War Storm

“Very well,” Maven growls. Again I picture him standing outside a cell. White-faced in the dim light, his eyes rimmed with the usual shadows of exhaustion and doubt. “I am a man of my word.”

The familiar refrain smarts like his brand, drawing out a dozen harsh memories of his letters and his promise.

Slowly, I nod.

“You’re a man of your word.”

We leave Ibarem with instructions to find us if his brother isn’t freed with the rest, before hurrying along the corridors of Ridge House, trying to navigate our way to the Samos throne room. Tiberias is less helpful than he should be, his mind clearly elsewhere. With his brother in Piedmont, I suspect.

I do my best to keep up with his long strides and Farley’s, but I keep bumping into his back as he slows, lost in thought.

“We’re already late,” I grumble, putting a hand to the small of his back on instinct. Shoving him forward.

He jumps at the contact, as if burned by my touch. His larger hand covers mine when he recovers, pulling my fingers away. Then he drops them quickly as he halts, turning to face me.

Farley keeps on, outpacing us with an exasperated groan. “Fight when we have the time,” she calls, urging us to keep up.

He ignores her, glaring down at me. “You were going to speak to him without me.”

“Do I need your permission to talk to Maven?”

“He’s my brother, Mare. You know what he still means to me,” he whispers, almost begging. I try not to soften in the face of his pain. It almost works.

“You have to forget who you thought he was.”

It kindles something in him, a deeper anger. A desperation. “Don’t tell me how to feel. Don’t tell me to turn my back on him.” Then he straightens, pulling back so I have to crane my neck to meet his gaze. “Besides, confronting him alone, just the two of you?” He looks over his shoulder at Farley. “It isn’t wise.”

“Which is why I sent for you,” Farley snaps harshly. “We need to go. That took long enough, and the council started twenty minutes ago. If Samos and your grandmother are scheming, I want to be there.”

“And what about Iris?” Tiberias says, recovering. He braces his hands on his hips, broadening his frame. To cut off any escape if I try to slip around him. He knows my tricks too well. “What was all that about dogs biting?”

I hesitate, weighing my options. I could always lie. It might be better to lie.

“Something Iris said before, when I was still at Whitefire,” I admit. “She knew I was a pet to Maven. A lapdog. And she told me all dogs bite. It was her way of communicating that she knew I would turn on him if I could.” The words catch, but I force them out. Why, I can’t say. “So will she.”

Instead of thanking me, Tiberias seems to darken. “And you think Maven wouldn’t catch that?”

I can only shrug. “I think right now he doesn’t care. He needs her, needs her alliance. There’s only today and tomorrow, in his eyes.”

“I can understand that,” he mutters under his breath, so only I can hear.

“I’m sure you do.”

He heaves another sigh, running a hand through his short hair. I wish he would let it grow into dark waves again. He’d look more handsome, less rigid. Less like a king.

“Do we tell them what just happened?” he asks, pointing a thumb back toward the room.

I frown. I would rather not retell our conversation to a larger audience, especially one that includes the Samos brood. “If we do, we risk Rash and Ibarem. Volo would enjoy using that particular advantage if he could.”

“I agree. But it is an advantage. To be able to speak to him, watch him.” He lowers his voice. Gauging my reaction. Letting me make the decision.

“Leave him in peace. We can relay with the Scarlet Guard on the ground. Get our people back.”

He nods along. “Of course.”

“No word about Cameron,” I add, wincing as I say her name. She went back to Piedmont to be with her brother when we went on to Montfort. Chasing peace instead of war. And war found her again.

Tiberias turns thoughtful—sympathetic, even. Not for show, but truly. I try not to look at his handsome features as he looms above me. “She’ll be okay,” he says, just for me. “Can’t imagine anyone taking her down.”

Ibarem didn’t mention seeing her among the prisoners, but he didn’t think she was among the dead either. I can only hope she’s among the ones who escaped, hiding in the swamps, slowly making her way back to us. Besides, Cameron can kill a man as easily as I can. More easily. Any Silver hunter would find her to be dangerous prey, with her ability to smother the strongest of their powers. She must have escaped. I will entertain no other possibility. I simply can’t.

Especially because I need her for what I have planned.

“Farley might pop a blood vessel if we keep her waiting any longer.”

“I would prefer not to see that,” Tiberias grumbles after me.

FIFTEEN

Evangeline

Anabel stalls with such talent, as we wait for her chronologically impaired grandson. I’m torn between asking for a lesson and skewering her to the wall with the steel of my throne.

There are maybe a dozen people in the throne room, only those necessary for a war council. Red and Silver, Scarlet Guard and agents of Montfort alongside noble houses of the Rift and rebel Norta. No matter how many times I see it, I can hardly get used to the sight.

Neither can my parents. Today, Mother coils on her throne of emeralds like one of her snakes. She sinks back into black silk and rough gems, looking incomplete without some threatening predator pet at her knee. The panther must be indisposed today. She sneers while Anabel spins her wheels.

Father, on the other hand, sits in rapt attention, his acute focus locked entirely on Anabel even as she steps back. Trying to make her squirm. The head of House Lerolan does not, to her credit. I’m a magnetron. I know steel when I see it. And she has steel in her bones.

“Tiberias the Seventh needs a capital. A place to plant his flag.” She pauses, pacing for effect as she surveys the throne room. I want to scream, Get on with it, old woman!

What she should really do is go find Cal, wherever he might be, and drag him back here by the ears. The Piedmont base is lost, and this is a meeting of his own war council, not to mention my father’s court. Making us wait isn’t just rude; it’s politically stupid. And a waste of my own precious time.

He’s probably off arguing with Mare again, pretending not to look at her lips while he does it. The prince is terribly predictable, and I hope the pair of them will boil over into some not-so-secret secret relationship once more. Will I be expected to guard the door? I sneer to myself.

In a flash, I envision the life he wants for us all. The life he would subject all of us to. The crown on my head, his heart in her hand. My children threatened every second by any child she might have. My days spent bending to his will, no matter how gentle it might be. No matter how many days he might let me spend with my Elane, as long as he can spend his with Mare.

If only he wanted her more. If only I could make him want her more. But, as I told Mare back in Corvium, Cal isn’t the abdicating kind. You weren’t either, I remind myself. Until you had a taste of the other side.

At the thought, my insides flip. With excitement, with hope—and with exhaustion. I’m already annoyed by the prospect of tangling myself up with Cal and Mare more than I already am. Even if it’s for my own happiness.