War Storm

Farley disappears into her own bedroom, Clara on her hip, with an exhausted smile. No one stops her. She needs time alone with her daughter, and we’re all happy to give it.

Instead my family filters onto the tiled terrace, which is bursting with more flowers than I remember. Tramy has been busy. “They’re beautiful,” I tell him, gesturing to a lovely array of white blooms curling up and over the railing. He heaves himself into a chair with a bashful grin, and Gisa perches on the arm of the seat. I plop down next to them both, content to sit on a flat, squashy cushion set on the tile.

“Mom helped,” Tramy says, gesturing across to her.

At the edge of the terrace, she waves a hand. Her hair is down tonight. I’m used to long years of my mother in twisted braids and neat buns, always keeping her hair out of her face. Despite the gray, she looks younger like this. “I just followed you around with a watering can,” she says.

I’ve never considered Ruth Barrow beautiful. How could anyone, let alone a poor Red woman, be considered beautiful next to Silvers? But Montfort brings a glow to her, a healthiness in her golden skin that makes it gleam. Even her wrinkles seem lessened, softened by the gentle lamplight. Of course, Dad looks better than ever, heartier than he was in the Stilts. He’s gained weight where he needs to, arms and legs filling out, while his waist looks trimmer. I chalk it up to nutrition, and of course his replaced leg and lung. After he greets me, he settles into his usual gruff silence, claiming a seat of his own next to Bree. The weeks have been good to all of them. Especially Gisa. Her dark red hair glints like oil in the dim light. I take in her clothing, a repurposed Montfort uniform. But the cuffs and collar are heavily embroidered in swirls of colored thread, pricking out a pattern of flowers and purple-bright zags of lightning. I reach out to her, running my fingers over her careful handiwork.

“I can make you one, if you like,” she says, eyeing my own uniform. The offensively bright red of the Scarlet Guard outfit makes her wrinkle her nose. “Maybe downplay all this,” she mutters, waving her hands a little. “Give you something a little better than medals.”

Kilorn eases himself down next to me, leaning back on his hands with his legs crossed. “Do I get one too?”

“If I feel like it,” Gisa replies with her usual sniff. She eyes him up and down, as if assessing a customer. “Fish instead of flowers, I think.”

I can’t help but chuckle into my hand, grinning at Kilorn’s exaggerated pout.

“So how long will you be here this time?” My father’s voice is still a low grunt, full of accusation. I glance at him, meeting his dark brown eyes. The same eyes as Bree and Tramy, darker than my own.

Mom puts a hand on his shoulder, as if she can push him off the subject. “Daniel, she just got back.”

He doesn’t look at her. “That’s my point.”

“It’s fine,” I murmur, glancing between them. It’s an honest question, and a good one, especially based on recent circumstances. “To tell you the truth, I don’t know. It could be days. Could be weeks. Could be months.” My family seems to brighten with each larger measurement of time. It pains me to give them what could be false hope, even though I want it to be true. “We still don’t know how things will proceed.”

Dad purses his lips. “With Norta.”

I shake my head. “With the Lakelands, mostly.” The others look on, silent as I explain. Except for Kilorn. His brow furrows slowly, creasing his forehead with deep, angry lines. “They hold all the power right now. Cal is still consolidating a torn country, and we’re waiting to see how everything shakes out. If the Lakelands strike—”

My oldest brother draws an angry breath before pushing it out in an exasperated sigh. He glares at me because there’s simply no one else to glare at. “You’ll help fight them off?” As with Dad, I hear an accusation in him.

I can only shrug. It isn’t me he’s frustrated with, but the situation I keep finding myself in. Pulled toward danger, torn between Silver kings, a weapon to be wielded, a face to be used. “I don’t know,” I mutter. “We aren’t allied to him anymore.”

At my side, Kilorn shifts, uncomfortable on the tile. Or the subject. “And what about the other one?”

Around the cluster of chairs, my family blanches in varying levels of confusion. Mom crosses her arms over her chest, fixing me with a piercing stare I know all too well. “Who?” she asks, even though she knows. She just wants to make me say it.

Gritting my teeth, I force an answer. “He means Maven.”

My father’s voice turns deadly, like I’ve never heard it before. “He should be dead by now.”

“He’s not, and he’s here,” Kilorn snarls before I can stop him.

A pulse of fury thrums through my family, every face turning red, every lip curling, all eyes sharpening with glints of rage.

“Kilorn, don’t start trouble,” I hiss, squeezing his wrist. But the damage is already done. The silence around our circle runs heavy with scarlet anger, so strong I can almost taste it.

Finally, Gisa speaks, her tone as feral as my father’s. “We should kill him.”

My sister is not a violent girl, better suited to a needle than a knife. But she looks like she could claw Maven’s eyes out if given the opportunity. I would feel guilty for bringing this anger out in her, but I can’t get beyond the sudden swell of love, appreciation, and pride.

My brothers nod slowly, agreeing with her sentiment. They might even be cooking up some harebrained attempt to get into Maven’s cell right now.

“He’s valuable alive,” I say quickly, if only to stop them short.

“I don’t give a shit about his value,” Bree snaps.

I expect our mother to scold him for his language, but she isn’t bothered by the curse. In fact, she looks positively murderous herself, and for an instant I see the violent love of Queen Anabel, Larentia Viper, and even Elara Merandus in her eyes. “That creature took my son from me, and he took you.”

“I’m right here, Mom,” I murmur, swallowing around the sudden, painful memory of Shade.

“You know what I mean,” she says. “I’ll slit his throat myself.”

Most shocking of all is Dad’s silence. He’s a naturally quiet man, but not when it comes to despising Silvers. When I glance at him, I realize why he won’t say anything. Because he can’t. His face is a furious red, boiling with a steady, rising hatred. If he opens his mouth, who knows what might tumble out.

“Can we talk about something else?” I have to ask, looking around at the rest of my family.

“Please do,” Dad barely manages through gritted teeth.

“You all look well,” I say quickly. “Is Montfort—”

Mom seems annoyed, but dips her head in acceptance. She answers for all of them, cutting me off. “It’s a dream, Mare.”

My natural suspicion flares, in spite of all I know about Davidson. But I don’t know his country or his city. I don’t know the politicians he serves or the people they represent.

“Is it too good, though?” I ask. “Do you think we’ll wake up to find ourselves in trouble? To find something gone horribly wrong?”

She heaves a heavy sigh, looking out at the sparkling lights of Ascendant. “I suppose we should always be wary but—”