War Storm
Page 117
And how we’ve all suffered because of it.
I expect the others to give him no quarter. To torture what we need from him. Draw it out with lightning and pain. Will I be strong enough to watch?
Even Farley falters.
She stares at Maven, trying to read him. To weigh the risk and the cost. He meets her eyes without quailing.
She swears under her breath.
For once, he’s telling the truth.
Maven Calore is our only chance.
THIRTY
Cal
A coronation has always been in my future. The ceremonial crown is not a surprise. I turn it over in my hands, feeling the formidable weight of iron, silver, and gold. In less than an hour, my grandmother will put the monstrosity on my head. My father wore it too. He was already a king when I was born, with a different queen from the only one I recall.
I wish I could remember her. I wish the memories I had of my mother were my own, and not stories from Julian. Not the brush of oil paint instead of living flesh.
The diary copy is still locked away, hidden in a drawer at my bedside in my Archeon chambers. I’ll have to move it soon, once the king’s rooms are prepared, washed clean of Maven’s presence. I shudder at the thought. I don’t know why I’m so hesitant to lay hands on such a small and terrible thing. It’s just a book. Just a jumble of scrawled letters pieced together. I’ve faced down execution squads and armies. Fought lightning and storm. Dodged bullets. Fallen through the sky more than once.
And, somehow, my mother’s diary scares me more than anything else. I could barely get through a few pages, and even those I had to read with my flamemaker bracelet far away. Her words set me so on edge, I didn’t want to risk turning the pages to ash in my hands. The last pieces of Coriane Jacos, carefully preserved by my uncle. The original is long gone, but he was able to save this much of her.
I don’t know what her voice sounded like. I could find out, if I really wanted to. There are many recordings of her, and photographs too. But like my father did, I stay away from them. From a ghost I never knew.
Part of me doesn’t want to get up from the table here in this room. It’s quiet, peaceful, the inside of a bubble about to burst. I feel as if I’m standing on a threshold. The windows look out on Caesar’s Square, offering a full view of the chaos to come. Silvers in their house colors stream back and forth over the plaza, most of them heading for the Royal Court. I can barely look at the structure, one of many ringing the Square.
My father was crowned there, beneath a glittering dome. And Maven was married in the court some months ago.
Mare was with him then.
She won’t be here now.
The loss of her still hurts, a deep wound, but it’s missing the same edge as before. We both knew what we were doing, what our choices would be when the time came to choose. I only wish we’d had a few more days, a few more hours.
Now she’s gone. With Maven again.
I should be angry. It’s a betrayal by any other name. She stole a valuable prisoner from me. His execution would have been an easy and almost bloodless way to reunite my kingdom. But somehow I can’t feel anything but annoyance. Partly because I’m not surprised. And mostly because Maven is far beyond my reach.
He’s her problem now.
At least I won’t have to be the one to kill him.
It’s the thought of a coward, something I was never allowed to be. I think it anyway.
I hope he dies without pain.
The knock at the door gets me up faster than I want, my legs unfolding beneath me. I wrench it open before Julian or Nanabel steps inside, hoping to do just one last thing on my own. I’m not a fool. I know what they are to me, besides my last remaining family. Advisers, mentors. Rivals to each other. I only hope they haven’t come together, to poison my peace with their competition.
It’s just Julian waiting, to my relief.
He offers a twitch of a smile and spreads his arms wide, showing off his new clothing, specially made for the coronation. His colors dominate, the dusty yellow-gold of House Jacos forming the base of his trim jacket and pants. But his lapels are bloodred, my own color. Displaying his allegiance not just to House Calore, but to me.
It forces me to think of what he’s done in my name. Traded a man’s life for my brother, and maybe another life too. I haven’t forgotten. His scheming, as well as my grandmother’s, is never far from my mind. It makes me wary, even of him.
Is this what being king is? Trusting no one?
I force a laugh to disguise my unease. “You look good,” I tell him. It isn’t like Julian to be so put together, nearly handsome in his lean form.
My uncle steps inside. “This old thing?” he offers with a dry smile. “What about you? Are you ready?”
I gesture to my own clothes. The now-familiar bloodred suit edged in black, with silver adornments and enough medals to sink a Lakelander ship. I haven’t donned the matching cape yet. It’s too heavy, and kind of stupid-looking.
