Dark of the West (Glass Alliance)

by Joanna Hathaway

  On cue with my rotten luck, that same black creature bounds abruptly from the underbrush, a colourful pheasant caught between its teeth. Six men emerge behind. They each have a rifle in hand and my uncle, Tanek Lehzar, leads the pack. He removes his fine-rimmed spectacles and, wiping a gloved palm across his balding head, speaks firmly to his dog. He bends over and takes the bird from its obedient jaws. Then he spots me, expression darkening. “Aurelia, what on earth are you doing out here?”

  His question goes in one ear and out the other. My stomach is too busy twisting at the sight of the tallest hunter.

  Ambassador Gref Havis.

  Havis trails the group of courtly men, casually reloading his rifle. He’s from Resya, tall and angled with dusky skin, dark hair pushed back from his handsome face. If he were only a passing diplomat, a friend of Mother’s from long-ago days, I wouldn’t pay him a wink of attention. But as it happens, he’s also intent on being my suitor, and my mother’s entertaining his impossible offer—a terrifying prospect.

  He’s only an ambassador.

  And he’s also old enough to be my uncle.

  My real uncle steps in front of me and says, “We could have harmed you by accident, child. Does your mother know where you are?”

  “I’m studying for the university exams,” I say, still seated on the rock. “She doesn’t mind.”

  He looks at my glistening paints and frowns.

  “I’d bring Renisala with me,” I add, “if you didn’t keep him so busy with political things.”

  Uncle furrows his thick brow. “Political things? Such as reasoning with your mother’s council? Preparing for the Safire visit? Your brother, Aurelia, is learning to run an entire damn kingdom.”

  “Yes,” I reply. “Those things.”

  I say this like it means little, because I know the tone vexes Uncle, and it’s what he expects of me. He thinks I only paint and sketch and play with horses. That I’m at best useless, and at worst, slightly in the way. It’s always been like this. I’m not as interesting to him as Renisala because I’ll never sit on the throne. But just because I paint and seem useless doesn’t mean I don’t listen or have opinions. I listen all the time and know the impending visit of the Safire General from the east—a man with no royal blood, no claim to a throne—is a shock to all. No one else in the North is eager to deal with him, and yet my mother has opened our gates and promised Etania a new and impressive ally with untapped wealth to be shared, an ally who is little better than a rough-handed commoner who patched together a war-torn land with his own gun.

  A bloody uniform, Reni says, is no substitute for a God-given crown.

  And many in our capital feel the same, passionate enough to even march round the city square in protest.

  I know all this, but I only fold my painting carefully. When I look up, Uncle is still frowning at me and Havis waits beside him in a shadow of tan pants and black coat and muddy leather boots. “You’re an artist,” Havis observes in polished Landori, our common tongue. It’s the language of politics and trade in the North, courtesy of the great empire, Landore, and I’ve been fluent since childhood.

  “Do you care?” I ask.

  Someone fires two sudden shots, and we all jump. The black dog yelps with renewed excitement.

  “Do you shoot, Princess?” Havis asks curiously.

  He likes to address me as simply “Princess,” like we’re friends of sorts, but we’re not. And unfortunately, saying “Your Highness will do, thank you very much” comes off as rather ungracious in public, so I have to bite my tongue every time.

  “Of course not,” I reply. “I’d never torture an animal for sport. Nor did my father,” I add, louder. I’d like them all to hear this opinion.

  The other men of court, dressed in their tweed caps and wool jackets, begin suddenly gazing at the treetops, refusing to meet my eye.

  Uncle points down at my face. “You watch your tongue round our guests.”

  “It’s only the truth,” I say.

  He gives a tight-lipped grimace—the sort he reserves for diplomats he doesn’t like and, more often than not, me—then goes to help restrain his miserable creature, leaving me on my own with the Ambassador of Resya.

  Havis gazes down at me, amusement in his eyes.

  I glance over my shoulder at Ivory and debate escape. How many steps to her? Could I even scramble onto her without a saddle? And how quickly? She’s dancing at the end of her lead with all the fuss.

