The king’s chambers are vast, opening off a guarded entry lined with Lerolan soldiers. They share Anabel’s colors and her coloring. Black hair and bronze eyes. Tiberias’s eyes. No one stops us as we pass, stepping into the sunken room now serving as a receiving chamber. A very crowded one.
I see Julian first, his back to the arched windows looking out on the now-sparkling Bay. It gleams blue in the afternoon sun. He angles his face to me, features pulling into an expression I can’t name. Sara Skonos stands at his side, her posture violently straight with her hands clasped in front of her. Though her hands are clean, the sleeves of her simple uniform are crusted to the elbows in both red and silver blood. I shudder at it. She doesn’t notice me at first, focused on the mountainous man in the center of the room. He sinks to his knees.
Farley quietly takes a seat, maneuvering herself in between a pair of Scarlet Guard lieutenants. She gestures for me to join her, but I stay put. I prefer the edges of this particular crowd.
I’ve never officially met the ruling lord of House Rhambos, but I recognize his bulk, even kneeling. His robes are unmistakable, resplendent in rich chocolate and crimson edged with precious stones. He is their leader, and the ruling governor of this city and region. His hair is dirty blond giving over to gray, braided back from his face in once-intricate rows. They’re coming undone, either from the battle or from the great lord pulling at his hair in desperation. I suppose both.
Silvers are not accustomed to surrendering.
I exhale, and will myself to look up from Rhambos’s shoulders to the true king standing above him. Sword in hand. The sight of him erases the corpse from my mind.
His fingers hold firm, unwavering, his grip tight on the adorned hilt of the ceremonial blade. Where it came from, I don’t know. It isn’t the sword Elara made him kill his father with, but it looks close enough. And I’m sure he remembers it now, as he stands above another man begging for his life. It must pain him, to do this to someone else. And of his own volition this time.
Tiberias looks paler than usual, cheeks drained of color. But in shame or fear, I can’t tell. Maybe it’s exhaustion. Or pain. In spite of it, he is every inch a king. His armor cleaned, his crown donned. The angled lines of his jaw and cheekbones look sharper somehow, honed by the sudden weight on his shoulders. It’s a mask, all of it. A brave face he must wear. His other hand is empty, fingers bare without flame. No fire but the one burning in his eyes.
“The city is yours,” Rhambos says, his head bowed and hands raised.
Queen Anabel steps close to her grandson’s shoulder, fingers curled like talons. She might be the only person on earth who can seem royal without her finery. “You will address him properly, Lord Rhambos.”
He is quick to acquiesce, dipping further, almost kissing his lips to the carpeted floor. “Your Majesty, King Tiberias,” he offers without hesitation. He spreads his hands wide in open faith. “The city of Harbor Bay, and the entirety of the Beacon region, is rightfully yours. Returned to the true king of Norta.”
Tiberias looks down his straight nose, turning the blade. The edge catches the light. The lord flinches, squinting against the sudden glare. “And what of House Rhambos?” he asks.
Next to me, Evangeline snorts into her hand. “What a performance.”
“We are yours as well, to do with as you wish,” the lord murmurs, his voice broken. For all he knows, Tiberias could execute his entire family. Pull them out at the root. Wipe their name and their blood from the face of the earth. Silver kings have done worse for less. “Our soldiers, our money, our resources are at your disposal,” he adds, listing off all his house can give. All his living house can give.
A beat of silence stretches, taut as a pulled wire. Threatening to snap apart. Tiberias surveys Lord Rhambos without blinking, without feeling, his face blank and unreadable. Then he bears a smile. It bleeds warmth and understanding. I can’t tell if it’s real.
“I thank you for it,” he says, inclining his head a fraction. Beneath him, Lord Rhambos all but shudders in relief. “Just as I will thank every member of your house when they follow your example and pledge an oath of loyalty to me. Forsaking the false king who sits on my father’s throne.”
At his side, Anabel beams. If she coached him, she did it well.
“Yes—yes, of course,” Rhambos stammers. He all but falls over himself to agree. I notice Tiberias edging his toes away, lest the fallen lord try to kiss them. “That will be arranged as soon as possible. Our strength is yours.”
