“Who is he?” Maven asks again. I try to ignore the tremor in his voice.
I raise my chin. “Someone like me.”
Tyton drums a hand against his leg, running a single, blinding white spark down his finger.
“But stronger.”
Dark lashes flutter against pale cheeks, and Maven’s throat bobs.
His next words are reluctant, stumbling. Low, almost inaudible. “I need something in exchange,” he hisses.
My teeth clench in frustration. “Maven, I already told you—”
The fallen king cuts me off, wrenching his eyes from Tyton to look back at me with all his black fire. “When you invade, which you’re planning to do,” he sneers, baring his teeth, “I’ll lead you where you need to go. Which tunnels, which paths. I’ll bring your whole army into the city myself, and set you loose on my wretched brother.”
Farley scoffs from her seat. “Into a trap, no doubt. Into the teeth of your Cygnet bride—”
“Oh, she’ll be there, no doubt,” Maven replies, waving a finger at her. Her face flushes with anger. “That snake and her mother have been planning to take Norta since the moment she set foot in my kingdom.”
“The moment you let her in,” I mutter.
Maven barely flinches. “A calculated risk. And so is this.”
Hardly convincing, even to those who don’t know him. The Command generals look more disgusted than when he walked in, no mean feat, while the newbloods of Montfort seem more inclined to skin Maven alive. The premier, usually so levelheaded, curls his lips into the rare, obvious scowl. Again he nods to Tyton, and the electricon takes one shuddering step forward.
It sets something off in Maven. He jumps out of reach, keeping his distance from all of us. The twitching returns in force, but his eyes blaze, all fire. No fear.
“You think I can’t lie through pain,” he snarls, his voice thundering through the room. “You think I haven’t done it a thousand times?”
No one has an answer for him, especially not me. I try not to react, not to give him the satisfaction of seeing an emotion from me. I fail horribly, unable to keep my eyes open. For a brief, empty moment I see nothing but darkness, and I try not to think of Maven. His words. What his life was and continues to be.
And how we’ve all suffered because of it.
I expect the others to give him no quarter. To torture what we need from him. Draw it out with lightning and pain. Will I be strong enough to watch?
Even Farley falters.
She stares at Maven, trying to read him. To weigh the risk and the cost. He meets her eyes without quailing.
She swears under her breath.
For once, he’s telling the truth.
Maven Calore is our only chance.
THIRTY
Cal
A coronation has always been in my future. The ceremonial crown is not a surprise. I turn it over in my hands, feeling the formidable weight of iron, silver, and gold. In less than an hour, my grandmother will put the monstrosity on my head. My father wore it too. He was already a king when I was born, with a different queen from the only one I recall.
I wish I could remember her. I wish the memories I had of my mother were my own, and not stories from Julian. Not the brush of oil paint instead of living flesh.
The diary copy is still locked away, hidden in a drawer at my bedside in my Archeon chambers. I’ll have to move it soon, once the king’s rooms are prepared, washed clean of Maven’s presence. I shudder at the thought. I don’t know why I’m so hesitant to lay hands on such a small and terrible thing. It’s just a book. Just a jumble of scrawled letters pieced together. I’ve faced down execution squads and armies. Fought lightning and storm. Dodged bullets. Fallen through the sky more than once.
And, somehow, my mother’s diary scares me more than anything else. I could barely get through a few pages, and even those I had to read with my flamemaker bracelet far away. Her words set me so on edge, I didn’t want to risk turning the pages to ash in my hands. The last pieces of Coriane Jacos, carefully preserved by my uncle. The original is long gone, but he was able to save this much of her.
I don’t know what her voice sounded like. I could find out, if I really wanted to. There are many recordings of her, and photographs too. But like my father did, I stay away from them. From a ghost I never knew.
