“Your grandson,” I remind her.
She scowls but carries on. “I want you to pass along word to your mother. The way you usually do.”
Sniffing, I cross my arms. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Anabel rolls her eyes and exchanges glances with Julian. He is far more difficult to read, his expression still and studious.
“I don’t need to sing a confession out of you,” Julian says plainly, “but you know I can if need be.”
I say nothing. Do nothing. My face is still as the surface of an undisturbed pond. No confirmation either way.
The Lerolan woman barrels on anyway, looking down her nose at me. “Tell the queen of the Lakelands that the rightful king of Norta has no quarrel with her. And every intention of preserving the peace his usurper negotiated. That is, of course, if assurances can be made.”
“You want us to stand down?” I sneer at her. She regards me with equal disdain. “An impossible t
hing.”
“No, not stand down. Appearances must be maintained, of course,” Anabel says, splaying those wretched fingers. I watch each one as they drum a rhythm against her leg. “But I’m sure we can find some compromise other than open war between our two sovereigns.”
Once more, I glance at my guards behind glass, bewitched into ignoring us. The road through the window is unfamiliar. To me, at least. I grit my teeth. “He is no sovereign. Our alliance is not with Tiberias Calore, a traitor to his kingdom and his kind.”
The uncle tips his head to one side, surveying me like a painting. He blinks slowly. “Your husband is better at that lie than you are.”
Husband. The reminder of my place here and my position at Maven’s side is an easy jab, but it stings nonetheless. “Lie or not, the people believe it,” I hiss back at him. “Red and Silver, all over this country, they believe what they are told. And they will fight for the person they think Maven is.”
To my surprise, Anabel nods. Her face falls, a picture of concern. “That’s what we’re afraid of. And that’s why we’re here. To prevent as much bloodshed as we can.”
“Anabel Lerolan, you should have been an actress,” I chuckle darkly.
She just waves a hand, glancing out the window. Her lips curve into the ghost of a smile. “I was a great patroness of the arts, a lifetime ago.” For some reason, Julian glances at her, his eyes softening. She glances back, oddly reserved. Something passes between them. An unspoken word or a shared memory, perhaps.
Anabel recovers first, looking back to me. Her voice is stern, and I feel scolded without a reprimand. “When Tiberias wins the throne, he is prepared to offer land and money in exchange for Lakelander cooperation.”
I raise one eyebrow, the only indication of any interest. After all, who knows where this might lead. Keeping options open is smart.
She knows what I’m doing and pushes on. “The entirety of the Choke ceded over.”
Again I have to laugh, tossing back my head. The moisture against my skin, an almost shield, prickles against me. “Useless land,” I scoff. “A minefield. You’re gifting us with a chore.”
The old queen pretends not to hear me. “And a betrothal to Tiberias’s heir, a child of Calore and Samos. Twice royal, an heir to two kingdoms.”
For appearance sake, I keep laughing. But my stomach churns with revulsion. She’s trying to barter with an unborn child. Either mine or Tiora’s. Our own flesh and blood. Consent be damned. At the very least, I agreed to my own arrangement. But doing the same to a baby? Disgusting.
“And what about your Red dogs?” I ask, leaning forward into her territory. It’s my turn to push back. “The Scarlet Guard? The blood freaks of Montfort? Mare Barrow and her kind?”
Julian answers before Anabel can. She doesn’t seem pleased—either by his manner or by his intent. “You mean the next step in our evolution?” he says. “It isn’t wise to fear the future, Your Majesty. That never ends well.”
“Futures can be prevented, Lord Jacos.” I think of the other newblood pet Maven lost, the one who could see too far into the future. I only heard rumors of him, but the rumors were enough. He could see every path as it changed. Even fates that would never come to fruition.
“Not this one.” Julian shakes his head. I can’t tell if he’s happy or regretful. The man is an odd, sad soul. Tormented by a woman, no doubt, as most men like him are. “Not now.”
I look between them and do not like what I see. Each could kill me if they wanted, and despite all my training, I would go down easily. But if they were here to murder me, they would have done it already.
“You’ve lost Piedmont, so you want the Lakelands,” I mutter. “You know you can’t win without one of us doing your dirty work.”
“We do enough dirty work of our own, Princess,” Anabel replies, her voice low and annoyed. She puts emphasis on my born title. She doesn’t recognize Maven as king, so she wouldn’t see me as a queen.
“You put so much stock in your Montfort shield,” I tell them both. “Are their newbloods really enough to outweigh the might of our three nations?”
Julian folds his hands in his lap, thoughtful. He is more difficult to unsettle. “I think we all know that the full might of the Lakelands will never come to the aid of Maven Calore.”