  Havis interrupts my vital deliberation. “Found this beauty in the forest,” he says, pulling a white flower from his pocket. “Do you know what it’s called?”

  I glance at the delicate petals and yellow middle. “Bloodroot,” I reply warily. “It grows in the early spring.”

  “Ah, I don’t believe we have it in Resya.”

  “Indeed. It must be too hot for anything beautiful to grow.”

  He doesn’t hesitate, only smiles and says, “Yes, we must import all our flowers from the civilized kingdoms of the North. Though we have little time for gardening, you know. All the fighting and revolts. Who has time for tending petunias?”

  His wry edge doesn’t evade me. “Who, indeed?”

  “Though to be clear, this entire Northern continent spent hundreds of years with kings lopping off heads and people being pulled apart at the bones, and that’s conveniently forgotten when summarizing your noble history. Can you explain this curiosity, Princess?”

  I refuse to take his bait. He thinks I despise him for being Southern, always luring me into political debates I have no time for, but I couldn’t care less about where he comes from. In truth, I despise him because I know his most shameful secret—I caught him with one of our ladies late at night in the palace halls, her giggling stupidly into his muttered words, his hands cornering her hips beneath the glittering sequins, their kisses bold and desperate and sinful with the gold ring on her wedded finger. I saw the truth and I’ll never forget it. Havis is a charming creature who plays noble at dinner, who’s convinced my mother of his honour and fidelity in all things, but who’s a rogue to the very bone—handsome and vain and free as a wild hawk in the sky.

  And he won’t trick me.

  “I do quite like the outdoors,” he continues at my silence, studying the mountains, “and being alone. I come from a large family. Six brothers, and I’m the youngest. There’s always someone round every corner.”

  I reach down to gather my paints and paper. He never accepts defeat in a conversation.

  “You must like to escape out here for the same reason, Princess. Your mother’s always with her friends, your uncle, your brother, even the maids. I’d imagine it’s a rare occasion to catch her alone, where curious ears are not nearby … away from eyes that speculate.”

  I look up. His tone has changed and he’s watching me intently. “She makes time for me,” I say, wary again.

  I finally stand, because it’s not very comfortable having him tower over me like this, but it brings me closer to his face. He smells of sweat and cologne, a shadow of black stubble along his jaw and neck. My traitorous brain imagines the nightmare of that strange mouth on my skin, those gloved hands on my hips, and I feel rather sick. Only his desires to satisfy, never my own. How do you please a man who has tried a dozen lips before yours? How can that ever be love?

  I’m not even sure how a proper kiss is supposed to go.

  He swings the gun from his shoulder, extending it towards me. “Have a try,” he says. “It might change your opinion of hunting.”

  “Never.”

  “One shot, Princess. You can aim at one of those trees.”

  “She couldn’t hit the side of a palace wall,” Uncle Tanek mocks, nearing again. “She’d prefer to throw herself in front of a gun and protect our evening dinner.”

  His friends nearby chuckle.

  Havis gives me a look, the sort that says “Are you going to let him get away with that?” and offers his weapon again. I want to refuse. Father hated this blood
y sport, as I do. Even touching the metal feels like a betrayal. But Uncle’s comment stings, spurring me forward. Sometimes I think his cruelty is jealousy—there isn’t a drop of royal blood in his veins, and he lives on the charity of his sister, the Queen Regent, while I’m the daughter of a true Northern king. Even if I never inherit the crown like my brother, I’ll still have more worth than Uncle ever will.

  The thought is selfishly satisfying.

  I take the gun from Havis. “I can manage one shot.”

  Uncle’s lips twist incredulously, and Havis moves behind me, showing me where to place my hands on the rifle. It’s terrible having him so close, his breath prickling my neck, but at least this skill might come in handy, should he ever try to kidnap me for ransom—or marry me.

  “Aim for the birch tree,” Havis instructs, stepping back.

  The target is a good twenty meters away. I take a deep breath and place my finger on the trigger. A moment goes by, then another. Everyone in the clearing waits.

  A tree. It’s only a tree.

  I can do this.

