War Storm Page 7

  “Agreed,” my sister and I whisper in unison.

  With even motion, Mother turns her head to the frozen fountain, shaping the liquid to her liking. It arcs in the air, like a glass complexity. Light plays off the water, splitting into prisms of every color. Mother doesn’t flinch, unblinking against the flash of sun. “The Lakelands will wash clean those godless nations. Conquer Norta. And the Rift too. They gnaw at each other already, sacrificing their own for such petty rivalries. It won’t be long until their strength is spent. There will be no escape from the fury of the line of Cygnet.”

  I have always been proud of my mother, even when I was a child. She is a great woman, duty and honor personified. Clear-eyed, unyielding. A mother to her entire kingdom as well as her children. I realize now I didn’t know the half of it. The resolve beneath her still surface, as strong as any storm. And what a storm it will be.

  “Let them face the flood,” I say, an old promise of judgment. The one we use to punish traitors. And enemies of every kind.

  “What of the Reds? The ones with abilities, in the mountain country? They have spies running through our own kingdom.” Tiora furrows her brow, cutting a canyon in her skin. I want to smooth away her infinite cares, but she’s right.

  People like Mare Barrow must be accounted for. They’re part of this too. We’re fighting them too.

  “We use Maven against them,” I tell Tiora. “He has an obsession with newbloods, the lightning girl especially. He’ll pursue them to the ends of the earth if need be, and spend all his strength doing it.”

  Mother nods in grim approval. “And Piedmont?”

  “I did as you said.” Slowly, I straighten, proud of myself. “That seed is planted. Maven needs Bracken as much as we do. He’ll try to rescue the children. If we can win Bracken to our side, use his armies instead of our own . . .”

  My sister finishes for me. “The Lakelands can be preserved. Our strength gathered and waiting. Bracken could even be made to turn against Maven.”

  “Yes,” I say. “If we’re lucky, they’ll all kill each other long before we show our true selves.”

  Tiora clucks her tongue. “I put little stock in luck when your life hangs in the balance, petasorre.” Little sister.

  Though she says the word with love, meaning no disrespect, it still makes me uncomfortable. Not because she is the heir, the eldest, the daughter meant to rule. But because it shows how much she cares and how much she will sacrifice for me. Something I don’t want from her, or my mother. My family has given enough.

  “It must be you who rescues Bracken’s children,” my mother says, her voice sullen and cold. Her eyes match her tone. “A daughter of Cygnet. Maven will send his Silvers, but he won’t go himself. He doesn’t have the skill or stomach for such things. But if you go with his soldiers, if you return to Prince Bracken with his children in your arms . . .”

  I swallow hard. I’m not a dog playing fetch. I told Maven that only minutes ago, and I almost say the same to my royal mother.

  “It’s too dangerous,” Tiora says quickly, almost stepping between us.

  Mother holds her ground, unflinching as always. “You cannot leave our borders, Ti. And if Bracken is to be swayed, to us and us alone, we must be the ones to help him. Such is the Piedmont way.” She clenches her teeth. “Or would you rather Maven do it and win himself a staunch ally? That boy is dangerous enough alone. Don’t give him another sword to wield.”

  Even though it wounds me, both my pride and my resolve, I see reason in her words. If Maven is the one to lead, or to order a rescue of the children, then Maven will certainly win Bracken’s allegiance. That cannot be allowed.

  “Of course not,” I answer slowly. “It must be me, then. Somehow.”

  Tiora concedes too. She seems to shrink. “I’ll have my diplomats make contact. Discreetly as they can. What else do you need?”

  I nod, feeling a numbness in my fingers. Rescue Bracken’s children. I don’t even know where to start.

  The seconds drag as they pass, more difficult to ignore.

  If we stay in here much longer, the Nortans will get suspicious, I think, biting my lip. Maven, especially, if he isn’t already. My legs turn to lead as I back away from Mother, my hands suddenly cold without her warmth.

  As I pass the fountain, I run my fingers in the arcing water, wetting the tips. I draw the liquid over my eyelids, smudging the dark makeup on my lashes. False tears roll down my cheeks, black as the mourning flowers.

