War Storm (Red Queen) - Victoria Aveyard Page 0,108
gazes at once, never flinching, never stumbling. I clench a fist at my side, hidden in my skirts. “Norta is a Silver country, born from our strength, our power, our achievements, and our sacrifices. No Red will take what we have or change who we are. They are nothing to us, no matter who their allies are.
“Maven Calore will prevail. True Norta will prevail. Strength and power.” I bite back a grin as I slip familiar words into the previously approved speech. “Let them face our flood.”
Despite all my restraint, I can’t help but smile as the crowd claps and cheers for Lakelander words. My mother’s words. Get used to it, Nortans. You’ll bow to my colors soon enough.
The heat wave has broken, making the walk back to my waiting convoy of transports pleasant. I want to linger on the street, enjoying the fresh air and gentle sunlight, and I move as slowly as I can. My Sentinels edge me along, their gloved hands and masked faces flanking me in practiced formation. We’re ahead of schedule, by my count. I only have to return to the palace and prepare for tonight’s dinner.
Still, the open transport door comes too quickly. With a huff, I step up and in, my eyes downcast as the door shuts behind me.
“Good afternoon, Your Majesty.”
Two faces stare back from inside the transport, on the seats across from mine. One is familiar, and one I can guess at. Both are enemies.
I yelp, sliding back against the leather seating. On instinct I reach for the canteen of water I keep close. My other hand scrambles for the pistol under the backseat.
Fingers catch me under my chin, forcing me to look up. I expect them to belong to the singer, the uncle who can murmur away all thought in my head. Turn me inside out.
Instead I look up to find it’s the grandmother who holds me, her bronze eyes alight and determined. I freeze, knowing exactly what Anabel Lerolan’s touch can do. I picture her grip changing, shifting, and then my skull exploding open, spewing brain and bone all over the transport interior.
“Some advice, from one queen to another, my dear,” Anabel says, still holding my chin. “Do not do anything stupid.”
“Fine,” I whisper, showing my empty palms. No gun, no canteen. No weapons but the air in the transport with us. I glance over her shoulder, at the silhouette of my driver and the Sentinel guard. Both on the other side of the glass.
Julian Jacos follows my gaze, then sighs. He raps his knuckles on the divider. Neither of my guards moves. “They won’t be able to hear you for some time, I’m afraid,” he says. “And they’ve been instructed to take the scenic route back to the palace.” With an empty smile, he peeks out the window as we weave down unfamiliar alleys. “We’re not here to hurt you, Iris.”
“Good. I didn’t think you were foolish enough to try,” I shoot back, a little impeded by Anabel’s lethal grip. “Do you mind?” I sneer at her.
With a patronizing bow of her head, she releases me, but doesn’t back away. Keeping me within easy reach. Under my clothes, I try to gather moisture on my skin, pulling it from the air. And the cold, terrified sweat breaking out over my body. Maybe I can get some kind of shield ready if she tries to obliterate my fingers.
“If you want to send Maven a message, use the proper channels,” I toss at her, throwing up a brazen wall of attitude.
She scoffs, looking disgusted. “This isn’t a message for that wretched brat.”
“Your grandson,” I remind her.
She scowls but carries on. “I want you to pass along word to your mother. The way you usually do.”
Sniffing, I cross my arms. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Anabel rolls her eyes and exchanges glances with Julian. He is far more difficult to read, his expression still and studious.
“I don’t need to sing a confession out of you,” Julian says plainly, “but you know I can if need be.”
I say nothing. Do nothing. My face is still as the surface of an undisturbed pond. No confirmation either way.
The Lerolan woman barrels on anyway, looking down her nose at me. “Tell the queen of the Lakelands that the rightful king of Norta has no quarrel with her. And every intention of preserving the peace his usurper negotiated. That is, of course, if assurances can be made.”