And I see his corpse again, suspended before me, dappled by the shifting light of a churning sea. Afloat, at the mercy of a foreign tide.
Neither of us moves.
“I can’t,” I bite out, looking anywhere but his face.
He responds quickly, with force. “Neither can I.”
“But I also can’t—”
Stay away. Keep doing this. Denying ourselves in the face of always-looming death.
Tiberias hisses out a breath.
“Neither can I.”
When we take the step forward together, from opposite directions, both of us laugh. It almost breaks the spell. But we keep walking, equal in motion and intention. Slow and methodic, measuring. He watches me, I watch him, as the space closes between us. I touch him first, putting my palm flat over his thudding heart. He inhales slowly, his chest rising beneath my fingers. A warm hand slips around my back, splaying wide over the base of my spine. I know he can feel my old scars through my shirt, the knobbled skin familiar to us both. I answer by curling my other hand at the nape of his neck, gently digging my nails into the lock of black hair.
“This doesn’t change anything,” I say against his collarbone, a firm line against my cheek.
I feel his answer in my rib cage. “No.”
“We aren’t making different decisions.”
His arms tighten around me. “No.”
“So what is this, Cal?”
The name has an effect on us both. He shivers, and I move closer, flattening against him. It feels like giving in, for both of us, though we have nothing left to surrender.
“We’re choosing not to choose.”
“That doesn’t sound real.”
“Maybe it isn’t.”
But he’s wrong. I can’t think of anything more real than the feel of him. The heat, the smell, the taste. It’s the only real thing in my world.
“This is the last time,” I whisper before I cover his mouth with mine.
Over the next few hours, I say that so many times I lose count.
TWENTY-ONE
Maven
I hate the waves. They offend me.
Every heave of blue against the hull of the boat makes my stomach toss, and it is entirely too difficult to remain still, silent, the image of reserved strength I need to be, Perhaps Iris or her mother is roiling the sea on purpose. In punishment for my risking Iris’s life in Harbor Bay. Even though she survived and escaped easily enough. Survived, escaped, and lost the city to my perfect brother. I wouldn’t put it past the Lakelander queen. She’s even more powerful than her daughter. Certainly she can control the rise and fall of the ocean around us. I spot her ships ahead, six of them. Small but formidable warships. Less of her armada than we expected.
I snarl to myself, lip curling. Can no one simply do as they’re told? Even with her daughter in the balance, leading the failed defense of the city, Queen Cenra hasn’t brought her full strength. A trickle of heat bursts through me, a tongue of angry fire down my spine. I restrain it quickly.
The constant motion makes it more difficult to keep my grip on the rail of the deck. It drains my focus. And when I lose focus, my head becomes less . . . quiet.
Harbor Bay is gone.
Another thing lost to Cal, the familiar voice whispers. Another failure, Maven.
Mother’s voice has grown fainter as time passes, but she never truly recedes. Sometimes I wonder if she planted a seed in me, leaving it to bloom only after her death. I don’t know if whispers can even do that. But it’s an easy explanation for the murmurs and the mutters that rattle around in my skull.
Sometimes I’m glad for her voice. Her guidance from beyond the grave. The advice is always small; sometimes it’s something she used to say before she died. Sometimes it could be just memories. But I wake up far too often from uneasy sleep, her words ringing in my ears, for her voice to simply be a product of my own mind. She’s here with me still, whether I want her to be or not. I call it a comfort, even when she is anything but.
All that matters is the throne, she whispers again, as she whispered over the years. Her voice is almost lost to the swell of the ocean. Part of me strains to hear, and part of me tries not to listen. And what you have given to get it.
That is today’s refrain. It repeats as my flagship sails toward the waiting armada, cutting through the waves as the sun sets low and red against the distant coast. Harbor Bay still trails smoke, teasing me on the horizon.
At least her voice is gentle today. When I falter, when I slow down, it turns sharp, a fraying, splintering shriek, steel on steel. Glass popping in the heat of flame. Sometimes it’s so awful I check to make sure my eyes and ears aren’t bleeding. They never do. Her words never exist beyond the cage of my head.