Part of me doesn’t want to get up from the table here in this room. It’s quiet, peaceful, the inside of a bubble about to burst. I feel as if I’m standing on a threshold. The windows look out on Caesar’s Square, offering a full view of the chaos to come. Silvers in their house colors stream back and forth over the plaza, most of them heading for the Royal Court. I can barely look at the structure, one of many ringing the Square.
My father was crowned there, beneath a glittering dome. And Maven was married in the court some months ago.
Mare was with him then.
She won’t be here now.
The loss of her still hurts, a deep wound, but it’s missing the same edge as before. We both knew what we were doing, what our choices would be when the time came to choose. I only wish we’d had a few more days, a few more hours.
Now she’s gone. With Maven again.
I should be angry. It’s a betrayal by any other name. She stole a valuable prisoner from me. His execution would have been an easy and almost bloodless way to reunite my kingdom. But somehow I can’t feel anything but annoyance. Partly because I’m not surprised. And mostly because Maven is far beyond my reach.
He’s her problem now.
At least I won’t have to be the one to kill him.
It’s the thought of a coward, something I was never allowed to be. I think it anyway.
I hope he dies without pain.
The knock at the door gets me up faster than I want, my legs unfolding beneath me. I wrench it open before Julian or Nanabel steps inside, hoping to do just one last thing on my own. I’m not a fool. I know what they are to me, besides my last remaining family. Advisers, mentors. Rivals to each other. I only hope they haven’t come together, to poison my peace with their competition.
It’s just Julian waiting, to my relief.
He offers a twitch of a smile and spreads his arms wide, showing off his new clothing, specially made for the coronation. His colors dominate, the dusty yellow-gold of House Jacos forming the base of his trim jacket and pants. But his lapels are bloodred, my own color. Displaying his allegiance not just to House Calore, but to me.
It forces me to think of what he’s done in my name. Traded a man’s life for my brother, and maybe another life too. I haven’t forgotten. His scheming, as well as my grandmother’s, is never far from my mind. It makes me wary, even of him.
Is this what being king is? Trusting no one?
I force a laugh to disguise my unease. “You look good,” I tell him. It isn’t like Julian to be so put together, nearly handsome in his lean form.
My uncle steps inside. “This old thing?” he offers with a dry smile. “What about you? Are you ready?”
I gesture to my own clothes. The now-familiar bloodred suit edged in black, with silver adornments and enough medals to sink a Lakelander ship. I haven’t donned the matching cape yet. It’s too heavy, and kind of stupid-looking.
“I’m not talking about the clothes, Cal,” Julian says.
My cheeks flush. I turn quickly, trying to hide any sign of weakness or trepidation. “I figured you weren’t.”
“Well?” he asks, taking a step closer.
I do as I’ve always been taught. I hold my ground. “Father told me once there’s no such thing as being ready. If you think you are, you aren’t.”
“Then I guess it’s a good thing you look like you might escape out a window.”
“Comforting.”
“Your father was nervous too,” Julian says softly. Tentative, he puts a hand on my shoulder, his touch a soft weight.
My tongue sticks in my mouth, unable to form the words I want to say.
More time.
I feel like Julian just hit me in the chest with a hammer.
“Don’t we all?”
He shrugs in his usual, frustrating way. Like he knows more than I do, which I suspect he does. “For different reasons, I think,” he says. “Strange, isn’t it? No matter how different we might be, we all end up wanting the same thing.” I avoid his eyes when they rise to mine. They look far too much like the eyes in my mother’s painting. “But for all the wanting, all the hoping, all the dreaming we might do—”
All I can do is nod, cutting him off. “I don’t have the luxury of that anymore.”
“Dreaming?” He blinks, perplexed. But also intrigued. My uncle Julian delights in puzzles, and he looks on me as one. “You’re about to be a king, Cal. You could dream with your eyes open, and build what you wish.”
Again I feel the hammer blow. My chest aches with the force of his words, as well as the judgment behind them. And of course because I’ve heard that same damned sentiment so many times. “I’m tired of telling people that isn’t true.”
