War Storm (Red Queen) - Victoria Aveyard Page 0,163

any other. I don’t know where they are, but their absence speaks volumes.

“You are his shields. He’s using you and your countries. He’ll turn on you one day, when he has the strength to cast you both off. He has no loyalties, and no love in his heart. The boy who calls himself king is a shell, empty, a danger to everyone and everything.” In his seat, Maven examines his hands, adjusting the cuffs of his jacket. Anything to seem unaffected and unperturbed. It’s a terrible act, especially for someone as talented as he is.

I hold my head high. “Why entertain this madness any longer? For what?”

To my left, Farley shifts, her chair creaking. She stares with all the fire the Calores can’t muster. “Because they’d rather bleed themselves than be equal to any blood that isn’t the right color,” she hisses.

“Farley,” Cal mutters.

To my surprise, Evangeline takes on that mess, drawing attention to herself instead. She purses her lips and smooths her dress conspicuously.

“It’s infinitely clear what’s happening here. You say Maven’s using them as shields?” she says, almost cackling. “Where are your armies, Queen Cenra? And yours, Prince Bracken? Who really bleeds in this war? If anyone is a shield here, it’s Maven. They’re using the little boy against his big brother, to play them off each other until they’re confident they can destroy what’s left. Isn’t that it?”

They don’t deny it, or don’t want to give oxygen to such a claim. Iris tries another tactic, leaning forward toward the Samos princess with an easy, tight-lipped smile. “I must assume the same of you, Evangeline. Or is Tiberias Calore not a weapon of the Rift?”

Maven waves her back. He looks from Cal to Farley. She is the weak spot here, or at least he thinks she is. Good luck. “No, not Cal,” he says, purring. “The Reds. The Montfort mongrels. I know Volo and the other Silvers in open rebellion. They won’t tolerate any kind of Red acceptance beyond what they need. Will you, Anabel?” he adds, tossing a grin at his grandmother.

She merely turns away, refusing to so much as look at him. Despite all his posturing, Maven’s smile falls a little.

Farley doesn’t rise to the bait this time. She keeps still, and Davidson slowly claps his hands, inclining his head toward the false king. “I have to applaud you, Maven,” he says. The blank calm of the premier is a welcome respite from so much bile. “I admit, I didn’t expect such deft manipulations from someone so young. But I assume that’s how your mother built you, didn’t she?” he adds, looking to me.

That incenses Maven more than anything. He knows that it means I’ve told them all I could about him, about what his mother did.

“Yes, he is what she made him,” I murmur. It feels like twisting a knife in his gut. “No matter who he was meant to be. That person is completely gone.”

Cal’s voice is soft in response, landing the final blow. “And he is never coming back.”

If not for the Stone, Maven would burn. He slams a fist down, knuckles like exposed bone. “This conversation is pointless,” he snaps. “If you don’t have real terms, then leave. Fortify your city, gather your dead, prepare for a true war.”

His brother doesn’t flinch. He has nothing else to fear from Maven. A transformation, a tragic one, has come over Cal, and he slides into the role he’s best at. A general, a warrior. Facing an opponent he can defeat. Not a brother he wants to save. There is no blood left between them, only the blood Maven made him spill.

“True war is here,” he replies, his calm manner sharply contrasts with Maven’s sudden temper. “The storm has broken, Maven, whether you want to admit it or not.”

I try to do as Cal has done. Try to let go. The false masquerade of the kind, forgotten boy is already gone. Not even his ghost remains. There is only the person in front of me, with his hatred and his obsession and his twisted love. Get through it, I hiss in my head. Maven is a monster. He branded me, imprisoned me, tortured me in the worst way. To keep me at his side, to feed whatever beast prowls around inside his skull. But as much as I try, I can’t help but see some of myself reflected in him. Trapped by a storm, unable to break free, unable to walk away from what I’ve