War Storm

by Victoria Aveyard

  My rooms in Ocean Hill are on the other side of the residence floors from Cal’s rooms, separate from his at my own request. They’re finely appointed, bright and airy, but the bathroom is far too small, and currently much too crowded. I shudder against the warm water, letting the soapy bubbles drift around my body. The temperature is soothing, working out the aches and tension in my muscles. Farley leans up against the tub, her back to me, while Davidson does the same at the door, looking shockingly informal for a national leader. His fine suit from the meeting is unbuttoned, open to show a white undershirt and a bobbing throat. He rubs his eyes and yawns, already exhausted though the morning is barely over.

  I scrub a hand over my face again, wishing I could wipe away my frustration as easily as sweat and grime. Impossible to get even one second to myself.

  “And when he refuses?” I grumble to them both. Our plan, one last chance to keep things together, has too many holes to count.

  Davidson knits his fingers on a bent knee. “If he refuses—”

  “He will,” Farley and I say in bleak unison.

  “Then we do as we say,” the premier says plainly, his shoulders rising and falling in an easy shrug. His angled eyes watch me with weary attention. “We’re finished if we don’t hold to our word. And I have promises to keep to my own country.”

  Farley nods in agreement. She turns to me over her shoulder, her face inches away from mine. Up close, I can count the freckles across her nose, spreading as the summer wears on. They contrast with her scarred mouth. “So do I,” she says. “The other Command generals have made themselves clear.”

  “I’d like to meet them,” Davidson mutters idly.

  She offers a bitter smirk. “If this goes as we think it will, they’ll be waiting for us when we return.”

  “Good,” he replies.

  I spread my fingers across the surface, dragging lines through the milky, perfumed water. “How long will we have?” I say, asking what we’re all dancing around. “Before the Lakelands come back?”

  Next to me, Farley turns back around to rest her chin on her bent knee. She clacks her teeth together, nervous. An odd emotion for her. “Intelligence in Piedmont and the Lakelands reports movement at their forts and citadels. Armies being assembled.” Her voice changes, growing heavy. “It won’t be long.”

  “They’ll target the capital,” I say flatly. It isn’t a question.

  “Probably,” Davidson says. He taps his lip, thoughtful. “A symbolic victory at the very least. And at best, if the other cities and regions kneel, a quick conquest of the entire country.”

  Farley tightens at the suggestion. “If Cal dies in the attack . . .” She trails off, stopping herself. In spite of the warm bath, my body runs cold with the thought. I look away from her silhouette, to the window instead. Puffy white clouds move lazily across a friendly blue sky. Too bright and cheerful for such talk.

  Whether he knows it or not, Davidson twists the knife that’s constantly stuck in my gut, picking up Farley’s train of thought. “With no Calore heirs. No king. Chaos will reign across the country.”

  He says it like that’s some kind of option. I shift quickly in the water and glare at him. I put one hand on the porcelain rim of the tub, running a threatening spark down one finger. He draws back, just a little. “It will result in more Red bloodshed, Mare,” he explains. It sounds like an apology. “I have no interest in such things. We must win Archeon before they can.”

  Nodding, Farley clenches a fist. Resolute. “And force Cal to step down. Make him see there is no other choice.”

  I don’t move, still staring at the premier. “What about the Rift?”

  His eyes narrow to slits. “Volo Samos will never tolerate a world he cannot rule, but Evangeline . . .” He turns her name over in his mouth. “She might be persuaded. Or, at the very least, bribed.”

  “With what?” I scoff. I know Evangeline would do anything to stop her marriage to Cal, but betray her family, throw away her crown? I can’t imagine it. She’d rather suffer. “She’s richer than all of us. And too proud.”

  Davidson raises his chin, looking superior. Like he knows something we don’t. “With her own future,” he says. “With freedom.”

  I wrinkle my nose, unconvinced. “I’m not sure what you could ask from her. She’s not going to get rid of her own father.”

  The premier dips his head in agreement. “No, but she can destroy an alliance. Refuse to marry. Cut the Rift from Norta. Give Cal nowhere else to turn. Help force his hand. He can’t survive without allies.”