“I’m not talking about the clothes, Cal,” Julian says.
My cheeks flush. I turn quickly, trying to hide any sign of weakness or trepidation. “I figured you weren’t.”
“Well?” he asks, taking a step closer.
I do as I’ve always been taught. I hold my ground. “Father told me once there’s no such thing as being ready. If you think you are, you aren’t.”
“Then I guess it’s a good thing you look like you might escape out a window.”
“Comforting.”
“Your father was nervous too,” Julian says softly. Tentative, he puts a hand on my shoulder, his touch a soft weight.
My tongue sticks in my mouth, unable to form the words I want to say.
But Julian is smart enough to know what I want to ask. “Your mother told me,” my uncle explains. “She said he’d wished he had more time.”
More time.
I feel like Julian just hit me in the chest with a hammer.
“Don’t we all?”
He shrugs in his usual, frustrating way. Like he knows more than I do, which I suspect he does. “For different reasons, I think,” he says. “Strange, isn’t it? No matter how different we might be, we all end up wanting the same thing.” I avoid his eyes when they rise to mine. They look far too much like the eyes in my mother’s painting. “But for all the wanting, all the hoping, all the dreaming we might do—”
All I can do is nod, cutting him off. “I don’t have the luxury of that anymore.”
“Dreaming?” He blinks, perplexed. But also intrigued. My uncle Julian delights in puzzles, and he looks on me as one. “You’re about to be a king, Cal. You could dream with your eyes open, and build what you wish.”
Again I feel the hammer blow. My chest aches with the force of his words, as well as the judgment behind them. And of course because I’ve heard that same damned sentiment so many times. “I’m tired of telling people that isn’t true.”
Julian narrows his eyes and I cross my arms instinctively, shielding myself. “Are you sure?” he asks.
“If you’re talking about Mare . . . she’s already halfway across the continent. And she won’t—”
Almost smiling, Julian holds up a hand, showing long, thin fingers. Soft hands, better suited to book pages. Never used in war. Never needed in battle. I envy those hands.
“Cal, I’m a romantic, but I’m sorry to say, I’m not talking about her or your broken heart. That is . . . incredibly low on my list of worries. You have my sympathy, but there are many, many other things to be considered right now.”
I expect the others to give him no quarter. To torture what we need from him. Draw it out with lightning and pain. Will I be strong enough to watch?
Even Farley falters.
She stares at Maven, trying to read him. To weigh the risk and the cost. He meets her eyes without quailing.
She swears under her breath.
For once, he’s telling the truth.
Maven Calore is our only chance.
THIRTY
Cal
A coronation has always been in my future. The ceremonial crown is not a surprise. I turn it over in my hands, feeling the formidable weight of iron, silver, and gold. In less than an hour, my grandmother will put the monstrosity on my head. My father wore it too. He was already a king when I was born, with a different queen from the only one I recall.
I wish I could remember her. I wish the memories I had of my mother were my own, and not stories from Julian. Not the brush of oil paint instead of living flesh.
The diary copy is still locked away, hidden in a drawer at my bedside in my Archeon chambers. I’ll have to move it soon, once the king’s rooms are prepared, washed clean of Maven’s presence. I shudder at the thought. I don’t know why I’m so hesitant to lay hands on such a small and terrible thing. It’s just a book. Just a jumble of scrawled letters pieced together. I’ve faced down execution squads and armies. Fought lightning and storm. Dodged bullets. Fallen through the sky more than once.
And, somehow, my mother’s diary scares me more than anything else. I could barely get through a few pages, and even those I had to read with my flamemaker bracelet far away. Her words set me so on edge, I didn’t want to risk turning the pages to ash in my hands. The last pieces of Coriane Jacos, carefully preserved by my uncle. The original is long gone, but he was able to save this much of her.
I don’t know what her voice sounded like. I could find out, if I really wanted to. There are many recordings of her, and photographs too. But like my father did, I stay away from them. From a ghost I never knew.
Part of me doesn’t want to get up from the table here in this room. It’s quiet, peaceful, the inside of a bubble about to burst. I feel as if I’m standing on a threshold. The windows look out on Caesar’s Square, offering a full view of the chaos to come. Silvers in their house colors stream back and forth over the plaza, most of them heading for the Royal Court. I can barely look at the structure, one of many ringing the Square.