  “Pray, Ti,” I tell my sister. “Trust the gods if you will not trust luck.”

  “My trust in them is absolute,” she replies, mechanical, automatic. “I’ll pray for us all.”

  I linger at the door, one hand on the simple knob. “As will I.” Then I pull, popping the bubble around us, ending what could be our last moments of security for years to come. Under my breath, I mumble to myself, “Will this work?”

  Somehow Mother hears me. She looks up, her eyes inescapable as I back away.

  “Only the gods know.”

  FIVE

  Mare

  The dropjet feels sluggish on the air, heavier than usual. I sway against my safety restraints, eyes lidded. The motion of the craft paired with the comforting buzz of electricity has me half asleep. The engines chug calmly, despite the extra weight. More cargo, I know. The hold is filled to the brim with the spoils of Corvium. Munitions, guns, explosives, weapons of every kind. Military uniforms, rations, fuel, batteries. Even bootlaces. Half is going to Piedmont now, and the rest is on another jet, returning to Davidson’s mountains.

  Montfort and the Scarlet Guard are not wasteful in their endeavors. They did the same thing after the Whitefire attack, stripping what they could from the palace in such limited time. Money, mostly, hauled out of the Treasury once it was clear Maven was beyond our reach. It happened in Piedmont too. It’s why the southern base seems empty, in the lodgings, in the administrative buildings once meant for grand war councils. No paintings, no statues, no fine plates or cutlery. None of the trappings great Silvers require. Nothing but what is necessary. The rest was pulled apart, sold, repurposed. Wars are not cheap. We can only maintain what is useful.

  That’s why Corvium crumbles behind us. Because Corvium is no longer useful.

  Davidson argued that leaving a garrison of soldiers was foolish, a waste. The fortress city was built to funnel soldiers into the Choke to fight Lakelanders. With that war ended, it has little purpose. No river to guard, no strategic resources. Just one of many roads to the Lakelands. Corvium had become little more than a distraction. And while we held the city, it was deep in Maven’s territory, and too close to the border. The Lakelands could sweep through without warning, or Maven could return in force. We might win again, but more would die. For nothing more than some walls in the middle of nowhere.

  The Silvers opposed. Naturally. I think they must be honor-bound to disagree with anything someone with red blood says. Anabel argued the optics.

  “How many dead, how much blood spent on these walls, and you want to give up the city? We’ll look like fools!” she scoffed, glaring across the council chamber. The old woman looked at Davidson like he had two heads. “Cal’s first victory, his flag raised—”

  “I don’t see his flag anywhere,” Farley interrupted, dry as bone.

  But Anabel ignored her. She pressed on, seeming like she might obliterate the table beneath her fingers. Cal sat silent at her side, his eyes ablaze as he stared at his hands. “It will look like weakness to abandon the city,” the old queen said.

  “I care very little for how things appear, only for how they are, Your Majesty,” Davidson replied. “You are very welcome to leave a garrison of your own to hold Corvium, but no soldier of Montfort or the Scarlet Guard will remain here.”

  Her lip curled at that, but any retort died in her throat. Anabel had no intention of wasting her own army in such a way. She slid back in her seat and turned away from Davidson, her eyes flitting toward Volo Samos. But he wo
uldn’t volunteer his own soldiers either. He kept silent.

  “If we leave the city, we leave it in ruins.” Tiberias clenched his fist on the table. I remember that clearly, his knuckles bone-white beneath his skin. There was still dirt under his fingernails, and probably blood too. I focused on his hands so I wouldn’t have to look at his face. His emotions are too easily read, and I still want no part of them. “Special contingents from each army,” he said. “Lerolan oblivions, the newblood gravitrons and bombers. Anyone who can destroy. Strip the city of resources, then turn it to ash and wash away whatever’s left. Leave nothing Maven or the Lakelands can use.”

  He didn’t look up as he spoke, unable to hold any gaze. It must have been difficult to order the destruction of one of his own cities. A place he knew, a place his father had protected, and his grandfather before him. Tiberias values duty as much as tradition, both ideals planted bone-deep. But I had little pity for him then, and have even less now as we hurtle toward Piedmont.

