War Storm
Page 48
My brother’s look is grim, and I shiver to my core.
“We’re about to find out.”
THIRTEEN
Iris
I’ve never been this far south.
The Piedmont base is so thick with humidity I feel as if I could weaponize the air itself. My bare arms prickle with the sensation of moisture, minuscule droplets too small to see dancing over my skin. I stretch a little, moving my fingers in tiny circles, stirring up the cloying warmth hanging over the balcony of the base headquarters.
Thunderheads chase across the horizon, trailing gray shadows of lashing rain out over the swamps. Lightning forks once or twice, and the distant rumble takes four or five seconds to reach us. The light breeze smells of fires doused by the passing rain, and smoke trails over near the main gate of the base. Bracken’s own soldiers marched in through open gates before turning on all inside in a blitz of swift and strongarm, revealing exactly where their bought allegiances lie. With Maven. And with me.
The king of Norta lays his bone-white hands flat on the balcony railing, leaning forward an inch or two over the edge.
It isn’t far to the ground. Just two stories. If I pushed him over the rail, he would live, albeit with a few broken bones. He squints, dark brow furrowed beneath a simple crown of iron and ruby. No cloak today. Too hot. Instead he has his usual black uniform, unbuttoned at the throat, the fabric flapping in the slight, damp breeze. A sheen of sweat gleams on his neck. Not from the heat. A fire king would be far more comfortable than anyone else at these temperatures. The sweat isn’t from exertion either. He took no part in the storming of the base. Neither did I, though both our nations provided Silver soldiers for Bracken’s endeavor. We waited until it was clear, until victory was sure, before setting foot here.
I think Maven is nervous. Afraid. And enraged.
She wasn’t here.
I watch him quietly, waiting for him to speak. His throat works, bobbing between the open folds of his collar. He looks oddly vulnerable in spite of our triumph.
“How many escaped?” he asks without meeting my gaze. His eyes stay fixed on the storm.
I bite back a rush of annoyance. I’m not some lieutenant, some officer’s aide meant to stand and give figures. But I tell him what he wants, and I do it with a tight smile.
“One hundred into the swamps,” I reply, running a hand through the flowers blooming from boxes along the balcony. The dirt around them is still wet from the passing rains and a particularly exuberant gardener. Behind us, more flowering vines run up the brick walls and columns of the administrative building. The Piedmontese love their flowers. They explode in various shades, thriving in this climate. White, yellow, purple, pink, and a bit of comforting blue. The sun strengthens overhead, and I wish I’d worn white instead of my royal blue dress. The linen is light, at least, thin enough that I can feel the wind on my skin.
Maven plucks a single indigo bloom from the flowers at his side. “And another two hundred dead.” Not a question. He knows the death toll well enough.
“They’re being identified now to the best of our ability.”
He shrugs. “Use the prisoners. Perhaps a few will do the work for us.”
“I doubt that,” I reply. “The Scarlet Guard and the Montfortans are loyal creatures. They won’t do a thing to help us.”
With a long, low sigh he straightens up, pushing back from the balcony. He squints as another crack of lightning flashes, closer this time. What little color he has left drains from his face when the sound of thunder rolls over us. Is he thinking of the lightning girl?
“I have some Merandus cousins who could be the judge of that.”
I grit my teeth. “You know how I feel about whispers,” I say, too quick and too harsh. His mother was one, I remind myself, bracing for some kind of reprimand.
But Maven remains silent. He lays the flower on the railing, petals up, and fusses with his fingernails. They’re short, worn by teeth and anxiety. I would expect a king to keep his nails finely manicured, suited to the arms of a throne. Or maybe roughed by Training or combat, as I’m sure his brother’s are. Not ruined by nervous habits better suited to a child.
“And I think I know how you feel as well, Maven,” I hear myself say. Daring to turn over one of my many cards on the table.
Again he doesn’t respond, and I know I’m right. Whatever his mother did, however her whispers crawled across his brain, left scars and marks. He doesn’t want to risk more.
I sense a chink in his armor, a hole in the wall he keeps up. What if I could slip through? If I could grab hold of a piece of him the way Mare Barrow has—could I hold the reins of a king?
“We can remove them from court, if you want,” I murmur slowly. I school my features into something softer, more caring, as I shift closer to him. I angle my body so my collarbone juts out, and my dress slips just so, showing exactly as much skin as I need. “Blame it on me. My Lakeland superstitions. Call it a short-lived measure to please your new wife.”
