فصل بیست و دوم

Twenty-Two: Iris

When Maven returns to his own ship, I fear he might force me to go with him and deny me a few more hours with my mother. To my surprise, his petty rage and his political cunning do not extend so far. We are left alone on Mother’s flagship once more, given over to our own devices. With room to talk at length, and time to plan. Either he doesn’t see us as a threat, or he doesn’t care to fear us. I would venture the latter. He has more immediate enemies right now, and can spare little thought for his own wife.

The Swan is a warship, built for battle and speed. What pass for staterooms are spare and rigid, barely suited to Red servants. Still, Mother looks at home in them, equally at ease upon a bolted-down, narrow bed as on a jeweled throne. She isn’t a vain woman and carries none of the flawed, materialistic pride most Silvers have. That was Father’s domain. He preferred his finery, even on the battlefield. The thought sends a sharp stab of pain through me as I remember the last time I saw him alive. He was dashing in his armor, blue steel studded with sapphires, gray hair pulled back from his face. I suppose Salin Iral found some flaw, and exploited it well.

I pace to settle myself, moving back and forth before my mother, stopping occasionally to glare out the small porthole window. The sea outside has turned bloodred. A bad omen. I feel a familiar itch and make a mental note to pray later on, in the Swan’s small shrine. It might bring me a bit of peace.

“Be still. Conserve your strength,” Mother says, her Lakelander melodic and fluid. She sits with her legs drawn up under herself, and her long-sleeved coat is tossed aside, making her seem smaller than usual. It has little effect on her bearing, and I feel the weight of her eyes as I walk.

I am a queen too, and hesitate to follow her commands, if only to be contrarian. But she’s right. I eventually concede and take a seat on the bench on the opposite wall, an uncomfortable thing with thin padding and rivets fixed to the metal floor. My fingers curl around the edge of it, gripping tight. It vibrates with the reverberations of the ship engines, low and humming. I fixate on the sensation, reclaiming a bit of my calm.

“In your communications, you said there was something you couldn’t tell me,” Mother says. “Not until we were face-to-face.” Steeling myself, I look up at her. “Yes.”

“Well.” She spreads her hands wide. “Here we are.”

My expression doesn’t change, but I feel my heartbeat quicken with nerves. I have to get up again and cross to the window, look out on the crimson waters. Even though my mother’s room is the safest place for me, it still feels dangerous to repeat what I know. Anyone could be listening, waiting to report back to Maven.

I put my back to her and force out the words. “We’re operating on the assumption that Maven will win.” She scoffs behind me. “Win this war, you mean. But not the next.”

Our war for this country.

“Yes,” I reply. “But I think we’re on the losing side now. His brother’s coalition, that Montfort army . . .” Her voice is level, devoid of judgment. “They frighten you.”

I spin around, scowling. “Of course they frighten me. And the Scarlet Guard too.” “Reds?” Mother scoffs. She even rolls her eyes. I grit my teeth against a sigh of frustration. “They’re of little importance.” “That kind of thinking will be our ruin, Mother,” I tell her as sternly as I can. One queen to another. Listen to me.

But she dismisses me with a dancing wave. As if I’m still a child pulling at her skirts. “I doubt that,” she says. “Silvers war, not Reds. They can’t possible hope to win against us.” “And yet they keep doing it,” I answer flatly. I fought in Harbor Bay, against the Samos heirs and their battalion. Populated by Silvers and newbloods, mostly, but Reds too. Skilled snipers, trained fighters. Not to mention Norta’s own Red soldiers who turned. One of Maven’s great strengths lies in the loyalty of his people, but if it wanes? His Silvers will run and leave him empty.

