Another minute goes by in silence, marked only by the kindly ticking of a clock on the wall. Outside, the rain picks up, lashing the windows in merciless sheets.
“The army should break until this clears,” I mutter. “No use letting our soldiers get sick, and feed an epidemic of colds.”
“True,” Mother replies around bites of food. She tips a hand at Jidansa, who stands quickly.
She ducks into a curt bow. “I’ll make it so, Your Majesty,” she says before setting off to deliver the order.
“The rest of you, wait outside,” my mother continues, glancing at each of our guards in turn. They don’t hesitate, almost leaping to follow her commands.
I watch the room empty, my nerves prickling. Whatever Mother wants to say to me isn’t meant for an audience. When the door shuts again, leaving us alone, she steeples her fingers together and leans forward.
“It isn’t the rain that bothers you, monamora.”
For a second, I debate denying it. Pasting on a smile, forcing a laugh and a dismissal. But I don’t like to wear masks with my mother. It’s dishonest. And besides, she sees right through them.
I sigh, setting aside my fork. “I keep seeing his face.”
She softens, wavering from queen to mother. “I miss your father too.”
“No.” The word stumbles out, too quick, startling my mother. Her eyes widen a little, darker than usual in the dim light. “I do think about him, all the time but . . .” I search for the proper way to say this. Instead I put it bluntly. “I’m talking about the man who killed him.”
“Who we then killed,” Mother says, her voice even. It isn’t an accusation, but a simple statement of fact. “At your suggestion.”
Once more, I feel rare shame. A flush creeps over my cheeks. Yes, it was my idea to take up Queen Anabel’s offer. To trade Maven for the man who killed my father. And later on, the man he killed my father for. But that part of the bargain has yet to be paid.
“I’d do it again,” I mutter, playing with my food for some distraction. I feel exposed beneath my mother’s gaze. “He deserves to die a hundred times, but—”
She tightens, as if in pain. “You’ve killed before. In defense of your own life.” I open my mouth to try to explain, only to find her still speaking. “But not like that,” she adds, laying one hand on mine. Her eyes shine, full of understanding.
“No,” I admit, bitter and disappointed in myself. This was a righteous kill, payment for the death of my father. It shouldn’t be this way.
Mother’s fingers grip mine. “Of course it would feel different. Feel wrong somehow.”
My breath catches in my throat as I stare at our joined hands. “Will it go away?” I murmur, forcing myself to look back up at her.
But Mother isn’t looking at me. She glances out the window, into the obscuring rain. Her eyes dance with the lashing water. How many people has she killed? I wonder. I have no way of knowing, and no way of finding out. “Sometimes,” she finally says. “Sometimes not.”
Before I can tug on that thread to unravel exactly what she means, Tiora enters the room, her own guards left behind in the hallway, like ours. While Mother came to Norta briefly, against all traditions of the Lakelands, Tiora stayed behind to keep our nation’s borders safe. And our armies ready for the next step in our journey. She was well suited to the job, and it seems to cheer her, even as we leap between wars.
The heiress to the Lakelander throne looks like just another soldier, her uniform wrinkled, without any livery or insignia to it. She could be a simple messenger, if not for the Cygnet look. High cheekbones and a higher opinion of oneself.
She sits with our father’s grace, folding her long limbs into the chair across from mine.
“Lovely, I’m famished,” she says, picking at the spread with both hands. I nudge the stew in her direction, along with the display of lamprey heads. As children, we used to throw them at each other. Tiora remembers, and she offers a tiny grin in reply.
Then she gets down to business, facing our mother with the gravity of a general. “We have word from Snows, Hills, Trees, Rivers, and Plains,” she says, rattling off the other citadels dotting the vast expanse of the Lakelands. “All are ready.”
Queen Cenra nods, pleased by the news. “As they should be. The time to strike is coming, and coming soon.”
The time to strike. We’ve spoken of nothing else since I returned to my homeland. I haven’t even had time to enjoy my freedom beyond the bounds of Maven’s kingdom or his marriage. Mother has me in endless meetings and reviews. After all, I’m the only one of us to have faced Tiberias and his contingent of unknown Red soldiers, not to mention his Rift allies.
We have Bracken and Piedmont on our side, yes, but is he a better ally than Maven was? A better shield against the Calore brother now on the throne? Is it even any use to wonder? Our decision is long since made. Maven is a card we’ve already played and traded off.
Tiora forges on. “More importantly, it seems Tiberias Calore’s newly made kingdom is splintering again.”
I blink at her, forgetting the food on my plate. “How so?”
“The Reds are no longer with him,” she replies. I feel myself twitch in surprise. “According to our intelligence reports, the Scarlet Guard, that strange newblood, and the Montfort armies, have all disappeared. Returned to the mountains, we think. Or gone underground.”
At the head of the table, Mother sighs aloud. She raises one hand, massaging her temple. “When is anyone going to learn that young kings are fools?”
Tiora smirks in amusement, enjoying Mother’s show of female frustration.
I’m more interested in the implication of Red desertion. Without Montfort, the newbloods, the spies of the Scarlet Guard, without Mare Barrow, the scales have certainly tipped against Tiberias Calore. And it isn’t difficult to understand why.
“The Reds won’t support him on the throne,” I say. I didn’t know Mare well, but I saw enough of her to guess. She fought Maven at every turn, even as a prisoner. Surely she wouldn’t stomach another king. “They must have had an agreement, to win the country back and build anew. Tiberias refused his end of the bargain. Silvers still rule in Norta.”
After a bite of lamprey, Tiora shakes her head. “Not entirely. There have been proclamations. More rights for the Reds of Norta. Better wages. The end of forced labor. They’ve stopped conscription too.”
My eyes widen. Mostly out of shock, but also from unease. If Reds across the border are offered such boons, what will happen to Reds in the Lakelands? It will be an exodus, a mad dash.
“We have to close our borders,” I say quickly. “Stop any Reds from crossing into Norta.”
Again, Mother sighs. “He’s truly an idiot,” she mutters. “Of course, we’ll double our watch at the Nortan border. Leave it to a Calore to cause us more headaches.”
Tiora hums low in her throat. “He’s causing himself headaches as well. Their tech towns are draining as we speak. I assume any economic might they have now will soon follow.”
At that, our mother almost laughs to herself. I would join her if I could. All I can think about is the magnificent stupidity of Tiberias Calore. He’s only just won back his throne, and now he seeks to strip his country of its greatest strengths? For who? Some red-blooded nobodies? For the myth of equality, justice, honor, or whatever other foolish ideal he hopes to achieve? I scoff to myself. I wonder if the Calore king, left to his own devices, will simply drown under the weight of his crown. Or be devoured by the Rift king, scheming to leech what he can from the so-called Flame of the North.
He won’t be the only Silver in the Nortan territories to chafe under the proclamations. I feel a smirk curl on my lips, twisting to one side as I think. “I doubt the Silvers of Norta will like that,” I say, waving a finger over my water glass. Inside, the liquid swirls with my motions.
Mother eyes me, trying to follow my train of thought. “Indeed.”