War Command is a mess, a study in chaos. Silver officers buzz through passages and chambers, calling out developments and army movements. The Lakelander boats, the Piedmont airjets. It all passes in a blur.
My parents are easy to find. My mother’s wolves guard the door to one of the communications chambers, flanking each side with bright, keen eyes. The beasts turn to me in unison, neither hostile nor friendly as I pass.
Static-filled screens fill the command room with a crackling glow of shifting light. Only a few are still operational. Not a good sign. The Air Fleet must be well into the storm. If it even still exists.
Volo and Larentia stand firm, mirror images of each other. Postures violently straight, unblinking as they take in such dire circumstances. On one of the screens, the first armada ship takes shape, a hulking shadow obscured by mist. Others slowly come into focus. At least a dozen, and still more.
I’ve seen this room before, but never so empty. A skeleton crew of Silver officers mans the screens and radios, trying to keep up with the flood of information. Runners bustle in and out, taking the newest items with them. Probably to Cal, wherever he is now.
“Father?” I sound like a child.
And he dismisses me like one. “Evangeline, not now.”
“What happens when we go home?”
With a sneer, he looks over his shoulder. Father cut his hair shorter than usual, cropping the silver close to his scalp. It gives him a skullish look. “When this war is won.”
I let him parrot the lie, feeling myself tighten as he spouts nonsense. You’ll be queen. Peace will reign. Life will return to what it was. Lies, all of it.
“What happens to me? What plans do you have in store?” I ask, remaining in the doorway. I’ll have to be quick. “Who will you make me become next?”
Both of them know what I’m asking, but neither can answer. Not with Nortan officers close by, few as they may be. They must maintain the illusion of this alliance until the last second.
“If you’re going to run, so will I,” I murmur.
The king of the Rift clenches a fist, and the metal throughout the room responds in kind. A few screens crack, their casings twisted by his rage. “We’re not going anywhere, Evangeline,” he lies.
Mother tries another tactic, closing the distance between us. Her dark, angled eyes go wide and pleading. Imitating a puppy or a cub. She puts a hand to my face, ever the image of the doting mother. “We need you,” she whispers. “Our family needs you, your brother—”
I step out of her grasp, toward the hallway again. Luring them both with me. Two rights, out the front, into the Square—
“Let me go.”
Father shoulders past my mother, almost knocking her out of the way so he can stand over me. The chromium armor gleams harshly in the fluorescent light.
He knows what I’m saying, what I’m really asking for.
“I will not,” he hisses. “You are mine, Evangeline. My own daughter. You belong with us. You have a duty to us.”
Another step backward. At the door, the wolves rise to their feet.
“I don’t.”
Like a shadow, like a giant, Father moves with me, matching my steps. “What are you, if not a Samos?” he snarls. “Nothing.”
I knew this would be his answer, and the last thread, already thin and fraying, snaps apart. In spite of myself, tears bite at the corners of my eyes. If they fall, I don’t know. I feel nothing but the burn of my own anger.
“You don’t need me anymore. Not for power, not for greed,” I spit back in his face. “And you still won’t let me go free.”
He blinks, and for a brief second the rage in him dissipates. The trick almost works. He’s my father, and I can’t help but love him. Even though he treats me this way. Even though he wants to use that love to keep me locked up, a prisoner to my own blood.
I was raised to value family above all else. Loyalty to your own.
And that’s who Elane is. My family, my own.
“I’m done asking for your permission,” I whisper, clenching a fist.
The lights overhead rip free, smashing down, a crashing blow that takes even my father off guard. A rush of silver blood gushes from cuts on his head as he stumbles, dazed. But not dead. Not even incapacitated. I can’t find the stomach for that.
I’ve never run so fast, never sprinted like this in all my life, not even in battle. Because I’ve never been so afraid.
The wolves are faster than me. They snarl at my heels, trying to trip me. I strike at them with the metal on my arms, drawing armor into knives. One howls, whimpering when I cut a ruby-red wound across its belly. The other is stronger, bigger, leaping to knock me over.
