War Storm

by Victoria Aveyard

  Again I feel too stunned to think. All I can do is keep my jaw locked in place so my mouth won’t gape open in shock.

  “Ripped apart by your fury,” he pushes on, his eyes horrible, unforgettable, searing into me. The brand on my collarbone seems to burn. “And your hatred.”

  Inside me, the monster roars. I’ll do it right now. I helped start this. It’s only fair I get to end it. Like Cal’s, my fingers curl on my chair, nails digging into wood. I try to anchor myself, pull inward, keep the lightning at bay, but I feel as if I could spark a storm in a single heartbeat. I won’t give him the satisfaction of his last seduction. That’s what this is. One more drop of poison, a last curl of rot, his final corruption of who I was before he got his claws into me. He knows some piece of me, a large piece, wants this. And he knows it will ruin whatever I managed to salvage from his prison and the torture of his love.

  Kill him, Mare Barrow. Be done with him for good.

  He stares up at me, waiting for my decision. So do the others. Even Cal, a king, won’t say a word. As before, he’s letting me choose which path I want to take.

  For some reason, I think of Jon. The seer who told my fate. To rise, and rise alone. I wonder if that fate has already changed, or if this is how I change it.

  Slowly, I shake my head.

  “I won’t be your ending, Maven. And you won’t be mine.”

  On the floor, Maven seems to tighten. His eyes flicker back and forth, searching my face from eyes to lips. He stays quiet for a long minute, as if waiting for me to change my mind. I stand firm, teeth clenched to stop myself from wavering. Lightning has no mercy, I said once. But lightning is only one part of me. It doesn’t rule me.

  I rule it.

  “Fine,” Maven forces out, angry to be denied. I feel a tiny bloom of triumph, a counterbalance to the monster in me. He turns away, spinning on his heels to face Cal again. “Then a bullet. A sword. Cut my head off if you want. I have little interest in what you choose.”

  Cal is steadily losing his grip, the mask of a king sliding as the ordeal wears on him. I half expect him to get up and walk out of the room. But that isn’t like him. No surrender, no show of weakness. That has been drilled into his bones since childhood. “It will be quick” is all he says again, hesitant.

  “You already said that,” Maven snaps like a petulant child. Silver flushes high on his cheeks, twin spots of darkening color.

  Anabel clasps her hands. She looks at the brothers, weighing them against each other. The tension between them jumps and crackles like a live wire, and I wonder if Maven is simply trying to goad Cal into killing him outright. Since he couldn’t do it to me.

  “Guards, we’re finished with the traitor,” she says, looking imperious.

  Taking the decision out of Cal’s hands entirely.

  In spite of myself, I glance at Maven, and he’s already looking at me.

  Cal can’t make choices.

  He told me that so many times, and I learned the truth of it in many painful ways. Even with Maven removed, Cal is still reluctant, unable to make up his mind. Maven told me Cal would make a poor king because of it. Or at the very least another king on a leash, reliant on someone else to help him along. I have to agree. The younger Calore might be a beast, but he isn’t a fool.

  The Lerolan guards turn him forcibly, seizing his shoulders to push him out of the chamber. I expect Julian to go with him, but he stays, instead taking a place behind the throne. He folds his hands, thoughtful and silent. Footsteps are the only sound in the room, echoing with such finality as Maven is led away. I wonder if I’ll ever see him again. If I’ll have the stomach to watch him die.

  When the massive doors swing shut behind his form, I slump a little in my seat, exhaling a long breath. I want nothing more than to go upstairs and take a nap.

  I think Cal feels the same. He shifts on his throne, making to stand. “I believe that concludes any business we might have,” he says, his voice strained with fatigue. The king makes a show of looking back and forth among us, as if consulting a loyal council instead of a room of precarious allies. Maybe he thinks he can make it so, if he just acts the part.

  Good luck.

  Queen Anabel is quick but gentle, laying a hand on his arm to stop his movement. He stills under her touch, perturbed. “We have to decide on your coronation,” she reminds him with a placid smile. Cal seems annoyed by the prospect, or just by his grandmother nannying him. “It must be as soon as possible—tomorrow, even. No need for a fuss, just something official.”

