War Storm (Red Queen) - Victoria Aveyard Page 0,230
allow their largest ships to sail this far.
“It’s still rising,” Farley says over her shoulder, making room for me on her perch. “We won’t be able to escape the way we came.”
I bite my lip, thinking of the tunnels beneath us. “Flooded?”
She nods. “More than likely.” Her eyes waver, looking between the river and the silhouettes on the bridge. Smoke spirals with the fog, black against the white and gray. “We made it through just in time.”
Kilorn settles in next to us. His attention is on the Bridge, not the water. From this vantage point, I can see that Cal’s forces aren’t defending the Bridge, but striking from it. Through the fog, swifts blur along the decks of the boats below, alongside strongarms, Anabel’s oblivions, and other Silvers best suited to close combat. Shivers of House Gliacon seem to be making the most headway. They use their abilities to freeze. One of the smaller battleships is completely iced in, frozen against the supports of the Bridge.
I sigh in relief when I don’t see fire dancing among the ships. Nothing but the usual explosive blasts. Cal isn’t down there fighting the armada himself. Yet.
“Do you think he knows we’re here?” Kilorn wonders, still looking at the Bridge.
Farley clenches her jaw. She rests her hand at her side, not on her gun but on the radio strapped high on her hip. “Cal seems a bit preoccupied.”
“He knows,” I mutter, another peal of purple lightning streaking across the sky. The air is thick, like the clouds have come down to obscure the battle raging before us. I flinch as another round strikes the Square, missiles crashing through a wing of the palace.
“I don’t see Maven,” Farley says, shifting closer to me. I find myself facing the full weight of her cerulean stare, clear and bright even in the haze. “Is it done?”
I bite my lip, almost drawing blood. The sharp pain is better than shame. She reads my hesitation, and her face purples quicker than I thought possible.
“Mare Barrow—”
The crackle of the radio at her side cuts her off, saving me from her rage. She rips it free, snarling into the receiver. “This is General Farley.”
The voice on the other end does not belong to a Command general or a Montfort officer. It isn’t Davidson either.
I would know that voice anywhere, even punctuated by gunfire.
“I thought you weren’t coming back,” Cal says, sounding tinny and far away, distorted by static. The electricity in the air must not be very good for radio waves.
Breathless, I look from Farley toward the Bridge. Sure enough, one of the shadows in the fog seems to be solidifying. Broad shoulders and a familiar, determined stride move closer and closer. I keep still, my feet rooted in place on our perch above the fray.
Farley smirks down at her radio. “So nice of you to make time for us.”
“It’s only polite,” he replies.
With a sigh, Farley angles herself toward the form on the Bridge, now less than fifty yards away. Cal is surrounded by his guards, and he halts, stopping the group. The Silvers seem tense, their guns ready, waiting for an order. He acknowledges us with a tip of his head. Farley furrows her brow a little, hesitant.
“I’m guessing you know where things stand, Cal,” she says.
His response is almost too quick. “I do.”
Farley bites her lip. “And?”
A long rush of static drones, before he speaks again. “Mare?”
The radio is in my hand before I can even think to ask for it.
“I’m here,” I say, locking eyes with him across a canyon.
“Is it too late?”
The question has too many implications to count.
Purple, white, green, and blue flash through the clouds, enough to penetrate the mist and blind us all for a moment. Shutting my eyes, I smile with the burst of energy as it thrums through me.
When the lightning passes, I answer him, and everything he means.
“No, it isn’t,” I tell him, before returning the radio to Farley.
She doesn’t stop me as I clamber down the steps, and Cal’s guards stand aside when I approach, walking through the broken gates of the ruinous Square.
He waits at the edge of the Archeon Bridge, unmoving. As before, he lets me come to him. He lets me set the pace, choose the direction, make the decision. He puts it all in my hands.
I keep an even step, in spite of the rumblings far below. Something smashes, wailing and roaring. One of the ships, maybe, colliding into another. I hardly notice.