I try to dodge, and end up falling flat on my back, with a wolf lunging for my throat. It lands hard, almost two hundred pounds of muscle crashing into my chest. I gasp, feeling the air rush from my lungs.
Teeth clamp around my neck, but they don’t bite down. The points dig in, enough to bruise. Enough to pin me in place.
Overhead, all around, the lights quiver in their metal holdings, and hinges shudder on doors.
I can’t move, can barely breathe.
I made it ten whole yards.
“Don’t lift a finger,” my mother crows, stepping into my very limited line of vision. Above me, the wolf trembles, yellow eyes boring into mine.
My father shudders at her side, a storm cloud of rage. He keeps one hand to his head, stemming the flow of blood. His eyes are worse than the wolf’s.
“You stupid girl,” he breathes. “After all we’ve done for you. All we made you.”
“But for one flaw,” my mother replies. She tsks, clucking her tongue over me. Like I’m one of her prize animals, bred for her personal use. I suppose that’s not incorrect. “One deep, unnatural flaw.”
I try to gasp against the wolf’s grip, if only to choke back a sob. My stomach coils and churns. Let me go, I want to beg.
But he never will. He doesn’t know how.
And perhaps that’s the fault of his own father, and his father before.
I don’t know why, but I think of Mare Barrow. Of her parents, holding her close, saying good-bye as we left Montfort. They are nothing, insignificant people, of no great beauty, intellect, or power. I envy them so deeply it makes me sick.
“Please,” I manage to force out.
The wolf holds firm.
Father takes a step closer, his fingers painted in liquid silver. With a flick of his hand, he sprays me with his blood. With what I did.
“I’ll drag you back to the Rift myself.”
I don’t doubt it.
I stare up at him, struggling to breathe, fingers scrabbling over the floor. Even my own armor betrays me, melting off my body under his command. Leaving me bare and without weapons. Vulnerable. A prisoner still and always.
Then my father flies away from me, crashing backward, his face pulled into unfamiliar surprise. He’s being dragged by the chromium painted up and down his body. He slams into the nearest wall, head cracking backward. My mother screams as he slumps forward, eyes rolling in his skull.
The wolf above me meets a different fate.
A blade cuts through its neck, and the severed head flies, landing with a sick squelch a few feet away. A hot spray of fresh, scarlet blood coats my face.
I don’t flinch. A familiar, cool hand closes around my wrist, giving me a tug.
“You trained us too well,” Ptolemus says, helping me to my feet.
We run together, and this time, I look back.
Mother bends over Father, her hands running over him. He tries to rise, but the blow makes him stagger. He’s still alive.
“Good-bye, Evangeline,” another man says.
Julian Jacos steps out from an adjoining corridor, and Anabel is with him, her fingers drumming together. She doesn’t spare a glance for me as she approaches, hands raised. Such lethal power in so small a woman.
“Run away, Larentia.” I fight the urge to cover
my ears, even though Julian’s melodic voice is not directed at me. Still, the singer’s power shudders on the air, palpable as a sugary taste. “Forget your children.”
Her footsteps are quick and scurrying, like one of her spying rats.
“Larentia!” my father gurgles, barely able to speak in his dazed state.
But he can certainly scream.
I leave him to Anabel and Julian. To whatever fate they have in store for the king of the Rift.
Outside, the fog has truly fallen, coating the Square in a gray haze too thick to be born of nature. Wren stands silhouetted, waiting for us, her trim form a sharp outline against the other shadows slouching into formation. Cal’s forces, maybe even an entire legion, judging by the many shapes.
At the sight of us, Wren waves a hand. “This way,” she calls, before turning to the fog and the soldiers.
