War Storm

I don’t bother entering the small salon or searching out the kitchen. Maven’s footsteps echo on the stairs, and I follow, pulling the Sentinels along with me. If the king wants to be alone, he doesn’t say so.

He bangs open each door on the second floor in turn, poking his head into various bedrooms, closets, and a bathroom. Once or twice, he snarls under his breath, like a predator denied prey.

At the final door, in the corner, he pauses, hesitating.

This door he opens with one hand, gently, as if entering a holy place.

I hang back a moment, letting him go first.

Inside is a bedroom, with two small beds flanking a single window. I notice the oddity first. The patterned curtains are cut up, with precise chunks removed.

“The sister,” Maven murmurs, running his hand along a sliced edge. “The seamstress.”

As he runs the fabric through his fingers, sparks spit from his wrist. They catch and spread, eating through the curtains with speed and skill. Burning holes spread like disease. Acrid smoke stings my nostrils.

He does the same to the wallpaper, letting it burn and peel beneath his touch. Then the window, laying a flaming hand to the glass. It cracks under the tremendous heat he throws off, shattering outward into the sunlight. The room seems to pulse and boil, like the inside of a bubbling pot. I want to step away, but I want to see him. Maven. I must know who he is if I am to defeat him.

The first bed he ignores, somehow knowing it wasn’t hers.

The second he sinks into, as if testing the firmness. He smooths the coverlet beneath his hands, then the pillow. Feeling where her head used to rest. I almost expect him to lie down and breathe in whatever scent might linger.

Instead his fire consumes. Feather and fabric. Wood frame. It leaps across to the other bed, gobbling it up.

“Give me a minute, please,” he whispers, almost inaudible over the roar of controlled flame.

We do as we are told, fleeing before the shining heat.

A minute is all he needs. We’re barely back on the street before he emerges from the door, an inferno jumping to life behind him.

I realize I’m sweating with fear as we walk away and the row house crumbles.

What will Maven burn next?

The snarl of transports echoes outside the holding bunker. The soldiers must have returned, and I wonder if they managed to track down anyone in the swamps. The noise filters through the high windows cut into the concrete slab walls. This room is cool, partially underground, bisected by a long aisle dividing two rows of barred cells. By the official count, we have forty-seven captured held here, two or three to a cell. All red-blooded, but still under heavy Silver guard. Some could be newbloods, quietly waiting for a chance to use their abilities and escape. The Silvers of Montfort—the blood traitors, as the Sentinel called them—are being held elsewhere, restrained by silents and the most powerful of guards.

Maven idly knocks his knuckles against each bar as we pass. The prisoners shrink back or stand firm, afraid or defiant in the face of the king of Norta. Strange, he seems relaxed here, surrounded by cells. He barely seems to notice the prisoners at all.

I do the opposite. I count as we go, to see if they match the official tally. To look for any flash of rebellion or determination that might spark into something inconvenient. I wish I could separate Red from newblood. Every cell I pass makes me uneasy, knowing a snake could be waiting in each one.

At the far end of the bunker, another contingent of royal Silvers approaches, their colors yellow, white, and purple, all done up in gold armor and weapons better suited to decorating a banquet hall. Prince Bracken smiles broadly, but the children clutching his hands cower. Michael and Charlotta alternate between burying their faces in their father’s purple-spangled robes and looking at their golden-shod feet.

While I feel a surge of sorrow for the children and what they endured at the hands of the Montfort monsters, I am also grateful to see that they are well enough to accompany their father. When we slipped out of the mountain kingdom with them, they could barely speak, despite the wretched healer’s fine work. For no skin healer can mend a mind.

If only they could, I think to myself, glancing sidelong at my husband.

“Prince Bracken,” Maven says, dipping his head with all the charm he can muster. Then he sinks further, to eye level with the approaching children. “And Michael, Charlotta. The bravest pair of siblings I ever saw.”

Michael hides his face again, but Charlotta offers the smallest of smiles. The polite kind, hammered into her by some etiquette instructor, no doubt.

“Very brave indeed,” I add, winking at the pair of them.

Bracken stops before us, still smiling, and his guards and retainers glide to a halt with him. I spot another Piedmont prince in their midst, marked by a crown of emeralds, but I can’t say which one.

“Your Majesties,” Bracken offers, sweeping out his hands to bow as low as he can. His children, still holding his fingers, do the same with practiced grace. Even shy, shivering little Michael. “There are neither enough words nor enough gold in the world to express my gratitude, but rest assured, you have it.” The prince’s eyes stray to me and I meet his gaze, raising my chin. I saved his children with my own two hands. That will not be forgotten. “Just as you have use of my military installation, and any resources Piedmont can offer in this war against the very nature of our world.”

With a flick of his fingers, Maven gestures for Bracken to stand.

“You have my gratitude as well for such a mighty pledge,” Maven replies, all performance and posture. “Together we can end what my brother began.”

Something flashes in Bracken’s eye. Amusement, maybe. Does he see the lie for what it is? Tiberias Calore did not start this war, not by any stretch of the imagination. That sin lies with the Red rebels. I swallow, my throat suddenly dry. The Scarlet Guard began in the Lakelands, spurred on by necessary actions my own father took. Still, if they are sinners, we enabled their existence, allowing it to spread. We share in the sin and shame.

“Together with the Lakelands,” Bracken adds.

Another flash of amusement in the prince, and I feel heat rise in my cheeks. “Of course. We back Maven Calore to the last.” With as little as we can afford to send. Fewer troops, less weaponry, less money. The rest of it jealously guarded and hoarded for when we need it most.

My cheek burns, flaming hot, as Maven’s lips brush my face in a chaste but symbolic kiss. “We’re a good match, aren’t we?” he says, turning back to Bracken.

I fight the urge to make good on my promise and pin Maven to the floor where I can drown him to my heart’s content.

“Quite,” Bracken murmurs, his black eyes darting between us. “Unfortunately, we don’t seem to be making much headway. I’ve sent for whispers and singers from Prince Denniarde’s lands.” He gestures to the prince behind him, resplendent in his emeralds and sheer, green silk. “But they’ve yet to arrive, and I’m afraid I don’t want to risk further damaging any of the prisoners before they can be properly interrogated.”

I turn to the nearest cell, hoping to hide my disgust at the thought of whispers and singers coming here. Neither should be trusted, but I hold my tongue.

The man in the cell stares back at me, his eyes like bright coals in the dim light of his prison. His skin is as brown as mine, although with a reddish undertone, and his black hair is curly, as is his oiled and groomed beard. The uniform he wears is dark green, the color of Montfort. It has rips in it, missing patches on the breast and upper arms. They dangle broken thread. From insignia removed, badges and honors torn away. I narrow my eyes, and he does the same.