Tyton looks me up and down, a lock of white hair falling into his face. He leans back calmly, one long leg planted against the seat across from him. “You shouldn’t climb mountains alone,” he says. “Especially when you’re not good at it.”
“You should spend more time with my brothers, Tyton,” I reply with little bite. “They’re better at teasing me than you are.”
His grin comes easily, but it doesn’t reach his dark eyes. Ella huffs at him. “Everyone’s in Davidson’s library. General Farley and the rest,” she offers, gesturing down the hall.
My stomach swoops at the prospect of facing yet another council. I grit my teeth. “How do I look?”
The woman licks her lips, her eyes running over me.
Tyton is less diplomatic. “Her hesitation should be answer enough. But you don’t exactly have time to put on your war paint, Barrow.”
“Right, great,” I grumble, leaving them both behind.
Quickly, I smooth my hair back, trying to hide the wind-tangled knots with a hasty braid. The rest. Who else could be with Farley and the premier?
The library isn’t difficult to find. It’s one floor up, occupying a large expanse of the eastern side of the palace. Guards flank the double doors, but they don’t stop me as I approach, letting me pass in silence. Like the rest of the compound, the library is bright and cheerful, wood-paneled in lacquered, gleaming oak. The chamber is lined with double rows of shelving, the second story ringed by a narrow landing railed in bronze. Currently, soldiers of the Scarlet Guard perch there, blazing in their red uniforms, guns hanging bare. They note me as I enter, tense but ready to protect their charges should I pose a threat.
The Red generals of Command.
Farley sits with them in the center of the room, on green leather couches arranged in a half circle. Ada is with them too, having returned after long weeks with Command. She stands to the side with her arms crossed. Silent, observing everything. She offers me a shadow of a smile as I approach.
The Scarlet Guard faces a corresponding arrangement of chairs, all occupied by Montfort officers and politicians, with Davidson himself in the center. They murmur in low voices, undisturbed by my presence. Or perhaps expecting it.
Again, I feel too dirty to be here, stinking of the cold and the mountain. But I really shouldn’t worry. The Command generals are as disheveled as I feel, if not more so. They just arrived from wherever their roving headquarters were. They look like Farley, not in appearance but in attitude. If Farley had thirty or more years under her belt, a lifetime of hard-lived and hard-won survival. The three men and three women are all gray-haired, with short haircuts like Farley’s own. I wonder if she wanted to imitate them. Because, despite their similarities, Farley sits in harsh contrast to them all. She is still young, still blooming. Their firebrand.
Her father stands among the many officers lining the landing above, leaning against the railing, hands knit together. If he’s jealous of his daughter and her position, he doesn’t show it. He glances at me as I enter, and even dips his head in greeting, his red eye glowering.
The low conversation continues as I move closer. Farley shifts a little, making room for me next to her. But I’m not a general. I’m not Command. I haven’t earned the right to sit. I fall in behind her, close as a guardian, and cross my arms over my chest.
“Good to meet you, Miss Barrow,” a curly-haired general says, turning to look at me over her shoulder with the stern eye of a teacher. As if I’ve just disturbed a particularly important lesson. I nod in return, not wanting to interrupt the meeting any further. Though the subject matter does not seem dire. Many advisers talk among themselves, and conversation buzzes among the soldiers above.
“We’ve only just finished introductions,” Ada offers kindly, sidling up next to me.
Farley watches with a glint in her eye. She leans, whispering in my direction. “Don’t mind Swan,” she adds, nudging the female general. “She’s just giving you a hard time.”
To my surprise, the older woman smirks a little. They have a familiar way about them, like old friends or even family. But they share very little resemblance. Swan is short and slim, with sandy skin dusted in dark freckles. They give her an almost childish look, despite her lines of age.
“General Swan,” I murmur, ducking my head again in an attempt to be polite. She returns in kind, smiling this time.
Under her breath, Ada rattles off the other generals seated on the remaining couches. After her time at their headquarters, she knows them well. The remaining women are Horizon and Sentry, and the men are Drummer, Crimson, and Southern. Code names, clearly. Still in use, even here.
