War Storm

Next to me, she shifts, trying to get comfortable. Eventually she settles on curling up at my side, one leg kicked free. “Even though Maven can’t change, other people can,” she mumbles against my chest. The vibrations of her voice make me shiver.

It takes little concentration to douse the candles burning all over the room, plunging us both into a gentle blue darkness.

“I don’t want to marry her.”

“That’s never been my issue.”

“I know that,” I whisper.

It isn’t in me to give her what she wants. Not when it means betraying my father, my birthright, and any chance I may have at making some kind of difference. She might not agree, but I can do more on a throne, with a crown, than I can without them.

“After the parlay,” I breathe, hesitant, “once Harbor Bay is secure, I think we hit Gray Town next. Full strength. We won’t catch another tech slum off guard, not after New Town.”

In the darkness, the brush of her lips on mine takes me off guard. I jump at the sensation. I feel her smile against my skin.

“Thank you,” she whispers, shifting back into place.

“It’s the right thing to do.”

But am I doing it for the wrong reason? For her?

Does that even matter?

“What did Julian give you?” she mumbles, half asleep. Mare is just as tired as I am, if not more. The day has been too long and too bloody.

I blink in the darkness, staring at nothing. Her breathing slows and evens as she drifts away.

She is asleep when I finally answer.

“A copy of my mother’s diary.”

TWENTY-FOUR

Mare

It’s still dark outside when I wake, roused by shuffling across the room. I tense on instinct, ready to fight. For a second, I’m puzzled by the sight of Cal in the same chamber as me. Then I remember the events of yesterday. His near death, and the way it broke us both, shattering whatever resolve we’d had before.

He’s already dressed, looking regal in the soft light of a few candles. I watch for a second, seeing him without any kind of mask or shield. Despite his broad, tall form, he looks younger in his fine clothing. His jacket is a deep bloodred, trimmed in black, with silver buttons at the cuffs. The pants match, tucked into oiled leather boots. He hasn’t donned a cape or a crown yet, leaving both discarded on his desk. He moves slowly, fastening the buttons up his throat. Shadows ring his eyes. He looks more exhausted than he did last night, if that’s possible. I wonder if he slept at all, or if he spent the night tortured by the prospect of seeing Maven again.

When he realizes I’m awake, he straightens, shoulders squaring toward me. He fills the kingly mold quickly. The transformation is small but unmistakable. He puts up his guard, puts on a mask, even with me. I wish he wouldn’t, but I understand why. I do it too.

“We leave in an hour,” he says, finishing with his buttons. “I’ve had some clothes brought into the salon for you. Choose whatever you like. Or . . .” He stumbles, as if he’s said something wrong. “Whatever you want from your own wardrobe.”

“I didn’t exactly bring my wardrobe to a battle, and I don’t think I can fit into one of your uniforms,” I reply, chuckling a little. With a reluctant groan, I stretch out of the blankets and shudder at the touch of cold air. I sit up, intensely aware of the tangled braid over my shoulder. “I’ll find something. Should I look a certain way?”

A muscle feathers in his cheek. “However you wish,” he says, his voice oddly strained.

“Should I be distracting?” I ask, gingerly trying to work the knots out of my hair. He looks at my fingers, not at me.

“I think you’ll be distracting no matter what you wear.”

My chest tightens with warmth. “Flattery will get you nowhere, Cal.”

But he isn’t wrong. It’s been months since I last saw Maven in the flesh, his form retreating through the surge of a panicked crowd. Iris ran with him, defending her new husband from the attack on their wedding in the capital. It was a rescue mission, not just for me, but for dozens of newbloods manipulated into his service.

I could wear a potato sack and Maven would still devour me with his eyes.

Yawning, I pad across the room and into the bathroom for a quick, blistering-hot shower. Part of me wishes Cal would join in, but he stays behind, and I scrub the last of my aches away alone. After, I enter the salon to find a rainbow in the semidarkness. With a slight burst of concentration, I make the electric lights flicker to life overhead, illuminating the chamber full of various garments. I’m glad for the wide choice of clothing, but even more grateful for the emptiness of the salon. No maids to attend to my hair and face, no healers to work away the gnawing exhaustion or liven up my body. I’m given only what I need, and exactly what I want.

If only Cal could do that in all things.

I try not to think beyond this morning. He still hasn’t turned away from the crown, and I am still just as dedicated to my cause, if not more so. I can’t still be in love with a king, when everything I’m doing is to destroy his throne. Destroy all notions of kings and queens and the kingdoms at the mercy of their will. But the love just won’t go away, and neither will the need.

I wonder who laid out the variety of clothing, draping chairs and couches with a selection of gowns, suits, blouses, skirts, and pants, with no fewer than six different pairs of shoes on the floor beside them. Many of them are gold, either patterned in dusty yellow or trimmed with the colors of Cal’s mother. She was a thin woman, judging by the narrow waistlines of her dresses. Smaller than I would expect for the mother of the man in the room behind me. I avoid her clothing as best I can and search for something that doesn’t carry the weight of a dead woman.

I settle for a flowing dress belted at the waist, dyed a deep, rich navy blue. The colors of someone else’s mother. It’s velvet, and I’ll certainly sweat out of it later on, but the neckline, a gentle swoop below my collarbone, puts my brand on full display. Let Maven see what he’s done to me and never forget what kind of monster he is. I feel stronger as I pull it on, as if the dress is some kind of armor.

I can only imagine what kind of elegant monstrosity Evangeline will pull together for the meeting. Perhaps a gown of razor blades. I hope she does. Evangeline Samos excels in moments such as these, and I can’t wait to unleash her on her former betrothed, unbridled by any kind of etiquette or scheme.

When I finish, I comb out my drying hair, letting it fall loose about my shoulders. The gray ends gleam in the lamplight, sharp in contrast to the brown. I am a strange-looking person, I think as I examine myself in a mirror. A Red girl in Silver finery never ceases to surprise me. My skin glows golden with the low light, stubbornly alive and stubbornly Red. I’m less haggard than I thought, my brown eyes luminous with both fear and determination.

I draw some comfort from knowing that Cal’s mother, though she was Silver, wasn’t fitted to this life either. It’s written so clearly in the portrait of her, which lies against the far wall, nestled next to a pair of ornate chairs.

I wonder where Cal will hang her. Out of sight, or always in reach?

Coriane Jacos had soft blue eyes, if the painting is a good likeness. Like a sky before dawn, the haze of blue upon a horizon. Almost colorless, drained of a deeper shade. She looks more like Julian than like her son. Both have the same chestnut hair, hers curling artfully over one shoulder, well dressed with creamy pearls and gold chain. Their faces are similar too. Drawn, older than their years. But while Julian’s strain has always seemed pleasant, the accepted frustration of a scholar constantly working a puzzle, Coriane’s looks bone-deep. She was a sad woman, I’m told, and it shows even in her portrait.