War Storm (Red Queen) - Victoria Aveyard Page 0,48
to fidget despite the nervous energy settling over the table. Anabel has not spoken, either because she disapproves of Carmadon or because she disapproves of eating alongside Reds. It could be both.
Farley barely nods her head in thanks when Carmadon fills her glass with rich, almost black wine. She drinks deep.
I stick to ice water, speckled with slices of bright lemon. The last thing I need is a spinning head and blurred thoughts with Tiberias Calore anywhere nearby. I glance at him as he enters, running my eyes over his familiar shoulders thrown wide beneath the edges of a red cape. It seems more like flame in the warm lights of the terrace.
When he turns around, I drop my gaze. I can only listen as he approaches, his presence heavy on the air. A wrought-iron chair scrapes against the stone terrace, its movement agonizingly slow and deliberate. I almost jolt when I realize exactly where he has decided to sit.
His arm brushes mine, just for a second, and his warmth settles around me. I curse the familiar comfort of it, especially against the mountain chill.
Finally I dare to look up, only to find Carmadon with his head tilted, chin resting on one fist. He seems infinitely amused. At his side, Farley looks more inclined to vomit. And I don’t have to see Anabel’s face to know she’s scowling.
I lock my hands together beneath the tabletop, knitting my fingers so tightly my knuckles turn white. Not with fear, but with anger. Next to me, Tiberias leans, one elbow on the arm of the chair closest to me. He could whisper in my ear if he wanted. I grit my teeth, resisting the instinct to spit.
Across the table, Evangeline almost purrs to herself. She runs a hand through her furs, her decorative claws gleaming. “How many courses does this meal have, my lord Carmadon?”
Davidson’s husband doesn’t look away from me, and his lips twitch in what could be a smirk. “Six.”
With a scowl, Farley knocks back the rest of her wine.
Grinning, Carmadon gestures to the servants in the shadows. “Dane and your lord Julian can catch up,” he says, calling for the first course with a flick of his fingers. “I hope you enjoy. We’ve taken great care to prepare some Montfort delicacies.”
The service is smooth and quick, just as efficient but less formal than I’ve seen in the palaces of Silver kings. Carmadon presides as small plates of elegant bone china are laid out in front of us. I look down at a pink slice of fish the size of my thumb, topped with some kind of creamy cheese and asparagus.
“Fresh-caught salmon, from the Calum River in the west,” Carmadon explains, before popping the entire thing in his mouth. Farley quickly follows suit. “The Calum drains to the western coast, into the ocean.”
In my head I try to picture what he’s talking about, but my knowledge of his lands is poor at best. There’s another ocean, yes, bordering the western edge of the continent, but that’s all I can grasp right now.
“My uncle Julian will be eager to learn more of your country,” Tiberias replies. He speaks slowly, with conviction. It ages him a decade. “I suspect his questions are what delay both him and the premier now.”
“Perhaps. My Dane does delight in his library.”
And so would Julian. I wonder if the premier is trying to form ties of his own, perhaps make an ally of a friendly Nortan Silver. Or maybe Davidson is just enjoying time with another scholar, eager to share word of his country.
After the salmon comes a hot vegetable soup, steaming in the chilly air, and then a salad of fresh greens and wild huckleberry grown on this very mountain. Carmadon doesn’t seem to mind that no one else is speaking. He fills the silence with his own chatter, pleasantly comfortable as he details every bit of the meal he prepared. The particulars of a salad dressing, the best time to pick berries, how long the vegetables must cook, the size of his personal garden, and so on. I doubt Evangeline, Tiberias, or Anabel has ever cooked a day in their life, and I wonder if Farley’s ever eaten anything that wasn’t stolen or rationed.
I do my best to seem polite, although I have little to say. Especially with Tiberias so close, inhaling everything on his plate. I glance at him here and there, hoarding brief flashes of his face. His jaw clenched, his throat working. He