War Storm

by Victoria Aveyard

  “Don’t change the subject, Eve,” she says, exasperated, as she closes the distance between us. With all the warmth she can muster, she puts both hands to my arms as if to pull me into an embrace. I keep still, rooted. Slowly, her fingers run up and down my arms, rubbing my bare skin. The image is almost maternal, far more than I’m used to. “It’s almost over, darling.”

  No, it is not.

  Deliberate, I step out of her grasp. The air is warmer than her hands, so cold they could be reptilian. She looks pained by the sudden distance, but holds her own ground. “I’m going to have a bath,” I tell her. “Keep your ears and eyes away from me while I do.”

  Mother purses her lips. She makes no promises. “Everything we do is for your own good.”

  I turn to go, my dress swishing in my wake as I walk from her. “Keep telling yourself that.”

  By the time I get back to my rooms, I feel like breaking something, smashing a vase or a window or a mirror. Glass, not metal. I want to shatter something I cannot put back together. I resist the urge, mostly because I don’t want to clean up the ensuing mess. There are Red servants left in Ocean Hill, but few. Only those who wish to continue their profession, at better compensation, will still serve in the palace here, or in any Silver employ.

  I wonder how far the ripples of Cal’s decision will travel. How much will change? Red equality will have far-reaching consequences, and not just for the tidiness of my bedroom.

  I step deeper into my chamber, throwing open the windows as I go. Late afternoon in the Bay is a beautiful time, filled with golden light and a fragrant sea breeze. I try to find some comfort in it, but it just makes me angrier. The high keening of the gulls seems to taunt me. I think about skewering one, just for target practice. Instead I throw back the soft blankets of the bed and start to crawl in. A nap is better than a bath. I just want this day to end.

  I freeze when my hand slides over paper amid the silk.

  The note is short and small, written in tight, looping script. Nothing like Elane’s elegant, ostentatious cursive. I don’t recognize the penmanship, but I don’t have to. Very few people would leave me secret notes, and even fewer could actually get access to my bed. My heartbeat quickens in my chest, breath catching.

  We’re right to call the Scarlet Guard rats. I think they might actually live in the walls.

  I apologize I could not give you this invitation in person, but the circumstances allow little else. Leave Norta. Leave the Rift. Come to Montfort. Allowances will be made for you, and for Lady Elane. You will be welcome in the mountains, free to be as you wish. Abandon this empty shell of a life. Don’t subject yourself to that fate. The choice is in your own hands, and no one else’s. We ask nothing in return.

  I almost crumple Davidson’s note at such naked dishonesty. Nothing in return. My simple presence is a gift in itself. Without me, Cal’s alliance to the Rift will be in jeopardy. His only remaining ally might waver. It’s a way for Davidson and the Scarlet Guard to pull him back into their grasp.

  If you agree, order a cup of tea to your room. We’ll take care of the rest.

  —D

  The words burn, branding themselves into my mind. I stare at them for what feels like hours, but only a few minutes pass.

  The choice is in your own hands. Nothing could be further from the truth. Father will chase me to the ends of the earth, no matter who stands in his way. I’m his investment, part of his legacy.

  “What will you do?” a familiar voice asks, sweeter than a song.

  Elane blooms into existence across the room, silhouetted against a window. Still beautiful, but with none of her glow. The sight makes me ache.

  I glance at the note in hand. “There’s nothing I can do,” I mutter. “If . . .” I can’t even say the words aloud, even to her. “It will only make things worse. For me, and for you.”

  She doesn’t move, no matter how much I want her to cross the room. Her eyes remain far away, fixed on the city and the ocean. “You really think things aren’t already worse for me?”

  Her whisper, fragile and soft, breaks my heart.

  “My father would kill you, Elane. He would kill you if he thought—if he knew how tempted we are by this,” I say, tightening my grip on the note.

  And what about Tolly? I can’t leave him alone, the only heir to the throne of a small and precariously positioned kingdom. The letters of the note seem to blur and swirl.

  I’m crying, I realize with a sick jolt.

  Fat tears land on the paper, one by one. The ink bleeds, blue and wet.

