War Storm
Page 31
“No,” the premier replies. “But they are very keen on optics. Attacking the Montfort capital is somewhat of a habit for them. It wins favor among their own, as well as the Prairie lords.”
Tiberias lifts his chin. He shifts slowly, edging in front of one of his guards. I can tell by the tightness in his shoulders that he hates being hemmed in like that. Hates being anywhere but the front line. It isn’t in Tiberias Calore to ask another to do what he won’t, to face danger if he doesn’t. “And who are they exactly?” he asks.
“You’ve all asked about Silvers in Montfort,” Davidson says, his voice loud enough to carry over the warning alarms. “You wonder how they live this way. How we changed things decades ago. Some Silvers agreed to freedom, to democracy. Many, I should say. Most.” He clenches his jaw. “They saw what the world should be like. Or they saw the world beyond, and decided it was better to stay, easier to adjust.”
His eyes land on Evangeline, and for some reason she flushes under his scrutiny, almost hiding her face.
“Some did not. Old Silvers, royals, nobles who could not stand our new country. They fled or fought their way to the borders. North, south, west. To the east, in the empty hills between our mountains and Prairie, they formed bands. Attempts at their own lands and lordships. Always fighting, gnawing at each other and us. They live as leeches, feeding on what they find. They do not grow anything; they do not build. They have little holding them together but anger and dying pride. They attack transports, farms, cities, in both Prairie and Montfort. They focus on Red towns and villages mostly, on those who cannot defend against Silver onslaught. They move; they strike; they move again. And so we call them the raiders.”
Carmadon tsks loudly. He runs a hand over his gleaming purple-black skull. “So far to fall for my Silver kin. For nothing more than pride.”
“And for what they think is power,” Davidson adds. His eyes land on Tiberias. The exiled prince straightens, setting his jaw. “For what they think they deserve. They would rather lose everything than live beneath people they think are lesser.”
“Idiots,” I curse.
“History is marred with people like that,” Julian offers. “Resistant to change.”
“But they make those willing to change all the more heroic, don’t they?” I reply, letting the words land as they should.
Tiberias doesn’t take the bait. “Where will they strike?” he says, never moving his eyes from Davidson’s face.
The premier grins darkly.
“We’ve received word from one of the towns down on the plain. Raiders are close,” he says. “Your Majesty, I believe I may get to show you the Hawkway after all.”
No palace is complete without an armory.
Davidson’s guards are already there, suiting up throughout the long room stocked with weaponry and gear. They don’t pull on the green coveralls, the uniforms I’ve become accustomed to, but tight black suits and high boots. Good for defending against a night raid. They remind me of what I used to wear in Training, my purple-and-silver-striped outfit to mark me as a child of House Titanos. A Silver through and through. A lie.
At the door, Anabel puts a hand on Cal’s arm. She pleads with her eyes, but he moves past her, firmly but gently pushing her away. Her fingers trail along the edge of his red cape, letting the black brocade run through her fingers as he escapes her grasp.
“I need to do this,” I hear him murmur. “He’s right. I need to fight for them if they’ll fight for me.”
No one else speaks, and the silence falls thick as a low cloud. All I hear is the shuffle of clothing. My dress puddles around my ankles as I quickly pull the suit up over my underclothes. As I move, I shift, and my eyes lock on familiar muscles.
Tiberias faces away from me too, his shirt discarded, the suit tight around his waist. I trace the length of his spine, noting the few scars along otherwise smooth and sculpted skin. They’re old, older than mine. Won in Training in a palace and on a war front that no longer exists. Even though the touch of a healer could erase them quickly, he keeps them, collecting scars as another would medals or badges.
Will he earn more scars today? Will Davidson keep his promise?
Part of me wonders if this is a trap for the true Calore king. An easy assassination disguised as a real threat. But even if Davidson lied about not harming Tiberias, he’s not an idiot. Removing the older Calore would only weaken us, destroying a vital shield between Montfort and the Scarlet Guard, and Maven.
I keep staring, unable to stop myself. The scars might be old, but not the almost-purple, bruise-like mark where his neck meets his shoulder. That’s new. Only a few days old. That’s mine, I think, gulping around a memory both close and infinitely far away.
Someone bumps my shoulder, jolting me out of the quicksand that is Tiberias Calore.
