War Storm
Page 120
He tracks me as I pace, never moving from his seat. “I suppose I should have asked this days ago, but is there a reason you’re so married to the idea of this kingdom? And that crown?”
Instead of spinning out, my mind slows. My tongue feels heavy in my mouth, a stone weighing down whatever I might struggle to say. Julian continues on through my silence.
“You say now that you think we’ll lose, you’ll lose, because of the decrees and changes you’ve chosen to make. Because you have no allies.” On the sofa, he stretches, gesturing with one hand. He casts his fingers toward the window, meaning all things. “You did almost everything the Scarlet Guard and Montfort asked. Gave up everything they wanted. Except that.” He points at the crown still nestled on my head “Why? If you knew you would never be able to keep it?”
My answer sounds foolish, like it comes from a child. I say it anyway. “This is my father’s crown.”
“But the crown is not your father,” he says quickly, rising to his feet. In two strides he has me by the shoulder, and his voice softens. “It isn’t your mother either. And it won’t bring either of them back.”
I can’t bear to look at him. He is too much like her, like the shadow of my mother I carry in my head. A wish and a dream, probably, not a real reflection of her. An impossibility. Maven was tortured by his mother who lived and breathed, but I am tortured too. Tortured by a woman taken away from me.
“This is who I am, Julian.” I try to keep my breathing even, try to sound like a king. The words make sense as I think them, but they come out wrong. Stumbling, unsure. “It’s everything I’ve ever known, the only path I’ve ever wanted or been made to want.”
My uncle tightens his grip on my shoulders. “Your brother could say the same, and where did that lead him?”
I bristle at that, glaring at him. “We’re not the same.”
“No, you aren’t,” he replies hastily. Then his attitude changes, a strange look coming over him. Julian narrows his eyes, lips pressing into a thin, grim line. “You haven’t read the diary, have you?”
Again I drop my gaze. Ashamed of how afraid I am of a simple, small book. “I don’t think I can,” I whisper, barely audible.
Julian offers no quarter, no comfort. He stands back, crossing his arms. He doesn’t need many words to scold me.
“Well, you need to,” he says simply, taking on the air of a teacher again. “Not just for yourself. But for the rest of us. All of us.”
“I don’t see how the diary of a dead woman can be any help right now.”
“Well, hopefully you summon the courage to find out.”
Reading it feels like pushing a stone through mud. Sluggish, difficult, foolish. The words pull at me with inky fingers, trying to hold me back. Each page is heavier than the last. Until they aren’t. Until the stone is rolling down a hill, and the voice I give my mother rings in my head, speaking as quickly as my mind allows. Sometimes my eyes blur. I don’t stop to wipe the tears from the pages, letting them mark the hours as the night passes. Sometimes I find myself smiling. My mother liked to tinker with things. Repair and build. Just like me.
Sometimes I even laugh. The way she talks about Julian, their kind rivalry, how he gave her books she would never read. I can almost trick myself into thinking she’s alive. Sitting next to me instead of trapped in a book.
But mostly I feel a deep ache. Hunger for her. Sorrow. Regret. My mother had her demons, just like the rest of us. Her own pains that began long before she became a queen. Before my father married her and put a target on her back.
Her entries grow scarcer as time wears on. As her life changes.
There are only a few pages dedicated to me.
He will not be a soldier. I owe him that much. Too long the sons and daughters of House Calore have been fighting, too long has this country had a warrior king. Too long have we been at war, on the front and—and also within. It might be a crime to write such things, but I am a queen. I am the queen. I can say and write what I think.
The Calores are children of fire, as strong and destructive as their flame, but Cal will not be like the others before. Fire can destroy, fire can kill, but it can also create. Forest burned in the summer will be green by spring, better and stronger than before. Cal’s flame will build and bring roots from the ashes of war. The guns will quiet, the smoke will clear, and the soldiers, Red and Silver both, will come home. One hundred years of war, and my son will bring peace. He will not die fighting. He will not. HE WILL NOT.
I run a finger over the letters, feeling the press of a faraway pen. This isn’t her handwriting but Julian’s. Her real diaries were destroyed by Elara Merandus, but Julian had the wherewithal to preserve something before they disappeared. He painstakingly copied each letter, even these. He nearly put a hole in the page writing those words.
