War Storm (Red Queen) - Victoria Aveyard Page 0,54
Evangeline, and for some reason she flushes under his scrutiny, almost hiding her face.
“Some did not. Old Silvers, royals, nobles who could not stand our new country. They fled or fought their way to the borders. North, south, west. To the east, in the empty hills between our mountains and Prairie, they formed bands. Attempts at their own lands and lordships. Always fighting, gnawing at each other and us. They live as leeches, feeding on what they find. They do not grow anything; they do not build. They have little holding them together but anger and dying pride. They attack transports, farms, cities, in both Prairie and Montfort. They focus on Red towns and villages mostly, on those who cannot defend against Silver onslaught. They move; they strike; they move again. And so we call them the raiders.”
Carmadon tsks loudly. He runs a hand over his gleaming purple-black skull. “So far to fall for my Silver kin. For nothing more than pride.”
“And for what they think is power,” Davidson adds. His eyes land on Tiberias. The exiled prince straightens, setting his jaw. “For what they think they deserve. They would rather lose everything than live beneath people they think are lesser.”
“Idiots,” I curse.
“History is marred with people like that,” Julian offers. “Resistant to change.”
“But they make those willing to change all the more heroic, don’t they?” I reply, letting the words land as they should.
Tiberias doesn’t take the bait. “Where will they strike?” he says, never moving his eyes from Davidson’s face.
The premier grins darkly.
“We’ve received word from one of the towns down on the plain. Raiders are close,” he says. “Your Majesty, I believe I may get to show you the Hawkway after all.”
No palace is complete without an armory.
Davidson’s guards are already there, suiting up throughout the long room stocked with weaponry and gear. They don’t pull on the green coveralls, the uniforms I’ve become accustomed to, but tight black suits and high boots. Good for defending against a night raid. They remind me of what I used to wear in Training, my purple-and-silver-striped outfit to mark me as a child of House Titanos. A Silver through and through. A lie.
At the door, Anabel puts a hand on Cal’s arm. She pleads with her eyes, but he moves past her, firmly but gently pushing her away. Her fingers trail along the edge of his red cape, letting the black brocade run through her fingers as he escapes her grasp.
“I need to do this,” I hear him murmur. “He’s right. I need to fight for them if they’ll fight for me.”
No one else speaks, and the silence falls thick as a low cloud. All I hear is the shuffle of clothing. My dress puddles around my ankles as I quickly pull the suit up over my underclothes. As I move, I shift, and my eyes lock on familiar muscles.
Tiberias faces away from me too, his shirt discarded, the suit tight around his waist. I trace the length of his spine, noting the few scars along otherwise smooth and sculpted skin. They’re old, older than mine. Won in Training in a palace and on a war front that no longer exists. Even though the touch of a healer could erase them quickly, he keeps them, collecting scars as another would medals or badges.
Will he earn more scars today? Will Davidson keep his promise?
Part of me wonders if this is a trap for the true Calore king. An easy assassination disguised as a real threat. But even if Davidson lied about not harming Tiberias, he’s not an idiot. Removing the older Calore would only weaken us, destroying a vital shield between Montfort and the Scarlet Guard, and Maven.
I keep staring, unable to stop myself. The scars might be old, but not the almost-purple, bruise-like mark where his neck meets his shoulder. That’s new. Only a few days old. That’s mine, I think, gulping around a memory both close and infinitely far away.
Someone bumps my shoulder, jolting me out of the quicksand that is Tiberias Calore.
“Here,” Farley says gruffly, a warning. She hasn’t discarded her dark red uniform of Command, and she stares down at me, blue eyes wide. “Let me.”
Her fingers zip up the back of my suit with speed, tightening the ensemble around my frame. I shuffle a little, adjusting the thick-woven fabric of my too-long sleeves. Anything to keep my attention away from the exiled prince currently shoving his arms into his own suit.