Julian narrows his eyes and I cross my arms instinctively, shielding myself. “Are you sure?” he asks.
“If you’re talking about Mare . . . she’s already halfway across the continent. And she won’t—”
Almost smiling, Julian holds up a hand, showing long, thin fingers. Soft hands, better suited to book pages. Never used in war. Never needed in battle. I envy those hands.
“Cal, I’m a romantic, but I’m sorry to say, I’m not talking about her or your broken heart. That is . . . incredibly low on my list of worries. You have my sympathy, but there are many, many other things to be considered right now.”
Again heat flares on my cheeks, and even the tops of my ears. Julian takes it in stride and, thankfully, looks away.
“When you’re ready to go, I’ll be outside the door.”
But time is up. I can’t hide any longer.
“Like Father said,” I murmur. With a will, I sling the cape around my shoulders, fastening it in place. “I’ll never be ready.”
I walk around him and pull open the door. Stepping out of the protection of my private chambers feels like running a mile. Sweat prickles down my back, rolling along my spine. With every fiber, I fight the urge to run away, to go back, to stand still.
Julian keeps pace at my side, like a crutch.
“Chin up,” he warns. “Your grandmother is around the corner.”
I shoot him the best grin I can muster. It feels weak and false. Like so many things these days.
The crystal dome of the Royal Court is a masterwork of Silver craftsmanship. As a boy, I thought it was made of stars stolen from the night sky, each one molded to glittering perfection. It still gleams today, but not as brightly as it should. Red servants are few, many having elected to leave their posts rather than accept better pay and treatment. They aren’t around to make the capital gleam and shine the way it should for a coronation. I can’t even look the part, I think bitterly. My reign begins in ashes.
Such is the way across the capital, and across my new kingdom. Reds pursuing a new place in the world, and Silvers scrambling to understand what it means for the rest of us. The tech towns are almost empty, and rolling power outages plague many cities, Archeon included. Our manufacturing capabilities will follow quickly, with stores and supplies already strained. I can barely fathom the effect this will have on our war effort, and our military might. I expected this, of course. I knew this would happen.
At least the Lakelander War is over. Or, I should say, the first Lakelander war. Another is certainly about to start. It’s only a matter of time before Iris and her mother return, their armies in tow.
Murmurs follow me down the long aisle of the court, until I reach the center of the floor beneath the dome. The massive hall echoes, as if filled with hissing ghosts, all sneering about my failure, my betrayal, my weakness.
I try not to think about such things as I kneel before the eyes of dozens, my neck bare and vulnerable. We attacked Maven after a ceremony in this very place. Who’s to say someone else wouldn’t repay the favor?
Try not to think about that either.
I focus instead on the floor beneath my knees, bone-white marble swirled with charcoal gray. The absence of color in the room is supposed to look striking next to a crowd of the multicolored High Houses. White and black against the rainbow. The court seats a thousand comfortably, but less than a hundred are here today. Many houses were decimated by the civil war, lost in battle on both sides, for both sons of House Calore. My grandmother’s house stands out proudly in their flaming colors, as do the surviving members of Evangeline’s family, Samos and Viper both. Allies like House Laris and Iral are easy to pick out. There are others too, families who were loyal to Maven before, but no longer. Rhambos, Welle, Macanthos sit in their colors. Red-brown, green and gold, silvery blue. But others are missing entirely. The Osanos nymphs are nowhere to be seen. The same can be said of Eagrie, Provos, and, to my chagrin, many Skonos skin healers and every Arven silent. They aren’t the only ones. I’m sure Julian and Nanabel are taking stock of who refused to come, carefully noting who is an ally—and who is still an enemy.
Not enough of one, too many of the other.
Above me, Nanabel is careful not to look bothered by the obvious absences in the court. Her face is still and proud, her bronze eyes nearly aflame as she holds my father’s crown.
