War Storm

Mare Barrow stands firm beneath his confounded gaze. “Yes.”

Anabel eyes Mare in disbelief, almost laughing. “And what about after this war is done, Miss Barrow? Will you pay to rebuild them?”

Mare almost bites off a chunk of her own tongue to keep back a sudden, unchecked retort. She takes a breath, willing herself to something within the realm of calm.

“If destroying them means victory?” she says slowly, ignoring Anabel’s questions. “Winning the country?”

Cal’s eyes shift and he steadily nods his head. Agreeing because she’s right—or because he’s still a lovesick puppy. “Breaking up even one tech center will greatly disrupt Maven’s ability to fight back, and it will spread unrest through his supporters. If the Reds see us as liberators, that can only help us,” he says. “Add that to taking over Fort Patriot—he could lose control of everything north of the Bay, all the way to the Lakelander border.” Thoughtful, he looks to his grandmother, opening his stance to her. “Cut off the entire region. And sandwich Maven between our already loyal Delphie, the Rift, and our new conquest.”

I imagine Norta in my head, or Norta as she was a year ago. Lines carve across her lands, like a cook slicing up pieces of pie. One chunk to us, two more to Cal. And the rest? My eyes linger on the Red general and Mare Barrow. And I think of that insufferable premier a thousand miles away. Which piece will they take?

I know what they want, at least.

The whole damn pie.

Ptolemus makes a show of mulling over my proposition. He runs a finger around the rim of his water glass, listening to the crystal sing. The sound is haunting, an ethereal echo weaving through our dinner. The sky behind him is blood red against his silhouette. My brother is strong-jawed, broad, with my father’s long nose and mother’s tiny rosebud mouth. He looks more like her in this light, with the growing shadows gathering beneath his eyes, in the hollows of his cheeks and throat. His clothes are fresh and casual for him: clean, white linen, light enough for the summer season.

Elane watches him play the glass with distaste, one side of her mouth curled into the beginnings of a sneer. The waning light gleams in her hair, giving her a ruby halo finer than any crown. She drains her own wine, staining her lips with berry, grape, and plum.

I refrain for the moment, leaving my wineglass full and undisturbed. Usually a quiet dinner away from my parents and the prying eyes of an assembled court is an excuse to drink as much as I like, but we have business to attend to.

“It’s a foolish plan, Evangeline. We don’t have time to play matchmaker,” Ptolemus mutters, his fingers gliding to a halt on the crystal rim. “Harbor Bay could be the end of us all.”

I cluck my tongue. “Don’t be a coward—you know Father wouldn’t risk you or me in an ill-fated siege.” We are well-cared-for investments, Tolly. His legacy depends on our survival. “Whether Cal wins Harbor Bay or not is of no interest me.”

“We do have time, at least,” Elane offers. She regards me with dark eyes that glimmer like star fall across a cornflower sky. “There can be no movement without the Montfort armies. And we still have to outfit our own soldiers, to build up for the siege.”

I slip my hand under the table, feeling the smooth softness of silk on her knee. “This is true. And I’m not suggesting we ignore the war, Tolly. Just divide our attention. Look elsewhere when we can. Nudge pieces on the chessboard.”

“Nudge pieces into bed, you mean,” Ptolemus says with a dry grin. He moves his hand from his water to the stout glass of biting clear liquor and ice he’s drinking. “You think I can influence Mare Barrow without getting my throat slit?” he asks, tossing back a fiery gulp. He winces, hissing air through his teeth. “I think it’s best I stay away from her.”

“I agree with that,” I answer. Barrow promised to let my brother live. It’s a promise I trust less and less every day. “But you can keep an eye on Cal. I thought he was immovable, completely dedicated to winning Norta, but . . . we may have an opportunity to stop that.”

My brother throws back another blistering swig. “We aren’t exactly friends.”

I shrug. “But close enough to it. At least you were a year ago.”

“And what a year it has been,” he mutters, inspecting his reflection in the flat of his dinner knife. His face has not changed, his beauty is undiminished by war, but so many other things are different now. A new king, a new country, new crowns for us both. And a mountain of problems to go with each.

The tumultuous year has been worth the cost, at least to me. A year ago, I was Training harder than I ever had, preparing for the inevitable Queenstrial. I could barely sleep for fear of losing, even when victory was all but guaranteed. My life then was decided, and I reveled in knowing what was to come. In hindsight, I feel stupid and manipulated, seeing myself as the doll I was. Pushed toward a boy I could never love. And here I am again, trapped in the same place I’ve always been. But now I know better. I can fight it. And maybe I can make Cal see reason the way I did. See what our worlds are, the strings we all dance upon.

Ptolemus picks around his specially made meal of lean, barely seasoned chicken, wilted vegetables, and pale fish meat. It lies mostly untouched. Usually he wolfs down his bland, healthy foods, as if eating them quickly can disguise the lack of taste.

Elane is quite the opposite. Her plate is clean, showing no evidence of the rack of wine-soaked lamb we shared. “Indeed,” she says. Her voice is quiet and measured. I try to read her thoughts on her face, her carefully worn expression of thoughtfulness. Is she remembering our lives a year ago? When we thought we would be happy beneath the Nortan throne together, living in a future built on our secrets? As if we were ever truly a secret to anyone with eyes.

“What about me?” Elane prods, putting her hand over my own. Her skin is the perfect balance of warmth against mine. “What part will I play in this?”

“You don’t have to do much of anything,” I answer, almost too quickly.

She puts her hand over mine. “Don’t be stupid, Eve.”

“Very well,” I grit out. “Do as you have before, I suppose.” Shadows are perfect spies, well suited to the intrigues of a royal court. To listen, to watch, safe behind a shield of invisibility. I don’t like the prospect of using her in any capacity that might be dangerous, but like she said, we have time. We’re at Ridge House. She wouldn’t be any safer if I locked her up in my rooms.

Not exactly a bad idea . . .

Elane smirks a little and pushes away her plate, half in jest. Her nose wrinkles. “Should I go now?”

I tighten my grip on her hand, smirking. “You can finish off the wine, at least. I’m not completely heartless.”

With a smile that stops my breath and leaves my pulse racing, she leans into me, her eyes drifting lazily to my lips. “I know exactly how much heart you have.”

Across the table, Ptolemus finishes his drink, rattling the ice. “I’m right here,” he grumbles, averting his eyes.

We have a week at least, if not two, before Davidson and his army return. Enough time to do what I can, with the added advantage of my own territory. Cal and Mare want each other, no matter how many obstacles might stand in the way. He requires only a very little push. If anything, a single word from Mare would send him scurrying to her bedroom. Mare, on the other hand, will be infinitely more difficult, married as she is to her pride, her cause, and that constant, unflagging rage she keeps burning in her chest. Of course, shoving the pair of them back together is only the first half of the endeavor. It’s getting Cal to realize, as I have, the weight of a heart. And how much heavier it is than a crown.