  He isn’t wrong, but the secondary plan is too precarious. Letting it depend on Evangeline’s shared motive is one thing, but her loyalty to her blood? Her family? It seems impossible. She said herself, she can’t refuse the betrothal, and she can’t go against her father’s wishes when all is done.

  Steam rises in the silence, spiraling through the air.

  On the other side of the door, an exasperated voice sounds. “What are the odds any of this actually goes to plan?” Kilorn calls from my bedroom.

  I have to laugh. “Has it ever?”

  He responds with a long, frustrated groan. The door shudders as his head clunks against it.

  Kilorn and Davidson are good enough to leave me to dress in peace, but Farley stays put, sprawled across the sea-green covers of my bed. At first I want to chase her out so I can have a bit of time alone, but as the minutes wear on, I’m glad for her presence. If I’m alone, I might lose it entirely and never open the door again. With Farley here, I have no excuse but to get ready as quickly as I can. Hopefully the momentum carries me through the rest of what promises to be an interesting day.

  She snickers slightly as I force myself into a formal Scarlet Guard uniform. Freshly cleaned and tailored, just for me. I’ve been oathed to the Guard for almost a year, but it’s never felt official. The uniform is supposed to be symbolic, to properly divide me from Cal and his Silver allies, but I really think Farley just wanted someone else to suffer with her. The bright, bloodred outfit is tight and stiff, buttoned too high up my throat. I fuss with it, trying to loosen the stranglehold a little.

  “Not fun, is it?” Farley chuckles. Her own collar is open, folded over for now.

  I glance at myself in the mirror, noting the way the special-made garment outlines my form. It’s boxy on top, with straight-legged pants tucked into boots, giving me a rather rectangular silhouette. This is no ball gown, that’s for sure.

  While the buttons are polished and gleaming, I have no other decoration on my uniform. No badges, no insignia. I run a hand over my chest, the fabric bare.

  “Do I finally get a rank?” I ask, glancing over to Farley. As in the People’s Gallery, she has her three general’s squares on her collar, but most of the false medals and ribbons have been abandoned. No use standing on ceremony in front of Cal, who will know better.

  She lies back, looking at the ceiling. One leg crosses over the other, her foot dangling free. “Private has a nice ring to it.”

  I put a hand to my heart, pretending to be insulted. “I’ve been with you a year.”

  “Maybe I can pull some strings,” she says. “Put in a good word. Get you bumped up to corporal.”

  “How generous.”

  “You report to Kilorn.”

  In spite of the nervous fear tearing up my insides, I laugh out loud. “Whatever you do, don’t tell him that.” I can only imagine the hell he would give me. The teasing, the fake orders. I’d never live it down.

  Farley laughs with me, her short blond hair splayed around her face in a halo of gold. She isn’t exactly sparse with her smiles or laughter, but this is different. Not tainted by a smirk or any sharpness. A small burst of real happiness. It’s a rarity these days, in all of us.

  Slowly, she catches herself, the echoes of her laughter dying in her throat. I look away quickly, as if I’ve seen something I shouldn’t.

  “You stayed with him last night.” Her voice is certain. She knows, as I
’m sure everyone does. Cal and I weren’t exactly discreet.

  I answer bluntly, without shame. “Yes.”

  Her smile fades, and she sits up on the bed. In the mirror’s reflection, I watch her expression shift. The corners of her mouth turn downward and her eyes soften, taking on an air of sadness, if not pity. And perhaps a glint of suspicion as well.

  “It doesn’t change things,” I force out, bristling as I turn around. “For either of us.”

  Farley is quick to respond, one hand raised. “I know that,” she says, as if calming an animal. Her throat bobs and she licks her lip, choosing her words very carefully. “I miss Shade. I’d do terrible things to bring him back. To get one more day with him. To let Clara meet her father.”

  My hands ball at my sides and I look at my feet, feeling my cheeks flush. With shame, because she doesn’t trust me. And with anger, deep sorrow, regret, for my brother lost to all of us. “I won’t—”

  She pushes up to her feet and closes the distance between us in firm strides. Her hands grip my shoulders, forcing me to look up into her scarred face. “I’m saying you’re stronger than I am, Mare,” she breathes, eyes shining. It takes a long moment for the words to sink in. “When it comes to him. Not anything else,” she adds quickly, breaking the tension.

