War Storm

by Victoria Aveyard

  Farley paces back and forth some yards away, still wearing her Command uniform. Her hair has been freshly washed, and it gleams beneath the lamps strung over the terrace table. She gives me a nod before moving to sit.

  Evangeline and Anabel are already in their chairs, on either side of one end of the table. They must intend to flank Cal and trumpet their importance at his right and left. While Anabel seems comfortable in her gown from earlier, the heavy red and orange silk, Evangeline nuzzles into a collar of smooth black fox fur. She watches me as I approach the table, eyes glittering like two devious stars. When I sit, taking my place diagonal from her, as far as possible from the exiled prince, her lips twist into what could be a smile.

  Carmadon doesn’t seem to notice or care that his dinner guests are hell-bent on hating one another. He sits gracefully in the chair across from mine, at the right hand of where I assume Davidson will be. A servant springs from the shadows to fill his intricately etched wineglass.

  I watch with narrowed eyes. The servant has red blood, judging by the flush in her cheeks. She is neither old nor young, but she smiles as she works. I’ve never seen a Red servant smile like that, unless commanded.

  “They’re paid, and paid fairly,” Farley says, sitting down beside our host. “I’ve already checked.”

  Carmadon swirls the wine in his glass. “Poke and prod at whatever you like, General Farley. Check behind the curtains, for all I care. There are no slaves in my house,” he says, his voice taking on a stern edge.

  “We haven’t been properly introduced,” I say, feeling more rude than usual. “Your name is Carmadon, but—”

  “Of course, excuse my manners, Miss Barrow. Premier Davidson is my husband, and he is currently very late. I would apologize if the dinner goes cold waiting for him”—he waves a hand at the table of food nearby, holding our first course—“but his punctuality is neither my fault nor my problem.”

  His words are harsh, but his manner friendly and open. If Davidson is difficult to read, his husband is an open book. And so is Evangeline right now.

  She stares at the man with such naked envy I think she might turn green. And no wonder. Their lives, a marriage such as this, are impossible in our country. Forbidden. Considered a waste of silver blood. But not here.

  I fold my hands in my lap, trying not to fidget despite the nervous energy settling over the table. Anabel has not spoken, either because she disapproves of Carmadon or because she disapproves of eating alongside Reds. It could be both.

  Farley barely nods her head in thanks when Carmadon fills her glass with rich, almost black wine. She drinks deep.

  I stick to ice water, speckled with slices of bright lemon. The last thing I need is a spinning head and blurred thoughts with Tiberias Calore anywhere nearby. I glance at him as he enters, running my eyes over his familiar shoulders thrown wide beneath the edges of a red cape. It seems more like flame in the warm lights of the terrace.

  When he turns around, I drop my gaze. I can only listen as he approaches, his presence heavy on the air. A wrought-iron chair scrapes against the stone terrace, its movement agonizingly slow and deliberate. I almost jolt when I realize exactly where he has decided to sit.

  His arm brushes mine, just for a second, and his warmth settles around me. I curse the familiar comfort of it, especially against the mountain chill.

  Finally I dare to look up, only to find Carmadon with his head tilted, chin resting on one fist. He seems infinitely amused. At his side, Farley looks more inclined to vomit. And I don’t have to see Anabel’s face to know she’s scowling.

  I lock my hands together beneath the tabletop, knitting my fingers so tightly my knuckles turn white. Not with fear, but with anger. Next to me, Tiberias leans, one elbow on the arm of the chair closest to me. He could whisper in my ear if he wanted. I grit my teeth, resisting the instinct to spit.

  Across the table, Evangeline almost purrs to herself. She runs a hand through her furs, her decorative claws gleaming. “How many courses does this meal have, my lord Carmadon?”

  Davidson’s husband doesn’t look away from me, and his lips twitch in what could be a smirk. “Six.”

  With a scowl, Farley knocks back the rest of her wine.

  Grinning, Carmadon gestures to the servants in the shadows. “Dane and your lord Julian can catch up,” he says, calling for the first course with a flick of his fingers. “I hope you enjoy. We’ve taken great care to prepare some Montfort delicacies.”

