War Storm
Page 4

As we ascend the steps of the tower, I keep my hands firmly fisted in my pockets. The prick of an earring stings my flesh, the red stone warm against my hand. I should throw it out a window. If there’s one thing I should forget, it’s him.
But the earring remains.
Side by side, we enter the council chamber again. The edges of my vision blur, and I try to fall into a familiar place. Observe. Memorize. Look for cracks in the words spoken, find secrets and lies in what they leave unsaid. It’s a goal as much as a distraction. And I realize why I was so keen on coming back here, even when I had every right to run away.
Not because this is important. Not because I can be of use.
But because I am selfish, weak, and afraid. I can’t be alone with myself, not now, not yet.
So I sit, and I listen, and I watch.
And through it all, I feel his eyes.
TWO
Evangeline
It would be easy to kill her.
Spindles of rose gold weave between the red, black, and orange jewels at Anabel Lerolan’s neck. One twitch and I could slice the oblivion’s jugular. Bleed out her body and her scheme. End her life and her betrothal in front of everyone in the room. My mother, my father, Cal—not to mention the Red criminals and foreign freaks we find ourselves tied to. Not Barrow, though. She hasn’t returned yet. Probably still wailing over her lost prince.
It would mean another war, of course, shattering an alliance already spiderwebbed with cracks. Could I do such a thing—trade my loyalties for happiness? It feels shameful just to ask the question, even in the safety of my own head.
The old woman must feel my gaze. Her eyes flick to me for a second, the smirk on her lips unmistakable as she settles back into her chair, resplendent in red, black, and orange.
Those are Calore colors, not just Lerolan. Her allegiances are abrasively clear.
Shivering, I drop my gaze and focus on my hands instead. One of my nails is horribly cracked. Broken in battle. With a breath, I mold one of my titanium rings into a claw, drawing it over my finger into a talon. I click it against the arm of my throne, if only to annoy Mother. She glances at me out of the corner of her eye, the only evidence of her disdain.
I fantasize about killing Anabel a little too long, losing track of the council as they scheme in their wretched circles. Our numbers have dwindled, leaving only the collected leaders of our hastily united factions. Generals, lords, captains, and royalty. The Montfort leader speaks, then Father, then Anabel, and over again. All in restrained tones, forcing false smiles and empty promises.
I wish Elane were here. I should have brought her. She asked to come. In truth, she begged. Elane has always wanted to keep close, even in the face of lethal danger. I try not to think of our last moments together, her body in my arms. She’s thinner than I am, but softer. Ptolemus waited outside my door, making sure we weren’t disturbed.
“Let me go with you,” she whispered in my ear, a dozen times, a hundred times. But her father and mine forbade it.
Enough, Evangeline.
I curse at myself now. They would have never known in the middle of the chaos. Elane’s a shadow, after all, and an invisible girl is easy to smuggle. Tolly would have helped. He wouldn’t stop his wife from coming along, not if I asked for his aid. But I couldn’t. There was a battle to be won first, a battle I didn’t know if we could win. And I wasn’t about to take that risk with her. She’s talented, but Elane Haven is no warrior. And in the thick of it, she would only be a distraction and a worry for me. I could afford neither then. But now . . .
Stop it.
My fingers curl against the arms of my throne, begging to carve the iron into ragged pieces. At home, the many metal galleries of Ridge House made for easy therapy. I could destroy in peace. Channel any fresh rage into constantly changing statues, without having to worry about what anyone else might think. I wonder if I might find some privacy here in Corvium to do just that. The promise of such release keeps me sane. I scratch the clawed ring on my chair, metal on metal. Soft enough that only Mother hears. She can’t scold me for it, not in front of the rest of our strange council. If I have to be on display, I might as well enjoy the few advantages.
Finally, I wrench my thoughts away from Anabel’s vulnerable neck and Elane’s absence. If I’m going to figure a way out of my father’s plan, I have to at least pay attention.
“Their army is on the retreat. King Maven’s forces cannot be allowed the time to regroup,” Father says coolly. Behind him, the tall windows of the tower show the sun beginning its descent into the clouds lingering on the western horizon. The obliterated landscape still smokes. “He’s licking his wounds.”
“The boy is already into the Choke,” Queen Anabel is quick to reply. The boy. She refers to Maven like he isn’t her grandson. I suppose she won’t acknowledge that anymore. Not after he helped kill her son, King Tiberias. Maven isn’t her blood, but Elara’s and Elara’s alone.
Anabel leans forward on her elbows, clasping her wrinkled hands together. Her old wedding ring, battered but gleaming, winks on one finger. When she took us all by surprise at Ridge House, announcing her intention to back her grandson, she wore no metal to speak of. To hide from our magnetron senses. Now she wears it openly, daring us to use her crown or her jewelry against her. Every part of her is a calculated choice. And she is not without weapons of her own. Anabel was a warrior before she was a queen, an officer at the Lakelander front. She is an oblivion, and her touch is deadly, able to obliterate and explode something—or someone.
If I didn’t hate what she’s forcing me into, I would respect her dedication at the very least.
“And at this hour, most of his forces will be beyond Maiden Falls and over the border,” she adds. “They’re in the Lakelands now.”
“The Lakelander army is wounded too, just as vulnerable. We should strike while we can, even just to pick off the stragglers.” My father looks from Anabel to one of our Silver lords. “The Laris fleet can be ready inside the hour, can’t they?”
Lord General Laris sharpens under my father’s gaze. His flask is empty now, leaving him to enjoy the drunken haze of victory. He coughs, clearing his throat. I can smell the alcohol on his breath from across the chamber. “It can, Your Majesty. You need only give the command.”
A low voice cuts him off. “I’ll oppose it if you do.”
Cal’s first words since returning from his spat with Mare Barrow are certainly not wasted. Like his grandmother, he wears black trimmed with red, having long ago discarded the borrowed uniform he wore in battle. He shifts in his seat next to Anabel, taking his assigned position as her cause and king. His uncle, Julian of House Jacos, holds his left while the Lerolan queen has his right. Flanked by both of them, Silvers of noble and powerful blood, he presents a united front. A worthy king for us to champion.
I hate him for it.
Cal could have ended my misery, broken our betrothal, refused Father’s offer of my hand. But for the crown, he threw Mare away. For the crown, he trapped me.
“What?” is all Father says. He is a man of few words, and even fewer questions. Just to hear him ask is unsettling, and I tense in spite of myself.
Cal draws back his shoulders, quietly spreading his broad frame. He rests his chin on his knuckles, brows knitted together in thought. He seems larger, older, smarter. On the same playing field as the king of the Rift.
“I said I would oppose an order to dispatch the Air Fleet, or any detachment of our coalition, to give chase into hostile territory,” Cal replies steadily. I have to admit, even without a crown, he has a royal way about him. An air that commands attention, if not respect. Not surprising, since he was trained for this, and Cal is nothing if not a very obedient student. His grandmother purses her lips into a tight but genuine smile. She’s proud of him. “The Choke is still a literal minefield, and we have very little intelligence to guide us on the other side of the falls. It could be a trap. I won’t risk soldiers on it.”