War Storm
Page 15

Tiora answers as Mother winces. “Duty first. Honor always.”
The memory warms my insides. What lies ahead isn’t easy, but it’s what I must do. I have purpose in that, at the very least.
“My duty is to protect the Lakelands as well as you do,” I tell them. “My marriage to Maven may not win the war, but it gives us a chance. It puts a wall between us and the wolves at the door. As for my honor—I have none until Father is avenged.”
“Agreed,” Tiora snarls.
“Agreed,” Mother whispers, her voice a shadow.
I stare over her shoulder, at the face of the smiling god. I draw strength from her smirk, her confidence. She assures me. “Maven, his kingdom, they’re a shield, but a sword too. We have to use him, even though he’s a danger to us all.”
Mother scoffs. “Especially you.”
“Yes, especially me.”
“I never should have agreed,” she hisses. “It was your father’s idea.”
“I know, and it was a good one. I don’t blame him.” I don’t blame him. How many nights did I spend alone in Whitefire Palace, awake and telling myself I felt no remorse? No anger at having been sold like a pet or an acre of land? It was a lie then, and a lie now. But my anger at such things died with my father.
“When all this is over—” Mother says.
Tiora cuts her off. “If we win—”
“When we win,” Mother says, spinning on her heel. Her eyes flash, catching a spangle of light. In the center of the temple chamber, the curling fountain slows its motions, the steady fall of water easing in its journey. “When your father is bathed by the blood of his killers, when the Scarlet Guard is exterminated like so many overgrown rats”—the water stops, suspended by her fervor—“there will be little reason to leave you in Norta. And even less to leave an unstable, unfit king on the throne in Archeon. Especially one who is so foolish with the blood of his own people, and ours.”
“Agreed,” my sister and I whisper in unison.
With even motion, Mother turns her head to the frozen fountain, shaping the liquid to her liking. It arcs in the air, like a glass complexity. Light plays off the water, splitting into prisms of every color. Mother doesn’t flinch, unblinking against the flash of sun. “The Lakelands will wash clean those godless nations. Conquer Norta. And the Rift too. They gnaw at each other already, sacrificing their own for such petty rivalries. It won’t be long until their strength is spent. There will be no escape from the fury of the line of Cygnet.”
I have always been proud of my mother, even when I was a child. She is a great woman, duty and honor personified. Clear-eyed, unyielding. A mother to her entire kingdom as well as her children. I realize now I didn’t know the half of it. The resolve beneath her still surface, as strong as any storm. And what a storm it will be.
“Let them face the flood,” I say, an old promise of judgment. The one we use to punish traitors. And enemies of every kind.
“What of the Reds? The ones with abilities, in the mountain country? They have spies running through our own kingdom.” Tiora furrows her brow, cutting a canyon in her skin. I want to smooth away her infinite cares, but she’s right.
People like Mare Barrow must be accounted for. They’re part of this too. We’re fighting them too.
“We use Maven against them,” I tell Tiora. “He has an obsession with newbloods, the lightning girl especially. He’ll pursue them to the ends of the earth if need be, and spend all his strength doing it.”
Mother nods in grim approval. “And Piedmont?”
“I did as you said.” Slowly, I straighten, proud of myself. “That seed is planted. Maven needs Bracken as much as we do. He’ll try to rescue the children. If we can win Bracken to our side, use his armies instead of our own . . .”
My sister finishes for me. “The Lakelands can be preserved. Our strength gathered and waiting. Bracken could even be made to turn against Maven.”
“Yes,” I say. “If we’re lucky, they’ll all kill each other long before we show our true selves.”
Tiora clucks her tongue. “I put little stock in luck when your life hangs in the balance, petasorre.” Little sister.
Though she says the word with love, meaning no disrespect, it still makes me uncomfortable. Not because she is the heir, the eldest, the daughter meant to rule. But because it shows how much she cares and how much she will sacrifice for me. Something I don’t want from her, or my mother. My family has given enough.
“It must be you who rescues Bracken’s children,” my mother says, her voice sullen and cold. Her eyes match her tone. “A daughter of Cygnet. Maven will send his Silvers, but he won’t go himself. He doesn’t have the skill or stomach for such things. But if you go with his soldiers, if you return to Prince Bracken with his children in your arms . . .”
I swallow hard. I’m not a dog playing fetch. I told Maven that only minutes ago, and I almost say the same to my royal mother.
“It’s too dangerous,” Tiora says quickly, almost stepping between us.
Mother holds her ground, unflinching as always. “You cannot leave our borders, Ti. And if Bracken is to be swayed, to us and us alone, we must be the ones to help him. Such is the Piedmont way.” She clenches her teeth. “Or would you rather Maven do it and win himself a staunch ally? That boy is dangerous enough alone. Don’t give him another sword to wield.”
Even though it wounds me, both my pride and my resolve, I see reason in her words. If Maven is the one to lead, or to order a rescue of the children, then Maven will certainly win Bracken’s allegiance. That cannot be allowed.
“Of course not,” I answer slowly. “It must be me, then. Somehow.”
Tiora concedes too. She seems to shrink. “I’ll have my diplomats make contact. Discreetly as they can. What else do you need?”
I nod, feeling a numbness in my fingers. Rescue Bracken’s children. I don’t even know where to start.
The seconds drag as they pass, more difficult to ignore.
If we stay in here much longer, the Nortans will get suspicious, I think, biting my lip. Maven, especially, if he isn’t already. My legs turn to lead as I back away from Mother, my hands suddenly cold without her warmth.
As I pass the fountain, I run my fingers in the arcing water, wetting the tips. I draw the liquid over my eyelids, smudging the dark makeup on my lashes. False tears roll down my cheeks, black as the mourning flowers.
“Pray, Ti,” I tell my sister. “Trust the gods if you will not trust luck.”
“My trust in them is absolute,” she replies, mechanical, automatic. “I’ll pray for us all.”
I linger at the door, one hand on the simple knob. “As will I.” Then I pull, popping the bubble around us, ending what could be our last moments of security for years to come. Under my breath, I mumble to myself, “Will this work?”
Somehow Mother hears me. She looks up, her eyes inescapable as I back away.
“Only the gods know.”
FIVE
Mare
The dropjet feels sluggish on the air, heavier than usual. I sway against my safety restraints, eyes lidded. The motion of the craft paired with the comforting buzz of electricity has me half asleep. The engines chug calmly, despite the extra weight. More cargo, I know. The hold is filled to the brim with the spoils of Corvium. Munitions, guns, explosives, weapons of every kind. Military uniforms, rations, fuel, batteries. Even bootlaces. Half is going to Piedmont now, and the rest is on another jet, returning to Davidson’s mountains.