They certainly put a hole through me.
Coriane Jacos wanted a different life for her son, entirely separate from how I was raised, and who my father made me into.
I have to wonder if there is some fate in between what each of my parents wanted for me, a path that is truly my own to choose.
Or is it simply too late?
THIRTY-ONE
Maven
I am not even afforded a window. At least I gave Mare one, when she was my prisoner. Of course, that was a torture as much as anything else. Letting her see the world pass, the seasons change, from behind the bars of her opulent cage. I don’t think this is quite as personal an affront. Clearly, they will take no chances with me. My flamemaker bracelets are long gone, probably destroyed. There’s Silent Stone set in the floor, dulling any ability I have left. I’m watched night and day by no less than twelve guards, each one alert and ready on the other side of cell bars.
I’m the only person being held here. No one speaks to me, not even the guards.
Only Mother whispers to me still, and those words are ever fleeting, growing dim. Leaving me with my thoughts. It’s the only benefit of Silent Stone. While it weakens the rest of me, it weakens her voice as well. I felt the same thing on my old throne. It was a shield as much as an anchor, making me ache, but also keeping me insulated from influence, both within and without. Any choice I made in that seat was mine alone.
It’s the same here.
I choose to sleep, mostly.
Even the Stone won’t allow me to dream. It can’t undo whatever she did. Mother took that ability away long ago, and it never came back.
Sometimes I stare at the walls. They’re cool to the touch, and I suspect we’re partially underground. I was blindfolded when I was led into the city and brought to speak before that strange council. I must spend hours tracing the lines of mortar and cement holding the slabs together, running my fingers over rough and smooth textures. Normally, I’d talk out my thoughts to myself, but the guards are always there, always listening. It would be more than stupid to give them any glimpse, however small, into my mind.
Cal is alone, cut off from his strongest allies. He did it to himself, the fool. Iris and her mother won’t waste much time, or give him the opportunity to try to stabilize the kingdom. He got that crown he wanted so much, but he won’t keep it long.
I smile to think of my perfect brother perfectly ruining things for himself. All he had to do was say no. Turn aside the throne. He’d have his armies; he’d have a chance; he’d have Mare. But even she wasn’t enough for him.
Instead of spinning out, my mind slows. My tongue feels heavy in my mouth, a stone weighing down whatever I might struggle to say. Julian continues on through my silence.
“You say now that you think we’ll lose, you’ll lose, because of the decrees and changes you’ve chosen to make. Because you have no allies.” On the sofa, he stretches, gesturing with one hand. He casts his fingers toward the window, meaning all things. “You did almost everything the Scarlet Guard and Montfort asked. Gave up everything they wanted. Except that.” He points at the crown still nestled on my head “Why? If you knew you would never be able to keep it?”
My answer sounds foolish, like it comes from a child. I say it anyway. “This is my father’s crown.”
“But the crown is not your father,” he says quickly, rising to his feet. In two strides he has me by the shoulder, and his voice softens. “It isn’t your mother either. And it won’t bring either of them back.”
I can’t bear to look at him. He is too much like her, like the shadow of my mother I carry in my head. A wish and a dream, probably, not a real reflection of her. An impossibility. Maven was tortured by his mother who lived and breathed, but I am tortured too. Tortured by a woman taken away from me.
“This is who I am, Julian.” I try to keep my breathing even, try to sound like a king. The words make sense as I think them, but they come out wrong. Stumbling, unsure. “It’s everything I’ve ever known, the only path I’ve ever wanted or been made to want.”
My uncle tightens his grip on my shoulders. “Your brother could say the same, and where did that lead him?”
I bristle at that, glaring at him. “We’re not the same.”
“No, you aren’t,” he replies hastily. Then his attitude changes, a strange look coming over him. Julian narrows his eyes, lips pressing into a thin, grim line. “You haven’t read the diary, have you?”
Again I drop my gaze. Ashamed of how afraid I am of a simple, small book. “I don’t think I can,” I whisper, barely audible.
Julian offers no quarter, no comfort. He stands back, crossing his arms. He doesn’t need many words to scold me.
“Well, you need to,” he says simply, taking on the air of a teacher again. “Not just for yourself. But for the rest of us. All of us.”