Tiberias’s face tightens. “By tomorrow, my lord.” Leaving no room for argument.
“By tomorrow, Your Majesty,” Rhambos replies, bobbing his head. Still kneeling, he clenches both meaty fists. “All hail Tiberias the Seventh, King of Norta and true Flame of the North!” he shouts, his voice stronger by the second.
The crowd of advisers and soldiers, both Silver and Red, responds in kind, repeating the obnoxious titles. A bit of color returns to Tiberias’s cheeks as he flushes. His eyes dart back and forth, trying to note who cries his name and who doesn’t. His eyes land on me and my unmoving lips. I hold his gaze, feeling a thrill as I keep my mouth resolutely shut.
Farley does too, examining her nails instead of the unfolding pageantry.
Anabel basks in it, one hand on her grandson’s shoulder. Her left hand, laid just so to display an old wedding ring set with a black gemstone. The only jewelry on her, and the only one she ever needs.
“All hail,” she murmurs, her eyes shining as she looks up at Tiberias. At some flicker in his face, she springs into action, moving in front of him. She clasps her lethal hands together, ring still exposed. “The king thanks you for your loyalty, as do I. We have much to discuss in the coming hours.”
It’s as good as a dismissal. Tiberias turns, putting his back to the room, and I realize what an admission it is. He’s tired. He’s wounded. Maybe not in body, but somewhere deep, where no one can see. The rigid set of his shoulders, his familiar posture, slumps beneath the ruby-red pauldrons of his armor. Releasing some weight. Or giving in to it.
Somehow, all thoughts of his corpse come rushing back. Dread pools in me, threatening to fill me up and drag me down.
I step forward, meaning to stay, but the crowd works against me. As does Evangeline. She takes me under my arm, her decorative claws still donned and digging into soft flesh. I grit my teeth, letting her lead me out of his chambers, not wanting to cause a fuss or a scene. Julian passes by us with a single raised eyebrow, surprised to see us in such close confidence. I try to communicate with my eyes. Try to ask for some help or guidance. But he turns away before he knows what I want. Or he simply doesn’t want to give it.
We pass the guards again, the Lerolans looking like Sentinels in their colors of red and orange. Perhaps that’s where the robes first came from. I look back, over the heads of Silver lords and Red officers. Farley’s blond hair glints somewhere, with Ptolemus Samos keeping a safe distance from her. I see Anabel, watching like a hawk. She plants herself in front of the door to Tiberias’s bedchamber. He slips behind it, out of sight without so much as a backward glance.
“Don’t argue,” Evangeline hisses in my ear.
On instinct, I open my mouth to do just that. But I cut myself off as she drags me sideways, out of the crowd and into the corridor.
Even though we’re as safe as possible for the circumstances, my heart beats a ragged rhythm in my chest. “You said yourself, locking us in a closet together wouldn’t work.”
“I’m not locking anyone anywhere,” she whispers back. “I’m just showing you the door.”
We turn and turn, taking the side stairs and servants’ passages far too slowly and too quickly for my liking. My inner compass spins, and I think we’re almost where we started when she halts within a dimly lit passage, almost too narrow for us to squeeze through.
With a ripple of unease, I think of my earring. The one I’m not wearing. A bloodred stone, tucked away in a box in Montfort, hidde
n from the world.
On my right, Evangeline lays her palm against an old door, rusted over from disuse. The hinges and lock have gone dark red, crusting like dried blood. With a flick of her fingers, the metal spins, shedding the rust like droplets of water.
“This will take you—”
“I know where it’s going to take me,” I reply, almost too fast. I suddenly feel like I’ve run a mile.
Her grin sets me on edge, and almost makes me turn around. Almost.
“Very well,” she says, taking a step back. Her hand brushes through the air, gesturing to the door like it’s a priceless gift. Instead of the naked manipulation it is. “Do what you want, lightning girl. Go where you please. No one will stop you.”
