War Storm

by Aveyard, Victoria

  His words echo long after he is done speaking, as if dancing on the wind. They have a sobering effect on the Lakelander queens and Bracken, who exchange uneasy glances.

  Maven is not subdued in the slightest. He leers at the Jacos lord, eyes alight. He has always despised Julian. “Did you rehearse that, Julian? I always wondered why you spent so much time alone in your library.”

  It’s too easy to throw the barb back in his face. “I doubt anyone spends more time alone than you do,” I say, again moving forward to display my brand.

  The combination makes him go pale, his mouth slightly open. Breath whistles between his exposed teeth. He looks like he wants to kiss me or rip my throat out. I doubt he knows which.

  “Careful, Maven,” I push on, pressing him closer to the edge of his tolerance. “That mask of yours might slip.”

  Cold fear flashes in his eyes. Then his face melts, brows creasing and lips pulling down, curling back to show more of his teeth. With the shadows under his eyes and beneath his cheekbones, he looks like a skull, white as moonlight. “I could kill you, Red,” he snarls, brazen in the empty threat.

  “Funny, you had the chance for six long months.” I pat my hands over my arms and chest, letting my fingers brush the brand. “But here I am.”

  I look away before he can say more, addressing the allies at his side. “Maven Calore is unstable at best.” As I speak, I’m intensely aware of their attention, the weight of three crowns staring me down. As well as the weight of Silent Stone, a constant, squeezing pressure. I wish I could feel my lightning and draw a little strength from my ability. Instead I have only my wasted self. And that must be enough.

  “You all know it. Whatever the benefits of his rule, you know they don’t outweigh the risks. He will be overthrown, either by us directly or by the crumbling of his country. Look around. How many High Houses sit with him? Where are they?” I gesture to the Sentinels, their own guards, but no one else of Norta. Not House Welle or House Osanos or any other. I don’t know where they are, but their absence speaks volumes.

  “You are his shields. He’s using you and your countries. He’ll turn on you one day, when he has the strength to cast you both off. He has no loyalties, and no love in his heart. The boy who calls himself king is a shell, empty, a danger to everyone and everything.” In his seat, Maven examines his hands, adjusting the cuffs of his jacket. Anything to seem unaffected and unperturbed. It’s a terrible act, especially for someone as talented as he is.

  I hold my head high. “Why entertain this madness any longer? For what?”

  To my left, Farley shifts, her chair creaking. She stares with all the fire the Calores can’t muster. “Because they’d rather bleed themselves than be equal to any blood that isn’t the right color,” she hisses.

  “Farley,” Cal mutters.

  To my surprise, Evangeline takes on that mess, drawing attention to herself instead. She purses her lips and smooths her dress conspicuously.

  “It’s infinitely clear what’s happening here. You say Maven’s using them as shields?” she says, almost cackling. “Where are your armies, Queen Cenra? And yours, Prince Bracken? Who really bleeds in this war? If anyone is a shield here, it’s Maven. They’re using the little boy against his big brother, to play them off each other until they’re confident they can destroy what’s left. Isn’t that it?”

  They don’t deny it, or don’t want to give oxygen to such a claim. Iris tries another tactic, leaning forward toward the Samos princess with an easy, tight-lipped smile. “I must assume the same of you, Evangeline. Or is Tiberias Calore not a weapon of the Rift?”

  Maven waves her back. He looks from Cal to Farley. She is the weak spot here, or at least he thinks she is. Good luck. “No, not Cal,” he says, purring. “The Reds. The Montfort mongrels. I know Volo and the other Silvers in open rebellion. They won’t tolerate any kind of Red acceptance beyond what they need. Will you, Anabel?” he adds, tossing a grin at his grandmother.

  She merely turns away, refusing to so much as look at him. Despite all his posturing, Maven’s smile falls a little.

  Farley doesn’t rise to the bait this time. She keeps still, and Davidson slowly claps his hands, inclining his head toward the false king. “I have to applaud you, Maven,” he says. The blank calm of the premier is a welcome respite from so much bile. “I admit, I didn’t expect such deft manipulations from someone so young. But I assume that’s how your mother built you, didn’t she?” he adds, looking to me.

