War Storm (Red Queen) - Victoria Aveyard Page 0,111
He seems bored and angry. A bad combination.
“Good afternoon, Wife,” he says.
I glance around the room, at the many fountains I keep close. Not for decoration, but my own protection. I feel each as it ripples and chases, more than enough to use should this turn ugly. If he knows what I’ve done. What I entertained. What I agreed to do.
“What are you doing here?” No use playing the part of doting wife, not while we’re alone. He’ll know something is wrong, if he doesn’t already.
Or, I realize with a cold chill, he could simply be here to fulfill our marital duties, neglected as they’ve been. I’m not sure what terrifies me more. Even though I agreed to this. Knew this was part of the bargain. Knew he was part of our alliance. Perhaps I’ve overestimated his obsession with Mare, or it has simply worn away.
He turns his head to look at me, one cheek pressed against the silk. A flop of black hair falls across his forehead. He seems younger today. Albeit more manic. His eyes are barely blue, overtaken by wide black pupils.
“I need you to send word to the Lakelands,” he says. “To your mother.”
Stay still. Don’t move. Don’t show any relief, I tell myself, even as my knees threaten to give out.
“To say what, exactly?” I reply, donning a mask of indifference.
He moves gracefully, standing with smooth motions. Though Tiberias is the warrior brother, Maven is not without his own physical skill. “Walk with me, Iris,” he says, smiling sharply.
I have no choice but to obey. However, I ignore his outstretched arm, keeping a safe distance of a few inches between us.
He doesn’t speak, forcing us to walk in silence as we leave my rooms together. I feel dangled on the end of a string, suspended over a pit. My heart hammers in my chest, and I do everything I can to maintain my mask through long minutes of walking. Only when we reach the throne room, empty at this time of day, does he turn to look at me.
I brace myself for the blow, preparing to fight back.
“Tell your mother to prepare her fleet and her armies,” he says, as if remarking on my dress.
Surprise replaces my fear.
He keeps walking, mounting the raised steps to pass behind the throne. I edge around the influence of Silent Stone. Even the brush of it makes me gulp.
“What—now?” I sputter, raising a hand to my throat. My mind races as I study Maven, looking for the lie. It’s barely been a week since Bracken took back Piedmont. Surely the brother’s coalition is still regrouping. “Are we under attack?”
“Not at the moment.” He shrugs, indifferent. And still moving. Still drawing me along after him. “But soon enough.”
I narrow my eyes, feeling unease deep in my gut.
Maven approaches one of the doors behind the throne, heading for what are supposed to be the queen’s public chambers. A library, a study, sitting rooms. I don’t use them, preferring my shrine instead.
He passes through and I have to follow.
“How do you know that?” I ask. Dread pools in my stomach.
He shrugs again. The room is dark, the windows heavily curtained. I can barely make out the stripes of white and navy blue, the colors of the last queen to use this place. These rooms have an air of dust and disuse.
“I know my brother,” Maven says. “What’s more, I know what he needs, and what this country needs from him.”
“And that is?”
He smirks at me, opening another door across the sitting area. His teeth flash in the semidarkness. He does all he can to seem a predator.
Something about the next room makes me pause. Makes me ache, deep in my marrow.
I keep still, seemingly unaffected. But my heart pounds. “Maven?” I murmur.
“Cal has allies, but not enough. Not in Norta.” The young king drums his fingers together, his eyes glazing as he thinks out loud. He remains in the doorway, on the edge. Never stepping through. “He wants to sway more of my subjects to his side, but he isn’t a diplomat. Cal is a warrior, and he’ll fight to win favor among the High Houses. To show how worthy he is of my crown. He has to tip the scales. Make the nobles believe he isn’t a hopeless cause.”
Maven isn’t stupid. Predicting the movements of his opponents is his strong suit, and the only reason he’s been able to survive—and win—for this long.