“Long live the true king, Tiberias the Seventh!” she says firmly, her voice echoing around the chamber.
Even though the circle of iron is cold on my brow, I don’t startle or flinch. I’m trained not to bat an eye at gunshots or flame. But when the Silver nobles around me repeat her words, I start to shiver. They say it again and again. The true king. It resounds like a heartbeat. It’s real. This is happening.
I am a king, the king. Finally, I’m where I was born to be.
On the one hand, I feel the same as I did this morning. I’m still Cal. Still plagued by aches old and new, bruises seen and unseen. Still terrified of what is to come, and what I might have to do in order to protect my weak kingdom. Terrified of who this crown will turn me into.
Has the transformation already begun?
Perhaps. In small parts of me, forgotten corners, I may be changing. I already feel apart, alone. Even with Julian and my grandmother looming close, my own flesh and blood. But too many people are missing.
My mother.
My father.
Mare.
And Maven too. The brother I thought I had, the person who barely existed.
Never existed.
We grew up knowing I would be king and he would stand at my side. My strongest ally, my most fervent supporter. My best adviser, a shield and a crutch. A second opinion. A sanctuary. Not once did I question the arrangement, and I never thought he did either. How wrong I was.
The loss of him hurt before, but now, with a crown on my head, with no one to take his place?
Suddenly it’s very difficult to breathe.
I have to look at Nanabel, to hopefully find whatever solace I can in my grandmother.
She smiles just for me, bracing her hands on my shoulders. I try to see my father in her. A flawed king, a flawed parent. And I miss him terribly, especially right now.
I would hug her if she’d let me, but she keeps me at a distance, her elbows locked. Forcing me to stand up straight, on display. On parade. A vision for the nobles, a message.
Tiberias Calore is king, and he will never kneel again.
Not even to Volo Samos.
We approach him first, Nanabel on my arm, one king to another. I bow my head and so does Volo.
He looks me over slowly, his expression stony but vague.
“Congratulations, Your Majesty,” he says, eyeing my crown.
I do the
same, nodding at the naked steel across his forehead. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”
At his side, the Viper queen stiffens, one hand firm on her husband’s arm. As if to hold him back. But Volo does nothing, and neither do I. My grandmother and I manage to pass without incident, nodding in turn to the Samos royals.
Evangeline catches my eye, looking small at her brother’s side. She is more subdued than usual, her gown and jewelry dull in comparison to the rest of her family. Silver silk so dark it might be black, better suited to attending a funeral instead of a coronation. After what she said a week ago, she very well could be. If her suspicions are correct, her father is living on borrowed time, and she won’t raise a finger to stop it.
The moment shudders between us, born of a mutual secret and an understanding that neither of us wants what comes next.
Now that I’m officially the king of Norta, there’s nothing standing in the way of my marriage to Evangeline. It’s been a long time coming, and yet somehow nowhere near long enough.
We have no more illusions where this betrothal is concerned. Evangeline’s face falls, melting from detached apathy to disgust. She turns away, using the bulk of her brother’s body to hide her face.
The next few hours blur together in a swirl of color and pleasantries. I’m no stranger to royal celebrations. It’s easy to slip back into the rhythm, playing an easy game of conversation. Saying much and still saying nothing at all. Nanabel and Julian stay with me through it, and we make a formidable team. If only the two of them weren’t so obvious at their game. With Maven defeated and a war momentarily ended, their alliance is shaky at best. There’s nothing to unite them besides me, and I feel like little more than a bone tugged between two hounds. My grandmother is more vicious, more daring, a queen of many years who knows how to navigate both a court and a battlefield.
But Julian knows my heart better than she does.
I do my best to enjoy the food at dinner. It’s edible, but nothing compared to the feasts we used to have. Somehow I find myself missing Carmadon and Premier Davidson’s dinner. While this is infinitely less awkward, what they prepared was delicious.
War Storm Page 49