Something weighs at the edge of my perception, heavy enough to register even from a great distance. The Lakelander ships. They have to be. Overhead, unseen, jets scream back and forth. Somewhere, missiles whine and bloom, spouting bursts of flame where the armada must be. I feel trapped by the fog, blinded. All I can do is focus on Wren and Ptolemus, staying close enough to their silhouettes as we barrel through the legions marching into place. A few soldiers stare as we pass, but none try to stop us. And soon War Command fades into the distance, swallowed by the fog.
We angle across the Square, making for the Treasury. A strange, familiar feeling comes over me as I remember Maven’s wedding. The Square was a battleground then as well, and he fled for his train, his precious escape. I never liked the contraption, but I push aside any discomfort. It’s the fastest way out. The safest. We’ll be far beyond the city before the battle is even finished.
And then . . .
I don’t have the time or energy to follow that thought.
Rain follows the fog, slamming down with a sudden hiss. I’m soaked in seconds, and the deluge turns the Square slick, forcing us to slow our pace or risk broken ankles. Down in the river, a boom like a drum sounds, rhythmic and shuddering. It shakes the ground beneath my feet.
The ships are firing on the city, their heavy rounds peppering both East and West Archeon.
I reach for Ptolemus, my fingers sliding over his wet armor as I try to find some grip on him. The rest of me braces for the inevitable impact as the Lakelander fire reaches this part of the city.
My instincts aren’t wrong.
The first missile howls over the Square gates, barely visible as it arcs in and out of the fog cover. I don’t see where it lands, but judging by the concussive blast behind us, I’d guess Whitefire just suffered a direct hit. The force knocks a few soldiers off their feet and sends us scrambling. Ptolemus and I ground ourselves in our armor, and Tolly catches Wren before she falls, holding her tightly.
“Keep moving!” I shout over the shriek of another round, this one exploding somewhere near War Command.
Someone else is shouting too, barking barely audible orders over the din. A streak of flame accompanies his voice, whirling through the fog near the head of the gathered legion. Whatever stirring speech Cal cooked up will be of little use now. It’s too loud, too wet, and his soldiers are too distracted by the armada currently choking the river. Still, they begin to march, lurching forward to follow whatever his orders might be. Probably to line the cliffs. Concentrate their attack on the river below.
We’re suddenly caught in their motion.
The legion surges like a tide, carrying us with them. I try to shove against the uniformed bodies, searching the Silver faces for Ptolemus and Wren. Still close, but the distance between us is steadily growing. I feel for the copper in my brother’s belt, holding on to the sensation of the metal.
“Move,” I snarl, trying to tear my way through the crowd. Using my armor to propel me, using Ptolemus’s as a beacon. “Move!”
The next blow is closer, dead on target, dropping out of the sky like a hammer. A shell, not a missile. Smaller, unguided, but still deadly. In unison, separated though we are, Ptolemus and I raise our hands, throwing out our ability with a mighty burst of energy.
I grab on to the steel casing, gritting my teeth against the strain of stopping a fast-moving projectile. But we manage and, with equal grunts, fling the shell back into the fog, spiraling off to hopefully explode somewhere in the Lakelander fleet. A few telkies among Cal’s legion do the same, banding together to throw back shells and missiles. But there are too many rounds rocketing out of the fog, almost on top of us before we even know it.
The Air Fleet races among the clouds, still weaving through the sky, peppering the armada as best they can with all they can. They aren’t the only jets up there. The Lakelanders have aerial battalions of their own, as does Piedmont in fewer numbers. Between the thunder of the ships and the scream of the jets, I can barely hear myself think. And the Nortan guns only add to the chaotic din. The turrets up ahead spit sparks and hot iron, flashing with gunfire. They’re usually disguised as part of the walls around the Square, or supports to the Bridge, but not now. A few telkies stand at the turrets, using their abilities to fling explosives with deadly aim.
This city was built to survive, and that’s what it’s trying to do.