  Corvium was nothing more than the gate to a Red graveyard. I’m glad it’s gone.

  Even so, I feel unease deep in the pit of my stomach. Corvium still burns behind my eyelids, its walls crumbling, torn apart by explosive bursts, the buildings ripped away by manipulated gravity, the metal gates twisting into snaking knots. Smoke races the streets. Ella, an electricon like me, used her own storm to strike the central tower, furious blue lightning cracking stone. Montfort nymphs, newbloods of great power, used the nearby streams and even a river to sweep rubble away to the distant lake. No part of Corvium escaped. Some of it even sank, collapsing into the tunnels beneath the city. The rest was left in warning, like ancient stone monoliths weathered by a thousand years instead of a few hours.

  How many other cities will share the same fate?

  First I think of the Stilts.

  I haven’t seen the place where I grew up in almost a year. Not since my name was Mareena, and I stood on the deck of a royal ship, eyeing the banks of the Capital River with a ghost at my side. Elara was alive then, and the king too. They forced me to watch as we passed my village, its people gathered at the water’s edge under the open threat of a whipcrack or a cell. My family stood among them. I focused on their faces, not on the place. The Stilts was never my home. They are.

  Would I care now if the village disappeared? If no one was harmed, but the stilt houses, the market, the school, the arena—if it was destroyed? Burned, flooded, or simply gone?

  I really can’t say.

  But there are certainly places that should join Corvium in ruins. I name the ones I want to destroy, cursing them.

  Gray Town, Merry Town, New Town. And all the rest of their like.

  The techie slums remind me of Cameron. She sleeps across from me, jostled in her restraining belts. Her head lolls, her snore almost indistinguishable over the sound of the jet engines. From underneath her collar, her tattoo peeks out. Black ink against dark brown skin. She was marked with her profession, or rather her prison, a long time ago. I only saw a tech town from a distance, and the memory still makes me gag. I can’t imagine growing up in one, bound to a life in smoke.

  The Red slums must be ended.

  Their walls must burn too.

  We land at the Piedmont base in a late-morning downpour. I’m drenched after three steps across the runway, heading for the line of waiting transports. Farley outpaces me easily, eager to get back to Clara. She has a mind for little else, bypassing the Colonel and the rest of their soldiers as they move to greet us. I work to keep at her heels, forced to move at an uneasy trot. I try not to look back at the other jet, the Silver one. I hear them over the rain, trooping out onto the paved field in all their style. The rain darkens their colors, muddying Lerolan orange, Jacos yellow, Calore red, and Samos silver. Evangeline smartly abandoned her armor. Metal clothes aren’t exactly safe in a thunderstorm.

  At least King Volo and the rest of his Silver lords haven’t followed us here. They’re on the way back to the Kingdom of the Rift, if they haven’t arrived already. Only the Silvers going on to Montfort tomorrow made the journey to Piedmont. Anabel, Julian, their various guards and advisers—as well as Evangeline and, of course, Tiberias.

  When I get into my transport, sliding into the dry interior, I catch a glimpse of him, brooding like a storm cloud. Tiberias stands apart, the only one of them familiar with the Piedmont base. Anabel must have brought more courtly clothes for him. It’s the only explanation for his long cloak and polished boots, and the finery underneath. At this distance, I can’t tell if he has a crown. Despite the royal clothing, no one would mistake him for Maven. Tiberias’s colors are reversed. The cloak is bloodred, as are his clothes, all trimmed with black and royal silver. He glows through the rain, bright as any flame. And he stares, dark brows furrowed, unmoving as the storm opens above us.

  I feel the first crack of lightning before it splits across the sky. Ella was holding it back to let the jets land. She must have let it go.

  I turn from the transport window and lean against the glass. As we speed off, I try to let go of something too.

  The row house ceded to my family looks the same as it did when I left a few days ago, albeit very wet. Rain lashes the windows, drowning flowers in their window boxes. Tramy won’t like that. He dotes on those flowers.

  He can grow as many as he likes in Montfort. He can plant an entire garden, and spend his life watching it bloom.

  Farley gets out of the transport before it fully stops, her boots splashing through a puddle. I hesitate, for many reasons.

