War Storm

by Victoria Aveyard

  At the raised platform containing Cal’s throne, as well as the seats for his uncle and grandmother, the royals collect. Mother and Father are here, with the latter armored as usual. Sunlight flashes off him with every small movement, and he is almost blinding to look at. Mother is more subdued, without armor but not without weapons. Larentia Viper has abandoned her beloved panther for now, despite its prowess as a hunter. Instead she has two shaggy wolves sitting at her heels, their eyes, ears, and snouts all twitching. Both are fearsome to behold, but just as skilled at detection as they are at fighting. No one will catch my mother unawares with them at her disposal.

  Julian Jacos and Queen Anabel flank Cal. She is more prepared for battle than the singer uncle, her small, thick form belted into a flame-orange uniform, sculpted by snug body armor. Her hands are bare, even of her wedding ring. Julian is not so protected. His eyes are ringed by dark shadows, hinting at a night with no sleep. He remains close to his nephew, standing only a few inches away. I’m not sure who is more protective of who.

  The king of Norta himself has burnished red-and-silver armor, not to mention a gun on one hip and a gleaming sword buckled to the other. No cloak or cape drapes across his shoulders. It would only get in the way. Cal is barely a man, but he seems to have aged overnight. And not from the impending battle. He is no stranger to war or bloodshed. Something else hangs on his heart, something even an invasion can’t distract from. He raises his shadowed face, watching me as I approach.

  “How long do we have?” I ask aloud, not bothering with pleasantries.

  Cal is quick to answer. “The Air Fleet is on the wing,” he says, casting his gaze to the south. “There’s a storm out to sea, moving too quickly. I’d wager there’s a Lakelander armada inside it.”

  It’s a tactic we used ourselves in the battle of Harbor Bay, but in far fewer numbers and with much less strength. I shudder to think of what a nymph-born assault might look like with the queen of the Lakelands herself leading the charge. As before, I picture myself swathed in my steel, sinking quickly through deep and dark water, never to surface again.

  I try not to let that fear bleed into my voice. “Their objective?” It’s the best way to fight, and fight back. Identify what your opponent is trying to do, and calculate how best to stop them.

  Behind Cal, his uncle shifts uncomfortably. He lowers his eyes, touching his nephew on the shoulder. “That would be you, my boy. They get to you, and all this is finished before we have even begun.”

  My father remains silent, weighing the outcomes. What it means for him if Cal is captured or dies. We still aren’t married. The Kingdom of the Rift is not so irrevocably tied to Norta, just as we weren’t tied to Maven. The last time enemy forces attacked Archeon, House Samos was prepared, and we fled. Will he do the same again?

  I grit my teeth, already feeling a headache form on top of everything else.

  “Maven’s escape train is still in use,” Julian continues. In reply, Cal shifts smoothly out of his grasp. “We can get you out of the city, at least.”

  The young king pales, his skin turning the color of old bone. The suggestion makes him sick. “And surrender the capital?”

  Julian responds quickly. “Of course not. We’ll defend her, and you’ll be well out of danger, far beyond their grasp.”

  Cal’s retort is just as quick, and twice as resolute. Not to mention predictable. “I’m not running.”

  His uncle doesn’t seem surprised. Still, he tries to argue valiantly. And in vain. “Cal—”

  “I’m not going to let others fight while I hide.”

  The old queen is more forceful, seizing him by the wrist. I despair of this family bickering but have little recourse. Even as the clock ticks against us. “You’re not a prince anymore, or a general,” Anabel pleads. “You are the king, and your well-being is integral to—”

  As with his uncle, Cal gently extricates himself from her grip, peeling off her fingers and removing her hand. His eyes smolder and burn. “If I abandon this city, I abandon any hope of ever being a king. Don’t let your fear blind you to that.”

  Sick of this nonsense, I cluck my tongue and say the obvious, if only to save precious time. “The remaining High Houses will never swear to a king who flees.” I lift my chin, utilizing all my court training to project the image of strength I need. “And the ones who have will never respect him.”

  “Thank you,” Cal says slowly.

  I point one finger at the windows, toward the cliffs. “The river has changed course, and it’s rising. High enough to allow their largest ships to come this far upriver.”

