War Storm

When the massive doors swing shut behind his form, I slump a little in my seat, exhaling a long breath. I want nothing more than to go upstairs and take a nap.

I think Cal feels the same. He shifts on his throne, making to stand. “I believe that concludes any business we might have,” he says, his voice strained with fatigue. The king makes a show of looking back and forth among us, as if consulting a loyal council instead of a room of precarious allies. Maybe he thinks he can make it so, if he just acts the part.

Good luck.

Queen Anabel is quick but gentle, laying a hand on his arm to stop his movement. He stills under her touch, perturbed. “We have to decide on your coronation,” she reminds him with a placid smile. Cal seems annoyed by the prospect, or just by his grandmother nannying him. “It must be as soon as possible—tomorrow, even. No need for a fuss, just something official.”

Not to be outdone, Volo braces his bearded chin on one hand. The slightest motion, and a clear signal for attention. “And there’s the issue of New Town to be settled, not to mention your wedding.” He looks between Cal and Evangeline. If not for their well-trained restraint, I think both might squirm or even gag. “It will take some weeks to prepare—”

I latch on to something else instead. “Would you mind explaining the issue of New Town?” I ask, adjusting myself to look at Volo fully. He stares back at me, his gray eyes almost black with disgust. At my side, Farley’s lips twitch, but she quickly schools her expression into neutral blankness.

Anabel answers before Volo can say anything, or bluster at my rudeness. “We don’t need to discuss that now,” she says, hand still on Cal’s arm.

Cal looks at me, wary of what I might do and what it could trigger in the Samos king. He purses his lips and furrows his brow, as if to warn me off the subject.

No chance, Calore.

“I think we should,” I tell them all. My voice is strong, clear, a cold echo of Mareena Titanos, the weapon the Silvers gave me. “Among other things.”

Cal raises an eyebrow. “Such as?”

The premier clears his throat, taking up his piece of our hastily planned and barely rehearsed conversation. But Davidson is a skilled politician and diplomat. Nothing about his words sounds premeditated. He acts well, and speaks with great skill.

“It’s clear the Lakelands and Prince Bracken, not to mention his allies in Piedmont, have little intention of leaving Norta alone,” he says, directing his speech at all the Silver royals. Especially Cal, who must be won over. “She is united again, but your country has been weakened by a bitter war. Two of your largest forts are either destroyed or neutralized. You’re still waiting for the rest of your noble families to pledge allegiance, betting on their support. Queen Cenra doesn’t seem like the kind to let such an opportunity pass by.”

Cal relaxes a little, shoulders dropping their infinite tension. The Lakelands are an easier subject than Red oppression. He glances at me, almost winking, as if this is just a playful game, a way to flirt. Instead of three hunters pushing a wolf into a corner.

“Yes, I agree,” he says with a grateful nod. “And with our own alliances strong, we can defend Norta from any invaders, north or south.”

Davidson doesn’t drop his serene expression. He only tips a finger. “About that.”

I brace myself, toes curling in my shoes. Heat rises in my chest. I tell myself to expect nothing. I know Cal well enough to predict what he will say. Still, there’s the slim chance that he’s changed, that I’ve changed him. Or that he is simply too tired of fighting, sick of the bloodshed, fed up with the evils his kind have made.

Cal doesn’t follow where the premier hopes to lead, but Anabel sees right through him. Her eyes narrow to slits, snakelike. Behind her, Volo looks like he might run us all through with a few well-placed spikes.

On the side closest to me, hidden from the rest, Davidson lowers a hand. It glows vaguely blue, ready to shield us from any attack. His face remains unchanged, his voice still even and firm. “Now that your brother is deposed, and you stand to rule as king, I’d like to propose another option.”

“Premier?” Cal asks, still unable, or unwilling, to understand.

The naked fury in Volo and Anabel gives me pause. Like Davidson, I lower a hand, and call sparks to my skin.

Davidson pushes on, despite the Silver king and queen scowling openly at him. “Years ago, the Free Republic of Montfort was not as it stands today. We were a collection of kingdoms and lordships, Silver-ruled, as you are now. Civil war roamed the mountains.” Even though I’ve heard what he’s about to say before, I still get a chill. “Peace was unheard of. Reds died for Silver wars, Silver pride, Silver power.”

“Sounds familiar,” I murmur, my eyes on Cal. I try to weigh his reaction, noting the slight ticks of motion in his face. Lips pressing together, dark brows curving. A tightening of the jaw, the release of breath. It’s like trying to read a picture, or smell a song. Frustrating and impossible.

The premier gains momentum. He enjoys this, and excels in the effort. “It was only through an uprising,” he says, “an alliance of Reds, bolstered by the growing ranks of Ardents, as well as Silvers sympathetic to our plight, that we were able to re-form ourselves into the democratic nation we are today. It took sacrifice. It took many lives. But more than a decade later, we are better for it. And growing better by the day.” Satisfied, he leans back, still ignoring the positively murderous looks from Anabel and Volo. “I hope you would endeavor to do the same, Cal.”

Cal.

The use of the name here, while he sits a throne with a crown on his head, has clear meaning. Even Cal seems to get it. He blinks once, twice, gathering himself.

Before he can say anything, Farley squares herself to Cal, eager to play her part in this.

Her general’s squares glint, gleaming sharply, reflecting points of light onto Cal’s face. “We have an opportunity right now that will not come again. Norta is in shambles, begging to be rebuilt,” she says. Farley isn’t as good a speaker as Davidson, but she isn’t an amateur. The Scarlet Guard picked her to be their voice all those months ago, and they picked her for a reason. She has enough fire and enough belief to stir even the coldest hearts. “Let us rebuild her together, into something new.”

Anabel speaks before her grandson can say anything. Almost hissing, she says, “Into something like your country, Premier? And, let me guess, you’ll offer your services in helping make this glorious new nation?” she adds, tossing the barb with deadly accuracy. Planting the seed of suspicion she needs. I see it land, shadowing Cal’s eyes. Will it take root? “Perhaps you might even offer to help rule her?”

A bit of Davidson’s restraint flickers. He almost smirks. “I have a country of my own to serve, Your Majesty, while I am allowed to serve.”

Volo barks an empty laugh. It’s almost worse than Maven’s. “You want us to give up our thrones, everything we worked for. Throw away our lineage and betray our houses, our fathers and grandfathers?”

Anabel scowls. “And grandmothers,” I think she growls under her breath.

Even though I want to jump up, I keep my seat. It isn’t wise to escalate this into a more physical display.

“And what have we worked for, Volo?” I say. Volo barely deigns to look at me. It only feeds the anger in me, making it useful. “What have we bled for? The right to be ruled again? To be shuttered into slum towns, bound into conscription, returned to the lives we escaped? How is this right? How is that fair?”