“I don’t see how the diary of a dead woman can be any help right now.”
“Well, hopefully you summon the courage to find out.”
Reading it feels like pushing a stone through mud. Sluggish, difficult, foolish. The words pull at me with inky fingers, trying to hold me back. Each page is heavier than the last. Until they aren’t. Until the stone is rolling down a hill, and the voice I give my mother rings in my head, speaking as quickly as my mind allows. Sometimes my eyes blur. I don’t stop to wipe the tears from the pages, letting them mark the hours as the night passes. Sometimes I find myself smiling. My mother liked to tinker with things. Repair and build. Just like me.
Sometimes I even laugh. The way she talks about Julian, their kind rivalry, how he gave her books she would never read. I can almost trick myself into thinking she’s alive. Sitting next to me instead of trapped in a book.
But mostly I feel a deep ache. Hunger for her. Sorrow. Regret. My mother had her demons, just like the rest of us. Her own pains that began long before she became a queen. Before my father married her and put a target on her back.
Her entries grow scarcer as time wears on. As her life changes.
There are only a few pages dedicated to me.
He will not be a soldier. I owe him that much. Too long the sons and daughters of House Calore have been fighting, too long has this country had a warrior king. Too long have we been at war, on the front and—and also within. It might be a crime to write such things, but I am a queen. I am the queen. I can say and write what I think.
The Calores are children of fire, as strong and destructive as their flame, but Cal will not be like the others before. Fire can destroy, fire can kill, but it can also create. Forest burned in the summer will be green by spring, better and stronger than before. Cal’s flame will build and bring roots from the ashes of war. The guns will quiet, the smoke will clear, and the soldiers, Red and Silver both, will come home. One hundred years of war, and my son will bring peace. He will not die fighting. He will not. HE WILL NOT.
I run a finger over the letters, feeling the press of a faraway pen. This isn’t her handwriting but Julian’s. Her real diaries were destroyed by Elara Merandus, but Julian had the wherewithal to preserve something before they disappeared. He painstakingly copied each letter, even these. He nearly put a hole in the page writing those words.
They certainly put a hole through me.
Coriane Jacos wanted a different life for her son, entirely separate from how I was raised, and who my father made me into.
I have to wonder if there is some fate in between what each of my parents wanted for me, a path that is truly my own to choose.
Or is it simply too late?
THIRTY-ONE
Maven
I am not even afforded a window. At least I gave Mare one, when she was my prisoner. Of course, that was a torture as much as anything else. Letting her see the world pass, the seasons change, from behind the bars of her opulent cage. I don’t think this is quite as personal an affront. Clearly, they will take no chances with me. My flamemaker bracelets are long gone, probably destroyed. There’s Silent Stone set in the floor, dulling any ability I have left. I’m watched night and day by no less than twelve guards, each one alert and ready on the other side of cell bars.
I’m the only person being held here. No one speaks to me, not even the guards.
Only Mother whispers to me still, and those words are ever fleeting, growing dim. Leaving me with my thoughts. It’s the only benefit of Silent Stone. While it weakens the rest of me, it weakens her voice as well. I felt the same thing on my old throne. It was a shield as much as an anchor, making me ache, but also keeping me insulated from influence, both within and without. Any choice I made in that seat was mine alone.
It’s the same here.
I choose to sleep, mostly.
Even the Stone won’t allow me to dream. It can’t undo whatever she did. Mother took that ability away long ago, and it never came back.
Sometimes I stare at the walls. They’re cool to the touch, and I suspect we’re partially underground. I was blindfolded when I was led into the city and brought to speak before that strange council. I must spend hours tracing the lines of mortar and cement holding the slabs together, running my fingers over rough and smooth textures. Normally, I’d talk out my thoughts to myself, but the guards are always there, always listening. It would be more than stupid to give them any glimpse, however small, into my mind.
Cal is alone, cut off from his strongest allies. He did it to himself, the fool. Iris and her mother won’t waste much time, or give him the opportunity to try to stabilize the kingdom. He got that crown he wanted so much, but he won’t keep it long.
I smile to think of my perfect brother perfectly ruining things for himself. All he had to do was say no. Turn aside the throne. He’d have his armies; he’d have a chance; he’d have Mare. But even she wasn’t enough for him.