I have no clever response for her. All I can do is watch her slink away, eager to be rid of me. Elane must be on her way to the city to help celebrate this victory. I find myself envying them. They’re on the same side, at least, allied despite the impossibilities stacked against them. Both Silver, both raised noble. They know each other in a way Tiberias and I could never. They are the same, equals. He and I are not.
I should turn around.
But I’m already through the door, pushing through the semidarkness of a forgotten passage, my fingertips brushing along cool stone. A light bleeds ahead, closer than I thought it would be. Outlining another door.
Turn around.
My hands flatten against the wood, a smooth cut, uniquely carved. I trace the panels for a moment, on edge. I know where this path leads, and who waits on the other side. Footsteps sound inside the room, making me jump as they pass. Then a chair creaks as a heavy weight sits. Two thumps announce his boots as he kicks them up on a desk or table. And then a long, lingering sigh. Not the satisfied kind. Full of frustration. Full of pain.
Turn around.
The knob moves in my hand, as if of its own volition, and I step out blinking into the soft light of afternoon. Tiberias’s bedchamber here is large and airy, with vaulted ceilings painted blue and white, almost like clouds. The windows look out on the Bay, and a sunnier day than it should be. The ocean breeze blows the last of the smoke away.
It looks like the king is doing his best to fill the place with his usual mess, despite only having been here a few hours. He sits at a desk haphazardly dragged to the center of the room, angled away from a bed I refuse to even glance at. Papers and books pile around him. One in particular lies open, the text inside handwritten in a tight, looping scrawl.
When I finally get the courage to look at him, Tiberias is already standing. He has a fist raised and flaming, his entire body coiled like a snake, ready to spring.
His eyes rove over me, hand still ablaze even though I’m not a threat. After a long moment, he brushes away the fire, letting it flicker and die.
“You got here in a hurry,” Tiberias blurts out, almost breathless.
It takes us both off guard, and he looks away, easing back into his desk chair. He puts his back to me and quickly shuts the book with one hand. It spits dust. The cover is worn, a faded gold, with no writing on it and a broken binding. He shoves it away, tucking it into a drawer with little regard.
Then he pretends to busy himself with some reports. He even bends over them with a very obvious squint. I smirk to myself and take a step toward him.
Turn around.
Another step into the room. The air seems to vibrate on my skin.
“After the . . . ” I stumble. There’s no easy way to say it. “After, I had to see for myself,” I reply, watching the side of his mouth lift. His eyes don’t move, burning a hole into the page in front of him.
“And?”
Shrugging, I rest my hands on my hips. “You’re fine. I shouldn’t have bothered.”
At the desk, he barks out a harsh but genuine laugh. Tiberias leans backward, putting an arm over his chair, twisting to look at me fully. In the daylight, his bronze eyes gleam like molten metal. They run over me, snagging on the exposed cuts and bruises. His gaze feels like fingers. “What about you?” he asks, his voice lower.
I hesitate a little. My own injuries seem small compared to what he suffered, and to the memory of Kilorn choking on his own blood. “Nothing that can’t be mended.”
He purses his lips. “That’s not what I asked.”
“Nothing to compare, I mean,” I tell him, circling to the front of his desk. He moves with me, tracking like a hunter. It feels similar to a dance or a pursuit. “Not all of us can say we almost died today.”
“Oh, that,” he mutters, and runs a hand through his hair. The short locks stand on end, mussing an otherwise kingly appearance. “Everything went to plan.”
I scowl, showing my teeth. “Funny, I don’t remember fighting a killer nymph in the middle of the ocean being part of the plan.”
He adjusts in his chair, uncomfortable. Slowly, he starts discarding his armor, revealing the thin, tight shirt and trimmer form beneath. It’s a dare, but I hold my ground. Each piece hits the floor with a resounding clatter. “We needed the ships. We needed the harbor.”
I keep circling, and he keeps tossing pieces of armor away. He unfastens his gauntlets with his teeth, never taking his eyes off me.
“And we needed you to go toe-to-toe with her? Who had the advantage there, Tiberias?”
The king smirks against red steel.
“I’m still alive.”