Mother just clucks her tongue. My teeth clench with the sound. “The Reds keep winning because of a Silver alliance,” she says. “It will quickly crumble when one or both of the Calore brothers die.” Wincing, I try another tactic. Instead of standing tall, I drop to my knees in front of my mother, taking her hands in mine. The pleading image of a child is sure to stir her. “I know Mare Barrow, Mother,” I tell her, hoping she hears me. “Reds are made of stronger stuff than we realize. Yes, we make them think themselves inferior, insignificant, to keep them controlled. But we risk falling into our own trap if we forget to fear them too.” My words fall on deaf ears. She pulls one hand away, using it to smooth my hair away from my face. “Mare Barrow isn’t Red, Iris.” Her blood certainly is, I think, keeping the retort to myself.

Mother continues to run her fingers through my hair, combing out the strands. “All will be well. All will be taken care of,” she croons, as if to soothe a baby. “We’ll drown our enemies and return to our peace, safe at home. The glory of the Lakelands will wash forth to this very coast. Across Prairie, into those infernal mountains. To the borders of Ciron and Tiraxes, and Piedmont too. Your sister will rule an empire, with you at her side.” I try to imagine what she dreams of. A map awash in blue, our dynasty secure in power. I think of Tiora, tall against a new dawn, an empress’s crown upon her head. Resplendent in sapphire and diamond, the most powerful person from shore to shore, the world kneeling at her feet. I want that future for her. I want that sanctuary so much my heart aches.

But will it ever come to pass?

“Anabel Lerolan and Julian Jacos have given me a message,” I whisper, moving my head close to Mother’s. If someone is listening at the door, they won’t hear much.

“What?” she hisses back, surprised. Her soothing hand drops. The other tightens its grip on me.

“They came to me in Archeon.”

“The capital? How?”

“Like I said, Mother,” I murmur, “I think Maven will lose this war, and lose quicker than we can imagine. They are a formidable alliance, stronger than our own. Even with Piedmont on our side.” Her eyes widen, and I finally see a flash of fear. As much as it terrifies me, I’m glad for it. We all need to be afraid if we want to stay alive.

“What did they want?” she asks.

“They offered a deal.”

Mother’s expression sours a little. Her lips twist. “We don’t have time for dramatics, Iris. Tell me what happened.” “They were waiting in my transport,” I say. “The Jacos singer is a talented one, and he bewitched my guards well. And the Lerolan queen is as dangerous as any.” Her voice climbs an octave, panicked. “Does anyone know? Does Maven—”

I put a hand to her face, forcing her to quiet. The words die on her lips.

“I’d be dead if he knew.” Her skin is warm beneath my hand, soft and more wrinkled than ever before. These days have aged her. “Anabel and Julian did their work well. They need me alive and they took no chances.” Mother sighs in relief, her breath washing over my face.

“Salin Iral,” I spit, almost unable to say the name of my father’s killer. It cuts us both like a dagger. Mother recoils, disgust marring her features. “They’ll hand him over. Let us do with him what we wish.” Her eyes go blank and dark. After a moment, she pushes away my hand gently. “Iral is no one. A disgraced lord, stripped of his power. Alone in whatever wilderness he chooses.” Electric anger screams down my spine. I feel myself flush, heat burning my cheeks.

“He killed Father.”

“Thank you for the clarification,” Mother replies, her voice icy. Still, that blankness in her. A shield against the agony of my father’s loss. “I was not aware.” “I only meant—”

“He killed your father for another king,” she says slowly. “He is no one, Iris.”

“Maybe.” On shaky limbs, I force myself to my feet. I loom over her, and she has to look up to see my face. An odd position, an odd sensation. To have this power over my mother, even a power so small. I suck in another breath. “Anabel offered up Volo Samos as well.” Below me, she blinks. Eyelids closing and opening, revealing a very different pair of eyes. They spark, alight.

“Now, that is something interesting. And perhaps impossible.”

I remember Anabel as she leaned forward, bronze eyes gleaming in the light of afternoon. There was no lie in her, only hunger. Only need. “I don’t think so.” “What do they want in return?”

Shaking, I tell her. Let her make this decision for me, because I cannot make it myself.