It’s like circling a whirlpool, trying to keep to its edges. To stay within its bounds without drowning.
The corner of his mouth lifts, tugging his lips. He cuts a sharp profile, all edges of straight nose, proud brow, and sculpted cheekbones. “You’re nineteen, aren’t you, Iris?”
I blink at him, confused. “And?”
Grinning, he moves faster than I expect, putting one hand to my face. I flinch as his fingers slide behind my ear, his thumb beneath my chin. The latter digs a little, pressing into the flesh of my throat. His skin flares, hot but not burning. We’re almost the same height, but he has an inch or so over me, and I’m forced to look up into eyes like a tundra sky. Frozen, unforgiving, endless. To anyone watching, we might look like enamored newlyweds.
“You’re very good at this already,” he says, his oddly cool breath washing over my face. “But so am I.”
I step back, meaning to pull from his grip, but he releases me before I force any kind of struggle. He seems amused, which makes my stomach churn. I give no indication of my disgust. Only cold indifference. I raise an eyebrow and smooth my hair over one shoulder, gleaming black and oil-smooth. I try to channel my mother’s regal, fearless nature.
“Touch me without my consent again, and we’ll see how long you can hold your breath.”
Slowly, he lifts the flower again, and his fist tightens around it. One by one, the petals fall, and he flicks his wrist, sparking his bracelet. The petals burn before they hit the ground, disappearing in a burst of red flame and ash and open threat.
“Forgive me, my queen,” he says, smiling. Lying. “The stress of this war can be such a ruin on my nerves. I only hope my brother can be made to see reason, and the traitors with him are brought to justice so we might finally have some peace in our lands.”
“Of course.” My words are just as false as his. I dip my head, ignoring any shame I feel in the action. “Peace is the goal we all share.”
After my mother feasts on your country and tosses your throne into the ocean. After we bleed the Samos king dry and kill every person responsible for my father’s death.
After we take your crown, Maven Calore, and drown you and your brother both.
“Your Majesty?”
We both turn to find one of Maven’s Sentinels, his mask black and glittering, standing in the doorway to the balcony. He bows low, his robes a swirl of woven fire. I can’t imagine how sweltering their armor and robes must be right now.
“We’re about to find out.”
THIRTEEN
Iris
I’ve never been this far south.
The Piedmont base is so thick with humidity I feel as if I could weaponize the air itself. My bare arms prickle with the sensation of moisture, minuscule droplets too small to see dancing over my skin. I stretch a little, moving my fingers in tiny circles, stirring up the cloying warmth hanging over the balcony of the base headquarters.
Thunderheads chase across the horizon, trailing gray shadows of lashing rain out over the swamps. Lightning forks once or twice, and the distant rumble takes four or five seconds to reach us. The light breeze smells of fires doused by the passing rain, and smoke trails over near the main gate of the base. Bracken’s own soldiers marched in through open gates before turning on all inside in a blitz of swift and strongarm, revealing exactly where their bought allegiances lie. With Maven. And with me.
The king of Norta lays his bone-white hands flat on the balcony railing, leaning forward an inch or two over the edge.
It isn’t far to the ground. Just two stories. If I pushed him over the rail, he would live, albeit with a few broken bones. He squints, dark brow furrowed beneath a simple crown of iron and ruby. No cloak today. Too hot. Instead he has his usual black uniform, unbuttoned at the throat, the fabric flapping in the slight, damp breeze. A sheen of sweat gleams on his neck. Not from the heat. A fire king would be far more comfortable than anyone else at these temperatures. The sweat isn’t from exertion either. He took no part in the storming of the base. Neither did I, though both our nations provided Silver soldiers for Bracken’s endeavor. We waited until it was clear, until victory was sure, before setting foot here.
I think Maven is nervous. Afraid. And enraged.
She wasn’t here.
I watch him quietly, waiting for him to speak. His throat works, bobbing between the open folds of his collar. He looks oddly vulnerable in spite of our triumph.
“How many escaped?” he asks without meeting my gaze. His eyes stay fixed on the storm.
I bite back a rush of annoyance. I’m not some lieutenant, some officer’s aide meant to stand and give figures. But I tell him what he wants, and I do it with a tight smile.
