War Storm

by Victoria Aveyard

  “We leave in an hour,” he says, finishing with his buttons. “I’ve had some clothes brought into the salon for you. Choose whatever you like. Or . . .” He stumbles, as if he’s said something wrong. “Whatever you want from your own wardrobe.”

  “I didn’t exactly bring my wardrobe to a battle, and I don’t think I can fit into one of your uniforms,” I reply, chuckling a little. With a reluctant groan, I stretch out of the blankets and shudder at the touch of cold air. I sit up, intensely aware of the tangled braid over my shoulder. “I’ll find something. Should I look a certain way?”

  A muscle feathers in his cheek. “However you wish,” he says, his voice oddly strained.

  “Should I be distracting?” I ask, gingerly trying to work the knots out of my hair. He looks at my fingers, not at me.

  “I think you’ll be distracting no matter what you wear.”

  My chest tightens with warmth. “Flattery will get you nowhere, Cal.”

  But he isn’t wrong. It’s been months since I last saw Maven in the flesh, his form retreating through the surge of a panicked crowd. Iris ran with him, defending her new husband from the attack on their wedding in the capital. It was a rescue mission, not just for me, but for dozens of newbloods manipulated into his service.

  I could wear a potato sack and Maven would still devour me with his eyes.

  Yawning, I pad across the room and into the bathroom for a quick, blistering-hot shower. Part of me wishes Cal would join in, but he stays behind, and I scrub the last of my aches away alone. After, I enter the salon to find a rainbow in the semidarkness. With a slight burst of concentration, I make the electric lights flicker to life overhead, illuminating the chamber full of various garments. I’m glad for the wide choice of clothing, but even more grateful for the emptiness of the salon. No maids to attend to my hair and face, no healers to work away the gnawing exhaustion or liven up my body. I’m given only what I need, and exactly what I want.

  If only Cal could do that in all things.

  I try not to think beyond this morning. He still hasn’t turned away from the crown, and I am still just as dedicated to my cause, if not more so. I can’t still be in love with a king, when everything I’m doing is to destroy his throne. Destroy all notions of kings and queens and the kingdoms at the mercy of their will. But the love just won’t go away, and neither will the need.

  I wonder who laid out the variety of clothing, draping chairs and couches with a selection of gowns, suits, blouses, skirts, and pants, with no fewer than six different pairs of shoes on the floor beside them. Many of them are gold, either patterned in dusty yellow or trimmed with the colors of Cal’s mother. She was a thin woman, judging by the narrow waistlines of her dresses. Smaller than I would expect for the mother of the man in the room behind me. I avoid her clothing as best I can and search for something that doesn’t carry the weight of a dead woman.

  I settle for a flowing dress belted at the waist, dyed a deep, rich navy blue. The colors of someone else’s mother. It’s velvet, and I’ll certainly sweat out of it later on, but the neckline, a gentle swoop below my collarbone, puts my brand on full display. Let Maven see what he’s done to me and never forget what kind of monster he is. I feel stronger as I pull it on, as if the dress is some kind of armor.

  I can only imagine what kind of elegant monstrosity Evangeline will pull together for the meeting. Perhaps a gown of razor blades. I hope she does. Evangeline Samos excels in moments such as these, and I can’t wait to unleash her on her former betrothed, unbridled by any kind of etiquette or scheme.

  When I finish, I comb out my drying hair, letting it fall loose about my shoulders. The gray ends gleam in the lamplight, sharp in contrast to the brown. I am a strange-looking person, I think as I examine myself in a mirror. A Red girl in Silver finery never ceases to surprise me. My skin glows golden with the low light, stubbornly alive and stubbornly Red. I’m less haggard than I thought, my brown eyes luminous with both fear and determination.

  I draw some comfort from knowing that Cal’s mother, though she was Silver, wasn’t fitted to this life either. It’s written so clearly in the portrait of her, which lies against the far wall, nestled next to a pair of ornate chairs.

  I wonder where Cal will hang her. Out of sight, or always in reach?