  That incenses Maven more than anything. He knows that it means I’ve told them all I could about him, about what his mother did.

  “Yes, he is what she made him,” I murmur. It feels like twisting a knife in his gut. “No matter who he was meant to be. That person is completely gone.”

  Cal’s voice is soft in response, landing the final blow. “And he is never coming back.”

  If not for the Stone, Maven would burn. He slams a fist down, knuckles like exposed bone. “This conversation is pointless,” he snaps. “If you don’t have real terms, then leave. Fortify your city, gather your dead, prepare for a true war.”

  His brother doesn’t flinch. He has nothing else to fear from Maven. A transformation, a tragic one, has come over Cal, and he slides into the role he’s best at. A general, a warrior. Facing an opponent he can defeat. Not a brother he wants to save. There is no blood left between them, only the blood Maven made him spill.

  “True war is here,” he replies, his calm manner sharply contrasts with Maven’s sudden temper. “The storm has broken, Maven, whether you want to admit it or not.”

  I try to do as Cal has done. Try to let go. The false masquerade of the kind, forgotten boy is already gone. Not even his ghost remains. There is only the person in front of me, with his hatred and his obsession and his twisted love. Get through it, I hiss in my head. Maven is a monster. He branded me, imprisoned me, tortured me in the worst way. To keep me at his side, to feed whatever beast prowls around inside his skull. But as much as I try, I can’t help but see some of myself reflected in him. Trapped by a storm, unable to break free, unable to walk away from what I’ve already done and will continue to do.

  This world is a storm I helped create. We all did, in ways big and small. With steps we could not fathom, paths we never thought to walk.

  Jon saw it all. I wonder which second put this in motion. Which choice. Was it Elara, looking into my head for an opportunity to strike the Scarlet Guard? Was it Evangeline, making me fall into the arena of Queenstrial? Was it Cal, his hand closing on mine when I was just a Red thief? Or Kilorn, his master dead, his fate decided, the doom of conscription looming before him? Maybe this didn’t even start with any of us. It could be Farley’s mother and sister, drowned by the Lakeland king, their deaths sparking her father, the Colonel, to action. Or Davidson fleeing death in the legions, escaping to Montfort to build a new kind of future? Perhaps someone even further away, a hundred years ago, a thousand. Someone cursed or chosen by a distant god, doomed and blessed to make this all real.

  I suppose I’ll never know.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Evangeline

  The Silent Stone grates against me, and my skin itches with the constant pressure. It isn’t easy to ignore, even with my extensive years of Training. I fight back the searing urge to rip my nails down my arms, if only to feel a different kind of pain instead of this foul, decaying weight. I wonder where the Stones are buried. Beneath the meeting platform? Under our seats? They feel so close I could choke on them.

  Everyone else looks undisturbed by the unnatural sensation of our deepest parts repressed. Even Mare, despite her history. She keeps her head high, her body still. No sign of discomfort or pain. Meaning I have to hide it as well as she does. Ugh.

  Bracken’s lip curls in distaste, hating the feel of the Silent Stone as much as the rest of us. Perhaps it will make him more amenable to our cause. Yes, he despises Montfort, and he has reason to. But I think he hates losing more. And if Cal’s bluste
ring works, he certainly won’t have faith in Maven much longer.

  Maven glares at Cal, as if he can somehow measure up to his warrior brother. Whatever compassion he counted on exploiting seems to disappear as Cal holds firm, unmoved in his seat.

  “Those are my terms, Maven,” he says, sounding more kingly than his father ever did. “Surrender, and live.”

  Maven deserves little more than a bullet to the brain or a knife to the gut. He’s a danger none of us can afford to leave breathing.

  His reply is guttural, coming from the deepest parts of him. “Get off my island.”

  No one is surprised. Ptolemus lets loose a low breath. His fingers twitch, itching for the knives strapped across his chest. At least the Sentinels didn’t think, or didn’t care, to disarm us. They must think magnetrons defenseless without ability. They are wrong. My brother could put that knife into Maven’s gut if the circumstances allowed.

