War Storm

Mother throws back her head and laughs, the noise horrendous and sharp. I feel dismissed, spit upon, diminished by someone who is supposed to love me. “Does she belong to you, Evangeline?” she croons, still smirking. I want to slap her.

The fear in me melts to anger, iron turning to steel.

“We belong to each other,” I reply, forcing down a sip of wine.

Elane’s eyes snap to mine. They burn me through.

“I’ve never heard anything so ridiculous in my life,” Mother scoffs, shoving her plate away. “This is inedible.”

Again, Father glares at me. “It won’t last,” he says again, and I think it’s an answer to us both.

Mirroring my mother’s actions, I push away my plate of untouched food. “We’ll see,” I mutter to myself. I’ve had enough of this. All of this.

Before I can leave the table, storm away for a second time, Anabel Lerolan enters the room, her guards on her heels. Even she isn’t presumptuous enough to face down a Samos brood without protection.

“My apologies,” she says quickly, nodding her head. Her own crown gleams, reflecting the fading light with a warm flash. “For the interruption.”

When confronted with Queen Anabel, Mother quickly takes on the mantle of Queen Larentia. She improves her already flawless posture, drawing up her spine and dropping her shoulders. With an imperious gaze, she turns to look at Cal’s grandmother. “I assume you have a reason.”

The Lerolan queen nods. “Maven Calore is gone.”

Next to me, Ptolemus exhales. He almost smiles. So do my parents, both of them glad to finally be rid of Maven. I only wish I could have seen it done, to know it is finally over for the monstrous boy who plagued us all for so long.

My brother speaks first, shifting to look at Anabel head-on. “Did Cal do it himself?”

Her expression turns stony. “I mean he isn’t here.”

I feel a slight pressure, the slow squeeze of my bracelets tightening at my wrists. On the table, the silverware starts to tremble. Not with my own anger, or Ptolemus’s, but with our father’s. Volo curls one fist on the table, and the knives and forks curl with it.

Father narrows his eyes. “He escaped?”

Improbable, but not impossible. Many Silvers are still loyal. Some of House Haven. They could sneak into the palace easily, stow him away, pull him out. My mind spins through the possibilities. Haven interference would be the worst. Because it could blow back on Elane.

Anabel shakes her head, her scowl deepening with every passing second. “It doesn’t seem to be so,” she hisses.

Mother sucks in a sharp breath. “Then—”

I finish the thought for her. “He was taken.”

The old queen curls her lip. “Yes.”

“By the Reds,” I murmur.

For a quivering moment, I think Anabel might explode. She bares her teeth.

“Yes.”

The sun has fully set by the time we reach Cal’s quarters, crowding into the large salon where he met us all yesterday. He paces furiously, still dressed in his court regalia, including the rose-gold crown. He stalks around his uncle Julian, seated primly in one of the seats with his legs crossed and arms folded. A woman leans up behind him, pale hands planted on Julian’s narrow shoulders. Sara Skonos, the skin healer. She says nothing, letting the pair talk, as she weighs their words.

“The intent is quite obvious—” Julian stops himself as we troop in. “Two council meetings in one day, what a treat,” he says dryly. “Queen Larentia, interesting to see you.”

Instead of glaring at the singer lord, Mother dons the falsest smile she can muster. It has the same effect. “Lord Jacos,” she purrs, careful to keep her distance.

I’m quietly glad Elane isn’t with us, having returned to my chambers. Her presence would simply put too much strain on an already stressful situation.

Father wastes no time, swooping into a chair like a bird of prey finding a perch. He stares at Cal as he continues pacing. “So, your brother is in enemy hands.”

Across the floor, Julian purses his lips. “Enemy is a strong word.”

“They aren’t with us any longer,” Father replies, not bothering to check his tone against anyone. “They stole a valuable hostage. That makes Montfort and the Scarlet Guard our enemies.”

Still circling, Cal puts a hand to his chin. He meets Father’s gaze. “And what do you propose we do about it, King Volo?” he asks. “You want me to take our still-recovering armies, gather the fleet, and assault a distant nation to win back one useless, broken teenager? I don’t think so.”

I can almost see the hairs on Father’s neck rise. He sets his jaw. “As long as Maven breathes, he’s a threat to Norta.”

Cal is quick to nod, gesturing with an open palm. “On that we can agree.”

Usually any destabilization of Cal’s fledgling reign would be cause for celebration, but I find little to cheer here. Instead I take a seat of my own, leaning back with a huff. “Most of the High Houses will still swear their loyalty to you,” I say aloud, speaking mostly to myself. “They know he’s finished.”

Above me, Cal clucks his tongue in a very annoying fashion. I imagine cutting it out of his head. “That isn’t good enough. We need a united country if we’re going to fight off the Lakelands and Piedmont.”

Behind us, Anabel shuts the door and crosses the room to stand at her grandson’s side. Her constant posturing is becoming tedious. “Those bloody rats can’t wait for us all to kill each other so they can feed on our corpses.”

I sneer up at her, remembering when she first came to the Rift. Then, she pledged that any Red alliance would be fleeting and Norta as we knew it would return to its traditions. “If I’m not mistaken,” I say as innocently as I can, “didn’t we plan to do the same?”

She looks at me with disgust, as Cal continues his walk. He passes between us, shielding me for a moment. I meet his eyes, locking our gaze for a second. I can’t speak, but I try to communicate what I can. He doesn’t trust me, doesn’t care for me, and I feel the same. But we need each other right now, no matter how much we might despise the thought.

He turns away, moving to face my parents again. “We can’t lose sight of the true danger right now. The Lakelands will return, in full force, with Piedmont backing their play.”

“Who knows what they promised Bracken for his help,” Anabel curses.

On her couch, my mother can’t help but sneer. “Well, they didn’t ally with the people who kidnapped his children,” she says coolly, inspecting her nails. “For a start.”

I almost expect the Lerolan queen to lay hands on my mother, but she doesn’t move.

Father maneuvers, his voice smooth. “We’re quite able to do two things at once, King Tiberias.”

Cal responds with his usual fire. “I’m not fighting two wars, Volo. And neither are you.”

The command lingers, shocking us all. Even Mother draws back, looking to Father with fear in her eyes. For what he might do, how he could respond to such impudence.

They stare each other down, one king against another. The contrast is jarring. Cal is young, a tested warrior but a floundering politician. Driven by love, passion, some kind of fire that’s always burning inside him. My father is deadly in many ways, with weapons or words. And he is infinitely cold, a calculating statue, his heart nothing but an empty hole.