War Storm (Red Queen) - Victoria Aveyard Page 0,191

sense of shame. As if I have betrayed the gods in some way. Gone against their will and their nature.

I’ll pray some more tonight, and hope to find an answer in their wisdom.

“Eat before the food gets cold,” Mother says, gesturing to the plates before us. “Tiora will be with us in a moment.”

I nod and move mechanically, serving myself. Precautions have to be taken. No Red servants, not while we discuss the path ahead. The Scarlet Guard has ears and eyes everywhere. We must be vigilant.

Most of the meal is fish. Butterflied trout, sliced open and fried with butter and lemon. Yellow perch, crusted with pepper and salt. A warming stew of lamprey eel, the heads removed and proudly displayed at the center of the table. Their rows of spiraling teeth gleam in the soft light of the dining room. The other plates hold ears of golden corn, greens tossed in spiced oil, braided breads—the usual bounty from Lakelander crops. Our farms are far-flung and prosperous, able to feed our country twice over. Lakelanders never want for food, not even the lowest Red.

I help myself to a little of each, careful to leave the lamprey for Tiora. It’s an acquired taste, not to mention her favorite.

Another minute goes by in silence, marked only by the kindly ticking of a clock on the wall. Outside, the rain picks up, lashing the windows in merciless sheets.

“The army should break until this clears,” I mutter. “No use letting our soldiers get sick, and feed an epidemic of colds.”

“True,” Mother replies around bites of food. She tips a hand at Jidansa, who stands quickly.

She ducks into a curt bow. “I’ll make it so, Your Majesty,” she says before setting off to deliver the order.

“The rest of you, wait outside,” my mother continues, glancing at each of our guards in turn. They don’t hesitate, almost leaping to follow her commands.

I watch the room empty, my nerves prickling. Whatever Mother wants to say to me isn’t meant for an audience. When the door shuts again, leaving us alone, she steeples her fingers together and leans forward.

“It isn’t the rain that bothers you, monamora.”

For a second, I debate denying it. Pasting on a smile, forcing a laugh and a dismissal. But I don’t like to wear masks with my mother. It’s dishonest. And besides, she sees right through them.

I sigh, setting aside my fork. “I keep seeing his face.”

She softens, wavering from queen to mother. “I miss your father too.”

“No.” The word stumbles out, too quick, startling my mother. Her eyes widen a little, darker than usual in the dim light. “I do think about him, all the time but . . .” I search for the proper way to say this. Instead I put it bluntly. “I’m talking about the man who killed him.”

“Who we then killed,” Mother says, her voice even. It isn’t an accusation, but a simple statement of fact. “At your suggestion.”

Once more, I feel rare shame. A flush creeps over my cheeks. Yes, it was my idea to take up Queen Anabel’s offer. To trade Maven for the man who killed my father. And later on, the man he killed my father for. But that part of the bargain has yet to be paid.

“I’d do it again,” I mutter, playing with my food for some distraction. I feel exposed beneath my mother’s gaze. “He deserves to die a hundred times, but—”

She tightens, as if in pain. “You’ve killed before. In defense of your own life.” I open my mouth to try to explain, only to find her still speaking. “But not like that,” she adds, laying one hand on mine. Her eyes shine, full of understanding.

“No,” I admit, bitter and disappointed in myself. This was a righteous kill, payment for the death of my father. It shouldn’t be this way.

Mother’s fingers grip mine. “Of course it would feel different. Feel wrong somehow.”

My breath catches in my throat as I stare at our joined hands. “Will it go away?” I murmur, forcing myself to look back up at her.

But Mother isn’t looking at me. She glances out the window, into the obscuring rain. Her eyes dance with the lashing water. How many people has she killed? I wonder. I have no way of knowing, and no way of finding out. “Sometimes,” she finally says. “Sometimes not.”

Before I can tug on that thread to unravel exactly what she means, Tiora enters the room, her own guards left behind in the hallway, like ours.