  Cal nods, grateful for the return to the subject. He shifts, putting some distance between himself and his relatives. Crossing to my side.

  “They intend to split the city in two,” he says, looking between my still-silent father and his own grandmother. “I’ve already given orders to even the guards on either side of the city, and supplement with the soldiers still in our service.”

  Ptolemus wrinkles his nose. “Wouldn’t it be better to gather our strength, fortify the Square and the palace? Keep our ourselves united?”

  My brother is a warrior as much as Cal is, but no strategist. He is all brutal strength. And Cal is quick to point out his error.

  “The Cygnet queens will feel out which side is weakest,” he says. “If both sides are balanced, they won’t find a weaker side to prey on. And we can pin them in the river.”

  “Concentrate the Air Fleet over the city.” It isn’t a suggestion, but an order. And no one shoots me down. Despite our impending doom, I feel a surge of pride. “Use their weapons on the ships. If we can sink one downriver, we’ll slow their pace.” A dark grin plays on my lips. “Even nymphs can’t keep a ship full of holes afloat.”

  There is no joy in Tiberias Calore when he speaks next, his eyes flickering with some inner torment. “Turn the river into a graveyard.”

  A graveyard for both kinds of blood, Silver and Red. Lakelanders, soldiers of Piedmont. Enemies. That’s all they are. Faceless, nameless. Sent to kill us. It’s an easy equation to balance, with the people I love on one side. Still, my stomach turns a little, though I’ll never admit it to anyone. Not even Elane. What color will the river be when all this is over?

  “We’ll be outnumbered on the ground.” Cal begins to pace, his words taking on a manic quality. He’s almost talking to himself, puzzling out a battle plan before our eyes. “And whatever their storms cook up will keep most of the Air Fleet busy.”

  My father still hasn’t spoken a word.

  “They’ll have Red soldiers among the Silvers,” Julian says. He sounds almost apologetic. Again my stomach churns, and Cal seems to feel the same trepidation. He falters a little in his steps.

  Anabel merely scoffs. “That’s one advantage, at least. Their numbers are more vulnerable. And less dangerous.”

  The rift between Cal’s closest advisers yawns like a canyon. Julian almost sneers at her, his usually calm manner fading a little. “That’s not what I meant.”

  More vulnerable. Less dangerous. Anabel isn’t wrong, but not for the reason she thinks. “The Lakelands haven’t eased their treatment of Reds,” I say. “Norta has.”

  The withered stare from the old queen is a thing of lethal beauty. “So?”

  I speak slowly, like I’m explaining battle theory to a child. It rankles her delightfully. “So the Lakelander Reds might be less willing to fight. They might even want to surrender to a country where they’ll be given better treatment.”

  Her eyes narrow. “As if we can rely on that.”

  I shrug with a practiced smirk, raising the steel pauldrons on both shoulders. “They did in Harbor Bay. It’s worth keeping in mind.”

  The bug-eyed looks of the Silvers around me are not difficult to interpret. Even Ptolemus is perplexed by what I’m saying. Only Cal and Julian seem open to the idea, their expressions measured but oddly thoughtful. My gaze lingers on Cal, and he meets my eyes firmly, inclining his head
in a small, almost invisible nod.

  He licks his lips, vaulting into another round of planning. “We don’t have any newblood teleporters, but if we can somehow get you two”—he gestures to Ptolemus and me—“onto the battleships again, neutralize their guns—”

  “My children will do no such thing.”

  Volo’s voice is low but resounding, almost vibrating on the air. I feel it in my chest, and suddenly I’m a little girl again, cowering before a commanding father. Willing to do whatever I must to keep him happy, to win a rare smile or show of affection, however small.

  Don’t, Evangeline. Don’t let him do that.

  My fist clenches at my side, nails digging into the flesh of my palm. It grounds me somehow. The sharp pain brings me back to who I am, and the cliff we all stand upon.

  Cal glares openly at my father, the two of them locked in a silent battle of wills. Mother remains quiet, one hand resting on the head of a wolf. Its yellow eyes stare up at the young king, never wavering from his face.

