Tiberias raises his chin. “I’ve spent almost a year in exile, betrayed by my brother. But I was betrayed by my . . .” He pauses, chewing the words. “My father as well. He raised me to be a king like every king before. Unyielding, unchanging. Bound to the past. Locked into endless war, married to tradition.” For the first time, Evangeline flinches, her clawed nails curling on the arms of her seat.
The true king pushes on. “The truth is Norta was split in two long before my father was murdered. Silver overlords, with Reds below. I knew it to be wrong, as we all know, in the deepest places of ourselves. But there are limits to the power of kings. I thought changing the bedrock of a country, rearranging the ills of our society, was one of them. I thought the current balance, however unfair, was better than the risk of tipping the kingdom into chaos.” His voice hums with determination. “And I was wrong. So many people taught me that.
“You were one of them, Premier,” he says, glancing back at Davidson. “And so are all of you. Your country, strange as it seems to us, is proof that new lines can be drawn. A different kind of balance can be maintained. As king of Norta, I intend to see what I couldn’t before. And to do everything I can to bridge the canyons between Red and Silver. Heal the wounds. Change what must be changed.”
I’ve heard him speak eloquently before. He did it in Corvium, saying much the same thing. He swore to change the world with us. To erase the divide between Red and Silver. It stirred pride in me then, but not now. I know what his words mean and exactly how far his promises extend. Especially with the crown in the balance.
Even so, I gasp to myself when he sinks, dropping to a knee at the center of the floor. His cape pools around him, vibrant and bloody against the marble.
Murmurs rise as he bows his head.
“I don’t ask for anyone to fight for me, but alongside me,” he says slowly.
The black-haired woman is first to speak, her head tipped to one side. “We already know you’re not the kind to send another in your stead, Your Majesty,” she replies. “That was made clear last night. My daughter, Captain Viya, fought with you on the Hawkway.”
Still kneeling, Tiberias says nothing. He only nods, a muscle jumping his cheek.
On the opposite side of the chamber, Radis gestures to Davidson, flicking out one hand. As he does so, a sudden breeze rustles through the Gallery. He is a windweaver, I realize. “Put it to a vote, Premier,” the Silver says.
In his seat, Davidson dips his chin. He stares out, searching the many assembled politicians. I wonder what he reads in their faces. After a long moment, he exhales. “Very well, Representative Radis.”
“I vote yes,” Radis says quickly, firmly, and sits.
On the floor, Tiberias blinks quickly, trying to mask his surprise. I feel the same.
It only grows with every resounding yes, spoken from dozens of lips. I count under my breath. Thirty. Thirty-five. Forty.
There are nos scattered among the politicians, enough at first to temper any hope I might feel. But they are quickly eclipsed, drowned out in favor of the answer we so desperately need.
Finally, Davidson grins and stands back up out of his chair. He crosses the floor and touches Tiberias lightly on the shoulder, gesturing for him to rise.
“You have your army.”
TWELVE
Evangeline
Even though Montfort is beautiful, I’m keenly glad to be leaving so soon after our arrival. What’s more, I’m going home. To Ridge House, to Ptolemus, to Elane. I’m so happy I barely notice that I have to pack up my things myself.
It’s the smart move. Even the Reds know it. The Rift is closer to Montfort than the Piedmont base, not to mention it isn’t surrounded by Bracken’s territory. And the kingdom is a place of strength, well defended. Maven won’t order an assault on our lands, and we’ll have time to gather our resources and our armies.
Still, my skin prickles with discomfort all afternoon. I can hardly stomach Cal’s grin as we step out into the courtyard of Davidson’s palace. Sometimes I wish he had just an ounce of Maven’s cunning, or even sense. Then he might understand what happened this morning in the People’s Gallery. But no, he’s too trusting, too good, and much too pleased with his little speech to realize how well Davidson maneuvers.
The vote was already decided. It must have been. The politicians of Montfort already knew what Davidson would request, and they already knew how they would answer. The army was decided before we even arrived. Everything else, the entire visit to the city, was a performance, and a seduction.
It’s what I would do.
