Battle Rage

Battle Rage Episode 3

It would be easy to kill her.

Spindles of rose gold weave between the red, black, and orange jewels at Anabel Lerolan’s neck. One twitch and I could slice the oblivion’s jugular. Bleed out her body and her scheme. End her life and her betrothal in front of everyone in the room. My mother, my father, Cal—not to mention the Red criminals and foreign freaks we find ourselves tied to. Not Barrow, though. She hasn’t returned yet. Probably still wailing over her lost prince.

It would mean another war, of course, shattering an alliance already spiderwebbed with cracks. Could I do such a thing—trade my loyalties for happiness? It feels shameful just to ask the question, even in the safety of my own head.

The old woman must feel my gaze. Her eyes flick to me for a second, the smirk on her lips unmistakable as she settles back into her chair, resplendent in red, black, and orange.

Those are Calore colors, not just Lerolan. Her allegiances are abrasively clear.

Shivering, I drop my gaze and focus on my hands instead. One of my nails is horribly cracked. Broken in battle. With a breath, I mold one of my titanium rings into a claw, drawing it over my finger into a talon. I click it against the arm of my throne, if only to annoy Mother. She glances at me out of the corner of her eye, the only evidence of her disdain.

I fantasize about killing Anabel a little too long, losing track of the council as they scheme in their wretched circles. Our numbers have dwindled, leaving only the collected leaders of our hastily united factions. Generals, lords, captains, and royalty. The Montfort leader speaks, then Father, then Anabel, and over again. All in restrained tones, forcing false smiles and empty promises.

I wish Elane were here. I should have brought her. She asked to come. In truth, she begged. Elane has always wanted to keep close, even in the face of lethal danger. I try not to think of our last moments together, her body in my arms. She’s thinner than I am, but softer. Ptolemus waited outside my door, making sure we weren’t disturbed.

“Let me go with you,” she whispered in my ear, a dozen times, a hundred times. But her father and mine forbade it.

Enough, Evangeline.

I curse at myself now. They would have never known in the middle of the chaos. Elane’s a shadow, after all, and an invisible girl is easy to smuggle. Tolly would have helped. He wouldn’t stop his wife from coming along, not if I asked for his aid. But I couldn’t. There was a battle to be won first, a battle I didn’t know if we could win. And I wasn’t about to take that risk with her. She’s talented, but Elane Haven is no warrior. And in the thick of it, she would only be a distraction and a worry for me. I could afford neither then. But now . . .

Stop it.

My fingers curl against the arms of my throne, begging to carve the iron into ragged pieces. At home, the many metal galleries of Ridge House made for easy therapy. I could destroy in peace. Channel any fresh rage into constantly changing statues, without having to worry about what anyone else might think. I wonder if I might find some privacy here in Corvium to do just that. The promise of such release keeps me sane. I scratch the clawed ring on my chair, metal on metal. Soft enough that only Mother hears. She can’t scold me for it, not in front of the rest of our strange council. If I have to be on display, I might as well enjoy the few advantages.

Finally, I wrench my thoughts away from Anabel’s vulnerable neck and Elane’s absence. If I’m going to figure a way out of my father’s plan, I have to at least pay attention.

“Their army is on the retreat. King Maven’s forces cannot be allowed the time to regroup,” Father says coolly. Behind him, the tall windows of the tower show the sun beginning its descent into the clouds lingering on the western horizon. The obliterated landscape still smokes. “He’s licking his wounds.”

“The boy is already into the Choke,” Queen Anabel is quick to reply. The boy. She refers to Maven like he isn’t her grandson. I suppose she won’t acknowledge that anymore. Not after he helped kill her son, King Tiberias. Maven isn’t her blood, but Elara’s and Elara’s alone.

Anabel leans forward on her elbows, clasping her wrinkled hands together. Her old wedding ring, battered but gleaming, winks on one finger. When she took us all by surprise at Ridge House, announcing her intention to back her grandson, she wore no metal to speak of. To hide from our magnetron senses. Now she wears it openly, daring us to use her crown or her jewelry against her. Every part of her is a calculated choice. And she is not without weapons of her own. Anabel was a warrior before she was a queen, an officer at the Lakelander front. She is an oblivion, and her touch is deadly, able to obliterate and explode something—or someone.

If I didn’t hate what she’s forcing me into, I would respect her dedication at the very least.

“And at this hour, most of his forces will be beyond Maiden Falls and over the border,” she adds. “They’re in the Lakelands now.”

“The Lakelander army is wounded too, just as vulnerable. We should strike while we can, even just to pick off the stragglers.” My father looks from Anabel to one of our Silver lords. “The Laris fleet can be ready inside the hour, can’t they?”

Lord General Laris sharpens under my father’s gaze. His flask is empty now, leaving him to enjoy the drunken haze of victory. He coughs, clearing his throat. I can smell the alcohol on his breath from across the chamber. “It can, Your Majesty. You need only give the command.”

A low voice cuts him off. “I’ll oppose it if you do.”