I stare at the waves ahead, each one a white crest of foam, and think of the path laid out. Not before, but behind. How I came to stand on the prow of a ship, a crown low across my forehead, with the spray of salt water drying on my skin. What I gave to be here. The people I left behind, willingly or not. Dead or abandoned or betrayed. The terrible things I’ve done and let be done in my name. How much will have been in vain if I fail. And now I race toward a Lakelander fleet. Enemies turned allies, through my own careful maneuvering.
Like the rest of my country, I was taught to hate the Lakelands, to curse their greed. Perhaps more than anyone else, I learned to despise them. After all, my own father and his father spent their lives locked in a stalemate war on the northern border. They saw thousands wasted against the blue uniforms, drowned in the lakes, obliterated by minefield and missile. Of course, they knew what the war was truly for. I don’t know if Cal, the poor, simple brute, ever connected such easily traced dots, but I certainly did.
Our war with the Lakelands served a purpose. Reds outnumber us. Reds can overthrow us. But not if they die in greater numbers than we do. And not if they fear something else more than they fear the Silvers standing over them. Be it dying in war, or just the Lakelanders. Anyone can be manipulated against their own interests, if given the right circumstance. My ancestors knew that well enough, in their deepest hearts. To maintain power, they lied, they manipulated, they spilled blood. Just not their own. They sacrificed life, but not the lives closest to them.
I can’t say the same.
Mother is never far from my thoughts. Not just because of her voice running through my mind, but simply because I miss her. The ache is permanent, I think, a dull pain that dogs my every step. Like a missing finger or a shortness of breath. Nothing has ever been the same since she died. I remember it, the sight of her brutalized corpse in that Red girl’s hands. The memory is a punch in the gut.
It isn’t the same with Father. I saw his corpse too, but felt nothing for it. Not anger, not sadness. Just emptiness. If I ever loved him, I have no memory of it. And searching for one only gives me a headache. Of course, Mother removed it. To protect me, she said, from a man who did not love me as he loved her rival’s son, my older brother. The perfect boy in all things.
That love for Cal is gone too, but sometimes I feel its ghost. Moments return at the oddest times, drawn out by a smell or a sound or a word spoken a certain way. Cal loved me—I know that, of course. He proved it many times, over many years. Mother had to be more careful with him, but in the end, it wasn’t she who severed the last thread between us.
It was Mare Barrow.
My brilliant fool of a brother couldn’t keep sight on all that was his, and what little was mine.
I remember the first time I watched the security footage of them together, dancing in a forgotten room tucked away in the summer palace. It was Cal’s idea, their meetings. Their dance lessons. Mother sat by my side, near enough if I needed her. I reacted as she trained me to. Without feeling, without even blinking. He kissed her like he didn’t know or didn’t care what she meant to anyone but himself.
Because Cal is selfish, Mother croons in the memory and in my mind, her voice like silk and like a razor. The words are fa
miliar, another old refrain. Cal sees only what he can win and what he can take. He thinks he owns the world. And one day, if you let him, he will. What will that leave for you, Maven Calore? The scraps, the leftovers? Or nothing at all?
My brother and I have something in common, at least. We both want the crown and we’re both willing to sacrifice anything to have it. At least I, in my worst moments, when the wretchedness threatens to overwhelm me, can blame such wanting on my mother.
But who can he blame?
And somehow everyone calls me the monster.
I’m not surprised by it. Cal walks in a light I’ll never find.
Iris is always going on and on about her gods, and sometimes I believe they must be real. How else is my brother still living, still smiling, still a constant threat to me? He must be blessed, by someone or something. My only consolation is knowing I’m right about him, and always will be. Right about Mare too. I poisoned her enough, tainted her enough. She’ll never tolerate another king, not for any amount of love. And Cal has discovered that firsthand, another gift of mine across the miles between us.
I only wish I’d figured out a way to keep that strange newblood, the one who bridged a connection between Mare and me. But the risk was too great, the reward too small. An obliterated base for the chance to speak with her again? It was a foolish trade, and even for her, I wouldn’t make it.