  The service is smooth and quick, just as efficient but less formal than I’ve seen in the palaces of Silver kings. Carmadon presides as small plates of elegant bone china are laid out in front of us. I look down at a pink slice of fish the size of my thumb, topped with some kind of creamy cheese and asparagus.

  “Fresh-caught salmon, from the Calum River in the west,” Carmadon explains, before popping the entire thing in his mouth. Farley quickly follows suit. “The Calum drains to the western coast, into the ocean.”

  In my head I try to picture what he’s talking about, but my knowledge of his lands is poor at best. There’s another ocean, yes, bordering the western edge of the continent, but that’s all I can grasp right now.

  “My uncle Julian will be eager to learn more of your country,” Tiberias replies. He speaks slowly, with conviction. It ages him a decade. “I suspect his questions are what delay both him and the premier now.”

  “Perhaps. My Dane does delight in his library.”

  And so would Julian. I wonder if the premier is trying to form ties of his own, perhaps make an ally of a friendly Nortan Silver. Or maybe Davidson is just enjoying time with another scholar, eager to share word of his country.

  After the salmon comes a hot vegetable soup, steaming in the chilly air, and then a salad of fresh greens and wild huckleberry grown on this very mountain. Carmadon doesn’t seem to mind that no one else is speaking. He fills the silence with his own chatter, pleasantly comfortable as he details every bit of the meal he prepared. The particulars of a salad dressing, the best time to pick berries, how long the vegetables must cook, the size of his personal garden, and so on. I doubt Evangeline, Tiberias, or Anabel has ever cooked a day in their life, and I wonder if Farley’s ever eaten anything that wasn’t stolen or rationed.

  I do my best to seem polite, although I have little to say. Especially with Tiberias so close, inhaling everything on his plate. I glance at him here and there, hoarding brief flashes of his face. His jaw clenched, his throat working. He never shaved so closely before. If I didn’t have my pride or conviction, I might run my knuckles over his cheek, close against smooth skin.

  This time, he catches my eye before I can look away.

  My instinct is to blink, break the stare. Turn back to my plate or maybe even excuse myself from the table. But I hold my ground. If the would-be king wants to put me on edge, knock me back on my heels, then fine. I can do that too. I set my shoulders, straighten my spine, and, most important of all, remember to breathe. Tiberias is just one more Silver who will leave my people enslaved, no matter what he preaches. He is an obstacle and a shield. A delicate balance must be kept.

  He blinks first, returning to his food.

  I do the same.

  It burns to be near him, so close to a person I used to trust. A body I know so well. One choice, one word, and things would be so different. This dinner would be spent trading glances, communicating in our way about Evangeline or Anabel or Davidson’s absence. Or they wouldn’t be here at all. It would be us on this terrace, under the stars, surrounded by a new kind of country. An imperfect one, maybe, but a goal just the same. Carmadon is Silver, his husband a Red newblood. The servants are not slaves. I’ve seen little of Montfort, but enough to know this place might be different. And we could be different in it. If only he would let us.

  Tiberias still wears no crown, but I see it on him just the same. In his shoulders, in his eyes, in his slow, firm manner. He is a king as much as anyone can be. To the blood. To the bone.


  When the servants clear the salad plates, Carmadon glances at the door, as if expecting Davidson to join us. He frowns a little when no one appears but gestures for the next course anyway. “This is a particular Montfortan treat,” he says with a pasted smile.

  A plate slides onto the table in front of me. It looks like a particularly thick and juicy cut of steak, flanked by golden fried potatoes and mushrooms, onions, and leafy greens cooked in sauce. In a word, delicious.

  “Steak?” Anabel asks, leaning forward with an unkind smile. “I promise, my lord Carmadon, we do have steak in our country.”

  But our host ticks one dark finger. It incenses the old queen as much as his disregard for titles does. “On the contrary. You have cattle. This is bison.”

  “What is bison?” I ask, eager to try it for myself.

