The knocking continues, followed by a muffled voice. I recognize it, and some of my delicious, righteous anger evaporates. No scaring the colors out of anyone right now. Annoyed, I throw the knife at the wall. It sticks, blade sinking into the woodwork.
“What, Ptolemus?” I sigh, wrenching open the bedroom door. He looks similarly disheveled, his hair messy and his eyes burning. I suspect he was interrupted as I was. He and Wren Skonos like their afternoon trysts.
“We’re needed in the throne room,” he says firmly. “Right now.”
“Is Father that upset I haven’t kissed his feet yet? It’s only been a few minutes.”
“It’s been two hours,” Elane calls, not bothering to raise her head. “Hello, Husband,” she adds, tipping a dainty hand. “Be a dear and call for some lunch?”
I tighten the robe, annoyed. “So, what am I walking into? A public lashing? Will he finally make good on the promise to spike our heads to the gate?” I sneer, chuckling darkly.
“Strangely, this isn’t about you,” my brother replies, his voice sharp and dry. “There’s been an attack.”
Quickly, I look over my shoulder. Elane lies sprawled, partially covered by the sheets. She isn’t glowing now, without any reason to concentrate as she drifts back to sleep. She is defenseless, vulnerable. Even to words. “Out here,” I mutter, pushing my brother into the adjoining salon. I can protect her from this, at least, if nothing else.
I lead him to one of the couches, a cool green to match the hilly vista in the window. Rough river stone paves the floor, strewn with soft blue carpets. “What happened? Attack where?” For some reason, I picture Montfort, and my heart plunges in my chest.
Ptolemus doesn’t sit. He paces instead, hands on his hips. The tendons in his forearms flex. “Piedmont.”
I can’t help but scoff. “Maven’s a fool,” I snarl. “He’s only hurting Bracken’s resources, not ours. I didn’t think he was this stupid—”
“Maven didn’t hit Bracken,” my brother snaps. “Bracken hit us. The Piedmont base. Two hours ago, but we just got the call for help.”
“What?” I blink, admittedly confused. I raise a hand, clutching the collar of my robe, pulling it shut. As if silk can save me from anything.
“He cut off the base, stormed it with his own army and an alliance of the other Piedmont princes. He’s taking it back. Killing anyone they could get their hands on. Nortan Red, Montfort Silver. Newbloods.” Ptolemus prowls to the window, putting a hand to the glass. He stares east, at the haze of a hot afternoon. “We suspect Maven and the Lakelands are helping behind the scenes.”
I look at the floor, my bare feet on the carpet. “But his children. Montfort will have to kill them.” What a trade. Your children for your crown. I wonder if my own father would make the same choice.
Slowly, Ptolemus shakes his head. “We received word from Montfort too. The children—they’re gone. Replaced with Red corpses healed to look like Princess Charlotta and Prince Michael. Someone got to them, and got them out.” He growls low in his throat. “Montfort idiots don’t know how it happened. How anyone got into their precious mountains and out again.”
I wave a hand, dismissing the point. It doesn’t matter right now. “So Piedmont is finished?”
His jaw tightens. “Piedmont is with Maven now.”
“And what can we do?” I suck in a dragging breath. My mind whirls. There was a garrison left back in Piedmont, soldiers from the Scarlet Guard and Montfort. Red, newblood, and Silver, people we need for our armies. I grit my teeth, wondering how many might have survived.
At least my father’s own army is here in the Rift, having returned after we destroyed Corvium. The same can be said of Anabel’s alliance. Our Silver strength is preserved, but the loss of the base—and Piedmont—will have devastating consequences.
I swallow hard, my voice shaking as I speak again. “What can we do against the Lakelands, Maven’s Norta, and Piedmont?”
My brother’s look is grim, and I shiver to my core.
“We’re about to find out.”
THIRTEEN
Iris
I’ve never been this far south.
The Piedmont base is so thick with humidity I feel as if I could weaponize the air itself. My bare arms prickle with the sensation of moisture, minuscule droplets too small to see dancing over my skin. I stretch a little, moving my fingers in tiny circles, stirring up the cloying warmth hanging over the balcony of the base headquarters.
Thunderheads chase across the horizon, trailing gray shadows of lashing rain out over the swamps. Lightning forks once or twice, and the distant rumble takes four or five seconds to reach us. The light breeze smells of fires doused by the passing rain, and smoke trails over near the main gate of the base. Bracken’s own soldiers marched in through open gates before turning on all inside in a blitz of swift and strongarm, revealing exactly where their bought allegiances lie. With Maven. And with me.
The king of Norta lays his bone-white hands flat on the balcony railing, leaning forward an inch or two over the edge.
It isn’t far to the ground. Just two stories. If I pushed him over the rail, he would live, albeit with a few broken bones. He squints, dark brow furrowed beneath a simple crown of iron and ruby. No cloak today. Too hot. Instead he has his usual black uniform, unbuttoned at the throat, the fabric flapping in the slight, damp breeze. A sheen of sweat gleams on his neck. Not from the heat. A fire king would be far more comfortable than anyone else at these temperatures. The sweat isn’t from exertion either. He took no part in the storming of the base. Neither did I, though both our nations provided Silver soldiers for Bracken’s endeavor. We waited until it was clear, until victory was sure, before setting foot here.
I think Maven is nervous. Afraid. And enraged.
She wasn’t here.
I watch him quietly, waiting for him to speak. His throat works, bobbing between the open folds of his collar. He looks oddly vulnerable in spite of our triumph.
“How many escaped?” he asks without meeting my gaze. His eyes stay fixed on the storm.
I bite back a rush of annoyance. I’m not some lieutenant, some officer’s aide meant to stand and give figures. But I tell him what he wants, and I do it with a tight smile.
“One hundred into the swamps,” I reply, running a hand through the flowers blooming from boxes along the balcony. The dirt around them is still wet from the passing rains and a particularly exuberant gardener. Behind us, more flowering vines run up the brick walls and columns of the administrative building. The Piedmontese love their flowers. They explode in various shades, thriving in this climate. White, yellow, purple, pink, and a bit of comforting blue. The sun strengthens overhead, and I wish I’d worn white instead of my royal blue dress. The linen is light, at least, thin enough that I can feel the wind on my skin.
Maven plucks a single indigo bloom from the flowers at his side. “And another two hundred dead.” Not a question. He knows the death toll well enough.
“They’re being identified now to the best of our ability.”
He shrugs. “Use the prisoners. Perhaps a few will do the work for us.”