War Storm
Page 7
No one can hear me but the patrols, and I doubt they care about a single girl laughing alone in the darkness. I’ve earned the right to laugh or cry or scream as I see fit. Little pieces of me want to do all three. But laughter wins out.
I sound deranged, and maybe I am. I certainly have an excuse, after today. People are still clearing bodies from the other side of Corvium. Cal chose his crown over everything I thought we were fighting for. Both are still bleeding wounds no healer can fix. Wounds I have to ignore right now, for my own sanity. The only thing I can do is put my face in my hands, clench my teeth, and fight my infernal, idiotic laugh.
This is complete and total lunacy.
Evangeline, Cal, and me, all headed to Montfort. What a terrific joke.
I said as much in my message to Kilorn, still safe back in Piedmont. He would want to know about everything, as much as I could say. After I convinced him to stay behind, it’s only fair to keep him in the loop. And of course, I want him in the loop. I want someone else to laugh with me, and curse over what’s to come.
I chuckle darkly again, tipping my head back against the stonework. The stars above me are pinpricks, dimmed by the city lights of Corvium as well as the rising moon. The stars seem to watch, looking down at the fortress city. I wonder if Iris Cygnet’s gods are laughing with me. If they even exist.
I wonder if Jon is laughing too.
The thought of him chills my blood, killing whatever manic giggle I have left. That wretched, prophesizing newblood is out there somewhere, having escaped us. But to do what? Sit on a hill and watch? Let his red eyes tick back and forth as we all kill each other? Is he some kind of game master, content to nudge us into position and play out whatever future he chooses? If it were remotely possible, I would try to find him. Force him to protect us from lethal fate. But that’s absurd. He’ll see me coming. We can only find Jon if he wants to be found.
Frustrated, I scrub my fingers over my face and scalp, letting my nails drag across my skin. The sharp sensation brings me back to reality, little by little. So does the cold. The stone beneath my body loses warmth as night wears on. The thin fabric of my uniform does little to keep me from shivering, while the sharp, solid edges of the wall are hardly comfortable. Still, I don’t move.
Moving means sleep, but it also means going back down. To the others, to the barracks. Even if I don my best scowl and run, I’ll have to face Reds and newbloods and Silvers too. Julian, certainly. I can just imagine him waiting on my cot, ready with another lecture. What he could possibly say, I don’t know.
He’ll side with Cal, I think. At the end of all this. When it becomes clear we won’t let Cal keep his throne. Silvers are nothing if not loyal to blood. And Julian is nothing if not loyal to his dead sister. Cal is the last piece of her left. He won’t turn his back on that, even for all his talk of revolution and history. He won’t leave Cal alone.
Tiberias. Call. Him. Tiberias.
It even hurts to think the name. His real name. His future. Tiberias Calore the Seventh, King of Norta, Flame of the North. I picture him on his brother’s throne, safe in a cage of Silent Stone. Or would he drag out the diamondglass inferno his father sat? Destroy every shred of Maven, erase him from history? He’ll rebuild his father’s palace. The Kingdom of Norta will return to the way it was. Except for the Samos king in the Rift, everything will go back to what it was meant to be the day I fell into the arena.
Making everything that has occurred since that day be for nothing.
I refuse to let that happen.
And, luckily, I’m not alone in this endeavor.
The moonlight glows on the black stone, making the gold accents of every tower and parapet gleam silver. Patrols wind below me, guards in red and green uniforms keeping watch. Scarlet Guard and Montfort. Their counterparts, Silvers in house colors, are less frequent, and they clump together. Yellow Laris, black Haven, red and blue Iral, red and orange Lerolan. No Samos colors. They’re royal now, thanks to Volo’s ambition and opportunity. No need to waste their time on something as ordinary as the nightly rounds.
I wonder what Maven thinks of that. He fixated on Tiberias so much, I can only imagine the weight of another rival king like Volo. Everything revolved around his brother, even though Maven seemingly had everything he could want. The crown, the throne, me. He still felt that shadow. Elara’s doing. She coiled and curled him into what she needed, cutting away and building up in equal measure. His obsession helped fuel his need for power, and enabled her own. Will it extend to King Volo? Or are Maven’s darkest and most dangerous desires restricted to us? Kill Tiberias, keep me?
Only time will tell. When he strikes again, and he will, I’ll know.
I only hope we’re ready.
Davidson’s troops, the Scarlet Guard and our spreading infiltration—we’re enough. We have to be.