“That isn’t funny.” Something tightens in my chest. I run a finger down the adorned edge of his desk, swiping at the dusty surface. My skin comes away gray, leached of warmth. Like it was when I masqueraded as a Silver, suffering through painted-on makeup just to keep breathing. “We almost lost Kilorn today.”
Tiberias’s smirk drops instantly, wiped away, and he forgets the armor for a moment. Darkness clouds his eyes, dulling their gleam. “I thought New Town fell easily. They didn’t expect—” He cuts himself off, clenching his teeth. I look away as his gaze lands on me. I don’t want to see his pity. “What happened?”
My breath feels ragged in my throat. It feels too close to relive, the danger still near. “Silver guards,” I mumble. “A telky. Tossed him down a stairwell. Tore up his insides.” The words hitch as the memory reigns. My oldest friend, his skin going pale, dying faster by the second. Red blood on his chin, his chest, his clothes. All over my hands.
The king doesn’t say anything, holding his tongue. With a great burst of will, I look back at his face to find him staring, eyes wide, lips pressed into a grim, thin line. The concern is clearly written on him, in his furrowed brow and tight jaw.
I force myself to move again, my path taking me back around. Closer to his chair, into the circle of familiar heat.
“We got him to a healer in time,” I say as I walk. “He’ll be all right, same as you.”
When I pass behind him, I bite back the urge to touch his shoulders. To put one hand on either side of his neck and lean forward, bracing myself against him. Letting him hold me up. Now more than ever, the need to let go and rest, to allow someone else to carry my burdens, is difficult to resist.
“But you’re here with me,” he whispers so low I almost don’t catch it.
Instead the words linger, smoke between us.
I have no answer for him. None I’m willing to give or admit. I’m no stranger to shame. I certainly feel it now, as I stand in his bedchamber, with Kilorn recovering miles away. Kilorn, who wouldn’t be here if not for me.
“It isn’t your fault,” Tiberias pushes on. He knows me well enough to guess my thoughts. “What happens to him isn’t on your shoulders. He makes his own choices. And without you, what you did for him . . .” His voice trails off. “You know where he would have ended up.”
Conscripted. Doomed to a trench, or a barracks. Probably dead in the final gasps of the Lakelander War. Another name on a list, another Red lost to Silver greed. Another person forgotten. Because of people like you, I think, forcing a deep breath. The bedroom smells like salt air, fresh from the open windows.
>
I try to take some comfort in what he says. But I can’t. It doesn’t excuse anything I’ve done, or what Kilorn has become because of me.
Though I suppose we’ve all changed since last year. Since that day when his master died and he stood in the dark beneath my house, trying not to mourn his life as it was snatched away. I swallow hard, remembering what I said. Leave everything to me.
I wonder if we changed into who we were supposed to become, or if those people are gone forever. I guess only Jon would know, and the seer is long gone, far out of reach.
Clearing my throat, I change the subject with little tact. “I hear there’s a Lakelander fleet on the horizon.” I put my back to him, turning to face the exterior door, the one leading back into his receiving chamber. I could walk out right now if I wanted. He wouldn’t stop me.
I’m just stopping myself with every single breath.
“I hear that too,” Tiberias replies. Then his voice drops, deepening. It wavers in fear. “I remember darkness. Emptiness. Nothing.”
Reluctantly, I look over my shoulder to watch him stand, shedding the last of his armor. Avoiding my gaze. He’s still tall, still broad, but lesser without the weight of the battle-worn steel. Younger-looking too, just twenty years old. Tipping on the edge of manhood, parts of him still clinging to youth. Holding on to something as it disappears, just like the rest of us.
“I went into the water and I couldn’t get back up.” He kicks the pile of steel on the floor. “Couldn’t swim, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think.”
I feel like I can’t breathe either.
Tiberias shudders as I watch, a tremor that starts in his fingers. His fear is terrifying. Then he forces himself to look back at me. With his feet planted and his hands firmly settled on his hips, he is rooted. The king won’t move unless I do. He’s going to make me surrender first. It’s what any good soldier would do. Or he is simply letting me choose. Letting me decide for both of us. He probably thinks it’s the honorable thing to do.
“I thought of you before the end,” he says. “I saw your face in the water.”
War Storm Page 33