  Coriane Jacos had soft blue eyes, if the painting is a good likeness. Like a sky before dawn, the haze of blue upon a horizon. Almost colorless, drained of a deeper shade. She looks more like Julian than like her son. Both have the same chestnut hair, hers curling artfully over one shoulder, well dressed with creamy pearls and gold chain. Their faces are similar too. Drawn, older than their years. But while Julian’s strain has always seemed pleasant, the accepted frustration of a scholar constantly working a puzzle, Coriane’s looks bone-deep. She was a sad woman, I’m told, and it shows even in her portrait.

  “Elara killed her,” Cal says from the doorway to his bedchamber. He adjusts the cape draped over one shoulder, clasped in silver and glinting chips of black gemstones. In his other hand, he holds a black crown, half hidden like an afterthought. A sword hangs from the belt at his waist, tucked into a sheath jeweled in ruby and jet. It’s for fashion at best. No one would choose a sword to fight. “She drove my mother deeper into her sorrows, whispered in her head until she had no other escape. I know that now.”

  His lips curve downward, frowning, while his eyes go far away. In his sadness, I see a bit of his mother. The only resemblance I can draw between the two of them.

  “I wish I could have known her.” I say.

  “So do I.”

  We leave Cal’s rooms together, walking the halls of Ocean Hill down to the grander, more public receiving chambers in equal step. Last night, I brushed off any worry of gossip, feeling brazen and bold. The discomfort catches up to me now. I wonder if we’ll enter to a rash of murmurs—smirks from the Silvers, judgment from the Reds and newbloods. Will Farley sneer at me for wavering? Will she turn her back entirely?

  I can’t stand the thought.

  Cal senses my unease. His fingers brush the inside of my arm, careful to stay away from the sensitive points of my wrists.

  “We don’t have to enter together,” he murmurs as we descend a flight of stairs, growing closer and closer to the point of no return.

  “It doesn’t matter now,” I answer.

  Up ahead, his guards await. Members of House Lerolan, cousins of his grandmother’s blood. They stand unmasked, unlike Sentinels, but just as dangerous and silent.

  Anabel stands with them, hands clasped at her waist, belted with flaming jewels: rubies and yellow citrine. She proudly wears her rose-gold crown, the simple band fitted across her brow and smooth, gray hair. Her eyes land on me first.

  “Good morning,” she says, drawing Cal into a quick embrace. He accepts it quickly and dwarfs her.

  “Morning,” he replies. “Is everyone ready?”

  “They should be,” she says, waving a wrinkled hand. “But I assume we’ll have to wait for the Rift princess to don every piece of metal she can get her hands on. Remind me to make sure she hasn’t stolen the doorknobs.”

  All nerves, Cal doesn’t smile, but a corner of his mouth lifts. “I’m sure we can spare them,” he says.

  “You look well, Miss Barrow,” Anabel adds, her eyes flicking to mine.

  I don’t feel it, I think to myself. “As well as can be expected, for the circumstance.” I’m careful not to use any kind of title, but she doesn’t seem to notice or care.

  Judging by the way her face changes, softening, I must have said the right thing. To my surprise, Anabel has no enmity for me this morning. She draws a slow breath. “Ready or not,” she mutters, spinning around, “here we come, Maven.”

  The receiving hall at the bottom of the grand stairs is vast, feeding into various ballrooms and the throne room of Ocean Hill, as well as the banquet hall and a smaller, less official version of the council chambers in Whitefire. Built to suit a working court of Silvers,
and house the moving government of Norta. Now Reds scatter among the rooms, busy as servants, but noticeably not servants. The green of Montfort uniforms contrasts harshly with the white marble, ocean-blue trimmings, and many gold banners still hung from the walls and ceilings. I note red among them, the crimson of Cal’s uniform. Marking his position as the rightful king, and conqueror of nearly half of Norta.

  As in Ascendant, before we addressed the Gallery, Davidson wears his fine suit of dark green. Farley has her dress uniform as well, and is still just as uncomfortable in it. I’m glad I don’t have to wear one. The gown is soft against my skin as I walk, my feet tight inside fine blue boots.

  Anabel leaves us to stand next to Julian, while Farley watches us approach. She looks between me and Cal as we move closer to the center of the room. Her brow furrows and I brace myself for a scowl, if not a snarl. Instead she blinks, her expression thoughtful. Almost accepting.