  My betrothed leans forward in his seat, rising slowly. “Very well,” he says, pained. “Remember this day, Maven, when you are abandoned and alone, with no one to blame but yourself.”

  Maven has no response but a smirk and a chuff of laughter. He acts well, relying on the carefully crafted image of beleaguered boy called to greatness. The second son never meant to rule. It has no use here. All of us know who he is.

  Still in her seat, Queen Cenra angles her face to him, leaning past her daughter. “Our terms, Your Majesty?”

  He doesn’t reply, too distracted by Cal and Mare to know she’s even speaking. Iris nudges him.

  “None but surrender,” he says quickly. “No pardons, no quarter,” he adds, eyes flying to Mare’s face. She recoils under his attention. “For any of you.”

  On Cal’s far side, Anabel stands. She wipes her hands, as if ridding herself of this situation and her poisoned grandson. “That’s settles it, I suppose,” she sighs. “We’re all in agreement.”

  Strangely, her eyes are on Iris. Not on Maven, or even Cenra or Bracken. On the young queen with little to say and even less power in this circle.

  The young woman bows her head, gray eyes flashing with some meaning. “Yes, we are,” she says. Next to her, Queen Cenra does the same. A Lakelander tradition, probably. As silly and useless as their do-nothing gods.

  The two queens rise first on Maven’s side of the platform, followed quickly by Bracken. He offers a low bow in my direction and I incline my head. But his eyes darken as they sweep past me, fixing on Davidson. No amount of my posturing can distract him fully from his hatred of that newblood.

  It doesn’t bother the premier. He remains inscrutable, standing with smooth grace. “This was interesting, to say the least,” he mutters with an empty smile.

  “Indeed,” I hear myself answer.

  The rest of us rustle out of our chairs in a swirl of bright color and gleaming armor, until only Maven remains, firmly planted in his seat. Staring.

  Mare artfully avoids his gaze, weaving around Farley to take Cal’s arm. The sight enrages the false king, who fumes. I almost expect smoke to rise off him. If not for the Silent Stone, it very well might.

  “Until we meet again,” Cal says over his shoulder.

  Something about the words sets Maven off, and he slams his hands down on the arms of his chair before storming away, turning on us all. His cloak, ink black, streams out behind him. I’m reminded of a toddler kicking up a tantrum. A very dangerous toddler.

  The Lakelander queens and the Piedmont prince follow him almost reluctantly. Cal’s right. They’ll abandon Maven’s cause if the scales tip against him, if it becomes clear he can’t win the war. But will they shift to our side? I don’t think so. They’ll sit back and wait to strike. I find myself almost envying the Scarlet Guard and Montfort. Their alliance, at least, seems rooted in true loyalty and a common goal. Not like us Silvers. We might speak of peace, but peace isn’t what we’re built for. We fight always, in throne rooms or battlefields or even across the table of a family dinner. It’s what we are cursed to do.

  I’m eager to get out of the circle of Silent Stone and breathe free air again. With a tug, I pull Ptolemus along with me, toward the winding path back to our dropjets. I’m careful to keep him close with General Farley so nearby, haunting his steps. A rat stalking a wolf, waiting for the sliver of opportunity.

  As we get free of the Silent Stone, the cool relief of my ability comes rushing back. The pieces of metal in my jewelry, my hair, my teeth, tucked away all over my body, tingle against my perception. I reach for the medals on Maven, feeling them as they fade away. He’s truly leaving. Escaping the island as we are.

  The war is far from won, and if my guesses are correct, both sides are evenly matched at present. Perfectly balanced. This could drag on for years. Leaving me unwed, a princess only, still free of a queen’s leash. I could go home for a few weeks, leave when Father gets here. Let him handle the chaos. Maybe steal away with Elane to some quiet place. The thought curls my toes.

  It almost distracts me from the water seeping up beneath my feet, bleeding through the shallow soil.

  At the edge of my perception, Maven’s medals stop moving.

  “Tolly,” I whisper, reaching out to grab his arm.

  His eyes widen as he looks over the flooding ground.

