War Storm
Page 40

In spite of my team at my back, waiting in the blissful safety of the passage, I feel more vulnerable than ever, a newborn baby exposed on a cliff.
The children sleep soundly, each one tucked into a nicely made bed. I glance around, expecting some kind of guard in the shadows. There’s nothing but the dim silhouettes of a well-furnished room and curtained windows. As in the passage, they look out through the pines and down into the city valley. Another torture. To see the world beyond your reach.
“Help me carry them out,” I mutter, eager to be rid of this place.
I reach for the dark-haired child in the bed closest to me, putting a hand to her face. Ready to clamp my fingers over her mouth, should she scream. Bracken’s daughter shifts at my touch but doesn’t wake. In the dim light, her skin is the color of polished jet.
“Wake up, Charlotta,” I murmur. My heartbeat doubles. We need to go.
Sentinel Haven is not so steady with Prince Michael. He slides one arm behind his shoulders and another under his knees before scooping him up. Like his sister, the boy is slow to wake. Groggy, sluggish. The Silent Stone has wreaked its havoc upon them both.
“Who . . . ?” the boy mumbles, his eyes fluttering open and shut.
Beneath me, his sister stirs, roused as I shake her shoulders gently. She blinks up at me, brows knitting in confusion. “Is it time for our walk?” she asks, her voice high and breathy. “We won’t fuss, promise.”
“Yes,” I tell her quickly, seizing the opportunity. “We’re going to go for a walk away from the Stone. But you both have to be very quiet, and do exactly as we say.”
It isn’t a lie, and it energizes both of them as much as possible. Charlotta even wraps her arms around my neck, allowing me to lift her. She’s lighter than I expected, more like a bird than a girl. She smells fresh, clean. I would think the children well treated if not for the Silent Stone.
Michael curls in Sentinel Haven’s arms. “You’re new,” he says up to the Sentinel.
I can’t get out of the room fast enough, and I suck in a healing breath as we step back into the passage. The children both exhale, and Charlotta relaxes in my arms.
“Remember, do as we say,” I mumble, averting my eyes from what Rydal and Niro have prepared.
The boy nods, wordless, but the girl looks up at me with a keen glance I wouldn’t expect from a child. “Are you rescuing us?” she whispers.
I see no reason to lie. The words stick anyway. Because I might fail. I might get them killed. I might die in this attempt. “Yes,” I force out.
“Let me see them.”
Niro wastes no time, flashing a light in both their faces that startles even me. “Quiet,” I murmur when Michael yelps. I glare at Niro over the girl’s head but he ignores me, turning his focus on them. His eyes dart back and forth like some kind of ticking machine as he memorizes their features.
When he turns back to the bundle on the ground, I can’t look away fast enough. Still, I catch the sight of them. The two little Red bodies.
They are still breathing. Heavily drugged, already too far gone to wake up without aid. But still breathing.
Niro needs living flesh to do his work.
Sentinel Haven catches my eye, and he turns as I do, putting his back to the skin healer and the Reds. We can’t let the children see what is being done for them. And we don’t want to watch it happen.
Weakness, something whispers in me when I flinch at the sound of a blade singing out of its sheath. Keep your eyes open, Iris Cygnet.
“Such artistry,” I hear Niro tell himself, his voice wolfish and full of glee.
His work is mostly silent.
Mostly.
ELEVEN
Mare
I barely slept, despite my exhaustion. It took us almost until dawn to get back to Ascendant, the healers working on us along the way. When we arrived, we only had a few hours until Davidson’s planned address to his assembled government. I tried to sleep, but by the time the adrenaline from the raider battle wore off, I was racked with nerves for the coming meeting. I spent what was left of the night staring at the edges of my curtains, watching the blue light of predawn grow. Now I can barely sit still as I wait on the lower terrace, fussing with the edges of my dress. It is a harsh gown, a deep, spangled purple belted in gold at my waist, with ballooning sleeves gathered at the wrists. The collar plunges, showing the edge of Maven’s brand, and I’ve braided my hair back away from my face. I proudly display the scars branching down my neck. My idea, not Gisa’s. I want to show the Montfort politicians how much I’ve already sacrificed. And I want to look like as much of the lightning girl as I can, even if that person isn’t real. I can draw strength from her, as I draw strength from Mareena too. They may be false versions of myself, but they are also pieces of someone real, however small.
The sunrise is strange in the mountains. It spreads behind me, sending jagged rays of light up and over the peaks. Slowly but steadily, darkness bleeds from the valley, fleeing with the morning mist along the slopes of the city. Ascendant seems to wake up with the light, and the low hum of activity buzzes up to the palace.
Queen Anabel is not one to be late, especially for something as important as this. She descends from the palace entrance, her grandson and their guards close at hand. Julian hangs back a bit, arms folded into his long, golden robes. He meets my eye and nods in greeting. I return the gesture. I might not agree with his choosing to back his nephew, but I understand the choice. I understand supporting family over everything else.
In her Lerolan colors, red and flaming orange, Anabel seems more like a Sentinel guarding her king than his grandmother. She is just as deadly. She doesn’t wear a gown, but a brocaded coat with a matching tunic and black leggings beneath, their hems set with glinting bronze like pieces of armor. Anabel Lerolan is ready for the kind of battle not fought on the field. Her smile at me, across the terrace, does not meet her eyes.
“Your Majesty,” I say, greeting her with a dip of my head. “Tiberias,” I add, my eyes flicking to him.
He smirks to himself, darkly amused by my refusal to call him anything else. Not his nickname. Not even his title.
“Good morning,” he replies. He looks handsome as ever. Perhaps more so. The raider battle hangs on him, and I can almost smell the ash he spent the night scrubbing away. Maybe don’t think about him bathing, I snap to myself.
The dawn suits the fire prince, in his scarlet cloak and raven silk underclothes. He has his crown on his neat, black hair. Magnetron-made, I bet. Another of Evangeline’s creations. It suits him too. No jewels, no intricacies. Just a simple band of raw iron sculpted like a braid of flame. I trace it with my eyes, focusing on such a small thing that he loves so much.
While there is still a hissing tension between us, I don’t feel the same anger or rage I did yesterday. Our words on the mountain, few as they were, had some calming effect. I wish we had more time to come to some sort of understanding.
But what understanding can there be?
Try as I might, I can’t stamp out the hope still burning in my heart. I still want him to choose me. And I would still forgive him if he admitted his mistake. That hope refuses to die, stupid as it might be.
Farley’s appearance shocks me most of all. Not because her leg is healed, good as new. That I expected. She follows the immaculate Premier Davidson out, and at first I don’t recognize her. Gone is the battered uniform, her dark red coveralls stained by use and worn by battle. This is a dress uniform instead, more akin to something I’ve seen Tiberias or Maven wear. Never Farley.