  But then, like a rotten song that won’t leave my head, I see once again the slaughtered fawn from years ago, its eyes wide and rolling, fragile breast heaving, bones and meat exposed to teeth. Eaten alive. I remember being skinny and twelve, trying madly to pull Uncle’s dog from it, screaming, grabbing at black fur and nearly getting attacked by those vicious jaws myself. Uncle had to beat the dog back with the butt of his rifle. Afterward, he said I was a stupid, thoughtless girl. Mother was horrified at the bite mark on my arm.

  I only felt helpless.

  I made sure to find out the combination key on Uncle’s hunting cabinet and then silently stole his bullets for two years. He’s certainly still wondering where they all went.

  Now, I let the rifle drop, clicking the safety latch on, and hand it back to Havis. “I’m sure I can make the shot, but Mother wouldn’t be pleased.” Which is true enough. She doesn’t believe in me doing anything that might be deemed improper, and hunting is quite thoroughly a man’s sport.

  “Sparing yourself embarrassment?” Uncle laughs. “Wise.”

  “Saving herself the ire of Sinora Lehzar,” Havis remarks, and anger tingles in my mouth. I hate how casual he thinks he can be. Being old friends with my mother is far from permission to address her—or me—with such informal candor.

  I’m sorry, Father, I whisper in my head. They’ve ruined your day.

  Frustrated, I grab my bag and march for Ivory. I untie her and search for a higher rock to stand on, to mount her, but Havis comes to my side. He’s tall, over six feet, and I shrink back against her shoulder.

  He holds out his arms, his eyes copper in the light.

  It’s an offer to help, but I’d rather not owe him anything. He smiles at me too quickly, like he knows my thoughts without even trying, so I relent and place my knee in his hand. He hoists me up. Then he grabs the leather reins and tugs Ivory forward, putting her between him and the others nearby. He holds out a letter, using her body to shield it from sight.

  “Take this to your mother, Princess. You’re her loyal daughter, and since I returned from Resya last month, I’m never allowed a private audience. Your uncle forbids it.”

  I stare at the paper.

  He thrusts the letter into my limp hand, impatient. “Swear that no one will see except her.”

  I nod, and he releases the reins. “Ride safe, Princess.”

  “It’s Your Highness,” I say hotly, since no one else can hear.

  He grins, cavalier as a devil, and I slide the letter deep into my pocket. I give a last glance round the clearing, then kick Ivory to a furious canter, abandoning them all behind.

  3

  ATHAN DAKAR

  Valon, Savient

  The Impressive is everything the rumours promised.

  She sits in the water proudly, shining like a tethered beast on display, over eight hundred feet in length with four turrets and eight guns. A firing range of twenty-two miles, gleaming anti-aircraft batteries pointed skyward. Her keel was laid here in the capital, inland from the coast, and the narrow canal that links Valon to the Black Sea can barely contain her.

  The crew on board—gunners and armourers, radio operators and signalmen, men from every background under the sun—wave from the deck, showing off for the thronging crowds gathered on the docks below. Shouts and whistles rise on the breeze, tangling with a cheerful military song pumped out by drums and trumpets.

  It’s always cheerful.

  Father stands at the front of a podium decorated with red banners and Safire flags, his hands planted on the wooden rail, his uniform grey as the iron monster before us.

  “Ten years ago we brought victory,” he declares into the metal microphone, his amplified voice silencing the sailors, the docks, most of Valon probably. “Ten years ago, it was you who united these northeastern territories, forging Savient, Brisal, and Rahmet into one shining nation, glorious beneath our flag. Now we possess the most powerful ship in all the world, the greatest army and airplanes and industry. The old kings of the Royal League watch us with envy. The old empires look in awe as Savient becomes the great power in the east. And this greatness is because you knew the truth. You knew that nothing is gained without sacrifice.”

  The crowd roars with appreciation—soldiers and civilians, their disparate faces a mosaic of our nation, unified by their lack of nobility from the warm flats of Rahmet to the endless farms of Brisal to the true mountainous north of Savient proper.

