War Storm
Page 83

The Swan is a warship, built for battle and speed. What pass for staterooms are spare and rigid, barely suited to Red servants. Still, Mother looks at home in them, equally at ease upon a bolted-down, narrow bed as on a jeweled throne. She isn’t a vain woman and carries none of the flawed, materialistic pride most Silvers have. That was Father’s domain. He preferred his finery, even on the battlefield. The thought sends a sharp stab of pain through me as I remember the last time I saw him alive. He was dashing in his armor, blue steel studded with sapphires, gray hair pulled back from his face. I suppose Salin Iral found some flaw, and exploited it well.
I pace to settle myself, moving back and forth before my mother, stopping occasionally to glare out the small porthole window. The sea outside has turned bloodred. A bad omen. I feel a familiar itch and make a mental note to pray later on, in the Swan’s small shrine. It might bring me a bit of peace.
“Be still. Conserve your strength,” Mother says, her Lakelander melodic and fluid. She sits with her legs drawn up under herself, and her long-sleeved coat is tossed aside, making her seem smaller than usual. It has little effect on her bearing, and I feel the weight of her eyes as I walk.
I am a queen too, and hesitate to follow her commands, if only to be contrarian. But she’s right. I eventually concede and take a seat on the bench on the opposite wall, an uncomfortable thing with thin padding and rivets fixed to the metal floor. My fingers curl around the edge of it, gripping tight. It vibrates with the reverberations of the ship engines, low and humming. I fixate on the sensation, reclaiming a bit of my calm.
“In your communications, you said there was something you couldn’t tell me,” Mother says. “Not until we were face-to-face.”
Steeling myself, I look up at her. “Yes.”
“Well.” She spreads her hands wide. “Here we are.”
My expression doesn’t change, but I feel my heartbeat quicken with nerves. I have to get up again and cross to the window, look out on the crimson waters. Even though my mother’s room is the safest place for me, it still feels dangerous to repeat what I know. Anyone could be listening, waiting to report back to Maven.
I put my back to her and force out the words. “We’re operating on the assumption that Maven will win.”
She scoffs behind me. “Win this war, you mean. But not the next.”
Our war for this country.
“Yes,” I reply. “But I think we’re on the losing side now. His brother’s coalition, that Montfort army . . .”
Her voice is level, devoid of judgment. “They frighten you.”
I spin around, scowling. “Of course they frighten me. And the Scarlet Guard too.”
“Reds?” Mother scoffs. She even rolls her eyes. I grit my teeth against a sigh of frustration. “They’re of little importance.”
“That kind of thinking will be our ruin, Mother,” I tell her as sternly as I can. One queen to another. Listen to me.
But she dismisses me with a dancing wave. As if I’m still a child pulling at her skirts. “I doubt that,” she says. “Silvers war, not Reds. They can’t possible hope to win against us.”
“And yet they keep doing it,” I answer flatly. I fought in Harbor Bay, against the Samos heirs and their battalion. Populated by Silvers and newbloods, mostly, but Reds too. Skilled snipers, trained fighters. Not to mention Norta’s own Red soldiers who turned. One of Maven’s great strengths lies in the loyalty of his people, but if it wanes? His Silvers will run and leave him empty.
Mother just clucks her tongue. My teeth clench with the sound. “The Reds keep winning because of a Silver alliance,” she says. “It will quickly crumble when one or both of the Calore brothers die.”
Wincing, I try another tactic. Instead of standing tall, I drop to my knees in front of my mother, taking her hands in mine. The pleading image of a child is sure to stir her. “I know Mare Barrow, Mother,” I tell her, hoping she hears me. “Reds are made of stronger stuff than we realize. Yes, we make them think themselves inferior, insignificant, to keep them controlled. But we risk falling into our own trap if we forget to fear them too.”
My words fall on deaf ears. She pulls one hand away, using it to smooth my hair away from my face. “Mare Barrow isn’t Red, Iris.”
Her blood certainly is, I think, keeping the retort to myself.
Mother continues to run her fingers through my hair, combing out the strands. “All will be well. All will be taken care of,” she croons, as if to soothe a baby. “We’ll drown our enemies and return to our peace, safe at home. The glory of the Lakelands will wash forth to this very coast. Across Prairie, into those infernal mountains. To the borders of Ciron and Tiraxes, and Piedmont too. Your sister will rule an empire, with you at her side.”
I try to imagine what she dreams of. A map awash in blue, our dynasty secure in power. I think of Tiora, tall against a new dawn, an empress’s crown upon her head. Resplendent in sapphire and diamond, the most powerful person from shore to shore, the world kneeling at her feet. I want that future for her. I want that sanctuary so much my heart aches.
But will it ever come to pass?
“Anabel Lerolan and Julian Jacos have given me a message,” I whisper, moving my head close to Mother’s. If someone is listening at the door, they won’t hear much.
“What?” she hisses back, surprised. Her soothing hand drops. The other tightens its grip on me.
“They came to me in Archeon.”
“The capital? How?”
“Like I said, Mother,” I murmur, “I think Maven will lose this war, and lose quicker than we can imagine. They are a formidable alliance, stronger than our own. Even with Piedmont on our side.”
Her eyes widen, and I finally see a flash of fear. As much as it terrifies me, I’m glad for it. We all need to be afraid if we want to stay alive.
“What did they want?” she asks.
“They offered a deal.”
Mother’s expression sours a little. Her lips twist. “We don’t have time for dramatics, Iris. Tell me what happened.”
“They were waiting in my transport,” I say. “The Jacos singer is a talented one, and he bewitched my guards well. And the Lerolan queen is as dangerous as any.”
Her voice climbs an octave, panicked. “Does anyone know? Does Maven—”
I put a hand to her face, forcing her to quiet. The words die on her lips.
“I’d be dead if he knew.” Her skin is warm beneath my hand, soft and more wrinkled than ever before. These days have aged her. “Anabel and Julian did their work well. They need me alive and they took no chances.”
Mother sighs in relief, her breath washing over my face.
“Salin Iral,” I spit, almost unable to say the name of my father’s killer. It cuts us both like a dagger. Mother recoils, disgust marring her features. “They’ll hand him over. Let us do with him what we wish.”
Her eyes go blank and dark. After a moment, she pushes away my hand gently. “Iral is no one. A disgraced lord, stripped of his power. Alone in whatever wilderness he chooses.”
Electric anger screams down my spine. I feel myself flush, heat burning my cheeks.
“He killed Father.”
“Thank you for the clarification,” Mother replies, her voice icy. Still, that blankness in her. A shield against the agony of my father’s loss. “I was not aware.”