But that doesn’t mean I can’t take precautions.
“When do we leave?”
It took some dreaded social interaction, but I managed to ask my way to Davidson’s quarters. He commands some larger offices in the administrative sector, forming a suite currently filled with Montfort brass. And Scarlet Guard too, although Farley isn’t here. The officers take my entrance in stride, giving way to the person they still call lightning girl. Most busy themselves with packing. Papers, folders, charts, mostly. Nothing that actually belongs to anyone here. Intelligence for smarter people than me to devour. Probably left over from whatever Silver officers used this space last.
Ada, one of my newblood recruits, is at the center of the activity. Her eyes run over every scrap of paper before someone else packs it away. She’s memorizing it all, using her ability of perfect memory. I catch her eye as I pass, and we share a nod. When we go to Montfort, Ada will be dispatched to Command at Farley’s orders. I don’t suppose I’ll see her again for a long time.
Davidson looks up from his bare desk. The corners of his angled eyes crinkle, the only indicator of a smile. Despite the harsh, unforgiving light of the office, he looks handsome as ever. Distinguished. Intimidating. A king in power if not title. When he waves me over, I swallow hard, remembering what he looked like in the siege. Bloody, exhausted, afraid. And determined. Just like the rest of us. It calms me a little.
“You did well up there, Barrow,” he says. With a toss of his head, he gestures in the vague direction of the core tower.
I blink, scoffing. “You mean I kept my mouth shut.”
At the window, someone laughs. I glance over to see Tyton leaning against the glass, arms crossed, his usual lock of white hair drooping over one eye. He has a clean forest-green uniform too, though a little short at the wrists and legs. No lightning insignia to mark him for what he is: an electricon like me. Because it isn’t his uniform. The last time I saw him, he was painted eyebrows to ankles in silver blood. He drums his fingers against his arm, brandishing them like the weapons they are.
“Is that possible?” he says without looking at me, his voice deep.
Davidson surveys me, shaking his head a bit. “Actually, I’m pleased with what you told the others, Mare. About accompanying me home.”
“Like I said, I’m curious about—”
The premier puts up his hand, palm out, to stop me short. “Save it. I think Lord Jacos is the only person here who does anything simply for the sake of curiosity.” Well, he isn’t wrong. “What do you really want from Montfort?”
I sound deranged, and maybe I am. I certainly have an excuse, after today. People are still clearing bodies from the other side of Corvium. Cal chose his crown over everything I thought we were fighting for. Both are still bleeding wounds no healer can fix. Wounds I have to ignore right now, for my own sanity. The only thing I can do is put my face in my hands, clench my teeth, and fight my infernal, idiotic laugh.
This is complete and total lunacy.
Evangeline, Cal, and me, all headed to Montfort. What a terrific joke.
I said as much in my message to Kilorn, still safe back in Piedmont. He would want to know about everything, as much as I could say. After I convinced him to stay behind, it’s only fair to keep him in the loop. And of course, I want him in the loop. I want someone else to laugh with me, and curse over what’s to come.
I chuckle darkly again, tipping my head back against the stonework. The stars above me are pinpricks, dimmed by the city lights of Corvium as well as the rising moon. The stars seem to watch, looking down at the fortress city. I wonder if Iris Cygnet’s gods are laughing with me. If they even exist.
I wonder if Jon is laughing too.
The thought of him chills my blood, killing whatever manic giggle I have left. That wretched, prophesizing newblood is out there somewhere, having escaped us. But to do what? Sit on a hill and watch? Let his red eyes tick back and forth as we all kill each other? Is he some kind of game master, content to nudge us into position and play out whatever future he chooses? If it were remotely possible, I would try to find him. Force him to protect us from lethal fate. But that’s absurd. He’ll see me coming. We can only find Jon if he wants to be found.
Frustrated, I scrub my fingers over my face and scalp, letting my nails drag across my skin. The sharp sensation brings me back to reality, little by little. So does the cold. The stone beneath my body loses warmth as night wears on. The thin fabric of my uniform does little to keep me from shivering, while the sharp, solid edges of the wall are hardly comfortable. Still, I don’t move.
Moving means sleep, but it also means going back down. To the others, to the barracks. Even if I don my best scowl and run, I’ll have to face Reds and newbloods and Silvers too. Julian, certainly. I can just imagine him waiting on my cot, ready with another lecture. What he could possibly say, I don’t know.