  Of course I have to talk to my family about Montfort. And hope they agree to stay there, even when I leave again. We should be used to it by now, but walking away never gets easier. They can’t stop me from doing it, but I can’t stop them either. If they refuse to go. I shudder at the thought. Knowing they’re safe is the only sanctuary I have left.

  But that inevitable argument is a dream compared to what else I have to admit.

  Cal chose the crown. Not me. Not us.

  Saying it makes it real.

  The puddle outside the transport is deeper than I thought, splashing up the sides of my short boots, sending a cold chill over my legs. I welcome the distraction, and follow Farley up the steps to an opening door.

  A blur of Barrows pulls me inside. Mom, Gisa, Tramy, and Bree whirl around me. My old friend Kilorn joins the mix as well, stepping in to give me a short but firm squeeze. I feel a burst of relief at the sight of him. He wasn’t ready to fight in Corvium, and I’m still glad he agreed to stay behind.

  Dad hangs back again, waiting to hug me properly without anyone else worming in. He might have to wait a long time, since Mom doesn’t seem too concerned with letting me go. She drapes an arm across my shoulders, pulling me close. Her clothes smell fresh, clean, like a dewy morning and soap. Nothing like home in the Stilts. My status in the army, whatever it is, affords my family a level of luxury we were never accustomed to before. The row house itself, a former officer’s quarters, is opulent compared to our old stilt home. Though it is sparsely decorated, the essentials are all finely made and well cared for.

  Farley only has eyes for Clara. While I’m barely through the front door, Farley already holds Clara against her chest, letting the baby girl rest her head on her shoulder. Yawning, Clara nuzzles, trying to return to her interrupted nap. When she thinks no one is looking, Farley dips her neck, pressing her nose against Clara’s tiny head of brown hair. She shuts her eyes and inhales.

  Meanwhile, Mom plants another of a dozen kisses on my temple, grinning. “Home again,” she murmurs.

  “So they really did it,” Dad says. “Corvium is gone.” I untangle myself from Mom long enough to give him a proper hug. We’re still unaccustomed to touching this way, without my father huddled in his wheelchair. Despite his long months of recuperation with the aid of Sara Skonos, as well as the healers and nurses of the Montfort army, nothing can erase the years we all remember. The pain is still there, sitting in his brain. And
I suppose it should. Forgetting doesn’t feel right.

  He leans on me, not as heavily as he used to, and I lead him into the sitting room. We share a bitter smile, a private one that passes only between us. My father was a soldier once too, longer than any of us. He understands what it is to see death and return from it. I try to imagine who he was, beneath the wrinkles and the scraggly whiskers fading into gray, behind his eyes. We had few photographs at home. I don’t know how many made it to the refuge on Tuck Island, then to the other base in the Lakelands, and then here. One of them sticks out in my memory. An old scrap of a picture, worn at the edges, fuzzy and faded in the image. My mother and father posed for it a long time ago, before even Bree was born. They were teenagers, kids of the Stilts like I was. Dad must not have been eighteen. He wasn’t conscripted yet, and Mom was just an apprentice. Dad used to look so much like Bree, my oldest brother. Same grin, his mouth almost too wide, framed by dimples. Thick, straight eyebrows across a high forehead. Ears that could be a little too big. I try not to think of my brothers aging like my father has, subjected to the same pains and worries. I can make sure they don’t share our father’s fate—or Shade’s.

  Bree flops into an armchair near us, crossing his bare feet on the simple rug. I wrinkle my nose. Men do not have lovely feet.

  “Good riddance to that heap,” Bree says, cursing Corvium.

  Tramy bobs his head in agreement. His dark brown beard continues to fill in. “Won’t miss it,” he agrees. Both of them were conscripted like Dad. Both of them know the fortress well enough to hate its memory. They trade smiles, as if they’ve won some kind of game.

  Dad is less celebratory. He eases himself down into another chair, stretching out his regrown leg. “Silvers will just build another. It’s their way. They don’t change.” His eyes flash, finding mine. My stomach drops when I realize what he’s trying to say. My cheeks burn at the implication. “Do they?”