  “Calore,” she says, dipping her head to the king.

  He grins at her deliberate use of such an informal greeting. “General Farley,” he replies, all propriety. “I’m glad you agreed to join us.”

  She adjusts her stiff collar, forcing it to lie flat. “The Scarlet Guard is a valuable part of this coalition, and Command should be represented when we negotiate for Maven’s surrender.”

  While Cal nods his head in gentle agreement, I sigh to myself. “I wouldn’t be so sure of any deal,” I warn her, voice low. I’m getting sick of repeating myself.

  Farley only scoffs. “Of course, nothing in this life is that easy. But a woman can dream, can’t she?”

  I glance over her shoulder, at her various officers hanging back. None of their faces are familiar. “How’s Kilorn?” I ask, frowning as shame claws up my spine. I wring my hands together, trying to hide their twitching. At my side, Cal flinches, one hand hanging free. I wish I could take it, but we both refrain from such a naked display of affection.

  She looks on me with pity. “Fully healed yesterday, but he’s taking some time,” she says. I try to picture him whole and healthy, not dancing at the brink of death as he was before I left. It doesn’t work. “We’ve commandeered the barracks at the Security Center, and he’s there with the rest of the wounded.”

  “Good,” I push out, unable to say anything more. Farley doesn’t prod. Still, I feel the embarrassment of my choices as sharply as a knife wound. Kilorn almost died. Cal almost died. And you ran to Cal.

  Next to me, the true king looks away, his own face flushed with implication. Even though we both decided not to make choices, we know that choices were made all the same.

  “And Cameron?” I add, if only to stem the bleeding of such thoughts.

  Farley scratches her chin. “Organizing in New Town. She’s a valuable asset there, as is her father. The tech towns have their own underground networks, and word is going out to the rest. Maven’s Silvers might be preparing for more attacks, but so are they.”

  That swells me with pride, as well as trepidation. Certainly Maven will retaliate for what we did in New Town and try to prevent the same from happening again. But if the Red slums rise up, if the tech towns go dark, his war effort will all but grind to a halt. No more resources. No more fuel. We can effectively starve him into surrender.

  “I notice we’re waiting for Princess Evangeline again,” Davidson says as he joins us. His own contingent of advisers hangs back, giving us space.

  I tip my head back and sigh. “The only constant in this world.”

  The premier crosses his arms. If he’s nervous, he certainly doesn’t show it. “A peacock needs time to groom its feathers, even steel ones.”

  “We lost a lot of magnetrons yesterday,” Cal says, his voice low and stern. Almost reprimanding. “House Samos paid a high price for Harbor Bay.”

  Farley stiffens, setting her jaw. “I doubt they’ll let us forget it. Or fail to make us repay their sacrifice.”

  “That’s a bridge to be crossed,” Cal replies.

  Despite our history, I feel the strange need to . . . defend Evangeline. “If it has to be crossed,” I say. “But we can discuss that later,” I add, nodding to the far archway, where Evangeline has just appeared with Ptolemus at her side.

  The pair of them wear matching clothes of pearly white and bright silver. He has a jacket, tightly fitted and buttoned up to his throat, pants, and black boots similar to Cal’s, and a gray sash fastened across his chest from shoulder to hip. The pattern on it is strange, but as he approaches, I realize that the black diamond shapes dotting the sash aren’t a pattern at all, but knives fixed directly into the fabric. Weapons, should he need them.

  His sister is equally outfitted, the folds of her long gown slashed to show fine white leather leggings beneath. Should this meeting end in blood, she won’t find herself restricted by a skirt. I wish I’d thought of that. Her hair is tightly braided back, the silver strands studded with starry glints of pearl metal. Razor-edged. Good for cutting flesh. Her arms are bare, no sleeves to impede her movement or catch on the jewelry on her hands. A ring winks on every finger, white stones and black, and fine strands of chain wrap around each wrist. Garrotes for strangling or slicing. Even her earrings look deadly, long and tapering to a wicked point.

  I find myself glad Evangeline took so much time. She’s wearing an arsenal.

  “Shall I have the clocks adjusted in your rooms, Your Highnesses?” Anabel crows from where she stands next to Julian.