  “Nothing else,” I say, agreeing with a small, forced chuckle. “Except electrocuting people.”

  Farley just shrugs her broad shoulders. “Well, who knows? I haven’t tried that yet.”

  The throne room of Ocean Hill looks out over the city, across blue rooftops and white walls, all the way down to the harbor. Grand windows arch over the king’s seat, flooding the chamber with the golden light of late afternoon. It gives everything an almost dreamlike quality, as if this moment isn’t real. Part of me thinks I might wake up to the darkness of this morning, before we set out for Province. Before the war was so easily won, and a life so easily traded.

  Cal didn’t say anything about Salin Iral afterward, but he didn’t have to. I know him well enough to understand how much the memory weighs on him. A disgraced lord, but a lord all the same, drowned and murdered in payment for Cal’s brother. It hasn’t gone easy for Cal. But looking at King Tiberias the Seventh, no one would be able to tell.

  He sits on his father’s throne, tall against the diamondglass chair, looking like flame itself in his crimson and black. The windows make his silhouette glow, and I wonder if one of his guards is a Haven shadow, manipulating the light to create an image of power and strength. It’s certainly working. He seems a king, like his father. Like Maven never was.

  I despise the sight. The shimmering throne, the simple crown on his head. Rose gold, like his grandmother’s. Finer than iron. More elegant. Less violent. A crown for peace, not war.

  Farley and I sit side by side, to the left of the throne with Davidson and his Montfort attendants. On the right, at Cal’s hand, is Anabel, her seat closer to the throne than any other. House Samos sits near her, clustered around another king.

  I wonder how long Volo Samos spent constructing his own throne of steel and pearly metal. The materials weave in intricate braids of silver and white, studded with the occasional flash of black jet. My lips twitch at the thought of the Samos king wasting hours of his day to make a chair. As always, the pageantry of Silvers never ceases to amaze.

  Evangeline seems oddly nervous next to her father. Usually she delights in these things, content to watch and be watched. Instead she can’t sit still, her fingers twitching and one foot tapping slightly beneath the folds of her gown. I wonder what she knows, or suspects. It can’t be Davidson’s offer. He hasn’t extended it yet, not until he’s sure we’ll need her. Still, her dark gray eyes flash back and forth, searching the hall. And always returning to the tall doors thrown wide at the far end of the chamber, open to the receiving halls of the palace. A crowd idles outside them, Silver and Red, hoping to catch a glimpse inside. I feel myself coil with fear. Evangeline is not one to scare easily.

  But I quickly forget all that when Julian enters the hall, his hand on a familiar arm as he guides the royal prisoner toward the throne. Bold murmurs follow, silenced only when the chamber doors swing shut with an echoing thud, separating us from the rest of the palace. Cal isn’t the kind to require an audience, and he’s smart enough to know we shouldn’t have one while he decides his brother’s fate.

  Maven doesn’t stumble this time. He holds his head high, even with his wrists bound. I’m remind of a bird of prey, a falcon or an eagle, surveying us all with sharp eyes and sharper talons. But he isn’t a threat. Not without his bracelets. Not without anyone here to follow his command. The guards flanking him are Lerolan, loyal to Cal and Anabel. Not Maven.

  I see no way out of this, even for him.

  They stop a few yards from Cal’s feet, and Anabel stands, her body casting a long shadow. She draws her eyes over Maven slowly, as if they are knives skinning him alive. “Kneel to your king, Maven,” she says, her voice echoing around the deathly silent chamber.

  He tips his head. “No, I don’t think so.”

  Suddenly I’m back in another palace, staring at a different Calore king. On my knees next to Maven, my hands shackled behind my back as he stands. When he betrayed us all and revealed who his heart truly belonged to.

  Maven, help me up.

  No, I don’t think so.

  Maven Calore chooses his words carefully, and he does so now. Even when they have no meaning, when he has no power left, he can still cause us pain.

  On the throne, Cal darkens, one hand curling into a fist. I feel the monster rise up inside me, begging to tear Maven into pieces. Obliterate him. I can’t deny the desire, but I have to. For my sanity. For my humanity.