  Not to be outdone, Volo braces his bearded chin on one hand. The slightest motion, and a clear signal for attention. “And there’s the issue of New Town to be settled, not to mention your wedding.” He looks between Cal and Evangeline. If not for their well-trained restraint, I think both might squirm or even gag. “It will take some weeks to prepare—”

  I latch on to something else instead. “Would you mind explaining the issue of New Town?” I ask, adjusting myself to look at Volo fully. He stares back at me, his gray eyes almost black with disgust. At my side, Farley’s lips twitch, but she quickly schools her expression into neutral blankness.

  Anabel answers before Volo can say anything, or bluster at my rudeness. “We don’t need to discuss that now,” she says, hand still on Cal’s arm.

  Cal looks at me, wary of what I might do and what it could trigger in the Samos king. He purses his lips and furrows his brow, as if to warn me off the subject.

  No chance, Calore.

  “I think we should,” I tell them all. My voice is strong, clear, a cold echo of Mareena Titanos, the weapon the Silvers gave me. “Among other things.”

  Cal raises an eyebrow. “Such as?”

  The premier clears his throat, taking up his piece of our hastily planned and barely rehearsed conversation. But Davidson is a skilled politician and diplomat. Nothing about his words sounds premeditated. He acts well, and speaks with great skill.

  “It’s clear the Lakelands and Prince Bracken, not to mention his allies in Piedmont, have little intention of leaving Norta alone,” he says, directing his speech at all the Silver royals. Especially Cal, who must be won over. “She is united again, but your country has been weakened by a bitter war. Two of your largest forts are either destroyed or neutralized. You’re still waiting for the rest of your noble families to pledge allegiance, betting on their support. Queen Cenra doesn’t seem like the kind to let such an opportunity pass by.”

  Cal relaxes a little, shoulders dropping their infinite tension. The Lakelands are an easier subject than Red oppression. He glances at me, almost winking, as if this is just a playful game, a way to flirt. Instead of three hunters pushing a wolf into a corner.

  “Yes, I agree,” he says with a grateful nod. “And with our own alliances strong, we can defend Norta from any invaders, north or south.”

  Davidson doesn’t drop his serene expression. He only tips a finger. “About that.”

  I brace myself, toes curling in my shoes. Heat rises in my chest. I tell myself to expect nothing. I know Cal well enough to predict what he will say. Still, there’s the slim chance that he’s changed, that I’ve changed him. Or that he is simply too tired of fighting, sick of the bloodshed, fed up with the evils his kind have made.

  Cal doesn’t follow where the premier hopes to lead, but Anabel sees right through him. Her eyes narrow to slits, snakelike. Behind her, Volo looks like he might run us all through with a few well-placed spikes.

  On the side closest to me, hidden from the rest, Davidson lowers a hand. It glows vaguely blue, ready to shield us from any attack. His face remains unchanged, his voice still even and firm. “Now that your brother is deposed, and you stand to rule as king, I’d like to propose another option.”

  “Premier?” Cal asks, still unable, or unwilling, to understand.

  The naked fury in Volo and Anabel gives me pause. Like Davidson, I lower a hand, and call sparks to my skin.

  Davidson pushes on, despite the
Silver king and queen scowling openly at him. “Years ago, the Free Republic of Montfort was not as it stands today. We were a collection of kingdoms and lordships, Silver-ruled, as you are now. Civil war roamed the mountains.” Even though I’ve heard what he’s about to say before, I still get a chill. “Peace was unheard of. Reds died for Silver wars, Silver pride, Silver power.”

  “Sounds familiar,” I murmur, my eyes on Cal. I try to weigh his reaction, noting the slight ticks of motion in his face. Lips pressing together, dark brows curving. A tightening of the jaw, the release of breath. It’s like trying to read a picture, or smell a song. Frustrating and impossible.

  The premier gains momentum. He enjoys this, and excels in the effort. “It was only through an uprising,” he says, “an alliance of Reds, bolstered by the growing ranks of Ardents, as well as Silvers sympathetic to our plight, that we were able to re-form ourselves into the democratic nation we are today. It took sacrifice. It took many lives. But more than a decade later, we are better for it. And growing better by the day.” Satisfied, he leans back, still ignoring the positively murderous looks from Anabel and Volo. “I hope you would endeavor to do the same, Cal.”

