War Storm

I nod as he follows my train of thought. “The Rift dies with him. Returns to Norta,” I say. “Ptolemus won’t have the spine to fight a war with Father dead. No matter how good he is at fighting, he isn’t meant for it.”

“I find that hard to believe,” Cal scoffs, his tone changing. Then his eyes shift, brows knitting together, before releasing like a weight cut loose. Realization washes over him. “You haven’t told your parents this, have you?”

I shake my head.

His mouth hangs open. “Evangeline, if you’re right—”

“I’m going to let him die. I know,” I hiss to myself, at myself. I snatch my hand away, unable to touch or look at him. Fuming, I stare at the carpeted floor, tracing the fine patterns of Red-made artistry. “You’ve always thought me terrible. Is it nice to know you’re right?”

His fingers are hot beneath my chin, tipping my face up to look him. “Evangeline,” he murmurs, but I don’t want his pity. I push him away.

“I hope the gods of Iris Cygnet aren’t real. I can’t imagine what punishments they have in store for me.”

Cal rests his mouth against his knuckles, idly running his hand back and forth over his lips. Eyes far away, he nods in agreement.

“For all of us.”

TWENTY-EIGHT

Iris

Citadel of the Lakes is the safest place I could ever be, and yet I’m on edge, nervous, constantly looking over my shoulder. I see only familiar guards in their blues, almost blending into the mist of a rainy summer morning. Jidansa is here too, the old telky trailing my mother and me as we walk the pathways arching over the vast training grounds. She has a calming presence, much like my mother, and I try to relax with them so close. Below us, regiments of the Lakelander army prepare for war. Those who have already fought, legions ceded to Maven while we were allied, have earned some well-needed rest. The soldiers here are fresh, ready to fight. Eager to win a country for the glory of the Lakelands. The hills and rivers, the beaches of Norta. Their powerful tech towns, bursting with electricity and economic value. The Kingdom of Norta is a gold mine just waiting to be claimed.

Thousands upon thousands of soldiers drill in the rain, unbothered by the wet weather. The same will be true across our kingdom. From Citadel of the Snows to Citadel of the Rivers, the call has gone out. We are mobilizing all we can gather, Silver and Red. The army of the Lakelands is assembled and ready to strike. We have the numbers; we have the abilities. Our enemy is already crippled, and we need only put it out of its misery.

So why do I feel so unsettled, deep in my heart?

Reviewing troops doesn’t require royal finery, and both of us are dressed like the soldiers we support, in blue uniforms edged with glinting silver and gold. Even Mother has stopped wearing her mourning blacks. But we haven’t forgotten Father, or our vengeance. It weighs on us all like a heavy stone. I feel it with every step.

We cross the last bridge, stepping onto one of the many balconies ringing the central structure of the citadel. The windows glow, beckoning with warmth. Despite the calming effect of the rain, I’m eager to get out of the weather. My mother moves quickly, setting our pace, and leads us inside. We’re supposed to meet Tiora for lunch, but by the time we reach the room prepared for our meal, she still isn’t there.

It isn’t like my sister to be late.

I glance at my mother for some kind of explanation, but she merely takes her seat at the head of the table. If Queen Cenra isn’t bothered by Tiora’s absence, then I won’t be either.

Like Mother, I take my seat, ready to wait for Tiora to arrive. The guards hang back at the door, taking up flanking positions, but Jidansa sits. She is a noble of the Merin Line, an ancient and distinguished family here in the Lakelands, and she has served us for many years. While the queen helps herself to some fluffy bread, I inspect the vast array of silverware. Forks, spoons—knives especially. I count the possible weapons on the table out of habit, careful to include the filled water glasses. More deadly than any knife in my hands.

I stare at the water, letting it fill my perception as it fills each glass. The sense is as familiar as my own face. But somehow different now. After what I helped my mother do.

It’s been days since we made our trade, and I can’t get it out of my head. The sound especially. How the Iral lord choked on his last breaths, unable to fight us off. The Calore king’s uncle, someone named Jacos, is a singer, and he removed any fight from the man before we could get our hands on him. Maybe if he could have fought back, I wouldn’t feel so strange. He deserved to die. Deserved worse punishment than we gave. But the memory still fills me with the strange, foreign sense of shame. As if I have betrayed the gods in some way. Gone against their will and their nature.

I’ll pray some more tonight, and hope to find an answer in their wisdom.

“Eat before the food gets cold,” Mother says, gesturing to the plates before us. “Tiora will be with us in a moment.”

I nod and move mechanically, serving myself. Precautions have to be taken. No Red servants, not while we discuss the path ahead. The Scarlet Guard has ears and eyes everywhere. We must be vigilant.

Most of the meal is fish. Butterflied trout, sliced open and fried with butter and lemon. Yellow perch, crusted with pepper and salt. A warming stew of lamprey eel, the heads removed and proudly displayed at the center of the table. Their rows of spiraling teeth gleam in the soft light of the dining room. The other plates hold ears of golden corn, greens tossed in spiced oil, braided breads—the usual bounty from Lakelander crops. Our farms are far-flung and prosperous, able to feed our country twice over. Lakelanders never want for food, not even the lowest Red.

I help myself to a little of each, careful to leave the lamprey for Tiora. It’s an acquired taste, not to mention her favorite.

Another minute goes by in silence, marked only by the kindly ticking of a clock on the wall. Outside, the rain picks up, lashing the windows in merciless sheets.

“The army should break until this clears,” I mutter. “No use letting our soldiers get sick, and feed an epidemic of colds.”

“True,” Mother replies around bites of food. She tips a hand at Jidansa, who stands quickly.

She ducks into a curt bow. “I’ll make it so, Your Majesty,” she says before setting off to deliver the order.

“The rest of you, wait outside,” my mother continues, glancing at each of our guards in turn. They don’t hesitate, almost leaping to follow her commands.

I watch the room empty, my nerves prickling. Whatever Mother wants to say to me isn’t meant for an audience. When the door shuts again, leaving us alone, she steeples her fingers together and leans forward.

“It isn’t the rain that bothers you, monamora.”

For a second, I debate denying it. Pasting on a smile, forcing a laugh and a dismissal. But I don’t like to wear masks with my mother. It’s dishonest. And besides, she sees right through them.

I sigh, setting aside my fork. “I keep seeing his face.”

She softens, wavering from queen to mother. “I miss your father too.”

“No.” The word stumbles out, too quick, startling my mother. Her eyes widen a little, darker than usual in the dim light. “I do think about him, all the time but . . .” I search for the proper way to say this. Instead I put it bluntly. “I’m talking about the man who killed him.”