  His knife scrapes the plate as he slices a cut. “A different species, albeit close in relation to the cattle you know. Bigger by far, better in taste. Much stronger and hardier, with horns and shaggy coats and enough muscle to knock over a transport if they so choose. Most here are wild, though some farms exist. They roam the Paradise Valley, the hills, and the plains as well. They thrive even in winters that could kill man or beast. You’d never look a live bison in the face and call her cattle, that I can assure you.” I watch, fascinated, as his blade cuts through such strange meat. Red juice bleeds across his meal, staining the white china. “An interesting thing, the bison and the cow. So similar. Two branches of the same tree, though entirely different from one another. And separate as they are, divided as the two species can be, they can live alongside each other just fine. Mingle their herds. They can even breed.”

  Next to me, Tiberias coughs, almost choking on a piece of food.

  My cheeks flame hot.

  Evangeline laughs into her hand.

  Farley finishes the bottle of wine.

  “Have I said something impertinent?” Carmadon glances between us, his black eyes dancing. He knows exactly what he said and what it means.

  Anabel cuts in before anyone else can, under the guise of easing her grandson’s embarrassment. She surveys the palace over the lip of her glass. “Your husband’s lateness is quite rude, my lord.”

  The smiling Carmadon doesn’t miss a beat. “I agree with you. I’ll make sure his punishment is swift.”

  The bison is lean, and Carmadon is right. Better than beef. I don’t bother with manners, as Carmadon seems quite at ease eating potatoes with his hands. It only takes a minute for me to devour half the bison steak, and all the browned onions. I’m so focused on cleaning my plate with my fork, scraping together the perfect bite, that I barely notice the door open again behind us.

  “Apologies, of course,” Davidson says, his pace even but quick, as he walks toward the table. Julian trails him closely. Side by side, I’m struck by how similar Julian and Davidson look. In air, not appearance. They both have a hunger about them, the intellectual kind. Otherwise they could not be more different. Julian is too slim, his graying hair thinning and wispy, his eyes watery and brown. Davidson is a picture of health, his gray hair neatly cut and gleaming, and despite his age, he is all lean muscle. “What have we missed?” he asks, taking the seat beside his husband.

  With some awkward glances, Julian surveys the table and claims the only open seat. The one meant for Tiberias, if Tiberias weren’t so hell-bent on annoying me.

  Carmadon sniffs. “Discussion of the menu, the breeding habits of bison, and your lack of punctuality.”

  The premier’s laugh is open, honest. He either feels no need to perform or he performs perfectly in his own home. “Normal dinner conversation, then.”

  At the far end of the table, Julian leans forward, looking sheepish. “The fault is mine, I’m afraid.”

  “The library?” his nephew offers with a knowing grin. “We heard.”

  My heart twists at the warmth in Tiberias’s voice. He loves his uncle, and any reminder of the person Tiberias is beneath his bad choices makes me ache.

  A corner of Julian’s mouth lifts. “I’m the predictable kind, aren’t I?”

  “I prefer predictable,” I mutter. But loud enough for the table to hear.

  Farley smirks at her plate. And Tiberias scowls, turning to me with a quick, even snap of his neck. His mouth opens, as if he’s about to say something rash and stupid.

  His grandmother speaks before he can, eager to protect him from himself. “And what makes this library so . . . interesting?” she asks, her disdain evident.

  I can’t help myself. “Probably the books.”

  Farley barks out a laugh with little regard while Julian tries to hide a smirk in his napkin. The rest are more demure. But Tiberias’s low chuckle stops me cold. I glance at him to see him smiling, eyes crinkled at the corners as he looks down at me. I realize that, for a moment, he has forgotten where we are—and who we are. His laughter dies in an instant, his face falling back into a more neutral expression.

  “Ah yes,” Julian pushes on, if only to distract us all. “The volumes are quite extensive. Not just regarding science, but history as well. I’m afraid we lost track of ourselves.” He bobs his head and samples the wine. Then he tips his glass toward Davidson. “Or the premier obliged me, at least.”

  Davidson raises his glass in reply. A watch ticks on his wrist. “Always happy to share books. Knowledge is a rising tide. Lifts all boats, as it were.”

  “You should visit the Vaults of Vale,” Carmadon puts in. “Or even Horn Mountain.”