Cal’s first words since returning from his spat with Mare Barrow are certainly not wasted. Like his grandmother, he wears black trimmed with red, having long ago discarded the borrowed uniform he wore in battle. He shifts in his seat next to Anabel, taking his assigned position as her cause and king. His uncle, Julian of House Jacos, holds his left while the Lerolan queen has his right. Flanked by both of them, Silvers of noble and powerful blood, he presents a united front. A worthy king for us to champion.

I hate him for it.

Cal could have ended my misery, broken our betrothal, refused Father’s offer of my hand. But for the crown, he threw Mare away. For the crown, he trapped me.

“What?” is all Father says. He is a man of few words, and even fewer questions. Just to hear him ask is unsettling, and I tense in spite of myself.

Cal draws back his shoulders, quietly spreading his broad frame. He rests his chin on his knuckles, brows knitted together in thought. He seems larger, older, smarter. On the same playing field as the king of the Rift.

“I said I would oppose an order to dispatch the Air Fleet, or any detachment of our coalition, to give chase into hostile territory,” Cal replies steadily. I have to admit, even without a crown, he has a royal way about him. An air that commands attention, if not respect. Not surprising, since he was trained for this, and Cal is nothing if not a very obedient student. His grandmother purses her lips into a tight but genuine smile. She’s proud of him. “The Choke is still a literal minefield, and we have very little intelligence to guide us on the other side

of the falls. It could be a trap. I won’t risk soldiers on it.”

“Every piece of this war is risk,” I hear Ptolemus say from the other side of my father. He flexes as Cal did, drawing himself up to his full height in his throne. The setting sun gives Tolly’s hair a reddish tint, making his oiled silver locks glow beneath his prince’s crown. The same light bathes Cal in his house colors, red in his eyes while black shadows lengthen behind him. The pair hold each other’s gaze in the strange way men do. Everything’s a competition, I scoff to myself.

“Such insight, Prince Ptolemus,” Anabel says, her tone dry. “But His Majesty, the king of Norta, is well aware of what war is. And I agree with his assessment.”

Already she calls him king. I’m not the only one to notice her choice of words.

Cal lowers his eyes, stunned. He recovers quickly, jaw clenched in resolution. His choice is already made. No going back now, Calore.

The Montfort premier, Davidson, nods from his seat at his own table. Without the Scarlet Guard commander and Mare Barrow, he’s easy to ignore. I almost forgot about him entirely.

“I concur,” he says. Even his voice is bland, without inflection or accent. “Our armies need time to recover as well, and this coalition needs time to find . . .” He stops, thinking. I still can’t read his expression, and it annoys me to no end. I wonder if even a whisper could slip past his mental shields. “Balance.”

Mother is not as stoic as my father, and she fixes on the newblood leader with her smoldering black stare. Her snake mimics her action, blinking at the premier. “So is there no intelligence, are there no spies across the border? Forgive me, sir, but I was under the impression that the Scarlet Guard”—she almost spits it out—“had an intricate spy network in both Norta and the Lakelands. Certainly they can be of use, unless the Reds misrepresent themselves and their strength.” Disgust drips from her words like poison from fangs.

“Our operatives are in order, Your Majesty.”

The Red general, the blond woman with the permanent sneer, pushes into the room with Mare on her heels. Both stalk from the doorway at the edge of the chamber, crossing the council room to sit with Davidson. They move quickly and silently, as if they could somehow avoid being watched by the entire room.

While she settles into her chair, Mare keeps her eyes forward, locked on me, of all people. To my surprise, I feel a strange emotion beneath her gaze. Could this be shame? No, not possible. Even so, heat rises in my cheeks. I hope I’m not blushing, either in anger or embarrassment. Both churn inside me, and for good reason. I look away, turning on Cal, if only to distract myself with the one person more wretched than I feel.

He certainly tries to look unaffected by her presence, but Cal isn’t his brother. Unlike Maven, Cal has little skill in masking his emotions. A silver blush blooms beneath his skin, coloring his cheeks, neck, and even the tops of his ears. The temperature in the room rises a little, rippling with whatever emotion he’s fighting. What a fool, I sneer in my head. You made your choice, Calore. You doomed us both. You can at least pretend to keep it together. If anyone is going to lose their mind to heartbreak, it should be me.

I almost expect him to start mewling like a lost kitten. Instead he blinks furiously, ripping his eyes away from the lightning girl. One fist clenches on the arm of his chair, and the flamemaker bracelet on his wrist glows red with the dying sun. He keeps himself in check. It doesn’t ignite, and neither does he.

Mare is a stone compared to Cal. Rigid, unyielding, unfeeling. Not even a spark. She just keeps staring at me. It’s unnerving, but not a challenge. Her eyes are strangely devoid of her usual anger. They certainly aren’t kind, of course, but they aren’t brimming with disgust either. I guess the lightning girl has little reason to hate me right now. My chest tightens—does she know this wasn’t my choice? She must.

“Good of you to return, Miss Barrow,” I tell her, and I mean it. She’s always a guaranteed distraction for Calore princes.

She doesn’t respond, only folding her arms.