Just as Davidson’s own words to me were a seduction of their own. Another small thing we allow here, he said to me when I first arrived. He knows about Elane, and he knows exactly what to say to make me falter. Make me wonder. Make me think, even for an instant, about throwing my life away for a place here.
The premier is a good salesman, to say the least.
Cal crosses the courtyard to bid good-bye to Davidson and his husband, Carmadon. Looking at the couple, I feel the familiar surge of jealousy and then nausea. I turn away, if only to look somewhere else.
My eyes land on another despicable public display of emotion. Another nauseating round of farewells before this troop of dancing monkeys heads to the Rift.
I don’t understand why Mare couldn’t have said her good-byes inside, where the rest of us didn’t have to see such a performance. As if she is original in her grief. As if Mare Barrow is the only one here who has ever had to leave someone behind.
She hugs her family one by one, each embrace longer than the last. Her mother cries; her father cries; her brothers and her sister cry. She does her best not to, and fails. Their half-hidden sniffles echo across the mountain jetway, and the rest of us are forced to act as if we aren’t waiting for the weeping family.
It’s all very Red, I suppose. They don’t have to worry about what showing weakness might do, because, for the most part, they’re already weak. Someone should talk to Barrow about that. She should know by now how important maintaining an image is.
The tall Red boy, Barrow’s tan, blond pet, follows alongside, hugging her family as if they were his own. I suppose he’s still tagging along.
Cal finishes with Davidson, pulling back from their whispered conversation. The premier isn’t coming back with us, not yet. Now that his government has agreed to fully aid us, he has much to organize, and he pledges to follow us back to the Rift in a week or so. But I don’t think that’s what they’re talking about. Cal is too fervent, too on edge, his grip on Davidson tight and unyielding. His eyes are soft, though. He’s asking for something, something small and unimportant to anyone but him.
When the prince walks away, he passes by Mare with long, quick strides. Her brothers watch him go, eyes trailing in the prince’s wake. If they were Calore burners, I think they might set him on fire. The sister is less hostile, but more disappointed. She frowns at his retreating form, lip between her teeth. She looks more like Mare when she does that, especially when her frown deepens into a sneer.
Cal stops at my right, settling into a wide-legged stance, crossing his arms over a plain black uniform.
“You need a better mask, Calore,” I mutter to him. He only scowls. “And she needs to keep to our schedule.”
“She’s leaving her family behind, Evangeline,” he growls in reply. “We can spare the minutes.”
I heave a sigh and examine my nails. No claws today. No need for them on the journey back home. “So many allowances where Barrow is concerned. I wonder where that line is, and what happens when she inevitably crosses it.”
Instead of snarling back, as I expect, he chuckles low in his throat. “Try to spread your misery all you want, Princess. It’s the only thing you have left.”
Gritting my teeth, I clench a fist. And I wish I’d donned my claws.
“Don’t pretend I’m the only one miserable here,” I snap.
That cows him into silence, the tips of his ears
flushing a stubborn gray.
With a last embrace, Mare finally finishes all her hysterical nonsense. She turns tightly, shoulders squared away from her brood. Their faces vary, but they all have a likeness. Similar coloring, dark eyes and golden-toned skin. Dark brown hair but for the sister and the graying parents. There’s a common roughness to them, born in their blood. As if they were shaped from earth and we were shaped from stone.
The Red boy keeps pace as Mare walks toward us, tugged along on an invisible leash. He looks over his shoulder to wave back at the family, but Mare doesn’t. I respect that instinct, at least. Her dogged and sometimes ill-advised habit of pressing forward at all costs.
Cal looks up as she passes, stomping her way into the jet. His hand flexes, fingers grazing her arm as she goes. His skin is pale against the sleeve of her rust-colored jacket. But she doesn’t stop and he doesn’t stop her. He only stares at her disappearing form, throat bobbing with the words he can’t find it in himself to say.
Part of me wants to prod him after her with a sharp knife. The rest wants to cut out that heart of his, since he insists on ignoring it and subjecting me to a similar pain.
