War Storm

I can’t say the same.

Mother is never far from my thoughts. Not just because of her voice running through my mind, but simply because I miss her. The ache is permanent, I think, a dull pain that dogs my every step. Like a missing finger or a shortness of breath. Nothing has ever been the same since she died. I remember it, the sight of her brutalized corpse in that Red girl’s hands. The memory is a punch in the gut.

It isn’t the same with Father. I saw his corpse too, but felt nothing for it. Not anger, not sadness. Just emptiness. If I ever loved him, I have no memory of it. And searching for one only gives me a headache. Of course, Mother removed it. To protect me, she said, from a man who did not love me as he loved her rival’s son, my older brother. The perfect boy in all things.

That love for Cal is gone too, but sometimes I feel its ghost. Moments return at the oddest times, drawn out by a smell or a sound or a word spoken a certain way. Cal loved me—I know that, of course. He proved it many times, over many years. Mother had to be more careful with him, but in the end, it wasn’t she who severed the last thread between us.

It was Mare Barrow.

My brilliant fool of a brother couldn’t keep sight on all that was his, and what little was mine.

I remember the first time I watched the security footage of them together, dancing in a forgotten room tucked away in the summer palace. It was Cal’s idea, their meetings. Their dance lessons. Mother sat by my side, near enough if I needed her. I reacted as she trained me to. Without feeling, without even blinking. He kissed her like he didn’t know or didn’t care what she meant to anyone but himself.

Because Cal is selfish, Mother croons in the memory and in my mind, her voice like silk and like a razor. The words are familiar, another old refrain. Cal sees only what he can win and what he can take. He thinks he owns the world. And one day, if you let him, he will. What will that leave for you, Maven Calore? The scraps, the leftovers? Or nothing at all?

My brother and I have something in common, at least. We both want the crown and we’re both willing to sacrifice anything to have it. At least I, in my worst moments, when the wretchedness threatens to overwhelm me, can blame such wanting on my mother.

But who can he blame?

And somehow everyone calls me the monster.

I’m not surprised by it. Cal walks in a light I’ll never find.

Iris is always going on and on about her gods, and sometimes I believe they must be real. How else is my brother still living, still smiling, still a constant threat to me? He must be blessed, by someone or something. My only consolation is knowing I’m right about him, and always will be. Right about Mare too. I poisoned her enough, tainted her enough. She’ll never tolerate another king, not for any amount of love. And Cal has discovered that firsthand, another gift of mine across the miles between us.

I only wish I’d figured out a way to keep that strange newblood, the one who bridged a connection between Mare and me. But the risk was too great, the reward too small. An obliterated base for the chance to speak with her again? It was a foolish trade, and even for her, I wouldn’t make it.

But I wish I could.

She’s out there across the waves, somewhere in the city along the distant, crimson coast. Alive, obviously. Or else we would know it. Even though it’s only been a few hours, the death of the lightning girl would not be a secret for long. The same goes for my brother. They survived. The thought makes my head pound.

Harbor Bay was a logical choice for Cal, but the Red tech slum was obviously Mare’s own brainchild. She is so married to her cause, and all her red-blooded pride. I should have predicted she would go after New Town. It’s sad, really, to know that her cause relies on people like Cal, his sneering grandmother, and the Samos traitors. None of them will give her what she wants. It will only end in bloodshed. And probably her own death, when all is done.

If only I had kept her closer. A better guard, a tighter leash. Where would we be now? And where would I be if Mother could have removed her from me, as she removed Father and Cal? I can’t say. I don’t know. It hurts my head to wonder.

I look down the deck, at the soldiers manning the ship. She might have been beside me, if not for a few missteps. The wind in her hair, her eyes shadowed and sunken, wasted by the manacles keeping her tethered to me. An ugly sight, but still beautiful.

At the very least, she is still alive. Her heart still beats.

Not like Thomas.

I wince as his name crosses my thoughts. Mother couldn’t remove him either. Not the agony of his loss, nor the memory of his love.

That future is gone, killed, chased out of existence.

A dead future, that horrible newblood seer used to call it. I think Jon was my tormentor more than I was his jailer. Clearly he could have left whenever he wanted, and whatever he accomplished in my palace is still budding fruit. Again I look out to the water, to the east this time, over a vast and endless ocean. The emptiness should calm me, but two early stars hang above the waves. The bright, cheerful lights offend me too.

Queen Cenra’s ship is easy to spot as we sail closer. The waves beside it are calm, almost still, a flat quelling of water. Her ship hardly rocks, even this far from land.

The Lakelander ships aren’t as sleek as ours. Our manufacturing capabilities are better than those in the Lakelands, thanks in very large part to the tech slums that Mare is intent on destroying.

Even with her ships and my own, our guns are few, and anything we might use against the city will certainly meet resistance from magnetrons and newbloods, if not my foul brother himself. Only the Harbor Bay battleship, Iris’s for now, has any kind of artillery that could be of use this far out.

I glare at it, the steel craft anchored alongside Cenra’s ship. It casts a long, jagged shadow, planted firmly between the Lakelander queen and the coast. My scheming queen is using it as a shield. A very expensive shield.

I growl to myself as I board her ship, careful to keep my feet when I step from one deck to the next. My own Sentinels flank me as we walk, too close for comfort. I keep my hands at my sides, ungloved, fingers bare in threat.

“This way, Your Majesty,” a single Lakelander says, beckoning from an open door bolted with rivets and a wheel lock. “The queens are waiting.”

“Tell them the king waits on deck,” I reply, turning aside to walk the edge of the ship.

This isn’t a pleasure cruise, and there aren’t many places to stand, let alone congregate. But I’d rather stay on deck than go below, to be trapped behind steel with a pair of nymphs. My Sentinels walk ahead of me, careful to keep in formation, as we climb a set of stairs to a landing overlooking the prow.

It doesn’t take the queens long to appear, moving in tandem.

Cenra wears a flowing uniform, dark blue with silver and gold chasing. A black sash divides her body from shoulder to hip, clasped in precious sapphire. In mourning still. I don’t think Mother wore her mourning clothes for more than a few days. Perhaps the Lakelander queen cared for her husband. How strange. She watches me, storm-eyed, her skin a cold bronze washed gold by the setting sun.

I feel as if I can read the battle on Iris. Her blue sleeves are charred to the elbow, the threads stained in two kinds of blood. And her long black hair is undone, still wet, brushed over one shoulder. A healer trails her, tentatively working on Iris’s arms as she walks, smoothing away burns and cuts.

Keeping her at an arm’s length has been a wise decision. I want little to do with my wife, who would probably prefer to kill me. But like Reds, she can be controlled by fear. And need. She has both in equal measure.