“General Palace is still in Norta, keeping our operations moving,” Ada says. “She’ll relay whatever we can dig up, in Norta and on the borders.”
“What about the Lakelands?” I ask. “Iris is going to invade, and we’ll need to know when.” A few weeks, Jon said. Not nearly specific enough.
Swan clears her throat. “The Lakelanders closed the borders. I wasn’t sure I would be able to get myself out, let alone my staff, and we went as quickly as we could.” Her eyes darken. “Took some doing, if you catch my meaning.”
Grimly, I nod and try not to think about how many dead friends she left behind.
My eyes skitter across the assembled soldiers and politicians, almost all of them Red. A few Silvers of Montfort sit with Davidson, but they are greatly outnumbered. I recognize Radis, the blond representative from the Gallery, among them. He nods his head in the smallest acknowledgment.
Davidson does the same, meeting my gaze.
With a flush, I clear my throat loudly, stepping out a little. Only the nearby generals turn to look at me. Their soldiers are more difficult to silence, and I have to try again, with more force. Slowly but surely, quiet ripples through them, until every eye in the library lands on me. I swallow hard against the familiar but still unsettling sensation. Don’t flinch. Don’t blush. Don’t hesitate.
“My name is Mare Barrow,” I say to the assembled crowd. Someone on the landing scoffs quietly. I suppose I need no introduction at this point. “Thank you for coming here.” I push on, searching for the right way to say what I have to. A man who can see the entire future passed along some tips just doesn’t sound right. “I’m sorry I’m late, but I was . . . climbing. And I met a man on the mountain.”
“Is that a metaphor?” General Crimson mutters gruffly, only to be hushed by the aptly named Drummer, a fantastically round man.
I glance at Ada, then down at Farley. “Jon,” I explain, and her eyes widen. The shock on her face speaks volumes to the room. “He’s a newblood seer, and we’ve dealt with him before.”
Davidson raises his chin. “So has Maven. If I’m not mistaken, that man was instrumental in your capture.”
“Yes,” I mutter, almost ashamed.
The premier purses his lips. “And he served Maven for a time.”
I nod again. “He did. For his own reasons.”
Even though several of his compatriots look dismissive, Davidson leans forward on his elbows, fixing me with his intense, unreadable gaze. “What did he say, Mare?”
“That we can’t let the Nortan capital fall to the Lakelands,” I reply. “If we do, the road will be ‘long and bloody.’ Worse than anything before. If they win Archeon, the Lakelands will control Norta for a hundred years.”
Radis huffs, inspecting his polished nails. He isn’t the only one to roll their eyes at such a statement. “I don’t need a seer to know that,” he mutters.
A few of the generals bob their heads in agreement. Swan speaks for them. “We know an invasion is coming; it’s just a matter of when.”
“A few weeks.” I can already feel the clock ticking against us. “That’s what Jon told me.”
Swan narrows her eyes, not with unkindness or suspicion, but with pity. “And you believe him? After all he did to you?”
Images flash in my head, memories of my captivity. The prison Jon bou
ght me with whatever scheme of fate he put in motion. I told him before that I didn’t like being his pawn, and it’s exactly what I’m doing now.
“Somehow, I think I do,” I reply, fighting to keep my voice firm.
The words set off another round of murmurs and even a bit of shouting. From the generals, the representatives, even the soldiers above us.
Only three of us remain silent, trading glances.
Farley, Davidson, and myself.
As I look between them, jumping from golden eyes to blue, I see the same resolve in both of them, and feel it in myself.
We’ll fight again. We just need to figure out how.
As usual, Farley jumps in first.
She stands up, hands outstretched, motioning for quiet. It works a little, silencing her soldiers as well as the generals. Some of the Montfort diplomats still whisper among themselves.
“We need a plan,” she barks. “Regardless of what the seer says, we all know this road leads to Archeon. Montfort and the Scarlet Guard have to be able to overthrow the Nortan capital if we want any chance of freeing the country. No matter who sits on the throne.”