  “We do not intend to be here long enough for sightseeing,” Anabel says with a sniff. Slowly she lays her silverware on her plate of half-eaten food. Indicating how supremely finished she is with all this.

  In her furs, Evangeline lifts her head. Like a cat, she surveys the old queen. Weighing something. “I agree,” she says. “The sooner we’re able to return, the better.”

  Return to someone, she means.

  “Well, that isn’t up to us, is it? Excuse me,” Farley adds as she leans across the table. Anabel’s eyes almost bug out of her head as she watches a Red rebel grab her abandoned plate and scrape the leftovers onto her own. With sure hands, Farley slices up the extra cut of bison, the knife dancing through meat. I’ve seen her do worse to human flesh. “It’s up to the Montfort government,” she says, “and whether or not they decide to give us more soldiers. Eh, Premier?”

  “Indeed,” Davidson says. “Wars cannot be won on familiar faces alone. No matter how bright the flag, how high the standard.” His gaze flickers from Tiberias to me. What he means is clear. “We need armies.”

  Tiberias nods. “And we’ll get them. If not from Montfort, then from anywhere we can. The High Houses of Norta can be swayed.”

  “House Samos tried.” Evangeline gestures for more wine with a lazy, familiar twist of her fingers. “We aligned who we could, but the rest? I wouldn’t rely on them.”

  Tiberias blanches. “You think they’ll stay loyal to Maven when—”

  “When they have you to choose?” the Samos princess scoffs, cutting him off with an imperious glare. “My dear Tiberias, they could have chosen you months ago. But in the eyes of many, you’re still a traitor.”

  Across from me, Farley scowls. “Are your nobles so stupid as to still think Tiberias killed his own father?”

  I shake my head, knife in hand. “She means because he’s with us. Allied to Reds.” The blade slices through the rest of the meat on my plate. I cut with vicious force, tasting bitterness in my mouth. “Trying so desperately to find balance between our peoples.”

  “That is what I hope to do,” Tiberias says, his voice oddly soft.

  I pull my gaze away from the cooked flesh to stare at him again. His eyes meet mine, wide and disgustingly gentle. I harden myself to his charms.

  “You have an interesting way of showing it,” I sneer.

  Anabel is quick, barking a retort. “Enough, both of you.”

  My jaw tightens, and I look past Tiberias to his grandmother, n
ow glaring at me. I meet her gaze with equal fire. “This is Maven’s strength, one of his many strengths,” I say. “He divides so easily, without even trying. He does it to his enemies, and to his allies.”

  At the head of the table, Davidson steeples his fingers. He surveys me over his knuckles, unblinking in his focus. “Go on.”

  “Like Evangeline said, there are noble families who will never abandon him, because he won’t change the way things are. And he’s good at ruling, winning over his subjects while keeping the nobles satiated. Ending the Lakelander War earned him a great deal of respect among the people,” I point out, remembering how even Reds cheered him when he toured the countryside. It still turns my stomach. “He plays on that love, just as he plays on fear. When I was his prisoner, he was careful to keep many children in court, heirs to different houses, hostages in all but name. It’s an easy way to control a person, seizing what they hold most dear.”

  I know that firsthand.

  “And on top of everything else,” I add, swallowing around the lump in my throat, “there is no predicting Maven Calore. His mother still whispers in his head, pulling his strings, even though she lies dead and cold.”

  A low current of heat ripples at my side. Tiberias stares at the tabletop, looking as if he might burn a hole through his plate. His cheeks are drained of color now, pale as bone.

  With her eyes still on me, watching me devour the last bites of steak, Anabel curls her lip. “Prince Bracken in Piedmont is under our control,” she says. “He will give us whatever we need.”

  Bracken. Another one of Montfort’s schemes. The ruling prince of Piedmont is under our thumb as long as Montfort still holds his son and daughter captive. I wonder where they are, who they are. Are they young? Are they just children? Are they innocent in all this?

  The temperature begins to rise, a small but steady increase. Next to me, Tiberias tightens. He fixes his grandmother with a firm stare. “I don’t want soldiers who haven’t agreed to fight for me. Especially Bracken’s Silvers. They can’t be trusted. Neither can he.”