War Storm (Red Queen) - Victoria Aveyard Page 0,51

Samos princess scoffs, cutting him off with an imperious glare. “My dear Tiberias, they could have chosen you months ago. But in the eyes of many, you’re still a traitor.”

Across from me, Farley scowls. “Are your nobles so stupid as to still think Tiberias killed his own father?”

I shake my head, knife in hand. “She means because he’s with us. Allied to Reds.” The blade slices through the rest of the meat on my plate. I cut with vicious force, tasting bitterness in my mouth. “Trying so desperately to find balance between our peoples.”

“That is what I hope to do,” Tiberias says, his voice oddly soft.

I pull my gaze away from the cooked flesh to stare at him again. His eyes meet mine, wide and disgustingly gentle. I harden myself to his charms.

“You have an interesting way of showing it,” I sneer.

Anabel is quick, barking a retort. “Enough, both of you.”

My jaw tightens, and I look past Tiberias to his grandmother, now glaring at me. I meet her gaze with equal fire. “This is Maven’s strength, one of his many strengths,” I say. “He divides so easily, without even trying. He does it to his enemies, and to his allies.”

At the head of the table, Davidson steeples his fingers. He surveys me over his knuckles, unblinking in his focus. “Go on.”

“Like Evangeline said, there are noble families who will never abandon him, because he won’t change the way things are. And he’s good at ruling, winning over his subjects while keeping the nobles satiated. Ending the Lakelander War earned him a great deal of respect among the people,” I point out, remembering how even Reds cheered him when he toured the countryside. It still turns my stomach. “He plays on that love, just as he plays on fear. When I was his prisoner, he was careful to keep many children in court, heirs to different houses, hostages in all but name. It’s an easy way to control a person, seizing what they hold most dear.”

I know that firsthand.

“And on top of everything else,” I add, swallowing around the lump in my throat, “there is no predicting Maven Calore. His mother still whispers in his head, pulling his strings, even though she lies dead and cold.”

A low current of heat ripples at my side. Tiberias stares at the tabletop, looking as if he might burn a hole through his plate. His cheeks are drained of color now, pale as bone.

With her eyes still on me, watching me devour the last bites of steak, Anabel curls her lip. “Prince Bracken in Piedmont is under our control,” she says. “He will give us whatever we need.”

Bracken. Another one of Montfort’s schemes. The ruling prince of Piedmont is under our thumb as long as Montfort still holds his son and daughter captive. I wonder where they are, who they are. Are they young? Are they just children? Are they innocent in all this?

The temperature begins to rise, a small but steady increase. Next to me, Tiberias tightens. He fixes his grandmother with a firm stare. “I don’t want soldiers who haven’t agreed to fight for me. Especially Bracken’s Silvers. They can’t be trusted. Neither can he.”

“We have his children,” Farley says. “That should be enough.”

“Montfort has his children,” Tiberias replies, his voice deepening.

Before, on the base, it was easy to ignore the price someone paid. The evils done for good reasons. I look to Davidson, who glances at his watch. This is war, he said once, trying to justify what must be done.

“If they were returned, could we convince Piedmont to stand aside?” I ask. “Remain neutral?”

The premier turns his empty wineglass around in his hands, letting the many facets catch the soft light of lanterns. I think I see regret in him. “I doubt that very much.”

“Are they here?” Anabel asks the question with a calm so forced I almost expect her to pop a vein in her neck. “Bracken’s children?”

Davidson doesn’t reply, moving only to refill his glass.

The old queen tips a finger, her eyes shining. “Ah. They are.” Her grin spreads. “Good leverage. We can bargain for more of Bracken’s soldiers. An entire army if we wish.”

I look at the napkin in my lap, stained with fingerprints of grease and bits of lipstick wiped away. They could be in this palace. Looking down at us right now. Children at the window, trapped behind a locked door. Are they strong enough to require silent guards, or even the torture of chains like