  “Stand if you wish,” Cal finally says, some tension in him releasing again. He waves a hand like he doesn’t care at all. “It doesn’t change where you’re standing. And where I currently sit.”

  “Currently, yes,” Maven replies, careful to emphasize his meaning. His eyes glint, cold as ice, hot as blue flame. “I doubt you’ll sit there long.”

  “That’s not your concern,” Cal says. “You have committed treason and murder, Maven Calore. Crimes too numerous to name, so I won’t even try.”

  Maven just scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Low effort.”

  His older brother knows better than to take the easy bait, and he lets the insult slide off. Instead he angles his body, turning toward Davidson as if consulting an adviser, or even a friend.

  “Premier, what would his punishment be in your country?” he asks, his face open and inviting. It’s a brilliant show of solidarity, all part of the image Cal is trying to build for himself. A king who unites, rather than destroys. A Silver who looks to Reds for counsel, disdaining the divisions of blood.

  It already has consequences.

  On his throne, Volo curls his lip, rustling in his robe like an annoyed bird puffing up his feathers. Maven is quick to notice.

  “You’re going to allow that, Volo?” he croons. “Standing second to a Red?” His laughter echoes, a sharp sound to cut glass. “How far the House of Samos has fallen.”

  Like Cal, Volo has little desire to sink to Maven’s taunting. He stills, crossing his chrome-covered arms over his chest. “I still have a crown, Maven. Do you?”

  Maven only sneers in response, one corner of his mouth twitching.

  “Execution,” Premier Davidson says firmly, leaning forward. He plants his elbows on the arms of his chair as he shifts for a better view of the fallen, false king. “We punish treason with execution.”

  Cal’s eyelids barely flicker. He turns again, leaning to Volo. “Your Majesty, how would you deal with him in the Rift?”

  Volo is quick to respond, teeth clicking. Like Evangeline’s, his eyeteeth are capped in pointed silver. “Execution.”

  Cal nods. “General Farley?”

  “Execution,” she replies, raising her chin.

  On the floor below, Maven doesn’t seem bothered by th
e sentence. Or even surprised. He spares little attention for the premier, or Farley, or Volo. Or even me. Whatever snake coils in his brain has eyes for one person. He stares up at his brother, unblinking, his chest rising and falling in tiny puffs of breath. I forgot how similar they are, even as half brothers. Not just in coloring, but in their fire. Determined, driven. Constructions of their parents. Cal is built from his father’s dreams, and Maven from his mother’s nightmares.

  “And what will you do, Cal?” he asks, his voice so low and quiet I almost can’t hear him.

  Cal doesn’t hesitate. “Exactly what you tried to do to me.”

  Maven almost laughs again. Instead he chuffs out a short breath. “So I’ll die in the arena?”

  “No,” the king replies, shaking his head. “I don’t intend to watch you spend your last moments embarrassing yourself.” It isn’t a joke. Maven isn’t a fighter. He would barely last a minute in the arena. But he doesn’t deserve what Cal is offering, a little piece of mercy in otherwise iron judgment. “It will be quick. I can give you that.”

  “How noble of you, Tiberias.” Maven scowls. Then he thinks better of it, his face clearing. He widens his eyes, and I’m reminded of a dog begging for scraps. A puppy who knows exactly what he’s doing. “Can I make a request?”

  At that Cal nearly rolls his eyes. He fixes Maven with a look of pure derision. “You can try.”

  “Bury me with my mother.”

  The request drives a hole through me.

  I think I hear someone on the other side of the council gasp, perhaps Anabel. When I glance at her, she has a hand over her mouth, but her eyes are stoically dry. Cal has gone bone white, both hands clawed to the arms of his throne. His gaze wavers, falling for a moment, before he forces himself to look back at his brother.

  I don’t know where Elara’s body ended up. Last I knew, it was with the Guard on Tuck Island, the island we abandoned.

  An island of corpses. My brother’s, and hers.

  “That can be arranged,” Cal finally murmurs.

  But Maven isn’t finished. He takes a step, not forward but to the side. In my direction. The full force of his gaze almost knocks me out of my seat. “And I want to die the way my mother did,” he says plainly, as if asking for an extra blanket.