That smarts a little. I was stupid before, signaling what I did to Mare through that newblood in the Piedmont prison. For no reason other than to prove I could. Clearly she passed on the message. Or maybe we’re simply that transparent. I bristle, firing back, “Just as we all know your Red alliance will not last. That it is another powder keg close to open flame.”
This does make Julian uncomfortable. He shifts, thrown off balance, and a slight gray tinge colors his cheeks. Not so with Anabel. She thrives, grinning, as if I’ve just served her a delicious meal. Even though I don’t know how, I feel as if I’ve misstepped.
The woman puts out her hand and I jerk back, out of her grasp. She seems amused by my fear. “There is something else we can offer.”
Julian’s blush deepens and he frowns, dropping his gaze. Breaking eye contact with me. Essentially putting down his only weapon. I could move against him right now and get the upper hand. But Anabel is too close, too lethal.
And, I have to admit, I want to know what the last piece of her bargain is.
“Go on,” I breathe, almost inaudible.
Her smile is wide, pointed. And while Maven is his mother’s son, I see some of him in his grandmother. In the sharp grin, and the scheming mind. “Salin Iral put a knife in your father’s back,” she says. I flinch at the memory. “I assume you would like to have a conversation with him?”
I respond without thinking. A mistake. “I can think of some things I would like to say, yes,” I mutter quickly. The phantom taste of blood fills my mouth.
“I’m sure you know why it was done,” she says.
Pain pricks at my edges. My father’s death is still an open, oozing wound. “Because this is war. People die.”
Her dark eyes, like molten bronze, widen. “Because Salin Iral did as he was commanded to do.”
Any sorrow I feel for my loss steadily turns to rage. It licks up my spine, hot and begging.
“Volo,” I can’t help but hiss. The name of the Samos king sours in my mouth.
But Anabel knows how to push me. “Would you like to speak with him too?” she breathes, almost seductive in her offer. At her side, Julian returns his gaze to me, his lips pressed together. The lines of his face seem to deepen.
I drag a long breath through my teeth.
“Yes, I certainly would,” I breathe. “What is your price?”
Grinning, she tells me.
They melt into the city like ghosts. Simply stepping out of the transport at a crowded corner, disappearing into the ranks of Red servants and more common Silvers. My guards don’t seem to notice or mind, falling back into our prescheduled route. Julian Jacos did his work well, and when I return to the palace, nothing seems amiss. None of my guards seem to realize they’ve lost twenty minutes to the abyss of a singer’s charm.
I make a quick escape, intending to go to the shrine tucked away in my rooms, needing the familiar and blissfully empty space to collect my thoughts.
Mother must be informed of everything that just transpired, and as soon as possible. But I can’t trust that my message won’t be intercepted, even through the deepest back channels. Anabel’s offer could get me beheaded, burned, mutilated, and murdered. This message can only be passed face-to-face.
I manage to get up to my rooms safely. With a wave of dismissal, I leave my Sentinels at the door to my chambers, as usual. Only when I’m truly alone do I realize what I’ve done, and what has just happened.
I start to shake, my hands trembling as I step through my receiving salon. My pulse races. I think of Salin Iral and Volo beneath my hands, drowning, dying. Paying the ultimate price for what they did to my father.
“Traffic on the bridge?”
My instincts tell me to run. Damn myself. Escape the city somehow, find a way home. An impossible thought. I force myself forward instead, through the double doors leading into my sleeping chamber. Into what could be my coffin.
Maven lazes across the sprawl of my silk blanket, one hand tucked behind his head. The other resting on his chest. His fingers drum in time, bone-white against one of his thousands of black shirts. He seems bored and angry. A bad combination.
“Good afternoon, Wife,” he says.
I glance around the room, at the many fountains I keep close. Not for decoration, but my own protection. I feel each as it ripples and chases, more than enough to use should this turn ugly. If he knows what I’ve done. What I entertained. What I agreed to do.
“What are you doing here?” No use playing the part of doting wife, not while we’re alone. He’ll know something is wrong, if he doesn’t already.
Or, I realize with a cold chill, he could simply be here to fulfill our marital duties, neglected as they’ve been. I’m not sure what terrifies me more. Even though I agreed to this. Knew this was part of the bargain. Knew he was part of our alliance. Perhaps I’ve overestimated his obsession with Mare, or it has simply worn away.
He turns his head to look at me, one cheek pressed against the silk. A flop of black hair falls across his forehead. He seems younger today. Albeit more manic. His eyes are barely blue, overtaken by wide black pupils.
“I need you to send word to the Lakelands,” he says. “To your mother.”