War Storm

“I only meant—”

“He killed your father for another king,” she says slowly. “He is no one, Iris.”

“Maybe.” On shaky limbs, I force myself to my feet. I loom over her, and she has to look up to see my face. An odd position, an odd sensation. To have this power over my mother, even a power so small. I suck in another breath. “Anabel offered up Volo Samos as well.”

Below me, she blinks. Eyelids closing and opening, revealing a very different pair of eyes. They spark, alight.

“Now, that is something interesting. And perhaps impossible.”

I remember Anabel as she leaned forward, bronze eyes gleaming in the light of afternoon. There was no lie in her, only hunger. Only need. “I don’t think so.”

“What do they want in return?”

Shaking, I tell her. Let her make this decision for me, because I cannot make it myself.

“‘Tiberias the Seventh, rightful King of Norta, Flame of the North, alongside his allies the Free Republic of Montfort, the Scarlet Guard, and the independent Kingdom of the Rift, sends word from his temporary capital of Harbor Bay.’” The Sentinel reads from the neatly typed communication, his voice a bit muffled behind his jeweled mask. The floodlights of the ship deck illuminate him in blinding red and orange. Behind him there is only darkness. No stars, no moon. The whole world could be empty.

“Temporary, that’s presumptuous,” Mother sniffs, turning her face in to the cool wind blowing off the black ocean. We exchange glances, annoyed by the pageantry. Flame of the North. What nonsense.

“That’s Cal,” Maven replies from his place among his guards. He called us to hear the message ourselves, summoning us to his ship. “He is a creature of want.”

With a raised finger, he indicates for the stocky Sentinel to continue. I recognize his voice and the eyes peering out from his mask. A vibrant blue, made electric by the sharp light overhead. Haven, I know, remembering the guard who accompanied me on my journey into Montfort.

“‘I control the city behind you,’” he reads. I think of the older brother, the warrior, wreathed in flame. “‘I control the southern borders, from Delphie to our allies in the Rift. I control hundreds of miles of coastline. The entirety of the Beacon region, led by Governor Rhambos and his house, has pledged loyalty to the true king. I have this kingdom in my fist, Maven, and you within my grasp.’”

Did we know about Rhambos? I glance across the deck, looking to my twisted husband. Maven’s deep scowl is confirmation enough. That betrayal is a surprise. Maven barely responds to the Sentinel’s words, only hissing out a breath. “Traitor,” I think I hear him mutter.

Sentinel Haven forges on.

“‘You have allies beyond your borders, Maven, but few within them. None who will not abandon you as my victories mount. The winds are blowing, the tide is changing. Norta cannot exist as she did beneath our ancestors, and I will not rest until I reclaim the birthright you stole from me, at the cost of our father’s life.’”

The guards rustle a little, but none of them speak. To them, this could be the wild accusation of a traitor, as Maven has painted his brother to be. Seduced by a Red freak, manipulated into corruption and murder. But it’s probably more likely a confirmation of what we all know to be true. Tiberias Calore did not kill his father. Not willingly. Not the way Maven has said.

Next to me, Mother fixes her eyes on my husband. They gleam, catching the harsh light.

He doesn’t react, still and smooth as glass. In his black uniform, his body seems to blend into the darkness, invisible but for his white face and long-fingered hands. Despite his brother’s best attempts, Maven stays collected, reluctant to give over to a fiery temper.

“‘We are prepared to offer terms to all members of your alliance.’” Sentinel Haven rustles the page as he reads. “‘To Her Majesty Queen Cenra of the Lakelands and His Highness Prince Bracken of Piedmont. To you, Maven, usurper and murderer though you may be. No more blood need be spilled in this war of ours. Let us preserve what we can of the kingdom we were born to serve.’”

Such charming words. I wonder if it was written by committee. Anabel, at least, had a controlling hand in the communication. Her fingerprints are all over the statement.

“‘We will meet upon the island of your choosing.’”

Sentinel Haven clears his throat, his eyes flicking to me first. Then to his king, a person living on borrowed time upon a stolen throne.

“‘At dawn.’”

We wait in silence, watching Maven as he weighs his options. He knew this was coming, and is hardly surprised. Still, he snaps, slowly at first, then faster and faster. A clenching fist, the flamemaker bracelet spinning on a fine-boned wrist. It spits a spark that blooms, growing, a fireball burning white hot and icy blue at its core. With a manic smile, Maven tosses it out onto the water. It trails, a near comet, reflecting with a hellish glow in the choppy water, before he lets it hiss into the nothing among the waves.

“Dawn, then,” he repeats.

I can tell by the set of his shoulders that he has no intention of negotiating. I can only guess as to his motive, but I think it rests solely on one Silver prince and one Red lightning girl.

TWENTY-THREE

Cal

I shift, uncomfortable as the minutes wear on. Midnight comes and goes. Only her eyes move, skimming the page with blurring speed. She might have it memorized by now. Mare wanted no part of the message to Maven, remaining in my rooms while the rest of us crafted it. I expected her to be gone when I came back. But she stayed.

I still can’t believe what happened. And I still can’t believe she’s sitting here, on my bed, in the middle of the night. After all that’s passed between us.

She stayed.

I’ve given up focusing on the papers in front of me. Counts, mostly. Of soldiers, civilians, casualties, resources. Enough to make my head spin. Julian is better at deciphering all this, reducing everything to the most important details so I can see the larger picture. But I need the distraction, if only to keep me from the haunting little book in the desk drawer. I almost want to tell Julian to take it back. Keep his so-called gift until this war is won and I actually have the capacity to face what he wants me to face.

Norta’s situation requires my attention, not the book. And our situation is dire. Harbor Bay is ours, but it’s a poor capital. The city is too old, and vulnerable from all sides, and with Fort Patriot under repair, we’ll have to build up new defenses for the time being. At least the city is with us, if only in name. Rhambos surrendered, and the Reds of the Bay willingly follow their own leaders, the Red Watch, who are firmly allied to the Scarlet Guard. I tick off each group in my head, running down the endless list always racing through my brain. At this point, I think I even see it in my sleep.

With a sigh, I try to clear my mind. I focus on her instead. Strange that she is both the anchor against the storm and the storm itself.

Mare sits cross-legged on my bed, her head bent so her hair obscures half her face. The gray ends are creeping through the chocolate brown, dusting up against her collarbone. She keeps my night robe pulled tight around herself, the collar high enough to hide the brand on her skin. I shudder every time I see the mark burned into her and remember that my brother put it there. In the shifting candlelight, she looks like flame. Gold and red, with black shadows dancing at her edges. I watch quietly from my desk, one bare foot planted on the floor, the other on the desktop. My calf twinges, still aching from the battle, and I flex my toes, trying to work out some of the pain. I wish I hadn’t sent the healer away earlier, but it’s too late in the evening to call anyone back. I’ll just have to bear it until morning, along with the other small pains still cropping up whenever I move.