  Evangeline answers with a smile as sharp as her knives. “Our clocks are exactly on time, Your Majesty.” Her skirt billows around her legs as she passes the old queen, making for us. I shudder as she turns that smile on me. “Good morning, Mare. You seem well rested,” she says. Then she runs her eyes over Cal, teeth still bared. “And you don’t.”

  “Thank you,” I say stiffly, through gritted teeth. I quickly regret any kind feeling I ever had toward her.

  She revels in my sharp reply, and in the flush spotting Cal’s cheeks. Behind her, Ptolemus crosses his arms behind his back, puffing out his chest. Displaying the daggers proudly. Farley notes each one, her eyes wide and angry.

  “A pity this meeting could not be held in the evening,” Ptolemus murmurs. His voice is deeper than Cal’s and infinitely less kind. He’s brave to speak here, especially to Farley and me.

  I wonder if she sees Shade, as I do, speared by a blow from Ptolemus Samos. Even standing in his presence feels like a betrayal.

  Farley has more restraint than me. While I can only keep my mouth firmly shut, she tosses her head with a sneer. “So your sister could have more time to paint her face?” she snaps, gesturing to the intricate makeup sculpting Evangeline.

  The Samos princess shifts, if only a little, putting herself between her brother and us. Protective to the last. I almost expect her to shoo him off and out of our reach.

  “So my father could attend,” she explains with a proud toss of her head. “King Volo will be here by sunset.”

  Cal narrows his eyes. He sees the threat as clearly as I do. “With reinforcements?”

  “More Samos-sworn to die for you? Hardly,” Evangeline sneers. “He’s come to oversee the final push against Maven.”

  Oversee. Her storm-gray eyes darken, if only for a moment, shadowed by meaning. It isn’t hard to puzzle out the spaces between her words, what she means against what she says.

  He’s coming to clean up our mess.

  I shiver. The Samos children are formidable, violent, and dangerous, but they are tools at the end of it all. Weapons wielded by an even more powerful man.

  “Good, saves me the time of summoning him here,” Cal says, resting a hand on the hilt of his bejeweled sword. He grins easily, as if the prospect of Volo Samos were his own idea. “I’m sure you’ll give him a happy welcome, Evangeline.”

  The look she throws at him could poison rivers.

  “Let’s get this nonsense over with,” she snarls under her breath.

  Dawn streaks along the waves, bleeding from t
he horizon in shimmers of pink and paling blue. I keep my forehead braced against the cool glass of the dropjet window to watch our descent. As each second passes, my body tightens, my pulse a rising thrum, until I fear I might explode. It takes all my energy to keep my lightning at bay and the jet safe from my electric fits. Across from me, Farley stares at me, her hands ready at the buckles of her safety belts. To unfasten them and jump out the door if I happen to lose control.

  Cal has more faith. He puts on a show of casual disregard, one leg stretched out in front of him, with the left side of his body braced against my side. He radiates soothing warmth, and his fingers brush mine every few seconds, a firm reminder of his presence.

  If his grandmother is disgruntled or surprised by our closeness, she doesn’t show it. She sits quietly with Julian, his face shadowed like never before.

  Davidson rounds out the rest of our jet, and thankfully, Evangeline and her brother are in the other craft, following along. I can see the reflection in the water, their small, whirring jet a blurring shadow among the waves. Dropjets are loud, horrendously so, and for once I’m glad for it. No one can talk right now, or scheme, or snipe. I try to lose myself in the constant hum.

  Province Island comes too soon, a circle of green edged in a pale ribbon of sand. From above, it seems like one of Julian’s maps. Simply drawn, the village at the edge of the water a small grid of a few streets. The harbor is empty, but almost a dozen warships anchor about a half mile from shore. Maven could shoot us out of the air if he wanted, I think, imagining the distant rumble of artillery fire.

  But we land without incident. The turning, tightening sensation in my chest grows, moving far beyond my tolerance. I grate my teeth together, feeling as if my jaw might shatter from the force of it, and hop out of the jet as quickly as I can, if only to suck down the fresh air.

  And perhaps run right into the sea.

  Instead I move away from the circling engines of the dropjet, one hand raised to keep my hair from the worst of the roaring wind. Farley follows, shoulders hunched.