“Shall we, my future husband?” I growl, offering him my arm. The spikes of my metallic coat lie flat, glistening against one another in invitation.
Cal eyes me darkly, his teeth clenched into a forced grin. Dutiful to the last, he slips his arm around mine, resting his hand below my wrist. His skin blazes with heat, almost too hot to touch. I feel sweat prickle on my neck and fight the urge to shiver in disgust. “Of course, my future wife.”
How I used to want this, I don’t know.
Any revulsion I feel is quickly swallowed by excitement as we board the jet, our steps matched as we climb into the iron hulk. All that stands between me and a reunion with the ones I love most is a few short hours of flight. Squeezed alongside Cal and Mare and whatever dramatic sighs and meaningful stares they might toss at each other, yes, but I can handle it. Ptolemus is waiting.
Elane is waiting.
Even thousands of miles away, I feel the cool balm of her presence, a cold towel on fevered skin. White skin, red hair, all the stars in her eyes, the moon in her teeth.
When I was thirteen, I cut Elane to ribbons in the Training ring. For Father, for even the chance of his approval. I cried for a week afterward, and spent another month apologizing. She understood, of course. We know what our families are, what they demand, what we must be for them. And as the years wore on, such things became expected. Ordinary. We fought daily, hurting each other, hurting ourselves. In Training, with healers at the ready. We desensitized ourselves to the necessary violence of our days. But I wouldn’t do it to her now. Wouldn’t hurt her for anyone on this earth, even with the best healers in the world waiting to attend her. Not for my father, or for my crown. If only Calore felt as strongly for Mare. If only he loved her as I love Elane.
As soon as we’re safely in the belly of the jet, the curved walls lined with cushioned seats and restraints, bolted-down tables and thick-glassed windows, Cal peels away from me. He eases himself down next to his grandmother, holding solitary court at one of the few tabled areas.
“Nanabel,” I hear him mumble in greeting, using the utterly ridiculous and unbecoming pet name.
She looks weary for the first time I can remember. She offers her grandson a kind, private smile as he sits.
I find a seat of my own, favoring a window and a table at the corner, where I can sleep without much disturbance. Our jet is more comfortable than the military transports, though also commandeered from the Piedmont Air Fleet. The inside is white and cheery, accented with yellow and tiny bursts of purple stars along the interior. Prince Bracken’s colors and symbols.
I’ve never met the prince, only his various diplomats through the years, and of course his envoys, Prince Alexandret and Prince Daraeus. They’re both dead now. I watched Alexandret die in Archeon, shot through the skull during the first attempt on Maven’s life. The memory turns my stomach.
An Iral lord stood up, pointed a gun, and fired a bullet at the king sitting two feet to my left. Fired and missed, of course, forcing us to act like the allies we pretended to be.
He should have died that day. I wish he’d died that day.
I can still taste the iron tang of his blood, mercurial upon the stones, gushing in an open river at my feet.
The assassination attempt failed. The rebelling houses fled, retreating to their lands and strongholds. Elane is no warrior and she was already gone, fleeing before the attack. But House Samos had to keep our cover. I still had to stand at Maven’s council—stand because the weasel denied me the courtesy of a single chair—and watch him interrogate her sister. Watch his Merandus cousin spill out her memories before they executed her for treason.
Elane never speaks of it, and I won’t push. I can’t imagine what I would do if Ptolemus met the same fate. No, that’s not true. I can imagine a thousand things. A million different forms of violence and pain. And not one would fill the void. The bonds of Silver blood, when strong, are unbreakable. Our loyalty to the few we love runs bone-deep.
What will Bracken do for his children, then?
I didn’t ask after them, or their treatment in Montfort. It’s easier not to. One less worry in a world full of worries.
My pursuit of silent privacy is interrupted by a hurricane of muscular limbs and cropped blond hair. The Scarlet Guard general sits with a collapsing thump, shuddering the floor beneath my feet.
“You move with the grace of one of those bison,” I sneer, hoping to chase her out of the seat opposite mine.