  Cal.

  The use of the name here, while he sits a throne with a crown on his head, has clear meaning. Even Cal seems to get it. He blinks once, twice, gathering himself.

  Before he can say anything, Farley squares herself to Cal, eager to play her part in this.

  Her general’s squares glint, gleaming sharply, reflecting points of light onto Cal’s face. “We have an opportunity right now that will not come again. Norta is in shambles, begging to be rebuilt,” she says. Farley isn’t as good a speaker as Davidson, but she isn’t an amateur. The Scarlet Guard picked her to be their voice all those months ago, and they picked her for a reason. She has enough fire and enough belief to stir even the coldest hearts. “Let us rebuild her together, into something new.”

  Anabel speaks before her grandson can say anything. Almost hissing, she says, “Into something like your country, Premier? And, let me guess, you’ll offer your services in helping make this glorious new nation?” she adds, tossing the barb with deadly accuracy. Planting the seed of suspicion she needs. I see it land, shadowing Cal’s eyes. Will it take root? “Perhaps you might even offer to help rule her?”

  A bit of Davidson’s restraint flickers. He almost smirks. “I have a country of my own to serve, Your Majesty, while I am allowed to serve.”

  Volo barks an empty laugh. It’s almost worse than Maven’s. “You want us to give up our thrones, everything we worked for. Throw away our lineage and betray our houses, our fathers and grandfathers?”

  Anabel scowls. “And grandmothers,” I think she growls under her breath.

  Even though I want to jump up, I keep my seat. It isn’t wise to escalate this into a more physical display.

  “And what have we worked for, Volo?” I say. Volo barely deigns to look at me. It only feeds the anger in me, making it useful. “What have we bled for? The right to be ruled again? To be shuttered into slum towns, bound into conscription, returned to the lives we escaped? How is this right? How is that fair?”

  My grip on myself begins to loosen, and I try to hold back, ignoring the telltale tightening in my throat as I speak. Saying all of this out loud, to people who have made this world cruel, or kept it that way, has a strange effect. I feel as if I could cry or explode, and I don’t know which way I might tip. I want to take Anabel by the shoulders or grab Volo by the neck, force them to listen and see what they’ve done and what they want to continue doing. But if they keep their eyes shut? Or if they look and see nothing wrong? What more can I do?

  The Samos king scoffs at me, disgusted. “This world is neither right nor fair, girl. I would think anyone born Red would know that,” he sniffs. Next to him, Evangeline keeps still, her eyes on the floor, her mouth pursed shut. “You’re not our equals, no matter how much you try to be. That is nature.”

  Cal finally breaks his silence, his eyes flaring. “Volo, quiet,” he says sharply. No title, no niceties. But no denial either. Whatever line he walks is growing thinner by the minute. “What exactly are you asking, Premier?” he adds. He’s going to make us spell it out.

  “It’s not just my request,” Davidson replies, looking to me.

  Cal looks at me, too, his bronze stare fully trained on my face. In spite of myself, my gaze runs over him, from his hands to the crown on his forehead. Everything he is.

  I don’t hesitate. I’ve survived too much and too long. After all we’ve been through, Cal shouldn’t be surprised.

  “Step down,” I tell him. “Or we step back.”

  His voice flattens, hollow of emotion. No shock.

  He saw this coming.

  “You’ll end the alliance.”

  Davidson nods once. “The Free Republic of Montfort has no interest in creating a kingdom like the one we escaped.”

  Proud, Farley speaks up too. “The Scarlet Guard won’t stand for it either.”

  I feel a low tremor of heat, a small ripple from Cal’s direction. A bad sign. With a sigh, I let go of any hope that he might finally see reason. It draws his attention, if only for a second. I see hurt in him, enough to evoke the same in me. Just a tiny pinprick, dull compared to all the wounds I have from the Calore brothers.