  My parents don’t intend to fight at all, or let us do it either. In Harbor Bay, they were willing to send us into the fighting. Risk us both. For victory.

  They think this battle is already lost.

  They’re going to run.

  Father speaks again, breaking the tense silence. “My own soldiers and guards, my surviving cousins of House Samos, are yours, Tiberias. But my heirs are not yours to gamble with.”

  Cal grits his teeth. He plants his hands on his hips, thumbs drumming. “And what about you, King Volo? Will you sit back as well?”

  I blink, stunned. He all but called the king of the Rift a coward. A shudder runs through my mother’s wolf, mirroring her anger.

  My father has his own schemes already working. He must. Or else he wouldn’t let the slight pass so easily. With a wave of his hand, he brushes off the accusation. “I don’t have to buy loyalty with my own blood,” he says simply, jabbing back. “We’ll be here, defending the Square. If the Lakelanders strike the palace, they’ll find quite the opposition.”

  Cal grinds his teeth, gnashing them together. A habit he’ll have to break if he ever hopes to hold a throne. Kings shouldn’t be so easily read.

  His uncle looms close at his shoulder, his own watery eyes alight as he stares.

  At Father.

  Almost smiling, Julian opens his mouth, lips parting to draw in a long, threatening breath. I expect my father to drop his gaze. Break eye contact. Take away the singer’s weapon. But then that would be an admission of fear. He would never do that, even to protect his own mind.

  It’s a standoff.

  “Is that wise, Jacos?” my mother purrs, and the wolves at her knees growl in response.

  Julian merely smiles. The sharp thread of tension snaps. “I don’t know what you mean, Your Majesty,” he says, his voice blissfully normal. No haunting melody, no aura of power. “But Cal, if I can get to the Lakelander queen, I could be of some use,” he adds softly. Not for some part of the pageantry. It isn’t an act to send a message. It’s an actual proposition.

  True pain cross Cal’s face. He turns, forgetting my parents.

  “That’s little more than suicide, Julian,” he hisses. “You won’t even get close to her.”

  The old singer just raises an eyebrow. “And if do? I could end this.”

  “Nothing will end.” Cal slices a hand in dismissal, and I swear I can almost hear the air singe. His eyes are wide, desperate, all masks of propriety sliding away. “You can’t sing both Cenra and Iris out of this war. Even if you manage to make them both drown themselves, or turn their entire army around, they’ll just come back. Another Cygnet waits in the Lakelands.”

  “It could buy us valuable time.”

  The uncle isn’t wrong, but Cal won’t hear of it. “And it will lose us a valuable person.”

  Julian lowers his eyes, stepping back. “Very well.”

  “This is all very touching,” I can’t help but mutter.

  My dear brother mirrors my sentiment. I’m surprised his eyes don’t roll out of his head. “That aside, do we know what we’re going to be facing out there?”

  Our mother scoffs in reply. Like Father, she thinks this battle is already hopeless. The city already lost. “Besides the full might of the Lakelands? Red legions with all the Silvers they can muster, not to mention powerful nymphs with a river to wield?”

  “And perhaps some might of Norta too.” I tap a finger against my lip. I’m not the only one who thinks this. I can’t be. It’s too obvious. Judging by the flushes on the faces around me, the others realize what I’m saying, and they’ve had the same suspicions. “The High Houses missing from your coronation. None have come to pledge loyalty. None have responded to your commands.”

  Cal’s throat bobs. A silver blush blooms high on his cheeks. “Not while Maven lives. They still kneel to another king.”

  “They knelt to another queen,” I muse.

  His face falls, dark brows pulling together. “You think Iris has Nortans on her side?”

  “I think she’d be stupid not to try.” I shrug my shoulders. “And Iris Cygnet is anything but stupid.”

  The implication hangs over us, thick as a fog, and just as difficult to ignore. Even Father seems unsettled by the possibility of another split within the Nortan kingdom, cleaving apart a land he one day hopes to control.

  Anabel shifts, uneasy down to her toes. She runs a hand across the tight pull of her gray hair, smoothing down an already severe style. The old woman mutters under her breath.