“One hundred into the swamps,” I reply, running a hand through the flowers blooming from boxes along the balcony. The dirt around them is still wet from the passing rains and a particularly exuberant gardener. Behind us, more flowering vines run up the brick walls and columns of the administrative building. The Piedmontese love their flowers. They explode in various shades, thriving in this climate. White, yellow, purple, pink, and a bit of comforting blue. The sun strengthens overhead, and I wish I’d worn white instead of my royal blue dress. The linen is light, at least, thin enough that I can feel the wind on my skin.
Maven plucks a single indigo bloom from the flowers at his side. “And another two hundred dead.” Not a question. He knows the death toll well enough.
“They’re being identified now to the best of our ability.”
He shrugs. “Use the prisoners. Perhaps a few will do the work for us.”
“I doubt that,” I reply. “The Scarlet Guard and the Montfortans are loyal creatures. They won’t do a thing to help us.”
With a long, low sigh he straightens up, pushing back from the balcony. He squints as another crack of lightning flashes, closer this time. What little color he has left drains from his face when the sound of thunder rolls over us. Is he thinking of the lightning girl?
“I have some Merandus cousins who could be the judge of that.”
I grit my teeth. “You know how I feel about whispers,” I say, too quick and too harsh. His mother was one, I remind myself, bracing for some kind of reprimand.
But Maven remains silent. He lays the flower on the railing, petals up, and fusses with his fingernails. They’re short, worn by teeth and anxiety. I would expect a king to keep his nails finely manicured, suited to the arms of a throne. Or maybe roughed by Training or combat, as I’m sure his brother’s are. Not ruined by nervous habits better suited to a child.
“And I think I know how you feel as well, Maven,” I hear myself say. Daring to turn over one of my many cards on the table.
Again he doesn’t respond, and I know I’m right. Whatever his mother did, however her whispers crawled across his brain, left scars and marks. He doesn’t want to risk more.
I sense a chink in his armor, a hole in the wall he keeps up. What if I could slip through? If I could grab hold of a piece of him the way Mare Barrow has—could I hold the reins of a king?
“We can remove them from court, if you want,” I murmur slowly. I school my features into something softer, more caring, as I shift closer to him. I angle my body so my collarbone juts out, and my dress slips just so, showing exactly as much skin as I need. “Blame it on me. My Lakeland superstitions. Call it a short-lived measure to please your new wife.”
It’s like circling a whirlpool, trying to keep to its edges. To stay within its bounds without drowning.
The corner of his mouth lifts, tugging his lips. He cuts a sharp profile, all edges of straight nose, proud brow, and sculpted cheekbones. “You’re nineteen, aren’t you, Iris?”
I blink at him, confused. “And?”
Grinning, he moves faster than I expect, putting one hand to my face. I flinch as his fingers slide behind my ear, his thumb beneath my chin. The latter digs a little, pressing into the flesh of my throat. His skin flares, hot but not burning. We’re almost the same height, but he has an inch or so over me, and I’m forced to look up into eyes like a tundra sky. Frozen, unforgiving, endless. To anyone watching, we might look like enamored newlyweds.
“You’re very good at this already,” he says, his oddly cool breath washing over my face. “But so am I.”
I step back, meaning to pull from his grip, but he releases me before I force any kind of struggle. He seems amused, which makes my stomach churn. I give no indication of my disgust. Only cold indifference. I raise an eyebrow and smooth my hair over one shoulder, gleaming black and oil-smooth. I try to channel my mother’s regal, fearless nature.
“Touch me without my consent again, and we’ll see how long you can hold your breath.”
Slowly, he lifts the flower again, and his fist tightens around it. One by one, the petals fall, and he flicks his wrist, sparking his bracelet. The petals burn before they hit the ground, disappearing in a burst of red flame and ash and open threat.
“Forgive me, my queen,” he says, smiling. Lying. “The stress of this war can be such a ruin on my nerves. I only hope my brother can be made to see reason, and the traitors with him are brought to justice so we might finally have some peace in our lands.”
“Of course.” My words are just as false as his. I dip my head, ignoring any shame I feel in the action. “Peace is the goal we all share.”
After my mother feasts on your country and tosses your throne into the ocean. After we bleed the Samos king dry and kill every person responsible for my father’s death.
After we take your crown, Maven Calore, and drown you and your brother both.
“Your Majesty?”
We both turn to find one of Maven’s Sentinels, his mask black and glittering, standing in the doorway to the balcony. He bows low, his robes a swirl of woven fire. I can’t imagine how sweltering their armor and robes must be right now.