  So does the rest of our party, lifting their feet, sloshing toward each other. Farley and her officers quickly reclaim their discarded guns, some of them now dripping wet. They react quickly, taking defensive positions, training their sights on the tree line and the platform in the distance.

  Mare shifts, putting herself in front of Cal. He looks around, terrified, momentarily stunned by the water slowly rising around us. One of her hands sparks.

  “Careful,” I bark, jumping backward, dragging Tolly along with me onto drier ground. “You’ll fry us all.”

  She regards me coldly. “Only if I want to.”

  “The nymphs?” Farley growls, gun against her cheek, one eye pressed to the sight. “I see movement from their direction. Their blue dresses, the Sentinels . . .” She trails off.

  I draw a knife from Tolly’s sash, letting it spin in my hand. “And?”

  “And it’s nothing to trouble ourselves with,” Anabel says, her voice light and dismissive. “Come, let’s return to our jets?”

  I’m not the only one who stares at her, jaw gaping open.

  Farley speaks first, still in position. “Either this entire island is sinking or we’re about to face an attack—”

  “Nonsense,” Anabel sniffs. “It’s nothing of the sort.”

  “Then what is it?” Cal grits out. “What have you done?”

  Somehow Anabel gives way to Julian Jacos. The older man offers a thin, empty smile. “We’ve ended it,” he says simply.

  Mare finds her voice first. “Wha—”

  Something that sounds like a crashing wave echoes beyond the trees, in the opposite direction from the beach. On her knees, Farley jumps, double-checking her sights, while her officers recoil.

  I find myself climbing the sandy hill, desperate to get to higher ground and a better vantage point.

  As I move, gunfire peppers the air, loud across the grassy field. Below me, Mare flinches. I clench a fist, counting the bullets as they dance on the edge of sensation. They rocket in opposite directions, one volley to answer another.

  “They’re fighting . . . something,” I report.

  On the ground, Cal sloshes forward, kicking up the water as his fists ignite. “Maven,” I think he snarls, low and under his breath. Mare stays in front of him, trying to hold him back without shocking him—or being burned. His grandmother doesn’t move at all.

  As I climb, the water ebbs like a small tide, receding and flowing in as someone pulls it. From my spot, I can see color through the knobbled trees. Blue armor, red flame, the fiery robes of Sentinel guards. Someone screams, the sound echoing in a howl. The air turns to mist, as if someone is drawing a gray curtain across the world.

  Quickly, my jewelry sprea
ds, forming armor along my hands and wrists, skittering up to my shoulders. “Give me a gun, Farley,” I bark.

  She doesn’t look at me, spitting on the ground instead.

  “I have better aim and better range,” I snarl.

  Her grip tightens on her long gun. “If you think I’m giving you anything—”

  “If you think I’m asking,” I snap back, flicking my fingers. Her weapon jumps out of her hands, soaring up to mine.

  “Really, ladies, there’s no need for that,” Anabel says, still oddly unaffected. “See now, it’s over.” She steps between us and points with a wrinkled finger, indicating the tree line.

  The water rushes across the field again, moving with the figures that are approaching in the distance, barely shadows in the mist.

  The corpses come first, floating along in the ankle-deep water, their Sentinel robes splayed wide and wet. Their masks are gone or broken, showing the faces beneath. Some I know; some I don’t.

  The shadowy figures solidify and one raises a hand, waving the mist away. It condenses and drops, passing over us like a sudden rainstorm, revealing Cenra and Iris, their own guards fanned out behind them. Bracken follows, his chest flashing gold while his purple cape drags in the water. They position themselves strangely, obstructing the blue-uniformed guards from view for as long as possible. Then they halt, ten yards away, the risen waters gathered around their feet.

  We stare, perplexed, puzzled at the sight before us. Even the premier, his brow furrowed.

  Only Anabel and Julian remain unaffected.

  “Be a dear and prepare the trade,” Anabel murmurs, turning over her shoulder to address the Jacos uncle. He looks oddly pale, as if sick, but nods to her request and turns away, taking two Lerolan guards with him.