War Storm
Page 42

He pauses, grinning at the responding wave of polite laughter. The bland joke is an easy tool. I can pick out exactly who his supporters are, simply by how much they laugh or grin. A few politicians remain stoic. To my surprise, they are both Red and Silver, judging by the undertones of their skin.
Davidson pushes on, pacing as he speaks. “As we’re all aware, our nation is a young one, built by our own hands over the last two decades. I am only the third premier, and many of you are in your first terms of office. Together we represent the will of our diverse people, and their interests, and of course we work to provide for their safety. In the past months, I have done what I’ve thought is necessary to uphold what our country is, and to safeguard what our country strives to be.” His face turns stern, the lines on his forehead deepening. “A beacon of freedom. A hope. A light in the darkness surrounding us. Montfort is a country, the only one on this continent, where the color of blood does not rule. Where Red and Silver, and Ardent, work in tandem, hand in hand, to build a better future for all of our children.”
My knuckles turn white in my lap as I squeeze my hands together. The country Davidson speaks of, what it represents—could it really be possible? A year ago, Mare Barrow, knee-deep in the mud of the Stilts, would not have believed it. Could not have. I was constrained both by what I was taught and by the only world I was allowed to see. My life was limited to the bounds of work or conscription. Each a different kind of doom. Both lives already lived by thousands, millions. There was no use dreaming that life could be different. It would only break an already broken heart.
It’s cruel to give hope where none should be. My father told me that. And even he would never say it again. Not now, when we’ve seen that hope is real.
And this place, this step toward a better world, is somehow real too.
I see it before my eyes. Red representatives with their blooming flushes alongside Silver. A newblood leader walking the floor before us. Farley, her blood red as the dawn, sitting so close to a Silver king. And even me. I’m here too. My voice matters. My hope matters.
I glance across Evangeline to the true king of Norta. He followed me here because he still loves me, a Red girl. And because he truly does try to see things for himself.
I hope he sees what I see here. And if he does take the throne, if we are unable to stop him, I hope he hears what the premier is saying.
He looks at his hands, his fingers clawed on the arms of his seat. His knuckles are just as white as mine.
“And yet we cannot claim to be free, we cannot claim to be any kind of beacon, if we allow atrocity on our borders,” Davidson continues. He stalks toward the lower seats, gazing at each politician in turn. “If we can look at the horizon and know there are Reds living as slaves, Ardents slaughtered, lives crushed beneath the feet of Silver overlords.”
The royal Silvers with us do not flinch. But they don’t do anything to deny what the premier is saying either. Anabel, Tiberias, and Evangeline keep their eyes forward, their expressions locked in place.
Davidson paces back, completing a circle of the floor. “One year ago, I petitioned for the ability to interfere. To use a fraction of our armies to aid the Scarlet Guard in their infiltration of Norta, the Lakelands, and Piedmont, all kingdoms built on tyranny. It was a risk. It exposed our nation, which had been growing in secret. But you graciously agreed.” He steeples his fingers, half bowing to the Gallery. “And so I ask again. For more soldiers, more money. For the ability to overthrow murderous regimes, and for the right to look ourselves in the face. So we can tell our children we did not stand by and watch as children just like them were murdered or condemned. It is our duty to witness, and to fight now that we can.”
In the seats of the Gallery, one of the politicians stands. A Silver man, with wispy blond hair, bone-white skin, and robes of deep emerald green. His nails are oddly long and polished to a high shine. “You speak of overthrowing a regime, Premier,” he says. “But I see beside you a young man with Silver blood and a crown upon his head. I see no other crowns in this room. And you know, as well as I do, the crowns we had to destroy to forge our country. How much we had to burn to rise from the ashes.”
The politician touches his own brow. His meaning is clear. One of the crowns given up was his own. I clench my teeth, fighting the urge to look at Tiberias. I want to yell at him, See? It can be done.
Davidson offers a deep bow of his head. “Very true, Representative Radis. The Free Republic is a nation made from war, from sacrifice, and above all things from opportunity. Before we rose up, the mountains were a patchwork of petty kingdoms and worse, fighting for dominance. There was no unity. It was easy to worm ourselves into the cracks and break apart what was already breaking.” He pauses, eyes alight. “I see a similar opportunity now, in the Silver kingdoms of the east. Room to change things in Norta. To remake things for the better.”
Another politician stands from the Gallery ranks, a Red woman with smooth copper skin, close-cropped black hair, and a white gown crossed with an olive sash. “Does Your Majesty agree?” she asks, fixing her eyes on Tiberias.
He hesitates, surprised at her directness. Tiberias isn’t as quick with his words as his cursed brother. “Norta is in a state of civil war,” he replies, his voice wavering. “More than a third of the nation has seceded, some pledging fealty to the Kingdom of the Rift. Where my betrothed’s father is king.” Clenching his jaw, he gestures to Evangeline next to him. She doesn’t react. “The rest are pledged to me. To putting me back on my own father’s throne, and casting out my brother.” A muscle jumps in his cheek. “Who murdered his way to it.”
Tiberias lowers his eyes slowly. I can see his chest rising and falling rapidly beneath the folds of his red cape. The thought of Maven still wounds us both, Tiberias even more than me. I was there when Maven and Elara forced him to murder his own father, the old king. I see that terrible moment written on his grim face, clear as letters in a book.
The representative is not satisfied. She tips her head, bringing long fingers together. “Reports say that King Maven is beloved among the people. The ones still loyal to him, I mean,” she adds. “Curious, that the Red populace of Norta is counted in that regard.”
A low current of heat ripples across my exposed skin. Not a lot, but enough to communicate Tiberias’s discomfort. I curl my fingers into a fist, speaking before he is forced to.
“King Maven is greatly skilled in manipulation,” I tell the woman. “He easily uses his own image, the boy king forced to the throne, and tricks anyone who doesn’t truly know him.”
And even sometimes those who do. Tiberias, most of all. He told me once he was looking for newblood whispers, stronger than Queen Elara, perhaps able to fix what she broke in his brother. An impossible wish, a terrible dream. I’ve seen Maven without her machinations. She is dead, and he is still the monster she forced him to be.
The politician turns her eyes on me, and I continue. “He brokered the Lakeland alliance, ending a war my people were sent to fight. He lifted the restrictions his father made on their lives. It isn’t hard to understand why he has support. It’s easy to win the favor of the people you feed.” As I speak, I think about myself, my family. The Stilts. Cameron and the slum towns full of Reds trapped to their lives. Where would we be, if someone had not broken through the wall around us? Shown us how the world really should be? “Especially when you control what they are given, both on the table and on the video screen.”