But I wish I could.
She’s out there across the waves, somewhere in the city along the distant, crimson coast. Alive, obviously. Or else we would know it. Even though it’s only been a few hours, the death of the lightning girl would not be a secret for long. The same goes for my brother. They survived. The thought makes my head pound.
Harbor Bay was a logical choice for Cal, but the Red tech slum was obviously Mare’s own brainchild. She is so married to her cause, and all her red-blooded pride. I should have predicted she would go after New Town. It’s sad, really, to know that her cause relies on people like Cal, his sneering grandmother, and the Samos traitors. None of them will give her what she wants. It will only end in bloodshed. And probably her own death, when all is done.
If only I had kept her closer. A better guard, a tighter leash. Where would we be now? And where would I be if Mother could have removed her from me, as she removed Father and Cal? I can’t say. I don’t know. It hurts my head to wonder.
I look down the deck, at the soldiers manning the ship. She might have been beside me, if not for a few missteps. The wind in her hair, her eyes shadowed and sunken, wasted by the manacles keeping her tethered to me. An ugly sight, but still beautiful.
At the very least, she is still alive. Her heart still beats.
Not like Thomas.
I wince as his name crosses my thoughts. Mother couldn’t remove him either. Not the agony of his loss, nor the memory of his love.
That future is gone, killed, chased out of existence.
A dead future, that horrible newblood seer used to call it. I think Jon was my tormentor more than I was his jailer. Clearly he could have left whenever he wanted, and whatever he accomplished in my palace is still budding fruit. Again I look out to the water, to the east this time, over a vast and endless ocean. The emptiness should calm me, but two early stars hang above the waves. The bright, cheerful lights offend me too.
Queen Cenra’s ship is easy to spot as we sail closer. The waves beside it are calm, almost still, a flat quelling of water. Her ship hardly rocks, even this far from land.
The Lakelander ships aren’t as sleek as ours. Our manufacturing capabilities are better than those in the Lakelands, thanks in very large part to the tech slums that Mare is intent on destroying.
Even with her ships and my own, our guns are few, and anything we might use against the city will certainly meet resistance from magnetrons and newbloods, if not my foul brother himself. Only the Harbor Bay battleship, Iris’s for now, has any kind of artillery that could be of use this far out.
I glare at it, the steel craft anchored alongside Cenra’s ship. It casts a long, jagged shadow, planted firmly between the Lakelander queen and the coast. My scheming queen is using it as a shield. A very expensive shield.
I growl to myself as I board her ship, careful to keep my feet when I step from one deck to the next. My own Sentinels flank me as we walk, too close for comfort. I keep my hands at my sides, ungloved, fingers bare in threat.
“This way, Your Majesty,” a single Lakelander says, beckoning from an open door bolted with rivets and a wheel lock. “The queens are waiting.”
“Tell them the king waits on deck,” I reply, turning aside to walk the edge of the ship.
This isn’t a pleasure cruise, and there aren’t many places to stand, let alone congregate. But I’d rather stay on deck than go below, to be trapped behind steel with a pair of nymphs. My Sentinels walk ahead of me, careful to keep in formation, as we climb a set of stairs to a landing overlooking the prow.
It doesn’t take the queens long to appear, moving in tandem.
Cenra wears a flowing uniform, dark blue with silver and gold chasing. A black sash divides her body from shoulder to hip, clasped in precious sapphire. In mourning still. I don’t think Mother wore her mourning clothes for more than a few days. Perhaps the Lakelander queen cared for her husband. How strange. She watches me, storm-eyed, her skin a cold bronze washed gold by the setting sun.
I feel as if I can read the battle on Iris. Her blue sleeves are charred to the elbow, the threads stained in two kinds of blood. And her long black hair is undone, still wet, brushed over one shoulder. A healer trails her, tentatively working on Iris’s arms as she walks, smoothing away burns and cuts.