  “Evangeline, I don’t know how much longer I can live like this.” The admission is small, matter-of-fact. Her face crumples and I have to turn away. Slowly, I rise from the bed and walk past her. Red hair flashes at the edge of my vision. She doesn’t follow me into the bathroom, leaving me to think.

  Hands shaking, tears endless, I do as I told my mother I would. I draw myself a bath and sink the note in the water. Letting the words, the offer, and our future drown.

  As I lie back into the warmth, I feel sick with myself, with my cowardice, with everything in my rotted life. I dip my head back and submerge myself, letting the bathwater replace any tears still fresh on my cheeks. Underwater, I open my eyes to the strange, rippling world beneath the surface. I exhale slowly, watching the bubbles drift and burst. I decide I can do one thing, and one thing alone, about all of this.

  I can keep my mouth shut.

  And let Julian and Anabel play their games.

  My hair is still wet at dinner, coiled into a neat spiral at the base of my neck. My face is bare too. No makeup, no war paint. No use for any of my usual trappings among family, though Mother doesn’t seem to realize that. She’s dressed for a state dinner, even though it’s just the five of us dining in the grand salon of my father’s chambers. Mother glitters as always, poured into a long-sleeved and high-necked gown of black material that glistens purple and green like oil. Her crown is still there too, woven into her braided hair. Father has no use for a crown of his own right now. He’s intimidating no matter what he does or doesn’t wear. Like Ptolemus, he is simple in unadorned clothing, our silver and black. Elane looks serene next to him, her eyes dry and empty.

  I pick at my food, silent as I have been through the last two courses. My parents speak enough for all of us, though Ptolemus edges words in now and then. As before, I still feel sick, my belly roiling with unease. Because of my parents and what they want from me, because of how much I’m hurting Elane, and because of what I’ve done as well. I could be dooming my own father with my silence. His kingdom too. But I just can’t say the words aloud.

  “I think Ocean Hill’s kitchens are taking the brunt of the young king’s new proclamations,” Mother observes, pushing the food around on her plate. Usually delicious courses have been replaced with bland, simple fare. Plain chicken, lightly seasoned, with greens, boiled potatoes, and some kind of watery sauce. An easy meal for anyone to prepare. Even me. I suppose the Red cooks of the palace have taken their leave.

  Father slices a piece of chicken in two, the motion vicious and cutthroat. “It won’t last” is all he says, the words carefully chosen.

  “What makes you think that?” Tolly, the treasured heir, gets the rare privilege of questioning Father without any threat of consequence.

  That doesn’t mean Father will answer. He says nothing, continuing to chew the tasteless meat with a grimace.

  I respond instead, trying to make my brother see what I do. “He’ll force Cal however he can.” I gesture at our father. “Prove that the country needs Red labor somehow.”

  Dear Tolly furrows his brow, thoughtful. “It will still have Red labor. Reds need to eat too. With fair wages—”

  “And who pays those wages?” Mother snaps, looking at Tolly like he’s some kind of imbecile. Odd for her. She dotes on him most of the time, more than she does on me. “Certainly not us.” She goes on and on, spearing her dinner with tight, jerking motions. The twitchy speed
of a rabbit, maybe. “It isn’t right. It isn’t natural.”

  I run the meager proclamations over in my head. Announced and effective immediately. Fair wages, freedom of movement, equal punishment and protection under Silver law, and— “What about conscription?” I ask aloud.

  Our mother slaps her hand on the table. “Another folly. Conscription is a good incentive. Work or serve. Without the latter, why would anyone choose the former?”

  It’s a circular conversation, and I breathe heavily through my nose. Across the table, Elane shoots me a warning glance. Obviously I don’t care for our lack of servants either, and the new world Cal wants to build will result in great upheaval, mostly for Silvers accustomed to our traditional place. It won’t last. It can’t last. Silvers won’t allow it. But they do in Montfort. Just like Davidson said. Their country was built from one like ours.

  I remember something else he said, only to me, back in the mountains. He stood too close, whispered too quickly. But the shock of his words hit home. You are denied what you want because of what you are. A choice you never made, a piece of yourself you cannot change—and do not want to change.