A wind picks up, probably born of our own windweavers. House Laris is still allied to Cal, and they use their ability to its full extent. A howling gale streaks over the Square, blowing from somewhere behind us. It knocks some of the shells and missiles off course, and a few land harmlessly in the river while others spiral off into the fog. I squint against the slapping wind, keeping Ptolemus and Wren in sight, but the hurricane force makes the soldiers tighten their ranks, squashing us in with them.
Gritting my teeth, I painstakingly shove my way through, slipping under arms, pressing past guns and torsos. Every step is an ordeal, made more difficult by the lashing wind, the rain, the press of the legion. The crowd tosses like the river below, now whitecapped with rising waves.
My hands close on Tolly’s wrist, his armor cold against my fingers. He heaves, pulling me to him over the last yard, until I’m tucked safely into his side. My brother holds Wren in the same manner, his arms braced across both our shoulders.
What now?
We have to get the edge of the crowd, but the walls and buildings of the Square keep the legion hemmed in, funneling all of us toward the Bridge. Even from a distance, I can see Cal elevated above the rest, his red armor like blood against the howling storm. He stands to the side of the open gates, perched on a stone turret.
Like some idiotic target.
A good sniper could pick him off from a thousand yards if they cared to try.
But he risks it for the morale of his troops, shouting encouragement as they charge onto the Bridge. More shells hurtle toward him, but he flicks a hand, exploding the rounds in midair before they can do any harm.
On the Bridge itself, Silver soldiers disappear into the fog. I can guess their destination. Even now, the rhythmic, haunting drum of the armada’s guns breaks its pattern. I try not to picture Nortan soldiers fighting on the ship decks, facing the full might of Queen Cenra’s and Prince Bracken’s forces.
If we can get you two onto the ships . . . Cal’s voice echoes in my head. I grit my teeth against the curl of shame licking through me. I’m not wading into this battle, not on another river. Not with them down there.
This is our chance, and we have to take it.
“Keep pushing!” I shout, hoping Tolly can hear me over the din. The Treasury is behind us now, the distance growing with every passing step. It’s suffocating, being shoved like this, prodded forward against my will.
I don’t have much armor left—my father stripped most of it away—but what little I have re-forms along my arm, flattening into a round shield. Ptolemus mirrors my action, creating a smooth disk over his arm. We use them like battering rams, pushing against the human tide with our abilities and our own strength. It works slowly but steadily, creating enough space f
or us to move.
Until red armor blocks our path, a fireball hovering over one hand.
Cal stares between us, and I expect accusation. His flame gutters against the rain, refusing to surrender. His soldiers form a protective cocoon around him.
Rainwater drips down his face, steaming on his exposed skin.
“How many are you taking with you?” he says, barely audible.
I blink water out of my eyes and gesture blankly at Wren and Ptolemus.
“Your father, Evangeline. How many will he manage to flee with?” Cal takes a long step forward, never breaking eye contact. “I need to know who I still have left.”
Something releases in my chest. I shake my head, slow at first, then faster and faster.
“I wouldn’t know,” I murmur.
Cal’s expression doesn’t change, but for a moment I think the flame in his hand burns a bit brighter. Again his gaze bounds between my brother and me, weighing us both. I let it wash over me like the rain and the fog and the rising smoke. Tiberias Calore is not my future anymore.
Without another word, he stands aside, and his soldiers move with him. Clearing a path over the slick tiles of the Square.
As I move past him, I feel a ghost of warmth bleeding from his hand as it hovers near my arm. I think he almost hugs me. Cal has always been an odd sort, different from other Silvers. Strange and soft in his inclinations, while the rest of us were raised to razors and hard edges.
Instead of embracing him, I grab his arm, just for a moment. Pull him close enough for one last whisper, one last barb from Evangeline Samos before she disappears. Without her crown, without her house, without her colors. To become a new person entirely.
“If it isn’t too late for me, it isn’t too late for you.”
When we sit down on the train, its lights flickering and engine lumbering to life, only then do I dimly wonder where the tracks end.
It will be a long walk to Montfort.
THIRTY-THREE
War Storm Page 53