War Storm (Red Queen) - Victoria Aveyard Page 0,148

this decision for me, because I cannot make it myself.

“‘Tiberias the Seventh, rightful King of Norta, Flame of the North, alongside his allies the Free Republic of Montfort, the Scarlet Guard, and the independent Kingdom of the Rift, sends word from his temporary capital of Harbor Bay.’” The Sentinel reads from the neatly typed communication, his voice a bit muffled behind his jeweled mask. The floodlights of the ship deck illuminate him in blinding red and orange. Behind him there is only darkness. No stars, no moon. The whole world could be empty.

“Temporary, that’s presumptuous,” Mother sniffs, turning her face in to the cool wind blowing off the black ocean. We exchange glances, annoyed by the pageantry. Flame of the North. What nonsense.

“That’s Cal,” Maven replies from his place among his guards. He called us to hear the message ourselves, summoning us to his ship. “He is a creature of want.”

With a raised finger, he indicates for the stocky Sentinel to continue. I recognize his voice and the eyes peering out from his mask. A vibrant blue, made electric by the sharp light overhead. Haven, I know, remembering the guard who accompanied me on my journey into Montfort.

“‘I control the city behind you,’” he reads. I think of the older brother, the warrior, wreathed in flame. “‘I control the southern borders, from Delphie to our allies in the Rift. I control hundreds of miles of coastline. The entirety of the Beacon region, led by Governor Rhambos and his house, has pledged loyalty to the true king. I have this kingdom in my fist, Maven, and you within my grasp.’”

Did we know about Rhambos? I glance across the deck, looking to my twisted husband. Maven’s deep scowl is confirmation enough. That betrayal is a surprise. Maven barely responds to the Sentinel’s words, only hissing out a breath. “Traitor,” I think I hear him mutter.

Sentinel Haven forges on.

“‘You have allies beyond your borders, Maven, but few within them. None who will not abandon you as my victories mount. The winds are blowing, the tide is changing. Norta cannot exist as she did beneath our ancestors, and I will not rest until I reclaim the birthright you stole from me, at the cost of our father’s life.’”

The guards rustle a little, but none of them speak. To them, this could be the wild accusation of a traitor, as Maven has painted his brother to be. Seduced by a Red freak, manipulated into corruption and murder. But it’s probably more likely a confirmation of what we all know to be true. Tiberias Calore did not kill his father. Not willingly. Not the way Maven has said.

Next to me, Mother fixes her eyes on my husband. They gleam, catching the harsh light.

He doesn’t react, still and smooth as glass. In his black uniform, his body seems to blend into the darkness, invisible but for his white face and long-fingered hands. Despite his brother’s best attempts, Maven stays collected, reluctant to give over to a fiery temper.

“‘We are prepared to offer terms to all members of your alliance.’” Sentinel Haven rustles the page as he reads. “‘To Her Majesty Queen Cenra of the Lakelands and His Highness Prince Bracken of Piedmont. To you, Maven, usurper and murderer though you may be. No more blood need be spilled in this war of ours. Let us preserve what we can of the kingdom we were born to serve.’”

Such charming words. I wonder if it was written by committee. Anabel, at least, had a controlling hand in the communication. Her fingerprints are all over the statement.

“‘We will meet upon the island of your choosing.’”

Sentinel Haven clears his throat, his eyes flicking to me first. Then to his king, a person living on borrowed time upon a stolen throne.

“‘At dawn.’”

We wait in silence, watching Maven as he weighs his options. He knew this was coming, and is hardly surprised. Still, he snaps, slowly at first, then faster and faster. A clenching fist, the flamemaker bracelet spinning on a fine-boned wrist. It spits a spark that blooms, growing, a fireball burning white hot and icy blue at its core. With a manic smile, Maven tosses it out onto the water. It trails, a near comet, reflecting with a hellish glow in the choppy water, before he lets it hiss into the nothing among the waves.

“Dawn, then,” he repeats.

I can tell by the set of his shoulders that he has no intention of negotiating. I can only guess as to his motive,