War Storm

But Julian knows my heart better than she does.

I do my best to enjoy the food at dinner. It’s edible, but nothing compared to the feasts we used to have. Somehow I find myself missing Carmadon and Premier Davidson’s dinner. While this is infinitely less awkward, what they prepared was delicious.

I’m not the only one who notices the quality. Evangeline doesn’t touch a single course, and her mother doesn’t even condescend to feed her meat to the panther curled around her ankles.

Like the electricity, like the servants, like the factories grinding to a halt all over Norta, good food seems to be growing scarce. In the fields, the deliveries, the preparation. I’d wager most of the palace chefs are gone too.

Nanabel cleans her plate like nothing is amiss.

“We’re going to lose this war,” I can’t help but murmur, leaning to my left so only Julian can hear me.

A muscle flexes in his cheek and he drains his glass of wine. “Not here, Cal,” he replies, hiding his mouth with the rim of his glass. “Would the king like to retire?”

“The king would.”

“Very well,” my uncle mutters, putting his glass back down.

For a second, I don’t know what to do. I realize I’m waiting to be dismissed, but no one here can do such a thing. This is my throne and my palace. I need only stand.

I do so quickly, clearing my throat to excuse myself. Nanabel is quick to recognize the signal. I need to be done with this.

“Our thanks for your presence today, and your loyalty,” she says, her hands spread wide to better command the attention of the chamber. The nobles in front of us fall silent, their murmurs and conversations sliding to a graceful halt. “We have all journeyed through the storm, as it were, and I speak for the royal family when I say how grateful we are to have you with us. And to have Norta made whole again.”

It’s a naked lie, plain as the food forgotten on so many plates. Norta is far from whole. The half-empty banquet hall is proof of that. And while I don’t want to be a king like Maven, building my throne on deceit and dishonesty, I see no other option now. We need to be strong, even if it is only an illusion.

I put a hand to Nanabel’s shoulder, a careful gesture. She obliges, angling back to let me speak. “One storm has passed, yes. But I would be a fool to pretend another is not gathering on the horizon,” I say, speaking as clearly as I can. So many eyes look back at me. Their clothes and colors vary, but not their blood. Everyone seated here is Silver, and I shudder at the implication. Our Red allies are gone for good. When war comes again, we will be fighting alone. “The Lakelands will not be satisfied behind their borders. Not when they came so close to ruling Maven through their princess.”

Some of the nobles murmur, their heads drawn together. Volo doesn’t move, staring at me from his seat farther down the high table. I feel pierced by his glare.

“When the storm breaks, I’ll be ready. I promise you that.”

Ready to fight. To lose. And probably die.

“Strength and power!” someone shouts from the crowd, cheering the old refrain of my father and his father before him. An emblem of Silver Norta. Others echo the call. I should too.

But I can’t. I know what those words mean. Who exactly we have strength and power over. My jaw remains firmly shut.

Julian stays close on my heels as I escape the banquet hall, utilizing the serving passages instead of the main halls. My grandmother trails us, with her Lerolan soldiers bringing up the rear of our patchwork parade. I still don’t have Sentinels, as a king should, as I did when I was a prince and things still worked properly. We’re rightfully wary of the guards once oathed to protect Maven, even if many of them have pledged their loyalty with their houses. Finding guards of my own, people I can trust, is simply another item on an increasingly long list of things to be accomplished. Just the thought exhausts me.

I’m yawning by the time I reach the door to my temporary quarters, even though it’s barely past nightfall. At least I have a good excuse to be tired. It isn’t every day one becomes king. The crown is an infinite reminder.

Both Nanabel and Julian follow me into the adjoining salon, leaving the guards in the hall. I stop my grandmother with a look.

“If it’s all right, I’d like to speak to Julian.” I try to make it sound like an order. I shouldn’t be asking permission to talk with one of my closest advisers alone. Still, I feel tentative, and sound worse.

Her face falls, pulling into an affronted frown. Wounded, even. Like I’ve hurt her.

“Briefly,” I add, trying to undo the harm. Next to her, Julian clasps his hands together, his expression blank.

She stiffens. “Of course, Your Majesty,” she murmurs, ducking her head. Her iron-gray hair reflects the lamps like a flash of steel. “I’ll leave you to it.”

With a rushing whirl of flame-colored clothing, my grandmother turns on her heel without another word. My fist clenches, keeping me from reaching out. It’s difficult balancing the love of family with the needs of a kingdom.

The door shuts behind her, sharper than it needs to. I wince with the sound.

Julian wastes no time, opening his mouth before he manages to take a seat on the plump sofa. I brace myself for the inevitable lecture.

“You shouldn’t speak that way in public, Cal.”

We’re going to lose this war.

He isn’t wrong. I grimace anyway, crossing to the arched windows overlooking the Bridge of Archeon, the river, and the star-dappled horizon beyond. From this distance, the ships on the water look like stars too. As with the crowd at the coronation, there are fewer ships than there should be. Less trade, less travel. I’ve been king for a day and my kingdom is already living on borrowed time. I can only guess what might happen to the people in it, should the rest collapse.

I lay a hand against the window glass. It steams beneath my touch. “We don’t have the manpower to turn back an invasion.”

“Your decree puts our armies at forty-percent strength, if the current reports are accurate. Most Red soldiers have left the military or are leaving. New recruits, mostly. Those left behind are battle-hardened, at least,” he says.

“But spread too thin,” I mutter. “The Lakelander border is hostile again, not to mention Piedmont to the south. We’re surrounded and outnumbered. And with fall coming, what harvest can we expect with no farmers? How can we shoot the guns if no one is making the bullets?”

My uncle brushes a hand under his chin, studying me. “You regret making your decrees.”

He is one of only two people I would ever admit it to. “I do.”

“It was the right decision.”

“For how long?” I can’t help but snap. Flaring with heat, I turn away from the window, undoing the top buttons of my jacket as I move. The colder air hits my fevered skin, chilling and soothing. “When the Lakelands return, they’ll wipe away whatever I’ve tried to do.”

“This is the way of things, Cal.” Julian’s calm tone only serves to rankle me further. “In the histories, great moments of upheaval, whole shifts in societies, they take time to rebalance. Reds will return to work, albeit with better pay and treatment. They need to feed and protect their families too.”

“We don’t have that kind of time, Julian,” I mutter, exasperated. “I think someone will have to redraw your maps very soon. The Kingdom of Norta will fall.”