Swan nods. “I was stationed in the Lakelands before we fled here. I’ve seen more of their strength than anyone here. If the Cygnet queens gain the city before we can, it will be almost impossible to take it back. It’s in our best interest to fight the weaker enemy.”
Cal. Never have I thought of him as the weaker half of anything, but it’s certainly true. His position is precarious at best. I try not to picture him alone in his palace, trying to balance the world his father and brother broke.
“You still have Scarlet Guard in Archeon, yes?” Davidson asks, and his voice is enough to quiet the rest of his people.
“Palace is stationed just outside,” Farley says. “With her own teams still in place through as much of the country as can be managed. Harbor Bay, Delphie, the Archeon outskirts.”
Drummer, the portly general, jumps in. “Palace has orders to move into the city—quietly, of course. The new king is not his brother, and his regime is not yet openly hostile to the Scarlet Guard. We can risk it.”
“So we’ll have eyes in the city, at least,” Davidson muses. “Yours as well as our own. We’ll make sure they coordinate.”
“The Scarlet Guard has infiltrated Archeon before.” Drummer puffs out his impressive chest. “It can be done again.”
The premier’s lips press into a thin, grim line. “But not in the same way,” he says. “Too dangerous from the air, now that Cal has the full force of the Air Fleet behind him. We can’t match their aerial strength for a landing, and we can’t rely on surprise like we did at Maven’s wedding.”
“And the tunnels,” Farley mutters, thinking of a coup that failed before it even began. “King Maven closed up everything beneath the city.”
“Not everything,” I blurt out. The others blink at me, hard-eyed and eager. “I’ve seen Maven’s train, his escape plan. It runs straight under the Treasury, and there are more entrances below the palace. He used it to leave the city unseen. I’m willing to bet he left some tunnels intact, if only for his own use.”
With a will, Drummer rolls to his feet. He’s surprisingly agile for his age and size. “I can relay to Palace, have her start sniffing it out. Ada, you’ve got city plans in your head, yes?”
“I do, sir,” she anwers quickly. I can’t imagine what Ada doesn’t have preserved in her perfect mind.
Drummer ducks his chin. “Get on the comms with Palace. Help her run her operatives.”
Without hestitation, Ada nods. “Yes, sir,” she says, already walking from the library.
Farley clenches her jaw and watches our friend go, disappearing from the room. Then she glances sidelong at me, weighing my response. “Do we have time for that?”
“Probably not,” I mutter. If only Jon had been more precise in his damned warning. But I suppose that’s too easy. It isn’t his way.
“So what can we do?” she prods.
A sudden headache throbs at my temples and I pinch the bridge of my nose. Earlier today, I climbed a mountain to keep away from Maven.
Of course my efforts only prolonged the inevitable. And the necessary.
“Well, I guess we can just ask.”
Without Julian to sing a confession out of him, or any whispers, newblood or otherwise, an interrogation of Maven Calore will be a two-sided battle of wills and deception. Though Montfort has Silvers to spare, none can draw truth through ability alone.
But they can draw it through pain.
Before Maven is brought in, one of the officers returns with Tyton in tow, the white-haired electricon looking dour as he enters the room. He settles into his seat on Davidson’s side of the room and drums his fingers, the movement quick and twitching, like the lightning he may have to use on Maven. His ability is far more precise than my own, able to push a body to its limit without destroying what cannot be repaired.
The room is deathly silent, empty of the soldiers above, as well as most of the Montfort representatives. Davidson and the Guard generals are smart enough not to give Maven an audience. He’s too good a performer, too good a liar.
I can sit now, sandwiched between Farley and the armrest of her couch. She’s broader than I am, but I’m glad for her close presence. The thought of Maven still chills my blood. At least in Archeon there was Cal to split his attention, his obsession, and his fury. Now there’s just me.
His guards are many, a half dozen at least. Montfort soldiers and Scarlet Guard alike, armed to the teeth with weapons and abilities. He revels in the attention and the need for such precautions, smiling slightly as they lead him into the library.
