“I doubt that,” I reply. “The Scarlet Guard and the Montfortans are loyal creatures. They won’t do a thing to help us.”
With a long, low sigh he straightens up, pushing back from the balcony. He squints as another crack of lightning flashes, closer this time. What little color he has left drains from his face when the sound of thunder rolls over us. Is he thinking of the lightning girl?
“I have some Merandus cousins who could be the judge of that.”
I grit my teeth. “You know how I feel about whispers,” I say, too quick and too harsh. His mother was one, I remind myself, bracing for some kind of reprimand.
But Maven remains silent. He lays the flower on the railing, petals up, and fusses with his fingernails. They’re short, worn by teeth and anxiety. I would expect a king to keep his nails finely manicured, suited to the arms of a throne. Or maybe roughed by Training or combat, as I’m sure his brother’s are. Not ruined by nervous habits better suited to a child.
“And I think I know how you feel as well, Maven,” I hear myself say. Daring to turn over one of my many cards on the table.
Again he doesn’t respond, and I know I’m right. Whatever his mother did, however her whispers crawled across his brain, left scars and marks. He doesn’t want to risk more.
I sense a chink in his armor, a hole in the wall he keeps up. What if I could slip through? If I could grab hold of a piece of him the way Mare Barrow has—could I hold the reins of a king?
“We can remove them from court, if you want,” I murmur slowly. I school my features into something softer, more caring, as I shift closer to him. I angle my body so my collarbone juts out, and my dress slips just so, showing exactly as much skin as I need. “Blame it on me. My Lakeland superstitions. Call it a short-lived measure to please your new wife.”
It’s like circling a whirlpool, trying to keep to its edges. To stay within its bounds without drowning.
The corner of his mouth lifts, tugging his lips. He cuts a sharp profile, all edges of straight nose, proud brow, and sculpted cheekbones. “You’re nineteen, aren’t you, Iris?”
I blink at him, confused. “And?”
Grinning, he moves faster than I expect, putting one hand to my face. I flinch as his fingers slide behind my ear, his thumb beneath my chin. The latter digs a little, pressing into the flesh of my throat. His skin flares, hot but not burning. We’re almost the same height, but he has an inch or so over me, and I’m forced to look up into eyes like a tundra sky. Frozen, unforgiving, endless. To anyone watching, we might look like enamored newlyweds.
“You’re very good at this already,” he says, his oddly cool breath washing over my face. “But so am I.”
I step back, meaning to pull from his grip, but he releases me before I force any kind of struggle. He seems amused, which makes my stomach churn. I give no indication of my disgust. Only cold indifference. I raise an eyebrow and smooth my hair over one shoulder, gleaming black and oil-smooth. I try to channel my mother’s regal, fearless nature.
“Touch me without my consent again, and we’ll see how long you can hold your breath.”
Slowly, he lifts the flower again, and his fist tightens around it. One by one, the petals fall, and he flicks his wrist, sparking his bracelet. The petals burn before they hit the ground, disappearing in a burst of red flame and ash and open threat.
“Forgive me, my queen,” he says, smiling. Lying. “The stress of this war can be such a ruin on my nerves. I only hope my brother can be made to see reason, and the traitors with him are brought to justice so we might finally have some peace in our lands.”
“Of course.” My words are just as false as his. I dip my head, ignoring any shame I feel in the action. “Peace is the goal we all share.”
After my mother feasts on your country and tosses your throne into the ocean. After we bleed the Samos king dry and kill every person responsible for my father’s death.
After we take your crown, Maven Calore, and drown you and your brother both.
“Your Majesty?”
We both turn to find one of Maven’s Sentinels, his mask black and glittering, standing in the doorway to the balcony. He bows low, his robes a swirl of woven fire. I can’t imagine how sweltering their armor and robes must be right now.
Maven gestures, hands open. His voice is a bucket of ice water. “What is it?”
“We’ve located what you asked for.” I can only see the Sentinel’s eyes beneath his mask, and they flash with fear.
“Are you sure?” The king picks at his nails again, feigning disinterest. This only piques mine.
The Sentinel bobs his head. “Yes, sir.”
With a cutting smile, Maven looks up from his hands and turns, putting his back to the railing. “Well, then, my thanks. I’d like to see it.”
“Yes, sir,” the Sentinel says again, nodding once more.
“Iris, care to join me?” Maven asks, one hand outstretched. His fingers hover half an inch from my arm, taunting me.
Every warrior instinct I have tells me to refuse. But then I openly admit I am afraid of Maven Calore, and give him power over me. This I cannot allow. And whatever he’s looking for on the Piedmont base could be important to the Lakelands. A weapon, perhaps. Intelligence, maybe. “Why not?” I say with an exaggerated shrug.
I ignore his hand, following the Sentinel off the balcony. My dress snaps behind me, cut low to show the whorls of water tattooed across my back.
The base is a good size, though half as big as the major citadels where we house our fleets and armies back in the Lakelands. Wherever we’re going must be close enough to walk, as Maven’s contingent of Sentinels doesn’t bring a transport. I wish they would. Despite the many trees dotting the streets of the base, the shady areas aren’t much cooler than the sunlit streets. As we walk, flanked by a dozen Sentinel guards, I run a hand along my neck. Droplets of water form in the wake of my fingertips, each one running a soothing race down my inked spine.
Maven follows close at the heels of his lead Sentinel, hands fisted in his pockets. He’s eager. He wants whatever we’re about to find.
They turn us onto a street of row houses. At first it seems oddly cheerful. Red brick and black shutters, paved sidewalks, flowers blooming, and columns of pruned trees. But the emptiness is unsettling, like a city block removed of its inhabitants. A dollhouse without dolls. The people who lived here were either killed or captured, or they fled into the stinking, sinking swamps. Perhaps they left something of value behind.
“These were officer homes,” one of the Sentinels explains. “Before the occupation.”
I raise an eyebrow at him. “And after?”
“Used by the enemy. Red rats, blood traitors, newblood freaks,” one of the Sentinels hisses behind his mask.
Maven stops so quickly his leather boots leave black scuff marks on the sidewalk. He turns to the hissing guard, hands still concealed. Despite the Sentinel’s towering height, Maven doesn’t seem at all perturbed. In fact, he wears no expression at all as he stares.
“What was that, Sentinel Rhambos?”
Strongarm. The Sentinel could tear Maven’s arms off if he wanted. Instead his eyes widen behind his mask, a watery brown full of terror.
“Nothing of importance, Your Majesty.”