“Here,” Farley says gruffly, a warning. She hasn’t discarded her dark red uniform of Command, and she stares down at me, blue eyes wide. “Let me.”
Her fingers zip up the back of my suit with speed, tightening the ensemble around my frame. I shuffle a little, adjusting the thick-woven fabric of my too-long sleeves. Anything to keep my attention away from the exiled prince currently shoving his arms into his own suit.
“Nothing in your size, Barrow?”
Tyton’s deep drawl offers a well-needed distraction. He leans up alongside us, back braced against the wall with one long leg stretched out. His suit is the same as mine, albeit better fitted to his trim form. No lightning insignia. No markings. No indication of how deadly a man this newblood is. With him around, I realize Davidson has no need to arrange useful accidents to remove opponents. He only needs Tyton. The chilling thought is somehow a balm. This isn’t a trap, at the very least. It doesn’t need to be.
I slide on my boots, smirking. “I’ll have words with the tailor when we get back.”
Across the room, Tiberias rolls his sleeves, exposing his flamemaker bracelet. Evangeline looks almost bored at his side, her furs tossed to the floor to reveal the full armor covering her from fingertips to toes. She catches my glance and holds my gaze.
I don’t expect her to stick her neck out for anyone but Elane Haven, and yet I feel safer with her around. She’s saved me twice before. And I’m still of value to her. Our agreement still stands.
Tiberias must not win the throne.
The room clears as we prepare, moving from the changing area to the rows and rows of arms at the back of the room. Farley weighs herself down with ammunition, putting a pistol on her other hip and a snub machine gun across her back. I assume she already has her knives tucked away. I don’t take any weapons, but Tyton grabs a belt, pistol, and holster off the rack, shoving them toward me.
“No thanks,” I grumble, begrudging. I don’t like guns or bullets. I don’t trust them. And I don’t need them. I can’t control either one the way I can control my lightning.
“Some raiders are silents,” he replies, his voice a low whipcrack. Just the thought turns my insides. I know the feel of Silent Stone all too well. It isn’t a sensation I would like to bear again, not for any reason.
Without warning, Tyton fastens the gun belt around my waist, his eyes and fingers quick on the buckles. The gun slides into its holster, feeling heavy and unfamiliar at my side. “If you lose your ability,” he adds, “it’s best to have a backup.”
Tiberias lifts his chin. He shifts slowly, edging in front of one of his guards. I can tell by the tightness in his shoulders that he hates being hemmed in like that. Hates being anywhere but the front line. It isn’t in Tiberias Calore to ask another to do what he won’t, to face danger if he doesn’t. “And who are they exactly?” he asks.
“You’ve all asked about Silvers in Montfort,” Davidson says, his voice loud enough to carry over the warning alarms. “You wonder how they live this way. How we changed things decades ago. Some Silvers agreed to freedom, to democracy. Many, I should say. Most.” He clenches his jaw. “They saw what the world should be like. Or they saw the world beyond, and decided it was better to stay, easier to adjust.”
His eyes land on Evangeline, and for some reason she flushes under his scrutiny, almost hiding her face.
“Some did not. Old Silvers, royals, nobles who could not stand our new country. They fled or fought their way to the borders. North, south, west. To the east, in the empty hills between our mountains and Prairie, they formed bands. Attempts at their own lands and lordships. Always fighting, gnawing at each other and us. They live as leeches, feeding on what they find. They do not grow anything; they do not build. They have little holding them together but anger and dying pride. They attack transports, farms, cities, in both Prairie and Montfort. They focus on Red towns and villages mostly, on those who cannot defend against Silver onslaught. They move; they strike; they move again. And so we call them the raiders.”
Carmadon tsks loudly. He runs a hand over his gleaming purple-black skull. “So far to fall for my Silver kin. For nothing more than pride.”
“And for what they think is power,” Davidson adds. His eyes land on Tiberias. The exiled prince straightens, setting his jaw. “For what they think they deserve. They would rather lose everything than live beneath people they think are lesser.”
“Idiots,” I curse.
“History is marred with people like that,” Julian offers. “Resistant to change.”
“But they make those willing to change all the more heroic, don’t they?” I reply, letting the words land as they should.
Tiberias doesn’t take the bait. “Where will they strike?” he says, never moving his eyes from Davidson’s face.
The premier grins darkly.
