War Storm (Red Queen) - Victoria Aveyard Page 0,7

position as her cause and king. His uncle, Julian of House Jacos, holds his left while the Lerolan queen has his right. Flanked by both of them, Silvers of noble and powerful blood, he presents a united front. A worthy king for us to champion.

I hate him for it.

Cal could have ended my misery, broken our betrothal, refused Father’s offer of my hand. But for the crown, he threw Mare away. For the crown, he trapped me.

“What?” is all Father says. He is a man of few words, and even fewer questions. Just to hear him ask is unsettling, and I tense in spite of myself.

Cal draws back his shoulders, quietly spreading his broad frame. He rests his chin on his knuckles, brows knitted together in thought. He seems larger, older, smarter. On the same playing field as the king of the Rift.

“I said I would oppose an order to dispatch the Air Fleet, or any detachment of our coalition, to give chase into hostile territory,” Cal replies steadily. I have to admit, even without a crown, he has a royal way about him. An air that commands attention, if not respect. Not surprising, since he was trained for this, and Cal is nothing if not a very obedient student. His grandmother purses her lips into a tight but genuine smile. She’s proud of him. “The Choke is still a literal minefield, and we have very little intelligence to guide us on the other side of the falls. It could be a trap. I won’t risk soldiers on it.”

“Every piece of this war is risk,” I hear Ptolemus say from the other side of my father. He flexes as Cal did, drawing himself up to his full height in his throne. The setting sun gives Tolly’s hair a reddish tint, making his oiled silver locks glow beneath his prince’s crown. The same light bathes Cal in his house colors, red in his eyes while black shadows lengthen behind him. The pair hold each other’s gaze in the strange way men do. Everything’s a competition, I scoff to myself.

“Such insight, Prince Ptolemus,” Anabel says, her tone dry. “But His Majesty, the king of Norta, is well aware of what war is. And I agree with his assessment.”

Already she calls him king. I’m not the only one to notice her choice of words.

Cal lowers his eyes, stunned. He recovers quickly, jaw clenched in resolution. His choice is already made. No going back now, Calore.

The Montfort premier, Davidson, nods from his seat at his own table. Without the Scarlet Guard commander and Mare Barrow, he’s easy to ignore. I almost forgot about him entirely.

“I concur,” he says. Even his voice is bland, without inflection or accent. “Our armies need time to recover as well, and this coalition needs time to find . . .” He stops, thinking. I still can’t read his expression, and it annoys me to no end. I wonder if even a whisper could slip past his mental shields. “Balance.”

Mother is not as stoic as my father, and she fixes on the newblood leader with her smoldering black stare. Her snake mimics her action, blinking at the premier. “So is there no intelligence, are there no spies across the border? Forgive me, sir, but I was under the impression that the Scarlet Guard”—she almost spits it out—“had an intricate spy network in both Norta and the Lakelands. Certainly they can be of use, unless the Reds misrepresent themselves and their strength.” Disgust drips from her words like poison from fangs.

“Our operatives are in order, Your Majesty.”

The Red general, the blond woman with the permanent sneer, pushes into the room with Mare on her heels. Both stalk from the doorway at the edge of the chamber, crossing the council room to sit with Davidson. They move quickly and silently, as if they could somehow avoid being watched by the entire room.

While she settles into her chair, Mare keeps her eyes forward, locked on me, of all people. To my surprise, I feel a strange emotion beneath her gaze. Could this be shame? No, not possible. Even so, heat rises in my cheeks. I hope I’m not blushing, either in anger or embarrassment. Both churn inside me, and for good reason. I look away, turning on Cal, if only to distract myself with the one person more wretched than I feel.

He certainly tries to look unaffected by her presence, but Cal isn’t his brother. Unlike Maven, Cal has little skill in masking