War Storm (Red Queen) - Victoria Aveyard Page 0,45

don’t seem to be any surrounding Ascendant either. Or at least not the kind I can see. I get the feeling the geography of this city, this country, is its own kind of boundary. Montfort is strong enough not to need walls. Or stupid enough not to build them. Judging by Davidson, I doubt the latter very much.

Farley must be thinking the same thing. Her eyes pass over the arches, the pines, the palace, noting each one with focused precision. Then she looks back at the Silvers as they troop in after us, all of them trying not to seem impressed by Davidson’s home.

The premier only waves us forward, deeper and deeper into the heart of his country.

As in Piedmont, the Barrow family is given much nicer living quarters than we’re used to. The apartments within Davidson’s home are vast, large enough to give each of us our own bedroom. Kilorn and Gisa busy themselves with exploring, poking around the various rooms. Bree is less inclined to move, taking over one of the velvet couches in the long salon. I can hear him snoring now, from where I stand on our terrace. This is temporary, until more permanent lodging can be procured in the city.

Everyone leaves me alone, either unknowingly or on purpose. I don’t mind either way.

Ascendant glitters below, a constellation on the mountainside. I can feel the electricity in it, distant and constant, winking in the many lights. It all looks like a reflection of the sky above. The stars seem impossibly clear here, close enough to touch. I breathe deep, sucking in the wild freshness of the mountains. This is a good place to leave them. The best place I could ask for.

Along the balcony edge, flowers bloom from pots and boxes, in all colors. The ones before me are purple and strangely shaped, with odd petals like a tail.

“They call them elephant flowers.”

Tramy sidles next to me, planting an elbow on the railing. He leans out to stare at the city below. Despite the season, a deep chill settles with the night. I must be shivering, because he offers a shawl with one hand.

As I take it, wrapping the knitted fabric around my shoulders, he furrows his brow. “I don’t know what elephant means.”

The word rings a distant bell, but I shake my head and shrug. “Neither do I. It could be an animal, I think. Julian would know.” I speak his name without thinking, and I almost wince. A twinge of pain snaps in my chest.

“You can ask him tonight at dinner,” my brother says, thoughtful as he runs a hand through his scratchy beard.

I shrug again, trying to brush off all mention of Julian Jacos. “You need to shave, Tramy,” I snicker. Inhaling the sweet air again, I turn back to the city lights. “And ask Julian yourself at dinner tonight.”

“No.”

Something in his voice gives me pause, a low tremor of resolve. Boldness. Tramy isn’t the kind to refuse any of us. He’s too used to following Bree around, or smoothing over family troubles. He is a peacemaker, far from the kind to plant his feet and dig in.

I glance up at him, expecting an explanation.

He clenches his jaw, dark brown eyes boring into mine. He has Mom’s eyes, like I do. “It’s no place for us.”

Us.

His meaning is clear. This is as far as we go. The Barrows aren’t politicians or warriors. They have no reason to share the spotlight, or the danger I live with. But the prospect of standing alone, without them—the fear is endless and selfish and sudden.

“It can be,” I say too quickly, taking his wrist. Tramy quickly covers my hand with his own. “It should be your place. All of you. You’re my family—”

A door creaks open onto the terrace, then shuts behind Gisa and Kilorn. My sister surveys us, eyes shining. “How many people have power they shouldn’t simply because their family gives it to them?” she asks.

She means the Silvers. The royals and the nobles who hand power to their children, no matter how unsuited they might be. The obsession with blood, with dynasty, is the reason Maven is on the throne in the first place. A twisted boy king ruling a country when he can’t even rule his own mind.

“That’s different,” I mutter back, though my retort is halfhearted. “You’re not like them.”

Gisa reaches out to me, adjusting my shawl. She dotes on me the way a big sister should, even though I’m years older.