Keeping her at an arm’s length has been a wise decision. I want little to do with my wife, who would probably prefer to kill me. But like Reds, she can be controlled by fear. And need. She has both in equal measure.
So does Cenra. It’s why she dared to leave her borders. She knows I hold her daughter in the palm of my hand. I don’t doubt she wants to extricate Iris from our marriage. But she needs this alliance as much as I do. Without me, she faces Cal and his band of traitors and criminals. A united front against her. I’m her shield, as she is mine.
“My queens,” I say, bowing slightly to them both as they approach.
Her daughter looks more like a soldier than a queen made and princess born.
The queen of the Lakelands dips into a shallow curtsy. Her sleeves brush the deck. “Your Majesty,” she replies.
I turn my face to the horizon. “Harbor Bay has fallen.”
“For now,” Cenra says, her voice offensively calm.
“Oh?” I sneer, raising an eyebrow “You think we can win it back? Tonight, perhaps.”
Again, she dips her head. “In time.”
I finish for her. “When the rest of your armada arrives.”
Queen Cenra grits her teeth. “Yes, of course,” she reluctantly grinds out. “But—”
“But?” I ask. The sea air feels cold on my bared teeth.
“We do have our own shores to guard,” she says. At her side, Iris looks smug, glad to let her mother fight this battle. “The Lakes must remain defended, especially from Montfort. They can cross Prairie and strike our western border easily. As can the Kingdom of the Rift on our east.”
I have to laugh. Sneering, I wave a hand at the horizon. Full of Samos traitors and Montfort usurpers, all beneath my brother’s idiot command. “Strike your border with what army? The one currently occupying my city?”
Cenra flares her nostrils and a flush heats her face, dusting over her cliff-like cheekbones. “Samos has the Nortan Air Fleet, one of the biggest on the continent. Not to mention Montfort’s own capabilities, whatever they are. Your brother has the advantage from the air, and he has the speed. Anywhere could be at risk of attack.” She speaks slowly, as if I am a child who needs his hand held through war. It tingles my fingers. “That cannot be ignored, Your Majesty.”
As if on wretched cue, a battalion
of airjets races over the coast in formation. The distant scream of them reaches us slowly, a dull and stretching roar. I fold my arms over my chest, tucking away my hands lest they ignite.
“Bracken’s Air Fleet should be enough to hold them off,” I mutter, keeping my eyes on the jets as they move. Circling the city. Protective maneuvers.
Iris finally finds her voice. “The bulk of his fleet was cannibalized by the Montfort occupation. They can’t match what we’re up against.” She clearly delights in correcting me. I let her take this small comfort instead of losing my temper.
To look powerful is to be powerful. Mother said that too many times to count. Look calm, still, strong. Assured of yourself and your victory.
“Which is why we have to return to a place of strength,” Cenra says. “We’re no good out here on the waves, waiting to be picked off from the sky. Even the nymphs of Cygnet Line are not invincible.”
Of course they aren’t, you proud nit.
Instead I blink at her, trying to burn through her with my eyes. “You suggest a retreat?”
“We’ve already retreated,” Iris snaps. The healer at her side steps back a little, cowed by her anger. “Harbor Bay is one city—”
I clench a fist and a burst of heat ripples on the air. “Harbor Bay is not the only piece of my country lost to my brother,” I say quietly, slowly. Low enough that they must strain to hear. “The south is his, the Rift and Delphie. He took Corvium from me. And now he has Fort Patriot too.”
My sneering queen doesn’t quail against my checked fury. “Fort Patriot will be of little use to them for a long time,” she says, looking like a satisfied cat after a particularly big dinner.
“Oh?” I reply. “And why is that?”
She glances sidelong at her mother, sharing a look I cannot decipher. “When it became clear the city was lost, and that Tiberias would win the day, I flooded the fort as much as I could,” Iris explains, proud and still. “The seawall came down. Half of it is underwater, and the rest is cut off from land. I would have sunk the battleships if I could, but the escape took too much out of me. Still, the repairs will slow them down, and I’ve taken valuable resources from their effort.”
War Storm Page 34