My father was crowned there, beneath a glittering dome. And Maven was married in the court some months ago.
Mare was with him then.
She won’t be here now.
The loss of her still hurts, a deep wound, but it’s missing the same edge as before. We both knew what we were doing, what our choices would be when the time came to choose. I only wish we’d had a few more days, a few more hours.
Now she’s gone. With Maven again.
I should be angry. It’s a betrayal by any other name. She stole a valuable prisoner from me. His execution would have been an easy and almost bloodless way to reunite my kingdom. But somehow I can’t feel anything but annoyance. Partly because I’m not surprised. And mostly because Maven is far beyond my reach.
He’s her problem now.
At least I won’t have to be the one to kill him.
It’s the thought of a coward, something I was never allowed to be. I think it anyway.
I hope he dies without pain.
The knock at the door gets me up faster than I want, my legs unfolding beneath me. I wrench it open before Julian or Nanabel steps inside, hoping to do just one last thing on my own. I’m not a fool. I know what they are to me, besides my last remaining family. Advisers, mentors. Rivals to each other. I only hope they haven’t come together, to poison my peace with their competition.
It’s just Julian waiting, to my relief.
He offers a twitch of a smile and spreads his arms wide, showing off his new clothing, specially made for the coronation. His colors dominate, the dusty yellow-gold of House Jacos forming the base of his trim jacket and pants. But his lapels are bloodred, my own color. Displaying his allegiance not just to House Calore, but to me.
It forces me to think of what he’s done in my name. Traded a man’s life for my brother, and maybe another life too. I haven’t forgotten. His scheming, as well as my grandmother’s, is never far from my mind. It makes me wary, even of him.
Is this what being king is? Trusting no one?
I force a laugh to disguise my unease. “You look good,” I tell him. It isn’t like Julian to be so put together, nearly handsome in his lean form.
My uncle steps inside. “This old thing?” he offers with a dry smile. “What about you? Are you ready?”
I gesture to my own clothes. The now-familiar bloodred suit edged in black, with silver adornments and enough medals to sink a Lakelander ship. I haven’t donned the matching cape yet. It’s too heavy, and kind of stupid-looking.
“I’m not talking about the clothes, Cal,” Julian says.
My cheeks flush. I turn quickly, trying to hide any sign of weakness or trepidation. “I figured you weren’t.”
“Well?” he asks, taking a step closer.
I do as I’ve always been taught. I hold my ground. “Father told me once there’s no such thing as being ready. If you think you are, you aren’t.”
“Then I guess it’s a good thing you look like you might escape out a window.”
“Comforting.”
“Your father was nervous too,” Julian says softly. Tentative, he puts a hand on my shoulder, his touch a soft weight.
My tongue sticks in my mouth, unable to form the words I want to say.
But Julian is smart enough to know what I want to ask. “Your mother told me,” my uncle explains. “She said he’d wished he had more time.”
More time.
I feel like Julian just hit me in the chest with a hammer.
“Don’t we all?”
He shrugs in his usual, frustrating way. Like he knows more than I do, which I suspect he does. “For different reasons, I think,” he says. “Strange, isn’t it? No matter how different we might be, we all end up wanting the same thing.” I avoid his eyes when they rise to mine. They look far too much like the eyes in my mother’s painting. “But for all the wanting, all the hoping, all the dreaming we might do—”
All I can do is nod, cutting him off. “I don’t have the luxury of that anymore.”
“Dreaming?” He blinks, perplexed. But also intrigued. My uncle Julian delights in puzzles, and he looks on me as one. “You’re about to be a king, Cal. You could dream with your eyes open, and build what you wish.”
Again I feel the hammer blow. My chest aches with the force of his words, as well as the judgment behind them. And of course because I’ve heard that same damned sentiment so many times. “I’m tired of telling people that isn’t true.”
Julian narrows his eyes and I cross my arms instinctively, shielding myself. “Are you sure?” he asks.
“If you’re talking about Mare . . . she’s already halfway across the continent. And she won’t—”
Almost smiling, Julian holds up a hand, showing long, thin fingers. Soft hands, better suited to book pages. Never used in war. Never needed in battle. I envy those hands.
“Cal, I’m a romantic, but I’m sorry to say, I’m not talking about her or your broken heart. That is . . . incredibly low on my list of worries. You have my sympathy, but there are many, many other things to be considered right now.”