“We’ve received word from one of the towns down on the plain. Raiders are close,” he says. “Your Majesty, I believe I may get to show you the Hawkway after all.”
No palace is complete without an armory.
Davidson’s guards are already there, suiting up throughout the long room stocked with weaponry and gear. They don’t pull on the green coveralls, the uniforms I’ve become accustomed to, but tight black suits and high boots. Good for defending against a night raid. They remind me of what I used to wear in Training, my purple-and-silver-striped outfit to mark me as a child of House Titanos. A Silver through and through. A lie.
At the door, Anabel puts a hand on Cal’s arm. She pleads with her eyes, but he moves past her, firmly but gently pushing her away. Her fingers trail along the edge of his red cape, letting the black brocade run through her fingers as he escapes her grasp.
“I need to do this,” I hear him murmur. “He’s right. I need to fight for them if they’ll fight for me.”
No one else speaks, and the silence falls thick as a low cloud. All I hear is the shuffle of clothing. My dress puddles around my ankles as I quickly pull the suit up over my underclothes. As I move, I shift, and my eyes lock on familiar muscles.
Tiberias faces away from me too, his shirt discarded, the suit tight around his waist. I trace the length of his spine, noting the few scars along otherwise smooth and sculpted skin. They’re old, older than mine. Won in Training in a palace and on a war front that no longer exists. Even though the touch of a healer could erase them quickly, he keeps them, collecting scars as another would medals or badges.
Will he earn more scars today? Will Davidson keep his promise?
Part of me wonders if this is a trap for the true Calore king. An easy assassination disguised as a real threat. But even if Davidson lied about not harming Tiberias, he’s not an idiot. Removing the older Calore would only weaken us, destroying a vital shield between Montfort and the Scarlet Guard, and Maven.
I keep staring, unable to stop myself. The scars might be old, but not the almost-purple, bruise-like mark where his neck meets his shoulder. That’s new. Only a few days old. That’s mine, I think, gulping around a memory both close and infinitely far away.
Someone bumps my shoulder, jolting me out of the quicksand that is Tiberias Calore.
“Here,” Farley says gruffly, a warning. She hasn’t discarded her dark red uniform of Command, and she stares down at me, blue eyes wide. “Let me.”
Her fingers zip up the back of my suit with speed, tightening the ensemble around my frame. I shuffle a little, adjusting the thick-woven fabric of my too-long sleeves. Anything to keep my attention away from the exiled prince currently shoving his arms into his own suit.
“Nothing in your size, Barrow?”
Tyton’s deep drawl offers a well-needed distraction. He leans up alongside us, back braced against the wall with one long leg stretched out. His suit is the same as mine, albeit better fitted to his trim form. No lightning insignia. No markings. No indication of how deadly a man this newblood is. With him around, I realize Davidson has no need to arrange useful accidents to remove opponents. He only needs Tyton. The chilling thought is somehow a balm. This isn’t a trap, at the very least. It doesn’t need to be.
I slide on my boots, smirking. “I’ll have words with the tailor when we get back.”
Across the room, Tiberias rolls his sleeves, exposing his flamemaker bracelet. Evangeline looks almost bored at his side, her furs tossed to the floor to reveal the full armor covering her from fingertips to toes. She catches my glance and holds my gaze.
I don’t expect her to stick her neck out for anyone but Elane Haven, and yet I feel safer with her around. She’s saved me twice before. And I’m still of value to her. Our agreement still stands.
Tiberias must not win the throne.
The room clears as we prepare, moving from the changing area to the rows and rows of arms at the back of the room. Farley weighs herself down with ammunition, putting a pistol on her other hip and a snub machine gun across her back. I assume she already has her knives tucked away. I don’t take any weapons, but Tyton grabs a belt, pistol, and holster off the rack, shoving them toward me.
“No thanks,” I grumble, begrudging. I don’t like guns or bullets. I don’t trust them. And I don’t need them. I can’t control either one the way I can control my lightning.
“Some raiders are silents,” he replies, his voice a low whipcrack. Just the thought turns my insides. I know the feel of Silent Stone all too well. It isn’t a sensation I would like to bear again, not for any reason.
Without warning, Tyton fastens the gun belt around my waist, his eyes and fingers quick on the buckles. The gun slides into its holster, feeling heavy and unfamiliar at my side. “If you lose your ability,” he adds, “it’s best to have a backup.”