  Cal looks back to Davidson, directing his rising anger to someone else. “So you’ll leave us to the Lakelanders and Piedmont. Kingdoms and princes worse than I will ever be?” he says, exasperated, almost stumbling over the words. It’s clear he’s trying to salvage this, and doing all he can to keep us here. “Like you said, we’re weak right now. Easy prey. Without your armies—”

  “Red armies,” the premier reminds him coolly. “Newblood armies.”

  “It can’t be done,” Cal replies, his voice blunt. He puts his hands out, palms up, empty. With nothing to offer. “It just can’t be done. Not now. In time, maybe, but the High Houses won’t kneel if there isn’t a king. We’ll splinter. Norta won’t exist anymore. We don’t have time to change our entire form of government while preparing for an inevitable invasion—”

  Farley cuts him off. “Make the time.”

  Despite his height, his broad form, the crown, the uniform, all the trappings of a warrior and a king, Cal has never seemed more like a child. He looks between us, glancing from me to his grandmother to Volo. The latter offer no respite, their faces carved into matching scowls. If he bends to us, they will refuse. And the other side of his alliance will be broken.

  Behind Cal, unseen, Julian lowers his head. He says nothing to anyone, and keeps his mouth shut.

  Volo runs one deadly hand through his silver beard. His eyes flash. “The Silver lords of Norta will not give up their birthrights.”

  Fast as lightning, Farley jumps out of her seat. She spits impressively at Volo’s feet. “That’s what I think of your birthright.”

  The Samos king is, to my infinite surprise, stunned into silence. He gawks at her, mouth agape. I’ve never known a Samos to be at a loss for words.

  “Rats don’t change,” Anabel snarls. She taps one hand against the arm of her chair, the threat clear as day. Not that it affects Farley much.

  Cal only repeats himself, his voice barely more than a mumble. The hunters have pushed him into a corner. “It can’t be done,” he says.

  Slowly, with finality, Davidson stands from his seat, and I follow suit. “Then we’re sorry to leave you like this,” he says. “Truly. I consider you a friend.”

  Cal glances between us, eyes running back and forth. I see sadness in him, the same I feel in myself. We share an acceptance too. This was always the path we chose to walk.

  “I know that,” Cal replies. His voice shifts, deepening. “And you should know I don’t respond well to ultimatums, friendly or otherwise.”

  A warning.

  And not just to us.

  We step down together, Reds aligned in our beliefs and our goals. Red uniforms and g
reen, our skin kissed by the same undertones of rose and scarlet. We leave behind the Silvers, as cold and unmoving as if they were carved from stones, statues with living eyes and dead hearts.

  “Good luck,” I manage to say over my shoulder, stealing one last glance.

  Cal responds in kind, watching me go. “Good luck.”

  In Corvium, when he chose the crown, I thought the world had been snatched away, leaving me to fall through an abyss. This isn’t the same. My heart has already been broken, and one night did not sew it back together. This wound isn’t new; this ache isn’t unfamiliar. Cal is the person he told me he was. Nothing and no one will ever change him. I can love him, and perhaps always will, but I can’t make him move when he decides to stay still. The same could be said of me.

  Farley nudges my hand, a sharp reminder as we walk. Our last request is yet to be made.

  I turn again, angling my face to him. I try to look as I must. Determined, deadly, an inevitable downfall for the Silver king. But still Mare, still the girl he loves. The Red who tried to turn his heart. “Will you let Reds leave the slums, at the very least?”

  Next to me, Farley barks out the rest. “And end conscription?”

  We expect nothing in return. Perhaps a pantomime of sadness, or another tragic explanation of how impossible such things would be. Maybe even Anabel chasing us from the room.

  Instead Cal speaks without looking at the Silvers on his right. Deciding without their input. I didn’t know he had it in him. “I can promise fair wages.”

  I almost scoff out loud, but he keeps speaking.

  “Fair wages,” he continues. Volo blanches, looking disgusted. “No restrictions on movement. They’re free to live and work where they please. Same for the armies. Fair wages, fair enlistment terms. No conscription.”

  It’s my turn to be caught off guard. I have to blink and bow my head. He returns the gesture. “Thank you for that,” I force out.

  His grandmother slaps the arm of his throne, indignant. “We’re about to fight another war,” she sneers, as if anyone needs reminding of the Lakelander danger.