“’Tiberias the Seventh, rightful King of Norta, Flame of the North, alongside his allies the Free Republic of Montfort, the Scarlet Guard, and the independent Kingdom of the Rift, sends word from his temporary capital of Harbor Bay.’” The Sentinel reads from the neatly typed communication, his voice a bit muffled behind his jeweled mask. The floodlights of the ship deck illuminate him in blinding red and orange. Behind him there is only darkness. No stars, no moon. The whole world could be empty.

“Temporary, that’s presumptuous,” Mother sniffs, turning her face in to the cool wind blowing off the black ocean. We exchange glances, annoyed by the pageantry. Flame of the North. What nonsense.

“That’s Cal,” Maven replies from his place among his guards. He called us to hear the message ourselves, summoning us to his ship. “He is a creature of want.” With a raised finger, he indicates for the stocky Sentinel to continue. I recognize his voice and the eyes peering out from his mask. A vibrant blue, made electric by the sharp light overhead. Haven, I know, remembering the guard who accompanied me on my journey into Montfort.

“’I control the city behind you,’” he reads. I think of the older brother, the warrior, wreathed in flame. “’I control the southern borders, from Delphie to our allies in the Rift. I control hundreds of miles of coastline. The entirety of the Beacon region, led by Governor Rhambos and his house, has pledged loyalty to the true king. I have this kingdom in my fist, Maven, and you within my grasp.’” Did we know about Rhambos? I glance across the deck, looking to my twisted husband. Maven’s deep scowl is confirmation enough. That betrayal is a surprise. Maven barely responds to the Sentinel’s words, only hissing out a breath. “Traitor,” I think I hear him mutter.

Sentinel Haven forges on.

“’You have allies beyond your borders, Maven, but few within them. None who will not abandon you as my victories mount. The winds are blowing, the tide is changing. Norta cannot exist as she did beneath our ancestors, and I will not rest until I reclaim the birthright you stole from me, at the cost of our father’s life.’” The guards rustle a little, but none of them speak. To them, this could be the wild accusation of a traitor, as Maven has painted his brother to be. Seduced by a Red freak, manipulated into corruption and murder. But it’s probably more likely a confirmation of what we all know to be true. Tiberias Calore did not kill his father. Not willingly. Not the way Maven has said.

Next to me, Mother fixes her eyes on my husband. They gleam, catching the harsh light.

He doesn’t react, still and smooth as glass. In his black uniform, his body seems to blend into the darkness, invisible but for his white face and long-fingered hands. Despite his brother’s best attempts, Maven stays collected, reluctant to give over to a fiery temper.

“’We are prepared to offer terms to all members of your alliance.’” Sentinel Haven rustles the page as he reads. “’To Her Majesty Queen Cenra of the Lakelands and His Highness Prince Bracken of Piedmont. To you, Maven, usurper and murderer though you may be. No more blood need be spilled in this war of ours. Let us preserve what we can of the kingdom we were born to serve.’” Such charming words. I wonder if it was written by committee. Anabel, at least, had a controlling hand in the communication. Her fingerprints are all over the statement.

“’We will meet upon the island of your choosing.’”

Sentinel Haven clears his throat, his eyes flicking to me first. Then to his king, a person living on borrowed time upon a stolen throne.

“’At dawn.’”

We wait in silence, watching Maven as he weighs his options. He knew this was coming, and is hardly surprised. Still, he snaps, slowly at first, then faster and faster. A clenching fist, the flamemaker bracelet spinning on a fine-boned wrist. It spits a spark that blooms, growing, a fireball burning white hot and icy blue at its core. With a manic smile, Maven tosses it out onto the water. It trails, a near comet, reflecting with a hellish glow in the choppy water, before he lets it hiss into the nothing among the waves.

“Dawn, then,” he repeats.

I can tell by the set of his shoulders that he has no intention of negotiating. I can only guess as to his motive, but I think it rests solely on one Silver prince and one Red lightning girl.