  West of us, Northern kingdoms reign as they have for generations, entrenched in their belief that possessing a crown is the only legitimate way to rule. Never mind that they built their fancy palaces on the blood and sweat of their lowest classes, indulging in a thousand years of violent, oblivious luxury before they grew tired of trying to conquer one another and headed south instead. The Royal League is a vain sort of club for debating the merits and vices of the rest of the world in private. It requires royal blood to belong. Father doesn’t have that, but he does have coal and oil and bauxite. While they were busy hunting for treasure in the South, believing gold was power, my father was harnessing an untapped treasure in these mountains and forging something greater.

  Motorized vehicles and aluminum airplanes and entire armies don’t run on jewels.

  They run on petrol.

  I’m sure as hell the royals are regretting the fact they wrote off the east as corrupt and useless, but it’s their loss, and now my father’s going to prove you don’t need a crown in order to last a thousand years. We have power.

  “Here’s what I’ve written so far,” Cyar announces to me once the speechifying is finished and Father has stepped back from the microphone, commiserating with men in uniform. There’s a paper between his hands. “This has to be good, you know.”

  We’re hiding at the back of the podium, still in Academy uniforms, watching two fighters perform show-off stunts in the empty sky. Black swords gleam on the underside of their wings, the mark of the Safire squadrons. Apparently Cyar’s girlfriend has a birthday soon and she needs a poem. He claims she’s back home in Rahmet, some beauty who’s actually agreed to kiss him and all that, but I think it’s a fraud, since I’ve never seen her picture or anything.

  I lean on the rail. “Your lips are so sweet and true, your face so perfect, that sometimes I fear you’re not real,” I suggest.

  He squints at me. “I see what you’re doing.”

  “I’m writing poetry.”

  “What if I worked in how we first met? Can I make a snake romantic?”

  “Don’t.”

  “But that’s how I won her heart. Haven’t I told you?”

  The fighter planes do another showy loop. “You said something about a heroic stunt and a lizard and then she was yours.”

  “I was eight and she was ten. I asked her if she’d like to see my snake.”

  “You know how terrible that sounds, right?”

  He ignores me. “And she
said yes, but when I went to pull him from my bag he’d already escaped into the town pool. She thought it was the funniest thing she’d ever seen. Even went and grabbed him for me!” He gives me his triumphant smile that’s all gold, the inner amusement of his private, happy Cyar world. “I hope you get half as romantic a tale as that.”

  “I pray every night.” I shade my eyes. “Look at that sway. Trim it up, would you!”

  “You’re one to talk,” he replies, watching the plane too. “You can barely land without bouncing the damn thing from east to west.”

  He has a point.

  The Impressive blasts her deep horn, sound shuddering through our feet, and cheers swell from the dock again.

  At the front of the podium, Father now has my older brothers, Arrin and Kalt, on either side of him, each in dress uniform and cap, observing the activity below. Mother and my little sister, Leannya, wait in the shade, their blond hair a mix of sun and shadow. Mother looks like one touch might bring her to tears—she hates crowds and heat and machines of war.

  But Father wears his elusive half smile, still studying the giant battleship, entirely pleased. “Wait until this one leads our charge,” he says, no indication of who the observation is directed at. “Our enemies will certainly bow before forty thousand tons of Savien steel.”

  And this is why I don’t plan to make Top Flight.

  When Father looks at you with a smile, it’s a sure sign you’re in for a terrible fate.

  “Or it’s a damn waste of money,” Arrin offers, arms crossed, a cigarette between his lips, already bored by the display. At least he’s sober. At twenty-five, he’s the one with the looks—tall and broad, hair the colour of sandy earth. A hero of the campaign by day and a bastard by night.

  “As usual,” Father replies, “your opinions on naval matters aren’t required.”

  “Then why did you bring me home from Karkev? To stand here and break a perfectly good bottle of wine on a lump of metal? I have a campaign to win.”

  “Lump of metal?” Kalt, my other brother, repeats. He’s offended, a dedicated officer of the Navy, but since his voice never rises above one singular boring octave, it’s difficult to say for sure. “She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve seen.”