War Storm (Red Queen) - Victoria Aveyard Page 0,72

the green and white stones.

“If only we could replicate such an entrance in the People’s Gallery,” Davidson mutters to Farley and me. He watches Evangeline approach. She squares her shoulders, letting the ramrod of determination mark her steps.

The premier himself keeps to his plain but splendid persona, clad in a dark green suit with white enamel buttons. His gray hair gleams, slicked back against his head.

“Shall we?” he says, gesturing to the arches leading away from the palace.

In our varying colors and varying degrees of readiness, we follow him down the winding steps into the city.

I wish the walk were longer, but the People’s Gallery, the building where the entire Montfort government gathers for matters such as this, isn’t far. Just a few hundred yards down the slope, set onto more terraces cut below the premier’s palace. Again, there are no walls to defend such an important place. Only white stone archways and sweeping verandas surround the domed building overlooking Ascendant and the valley. The sun continues to rise, gleaming off the green-glass dome hundreds of feet across. The glass is too flawed to be Silver-made, but it is more beautiful for the whorls and curves of imperfection, which catch the light in more interesting ways than flat, meticulous panes of pure glass. Silver-barked aspen trees with golden leaves spring up at even intervals, lining the structure like living columns. Those are the work of Silvers. Greenwardens, no doubt.

Soldiers flank each tree, still in their dark greens. Proud, unyielding. We cross the long, marble walkway to the wide-open doors of the Gallery.

I take a breath, steeling myself. This shouldn’t be difficult. Montfort is not our enemy. And our objective is clear. Acquire an army, as much as we can. Overthrow a mad king and his allies, all of them hell-bent on maintaining their power at the cost of Red and newblood life. Agreeing to help should be easy for the Free Republic of Montfort. Isn’t equality what they stand for?

Or so I’ve been told.

Gritting my teeth, I reach out and grab Farley’s hand. I squeeze her callused fingers, just for a second. Without hesitation, she squeezes back.

The first hall is columned, hung with green and white silks gathered with silver and red ties. The colors of Montfort and the colors of both kinds of blood. Sunlight beams down from skylights, filling the space with an ethereal glow. Many chambers branch off, visible through arches between the columns or locked behind polished oak doors. And of course there are people in the hall, clustered together, their eyes on all of us as we pass. Men and women, Red and Silver, their skin a vast array of hues ranging from porcelain to midnight. I try to feel armored in my skin, protected from their gaze.

Ahead of me, Tiberias holds his head high, his grandmother on his right arm while Evangeline takes his left. She is careful to keep in step with his long stride. No daughter of House Samos walks behind. Her gown’s train forces Farley and me to keep our distance. Not that I mind.

Julian walks behind us both. I can hear him muttering to himself as he looks back and forth. I’m surprised he doesn’t take notes.

The People’s Gallery is aptly named. As we approach the entrance to the chamber, I hear the low hum of hundreds of voices. It rises quickly until it drowns out everything but the thunder of my own pulse in my ears.

Massive doors of white and green enamel glide open on oiled hinges, as if bowing before the will of Premier Davidson. He enters to the cascading noise of applause. It spreads as we follow into the amphitheater that is the Gallery.

Hundreds crowd the many seats ringing the room, most of them in suits like Davidson’s, in varying shades of green and white. Some are military, clearly marked by dress uniforms and insignia. All rise when we enter, their hands clapping together to celebrate . . . us? Or the premier?

I don’t know.

Some don’t clap, but they still stand. Out of either respect or tradition.

The steps down the bowl of the amphitheater are shallow. I could run them with my eyes closed. Even so, I keep my focus on my feet and the folds of my shimmering dress.

Davidson reaches the floor of the chamber, making for his own seat at the center, flanked by still-standing politicians. There are empty chairs for us as well, each one marked by a drape of colored cloth. Orange for