  “I didn’t think it was possible, but I think I miss those grubby Reds.”

  “A bit late for that,” Cal snarls, his voice like furious thunder.

  My father’s lip twitches, the closest he’s ever come to flinching.

  Of course, there are plans in place. Tactics and strategies for defending the capital against an invasion. After a century of war with the Lakelanders, it would be foolish to think otherwise. But whatever the Calore kings cooked up to fight the Cygnet nymphs relied on things that no longer exist. A Nortan army at full strength. A country united. Tech towns operating at full capacity, churning out electricity and ammunition. Cal can’t count on any of it.

  The barracks and military facilities adjoining the Square are the safest place outside the spiraling vaults of the Treasury, but I don’t fancy burying myself belowground with only a rickety train to rely on. My parents take up refuge in the nerve center of War Command, overseeing the many reports flooding in from the circling Air Fleet. I suspect King Volo enjoys standing in a place of such power, especially while Cal is readying himself to lead a battalion into the fray.

  I’m less inclined to stare at printouts and grainy footage, watching battle from afar. I’d rather trust my own eyes. And I can’t be close to my parents right now. Somehow the approaching army, the ships hidden on a cloudy horizon, make my choices very clear.

  Ptolemus sits with me, perched on the steps of War Command. His armor ripples slightly, still taking shape across the planes of his muscles. Trying to find the perfect fit. He inclines his head skyward, eyes roving over the gathering gray clouds overhead. They thicken with every passing minute. Wren is close by too, hovering at his shoulder, her hands bare and ready to heal.

  “It’s going to rain,” he says with a sniff. “Any second now.”

  Wren looks past us, toward the Bridge of Archeon on the far side of the Square gates. Its many arches and supports seem faded, as the oncoming mist bleeds into the city. “I wonder how high the river is now,” she murmurs.

  I reach out with my ability, trying to distinguish the armada rapidly closing the miles. But the ships are still too far out. Or I’m too distracted.

  Father is going to run again. House Samos will run. Leave Norta to crumble, with only the Rift remaining, an island against the lapping Cygnet sea.

  Eventually we’ll be overrun too.

  Queen Cenra has no sons. No one to sell me to. Volo Samos has no more bargains left to m
ake. He’ll have to surrender.

  And die at her hands, probably. The way Salin did.

  If he even survives today.

  So where does that leave me?

  If my father faces defeat as much as my betrothed does?

  I think . . . it leaves me free.

  “Tolly, do you love me?”

  Both Wren and my brother snap to attention, their faces whirling to mine. Ptolemus almost sputters, his lips flapping with surprise. “Of course,” he says, almost too quickly to be understood. His silver brows furrow, and something like anger crosses his features. “How can you even ask that?”

  Just the simple question offends him, wounds him. It would do the same to me.

  I take his hand, squeezing tight. Feeling the bones in the newly grown appendage he lost some months ago. “I sent Elane away from the Ridge. When you get home, she won’t be there.”

  Red hair, a mountain breeze. It seems like a dream. Could it be real? Is this my chance?

  “Eve, what are you talking about? Where—”

  “I’m not going to tell you, so you won’t have to lie.”

  Slowly, I force myself to stand on oddly shaking limbs. A baby learning to walk, taking steps for the first time. I quiver all over, toes to fingertips.

  Ptolemus jumps up with me, bending so we’re eye to eye, inches away from each other. His hands are tight on my shoulders, but not enough to keep me in place if I choose to move.

  “I’m going inside. I need to ask him a question,” I murmur. “But I think I already know the answer.”

  “Eve—”

  I look into his eyes, the same eyes as mine. As our father’s. I would ask for his help, but splitting him apart like that, asking him to choose a side? I love my brother, and he loves me, but he loves our parents too. He is a better heir than I ever was.

  “Don’t follow me.”

  Still trembling, I pull him into a crushing hug. He returns the gesture reflexively, but he stumbles over his words, unable to understand what I’m saying.

  I don’t look back for what could be my last glimpse of my brother’s face. It’s too difficult. He could die today, or tomorrow, or a month from now, when the Cygnet queens storm my home to lay my family bare. I want to remember his smile, not a confused frown.