She doesn’t flinch or reply. The woman just glares at me with a flash of anger, her eyes galaxy blue. Then she turns to the window, leaning her forehead against the glass with a low huff of breath. She isn’t crying. Not like Barrow, who enters the jet with hiccups and red-rimmed eyes.
There is no such display of sorrow on General Farley. Still, I can see the agony rolling off her like a tide. Her face goes blank, empty without the usual stony expression and obligatory disgust she tosses at Silvers, especially me.
I know she has a daughter, an infant, stowed away somewhere.
Not here. Not on this craft.
Barrow follows the Red woman, taking the seat beside her, and I snarl to myself. We traveled here with two jets, enough to keep the Reds and Silvers apart, as well as carry the bounty of Corvium. I find myself wishing that were still the case, and we weren’t all crammed together for the journey to the Rift.
“There are approximately sixty other seats on this plane,” I mutter.
Mare cuts her own glare at me, torn between anger and heartache. “You’re welcome to move if you want,” she replies. “But I doubt you have somewhere better to sit.” She gestures with her chin, indicating the rest of the plane as it fills with various representatives of those loyal to Cal and the Scarlet Guard.
I sink back into the plush seat, almost huffing. She isn’t wrong. I hardly want to spend the hours donning a court mask, wielding a smile like a shield to trade information and veiled threats with the other Silvers. Nor do I have any desire to shut my eyes among Reds who would rather slit my throat. No, strangely, Mare Barrow is my safest haven here. Our bargain protects us both.
Mare shifts her attention, moving so her body is squared to the general. They don’t speak, and Diana Farley doesn’t look at Barrow. Her focus on the window is perfect, enough to shatter the glass. She doesn’t seem to notice when Mare takes her hand.
As the jet purrs to life, its engines humming to a roar, she doesn’t move. Her teeth clench, the muscles in her jaw jumping as she grinds them together.
Only when we take off, climbing into the clouds, leaving the mountains behind, does she shut her eyes.
I think I hear her whisper good-bye.
I’m the first down the steps of the jet, gulping the fresh scent of the Rift in summer. I smell dirt and river and leaves and damp heat, undercut with the distant hint of iro
n beneath the hills. The sun is strong, bright in a hazy, humid sky. It makes everything gleam in odd contrast. The ridges march off into the distance, lush and green against the flat, hot black of the paved runway. If I were to lay a palm to the ground, it would burn my skin. Waves of heat distortion rise from the pavement, wobbling the world around me. Or that could just be me, trembling with want. I try not to run. Try to hold on to some sense of propriety.
My relationship with Elane Haven is an open secret now, and a small one in comparison to the myriad of alliances and betrayals that seem to tangle our lives in so many webs.
A small secret, but a shameful one. An obstacle. A difficulty.
In Norta. In the Rift, a voice says in my head. Not so elsewhere.
She won’t be waiting out here for all to see. It’s not her way. Still, my heartbeat hammers, pounding at my pulse points.
Ptolemus is not so restricted. He stands on the runway, sweating stubbornly in a summer uniform of gray linen and reserved regalia. The only metal on him winks at his wrists. Thick-braided iron rope, more weapon than jewelry. A caution, especially alongside the dozen or so guards in Samos colors. A few are cousins, marked by their silver hair and black eyes. The rest are pledged to our house, to my father’s crown, in the same way Maven’s guards were. I don’t bother noting their colors. They don’t matter.
“Eve,” he says, opening his arms to me. I return the gesture, holding him around the middle, letting all the muscles in my body release for one long moment of relief. Ptolemus is safe and whole beneath my fingertips. Solid. Real. Alive.
Now, more than ever, I won’t take that for granted.
“Tolly,” I breathe in reply, pulling back to look up at him. The same relief I feel flashes in his stormy eyes. We despise being parted. It’s like separating a sword from a shield. “I’m sorry I left.”
No, you didn’t leave him. That denotes choice. You had no choice in this. My fingers tighten on my brother’s upper arm. Father sent me to Montfort. To send a message. Not just to our coalition, but to me. He is my king and lord of my house. It is my duty to obey him. To go where he wishes, do as he says, and marry who he commands. Live as he wills.
War Storm Page 19