He’ll side with Cal, I think. At the end of all this. When it becomes clear we won’t let Cal keep his throne. Silvers are nothing if not loyal to blood. And Julian is nothing if not loyal to his dead sister. Cal is the last piece of her left. He won’t turn his back on that, even for all his talk of revolution and history. He won’t leave Cal alone.
Tiberias. Call. Him. Tiberias.
It even hurts to think the name. His real name. His future. Tiberias Calore the Seventh, King of Norta, Flame of the North. I picture him on his brother’s throne, safe in a cage of Silent Stone. Or would he drag out the diamondglass inferno his father sat? Destroy every shred of Maven, erase him from history? He’ll rebuild his father’s palace. The Kingdom of Norta will return to the way it was. Except for the Samos king in the Rift, everything will go back to what it was meant to be the day I fell into the arena.
Making everything that has occurred since that day be for nothing.
I refuse to let that happen.
And, luckily, I’m not alone in this endeavor.
The moonlight glows on the black stone, making the gold accents of every tower and parapet gleam silver. Patrols wind below me, guards in red and green uniforms keeping watch. Scarlet Guard and Montfort. Their counterparts, Silvers in house colors, are less frequent, and they clump together. Yellow Laris, black Haven, red and blue Iral, red and orange Lerolan. No Samos colors. They’re royal now, thanks to Volo’s ambition and opportunity. No need to waste their time on something as ordinary as the nightly rounds.
I wonder what Maven thinks of that. He fixated on Tiberias so much, I can only imagine the weight of another rival king like Volo. Everything revolved around his brother, even though Maven seemingly had everything he could want. The crown, the throne, me. He still felt that shadow. Elara’s doing. She coiled and curled him into what she needed, cutting away and building up in equal measure. His obsession helped fuel his need for power, and enabled her own. Will it extend to King Volo? Or are Maven’s darkest and most dangerous desires restricted to us? Kill Tiberias, keep me?
Only time will tell. When he strikes again, and he will, I’ll know.
I only hope we’re ready.
Davidson’s troops, the Scarlet Guard and our spreading infiltration—we’re enough. We have to be.
But that doesn’t mean I can’t take precautions.
“When do we leave?”
It took some dreaded social interaction, but I managed to ask my way to Davidson’s quarters. He commands some larger offices in the administrative sector, forming a suite currently filled with Montfort brass. And Scarlet Guard too, although Farley isn’t here. The officers take my entrance in stride, giving way to the person they still call lightning girl. Most busy themselves with packing. Papers, folders, charts, mostly. Nothing that actually belongs to anyone here. Intelligence for smarter people than me to devour. Probably left over from whatever Silver officers used this space last.
Ada, one of my newblood recruits, is at the center of the activity. Her eyes run over every scrap of paper before someone else packs it away. She’s memorizing it all, using her ability of perfect memory. I catch her eye as I pass, and we share a nod. When we go to Montfort, Ada will be dispatched to Command at Farley’s orders. I don’t suppose I’ll see her again for a long time.
Davidson looks up from his bare desk. The corners of his angled eyes crinkle, the only indicator of a smile. Despite the harsh, unforgiving light of the office, he looks handsome as ever. Distinguished. Intimidating. A king in power if not title. When he waves me over, I swallow hard, remembering what he looked like in the siege. Bloody, exhausted, afraid. And determined. Just like the rest of us. It calms me a little.
“You did well up there, Barrow,” he says. With a toss of his head, he gestures in the vague direction of the core tower.
I blink, scoffing. “You mean I kept my mouth shut.”
At the window, someone laughs. I glance over to see Tyton leaning against the glass, arms crossed, his usual lock of white hair drooping over one eye. He has a clean forest-green uniform too, though a little short at the wrists and legs. No lightning insignia to mark him for what he is: an electricon like me. Because it isn’t his uniform. The last time I saw him, he was painted eyebrows to ankles in silver blood. He drums his fingers against his arm, brandishing them like the weapons they are.
“Is that possible?” he says without looking at me, his voice deep.
Davidson surveys me, shaking his head a bit. “Actually, I’m pleased with what you told the others, Mare. About accompanying me home.”
“Like I said, I’m curious about—”
The premier puts up his hand, palm out, to stop me short. “Save it. I think Lord Jacos is the only person here who does anything simply for the sake of curiosity.” Well, he isn’t wrong. “What do you really want from Montfort?”