  I’ve never thought myself akin to Reds in any way. I’m a Silver-born lady, a princess made by the accomplishments of a powerful father. I was meant to be a queen. And but for the longing in my heart, the odd changes to my nature I’ve only begun to understand, I would be one. Davidson was right in Montfort. Like Reds, I am different from what my world demands I be. And I am not worse for it.

  Under the table, Ptolemus grabs my hand, his touch kind but fleeting. I feel a burst of love for my brother, as well as another burst of shame.

  One last chance, then.

  “I assume Elane will come with us to Archeon,” I say aloud, looking between my parents. They exchange a pointed glance, one I know well and do not like. Elane drops her gaze, staring at her hands beneath the table. “She’ll have to stand with the rest of her house, pledge loyalty with Haven,” I explain coolly, my reasoning sound enough.

  But not for Mother, apparently. She puts down her fork with a clang of metal on porcelain. “Princess Elane is your brother’s wife,” she says, emphasizing the words. They sound like nails on glass. She speaks like Elane isn’t even here. It sets my teeth on edge. “And your brother, as well as our family, has already proven himself loyal to King Tiberias. There’s no need for her to make the journey. She will return home to Ridge House.”

  A flush colors the tops of Elane’s cheeks. Still, she bites her tongue, knowing better than to fight this battle herself.

  I push out an exasperated breath. Long journey. What a load of—

  “Well, as a princess of the Rift, she should be at the coronation. To show the kingdom who we are. The pictures and recordings will go out all over the Rift as well as Norta. Our kingdom should know its future queen, shouldn’t they?” My argument is shaky at best, and it sounds as desperate as I feel. I hate reminding anyone, most of all myself, of Elane’s title, because it comes from my brother. Not from me.

  “It is not your decision.”

  Father’s glare used to shut me up, stop me cold, when I was a child. Sometimes I would run from him, but that landed me worse punishments. So I learned to stare back, in spite of my own fear. To meet what terrifies me head-on.

  “She doesn’t belong to him, or to you,” I hear myself growl, sounding like one of my mother’s great cats.

  I don’t know how much longer I can live like this, she said before.

  And neither do I.

  Her jaw works furiously as she grinds her teeth together, unable to speak.

  Tolly leans forward, as if he can defend me from our parents. “Eve . . . ,” he murmurs, if only to end this before things take an even worse turn.

  Mother throws back her head and laughs, the noise horrendous and sharp. I feel dismissed, spit upon, diminished by someone who is supposed to love me. “Does she belong to you, Evangeline?” she croons, still smirking. I want to slap her.

  The fear in me melts to anger, iron turning to steel.

  “We belong to each other,” I reply, forcing down a sip of wine.

  Elane’s eyes snap to mine. They burn me through.

  “I’ve never heard anything so ridiculous in my life,” Mother scoffs, shoving her plate away. “This is inedible.”

  Again, Father glares at me. “It won’t last,” he says again, and I think it’s an answer to us both.

  Mirroring my mother’s actions, I push away my plate of untouched food. “We’ll see,” I mutter to myself. I’ve had enough of this. All of this.

  Before I can leave the table, storm away for a second time, Anabel Lerolan enters the room, her guards on her heels. Even she isn’t presumptuous enough to face down a Samos brood without protection.

  “My apologies,” she says quickly, nodding her head. Her own crown gleams, reflecting the fading light with a warm flash. “For the interruption.”

  When confronted with Queen Anabel, Mother quickly takes on the mantle of Queen Larentia. She improves her already flawless posture, drawing up her spine and dropping her shoulders. With an imperious gaze, she turns to look at Cal’s grandmother. “I assume you have a reason.”

  The Lerolan queen nods. “Maven Calore is gone.”

  Next to me, Ptolemus exhales. He almost smiles. So do my parents, both of them glad to finally be rid of Maven. I only wish I could have seen it done, to know it is finally over for the monstrous boy who plagued us all for so long.

  My brother speaks first, shifting to look at Anabel head-on. “Did Cal do it himself?”

