War Storm

Prayer is more difficult to come by in this godless country. There are no temples in Archeon that I know of, and the shrine I demanded be built for me here is small, a glorified closet tucked away in my apartments. Not that I need much space to commune with my nameless gods. But in the heat of high summer, the little room crowded with worn faces is hardly comfortable—even with my abilities circulating cool moisture through the air. I try to pray elsewhere, or at least feel my gods as the days pass, but it grows more difficult the longer I’m away from home. If I can’t hear them, can they hear me?

Am I infinitely alone?

I suppose that is easier. I want no connection to Norta. Nothing to tie me to this place when Maven’s brother overthrows him, unless my mother does it first.

My queenly duties are the only distraction from my isolation. Today my schedule takes me across the great bridge spanning the Capital River, to the other side of the city. As far away from Maven as I can still get within the diamondglass walls of Archeon. He appears outside the palace less and less, occupying himself with endless councils. Or long hours alone.

I hear the whispers of the servants. His clothes end up burned most days, charred beyond repair. It means he’s losing control, or he doesn’t care to keep himself in check. I think it could be both.

East Archeon mirrors the western side of the city, rising up from the river’s edge to the cliff-like banks that roll off into gentle slopes. Everything is green this time of year. That reminds me of home, at least, though little else does. Even the water is wrong. Salt, not fresh, and tainted with the whispers of pollution from the tech slum upstream. They think the barrier trees get the most of it, but any nymph would know better with a single sniff.

The buildings here are tall and oppressive, all columns of granite and marble, their roofs crowned in sculpted birds with splayed wings and arched necks. Swans, falcons, eagles. Their feathers are copper and steel, polished to a blinding sheen.

Even in the middle of a war, the capital itself carries on in ignorant bliss. Reds walk the streets, marked by their crimson bracelets or the colors of their employing houses. Silvers in their transports roll between their destinations. Museums, the galleries, the theater are all still in operation without change or delay.

I suppose they’re used to war, as the Lakelands are. Even within the borders of their own kingdom.

Today I’m attending a memorial luncheon, to honor the soldiers lost when Maven’s brother and his rebels took Corvium. My Sentinels follow as always, garish in their flaming robes. Though I wear my usual colors, a nod to my native home, my blue blouse and jacket are trimmed with Maven’s black and red. I feel wrong tainting myself like this, but no one would know from looking at me.

I smile and nod with the best, trading idle conversation with the many lords and ladies who wish to favor their new queen. No one says anything of any real use. It’s all for show, even with the families of those who died. They clearly don’t want to be here, preferring to face their grief alone. Instead they’re trotted out like actors in a performance, put on display. One after the other explains how their loved ones died, all murdered by some Red terrorist or Montfort freak. A few are barely able to finish their speeches.

A clever tactic, one I’m sure my husband is behind. Anyone who might oppose this war, or even prefer Maven’s brother on the throne, would have a difficult time holding to their convictions after such a show. And I play my part in it well enough.

“We are here today to mourn, but also to send a message. We will not be controlled by fear,” I say as firmly as I can, staring out at a chamber crowded with sharp-eyed lords and ladies. They look on with rapt attention. Either to be polite, or to look for cracks. Hunt for weakness. Many, I know, would abandon Maven’s Norta if they thought it was the right play for their houses.

It’s my job to convince them otherwise. To stay. To fight. To die.

“We will not give in to the will of rebels and terrorists, and power-hungry criminals hiding behind false promises. We will not throw away everything our country is, our ideals, what Norta is built on, what our very lives are built on.” My elocution lessons come to mind. Although I was never as talented at speechcraft as Tiora, I do my best. Holding a dozen gazes at once, never flinching, never stumbling. I clench a fist at my side, hidden in my skirts. “Norta is a Silver country, born from our strength, our power, our achievements, and our sacrifices. No Red will take what we have or change who we are. They are nothing to us, no matter who their allies are.

“Maven Calore will prevail. True Norta will prevail. Strength and power.” I bite back a grin as I slip familiar words into the previously approved speech. “Let them face our flood.”

Despite all my restraint, I can’t help but smile as the crowd claps and cheers for Lakelander words. My mother’s words. Get used to it, Nortans. You’ll bow to my colors soon enough.

The heat wave has broken, making the walk back to my waiting convoy of transports pleasant. I want to linger on the street, enjoying the fresh air and gentle sunlight, and I move as slowly as I can. My Sentinels edge me along, their gloved hands and masked faces flanking me in practiced formation. We’re ahead of schedule, by my count. I only have to return to the palace and prepare for tonight’s dinner.

Still, the open transport door comes too quickly. With a huff, I step up and in, my eyes downcast as the door shuts behind me.

“Good afternoon, Your Majesty.”

Two faces stare back from inside the transport, on the seats across from mine. One is familiar, and one I can guess at. Both are enemies.

I yelp, sliding back against the leather seating. On instinct I reach for the canteen of water I keep close. My other hand scrambles for the pistol under the backseat.

Fingers catch me under my chin, forcing me to look up. I expect them to belong to the singer, the uncle who can murmur away all thought in my head. Turn me inside out.

Instead I look up to find it’s the grandmother who holds me, her bronze eyes alight and determined. I freeze, knowing exactly what Anabel Lerolan’s touch can do. I picture her grip changing, shifting, and then my skull exploding open, spewing brain and bone all over the transport interior.

“Some advice, from one queen to another, my dear,” Anabel says, still holding my chin. “Do not do anything stupid.”

“Fine,” I whisper, showing my empty palms. No gun, no canteen. No weapons but the air in the transport with us. I glance over her shoulder, at the silhouette of my driver and the Sentinel guard. Both on the other side of the glass.

Julian Jacos follows my gaze, then sighs. He raps his knuckles on the divider. Neither of my guards moves. “They won’t be able to hear you for some time, I’m afraid,” he says. “And they’ve been instructed to take the scenic route back to the palace.” With an empty smile, he peeks out the window as we weave down unfamiliar alleys. “We’re not here to hurt you, Iris.”

“Good. I didn’t think you were foolish enough to try,” I shoot back, a little impeded by Anabel’s lethal grip. “Do you mind?” I sneer at her.

With a patronizing bow of her head, she releases me, but doesn’t back away. Keeping me within easy reach. Under my clothes, I try to gather moisture on my skin, pulling it from the air. And the cold, terrified sweat breaking out over my body. Maybe I can get some kind of shield ready if she tries to obliterate my fingers.