War Storm
Page 11

What I will do.
Boats break through the fog, moving quietly. The three crafts are familiar, their bows painted silver and blue. Only a single deck to each. Dawnboats aren’t built for war, but for speed, silence, and the will of powerful nymphs. Their hulls are specially grooved to catch forced currents as they do now.
It was my idea to send the boats. I couldn’t bear the thought of Father’s body dragged on the long march from Mour, the land the Nortans call the Choke. He would have to pass through many towns on the way, news of his death racing ahead of that gruesome parade. No, I wanted him to come home, so we could say good-bye first.
And so I wouldn’t lose my nerve.
Nymphs in Lakelander blue, our cousins of the Cygnet Line, crowd the deck of the lead dawnboat. Grief shadows their dark faces, each one mourning as we are. Father was well loved among our line, though he came from a lesser branch of the family. Mother is the royal one, descended from a long, unbroken lineage of monarchs. As such, she is not permitted to cross the borders of our country, except in the gravest of need. Tiora isn’t allowed to leave at all, even in war, to preserve the line of succession.
At least they will never share Father’s fate, to die in battle. Or mine, to live my days so far away from home.
My husband isn’t difficult to spot against the dark blue uniforms. Four Sentinels guard him, their flaming robes exchanged for tactical gear. But they still have their masks studded with dark gemstones, both beautiful and gruesome. Maven wears his usual black, standing out sharply despite his lack of medals, crown, or insignia. No monarch is stupid enough to march into battle with that kind of target painted on his body. Not that I think he fought at all. Maven isn’t a warrior—not on the battlefield, at least. He looks so small next to his soldiers and mine. Weak. I thought as much when we first met, eyeing each other across the pavilion in the middle of a minefield. He’s still a teenager, barely more than a child, a year younger than I am. Still, he knows how to use his appearance to his advantage. He plays to those assumptions. It works on his country, the people spoon-fed his lies and painted-on innocence. Reds and Silvers outside his court lap up the tales of his brother, the golden prince seduced by a spy and driven to murder. A juicy story, a lovely piece of gossip for people to latch on to. Paired with Maven’s bringing an end to the war between our countries, it makes Maven so much more appealing. And it puts him in an odd position. He is a king supported by his people, but not the ones closest to him. Not the nobles still clinging to his heels. They remain because they need him to preserve a now-delicate kingdom.
And, loath as I am to admit it, because Maven is a skilled court schemer. He balances the nobles well, playing houses off each other. All while maintaining an iron grip on the rest of the nation.
The royal court of Norta is a court of snakes, now more than ever.
Maven’s machinations will never work on me, though. I know better than to underestimate him. Especially now, when his obsessions seem to rule. His mind is as splintered as his country. Making him all the more dangerous.
The first boat glides to shore, its draft shallow enough to beach it a few yards from Mother. The nymphs go first, jumping into the water. The lake leaps away from their feet, allowing the cousins to walk on dry lakebed. Not for their sake, but for Maven’s.
He follows closely, jumping down to get on dry land as quickly as he can. Burners like him hold no love for water, and he eyes the liquid walls of his pathway with suspicion. I don’t expect any sympathy as he walks past me, his Sentinels in his wake, and I receive none. Not even a glance. For someone called the Flame of the North, his heart is brutally cold.
The Cygnet cousins remain by the boat and release their grip on the bay waters. They rush and swell before rising up, like a creature raising its head. Or a parent reaching out to hold a child.
Soldiers lift a board from the deck, revealing a familiar sight.
I’m not an infant. I’ve seen dead bodies before. My country has been at war for more than a century, and as the younger daughter, the second child, I’m free to walk the battle lines. I’m trained to fight, not to rule. It’s my duty to support my sister as Father did my mother, in whatever way she needs.
Tiora chokes back a rare sob. I take her hand.
“Still as the lakes, Ti,” I whisper to her. She squeezes my hand in reply. Her features tighten into a blank mask.
The Cygnet nymphs raise their arms and the water mirrors their action, bulging upward. Slowly, the soldiers lower the board and the corpse draped in a single white sheet. It floats on the surface, easing down from the boat.
Mother takes a few steps forward, moving deeper into the bay. She stops when her wrists are submerged, and I catch the subtle movement of her swirling fingers. My father’s body glides over the surface toward her, as if pulled by invisible strings. Our cousins march alongside the king, flanking him even in death. Two of them are crying.
When she reaches for the sheet, I fight the urge to shut my eyes. I want to preserve the memories I have of my father, not corrupt them all with the sight of his corpse. But I would regret it one day. Breathing slowly, I focus on maintaining some calm. The waters churn around my ankles, a gentle, swirling current to match the nausea in the pit of my stomach. I focus on it, tracing lazy circles with my mind to stop the worst of my grief from spilling over. I keep my teeth clenched, my chin high. The tears have not returned.
His face is strange, drained of color as well as life. His smooth brown skin, barely wrinkled despite his age, has a pale undertone, the sickly kind. I wish he were only sick, not dead. Mother puts her hands on either side of his face, staring down at him with a strength I can’t fathom. Her tears continue to hover like a swarm of glittering insects. After a long moment, she kisses his closed eyelids, fingers trailing through his long iron-gray hair. Then she cups her hands over his face, forming a bowl. The tears collect, flowing into her fingers. Finally she lets them go.
I almost expect him to flinch. But Father doesn’t move. He can’t anymore.
Tiora follows, using her hands to scoop water from the bay and trace it over his face. She lingers, studying him. She was always closer to our mother, as her position demands. It doesn’t lessen her pain, though. Her composure wavers and she turns away, holding up a hand to hide her face.
The world seems to shrink as I move through the water, my limbs sluggish and distant. Mother hovers, one hand on the sheet covering the rest of the body. She eyes me across him, her countenance still and empty. I know that look. I use it myself whenever I need to mask the storm of emotions beneath. I wore it on my wedding day. But then I was hiding fear, not pain.
Not like this.
I copy Tiora, pouring the water over my father. The droplets roll off his aquiline nose and down his cheekbones, pooling in the hair beneath his head. I brush away a strand of gray, suddenly wishing I could cut a lock for myself. Back in Archeon, I have a small temple—a shrine, more than anything—filled with candles and worn emblems of the nameless gods. Cramped as it may be, the tiny corner of the palace is the only spot I feel myself. I would like to keep him with me there.
An impossible wish.
When I pull back, Mother steps forward again. She puts her hands to the wooden board, palms flat. Tiora and I follow her lead. I’ve never done this before, and I wish I didn’t have to. But it is as the gods command. Return, they bid. To what you are, to your ability. Bury a greenwarden. Entomb a stoneskin in marble and granite. Drown a nymph.