  Her expression turns stony. “I mean he isn’t here.”

  I feel a slight pressure, the slow squeeze of my bracelets tightening at my wrists. On the table, the silverware starts to tremble. Not with my own anger, or Ptolemus’s, but with our father’s. Volo curls one fist on the table, and the knives and forks curl with it.

  Father narrows his eyes. “He escaped?”

  Improbable, but not impossible. Many Silvers are still loyal. Some of House Haven. They could sneak into the palace easily, stow him away, pull him out. My mind spins through the possibilities. Haven interference would be the worst. Because it could blow back on Elane.

  Anabel shakes her head, her scowl deepening with every passing second. “It doesn’t seem to be so,” she hisses.

  Mother sucks in a sharp breath. “Then—”

  I finish the thought for her. “He was taken.”

  The old queen curls her lip. “Yes.”

  “By the Reds,” I murmur.

  For a quivering moment, I think Anabel might explode. She bares her teeth.

  “Yes.”

  The sun has fully set by the time we reach Cal’s quarters, crowding into the large salon where he met us all yesterday. He paces furiously, still dressed in his court regalia, including the rose-gold crown. He stalks around his uncle Julian, seated primly in one of the seats with his legs crossed and arms folded. A woman leans up behind him, pale hands planted on Julian’s narrow shoulders. Sara Skonos, the skin healer. She says nothing, letting the pair talk, as she weighs their words.

  “The intent is quite obvious—” Julian stops himself as we troop in. “Two council meetings in one day, what a treat,” he says dryly. “Queen Larentia, interesting to see you.”

  Instead of glaring at the singer lord, Mother dons the falsest smile she can muster. It has the same effect. “Lord Jacos,” she purrs, careful to keep her distance.

  I’m quietly glad Elane isn’t with us, having returned to my chambers. Her presence would simply put too much strain on an already stressful situation.

  Father wastes no time, swooping into a chair like a bird of prey finding a perch. He stares at Cal as he continues pacing. “So, your brother is in enemy hands.”

  Across the floor, Julian purses his lips. “Enemy is a strong word.”

  “They aren’t with us any longer,” Father replies, not bothering to check his tone against anyone. “They stole a valu
able hostage. That makes Montfort and the Scarlet Guard our enemies.”

  Still circling, Cal puts a hand to his chin. He meets Father’s gaze. “And what do you propose we do about it, King Volo?” he asks. “You want me to take our still-recovering armies, gather the fleet, and assault a distant nation to win back one useless, broken teenager? I don’t think so.”

  I can almost see the hairs on Father’s neck rise. He sets his jaw. “As long as Maven breathes, he’s a threat to Norta.”

  Cal is quick to nod, gesturing with an open palm. “On that we can agree.”

  Usually any destabilization of Cal’s fledgling reign would be cause for celebration, but I find little to cheer here. Instead I take a seat of my own, leaning back with a huff. “Most of the High Houses will still swear their loyalty to you,” I say aloud, speaking mostly to myself. “They know he’s finished.”

  Above me, Cal clucks his tongue in a very annoying fashion. I imagine cutting it out of his head. “That isn’t good enough. We need a united country if we’re going to fight off the Lakelands and Piedmont.”

  Behind us, Anabel shuts the door and crosses the room to stand at her grandson’s side. Her constant posturing is becoming tedious. “Those bloody rats can’t wait for us all to kill each other so they can feed on our corpses.”

  I sneer up at her, remembering when she first came to the Rift. Then, she pledged that any Red alliance would be fleeting and Norta as we knew it would return to its traditions. “If I’m not mistaken,” I say as innocently as I can, “didn’t we plan to do the same?”

  She looks at me with disgust, as Cal continues his walk. He passes between us, shielding me for a moment. I meet his eyes, locking our gaze for a second. I can’t speak, but I try to communicate what I can. He doesn’t trust me, doesn’t care for me, and I feel the same. But we need each other right now, no matter how much we might despise the thought.

  He turns away, moving to face my parents again. “We can’t lose sight of the true danger right now. The Lakelands will return, in full force, with Piedmont backing their play.”