His icy eyes sweep over the chamber quickly, noting the windows, the books, and the people waiting for him. I hold his gaze.
“I must admit, I never expected to see you again, Premier,” he says, breaking his stare to look at Davidson. The unflappable man doesn’t react, his face still and neutral. “Nor did I ever think I would set foot in the mysterious wilds of Montfort. But this isn’t so wild, is it? Not as much as you would have us believe.”
It’s wild enough, I think, remembering our battle with a herd of bison.
“I was taught your country was a land of Silvers as much as my own, albeit divided by many kings and lords. How wrong my instructors were.” Maven keeps on, turning slightly as he speaks. He could be counting us. The seven generals of Command, matched by Davidson and the representatives from his government and military. He stops when he spots Radis, plainly silver-blooded with his cold-hued skin. “How interesting,” he murmurs. “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure, sir?”
The older Silver flexes a hand, the waning sunlight flashing on his long nails. A soft brush of wind rustles through Maven’s hair. A warning. “Save your breath, princeling. There are things to discuss.”
Maven only grins. “I just didn’t expect to see Silvers here, in the midst of such . . . crimson company.”
I huff, already bored with his stalling tactics. “You said yourself, you don’t know anything about this place.” Maven turns back to me, glaring, but I wave him off. “And you don’t need to.”
He bares his teeth. “Because you’ll execute me before long? Is that the threat you’re trying to make, Mare?” I set my jaw, electing not to answer. “It’s an empty one. If you were going to kill me, you would have done it already. I’m worth more alive. To you and your cause.”
The room remains silent in reply.
“Oh, don’t play coy,” Maven sneers. “As long as I breathe, I’m a threat to my brother. Same as he was to me. I assume he’s collecting loyalties now, recalling the High Houses of Norta. Trying to win over those who pledged allegiance to me. And some will, but all?” Slowly, he ticks his head back and forth, clucking his tongue like a scolding mother. “No, they’ll sit back and wait. Or they’ll fight him.”
“For you?” I snap back. “I doubt that.”
He makes a noise low in
his throat, a growl more suited to an animal.
“What exactly do you need from me?” he says, wrenching his eyes away. He moves gracefully, swiveling on his toes to face the rest of the chamber. The fallen king has no cage, but he is obviously trapped. For some reason, his eyes waver on Tyton, looking over the electricon, with his white hair and calmly murderous disposition. “And who is he?”
To my surprise, I hear fear in Maven Calore.
Farley pounces, smelling blood in the water. “You’re going to tell us what you did to the Archeon tunnels. Which ones are closed, which ones are open. Which ones you built after you took the throne.”
In spite of his predicament, Maven rolls his eyes and laughs. “You people and your tunnels.”
The young general is not deterred. “Well?”
“And what do I get out of this?” He leers at her. “A better view from my cell? Not that it would be difficult. I currently have no windows.” With oddly twitching hands, he counts off on his fingers. “Better food? Visitors, perhaps?” Maven wavers a little, teeth on edge. His body seems to shiver. Whatever control he maintains is beginning to slip. “A painless death?”
I fight the urge to grab him, if only to keep him still. He reminds me of a rat in a trap, squirming for his life.
“You get the satisfaction, Maven,” I force out.
I should be used to the sensation of his eyes running through me. I’m not, and I shudder, his gaze a featherweight on my skin. “Of what?” he murmurs.
Despite the yards between us, Maven feels much too close.
The words taste sour in my mouth. “You know what.”
His grin widens, a white knife to taunt us. “If I can’t have the throne, neither can he,” he says plainly. “Well, that’s something, at least.” His voice drops, as does his grin. “But not enough.”
Behind him, Davidson looks to his side, exchanging a stern glance with Tyton. After a long moment, the white-haired electricon unfolds from his chair. He rises slowly, deliberately, hands loose at each side. Maven turns at the sound, sharp in his motions. His eyes widen.
War Storm Page 48
