Dark of the West (Glass Alliance)

by Joanna Hathaway

  Arrin snorts, trailing smoke. “First time those words have ever left your mouth, isn’t it?”

  Kalt glares at him.

  Yes, Arrin never ceases to disappoint. He’s entirely unpredictable, part brilliance and part madness when it comes to both war and women. Kalt’s twenty-two and entirely the opposite—darker-haired, serious, the spitting image of Father. Indifferent to girls. His interests run the other way. Mother insists they used to be inseparable, but since it’s a claim that lacks any evidence, I’m fairly certain they’ll just end up killing each other someday. Arrin with his army and Kalt with his boats. It’s the one shortsighted thing Father has ever done, arming the two of them.

  In my opinion.

  “Karkev is only a sideshow,” Father informs Arrin, which is the best moment of the day. With one sentence, he’s dismissed an entire war and all of Arrin’s part in it. “It was a nest of bandits that needed to be cleaned out, nothing more. The Northern kingdoms will thank us. But the Southern continent? That will be a real campaign, Commander, and soon we’ll have these kings begging us to reckon with their disaster down there.”

  Arrin recovers by putting out his cigarette on the railing. “Except that merry royal bunch will be the last to cheer you moving into their territory. You know what they say about you as it is.”

  Father smiles again, and this time it falls on me, sharpening with private certainty. “Yes, but I have an ace in the South. One clever ace that will make all the difference.”

  I try to go back to watching the show in the sky, but the damage is done. His pointed gaze is lethal, a probing hook that grips at my excuses and tries to pull them into the light. I’m the useless one. The one who most certainly won’t be anywhere near the frontlines. Transport, please. But suddenly I’m imagining the airplanes above us spiraling in flames, metallic tombs of charred limbs and black smoke, and I know, without a doubt, there’s a reckoning coming for me and me alone.

  I avoid his gaze.

  Mother intervenes, breaking her self-imposed silence. “You won’t take us to the hell of the South,” she says. Her hand grips Father’s arm. “And you certainly won’t send our children there. You won’t. This is enough.”

  “Think what you will, Sapphie,” is all he offers in reply.

  His gaze is still dominated by the Impressive, and she casts me the ghost of a disturbed glance behind his back, as if she can see the death in my head. The charred limbs and black smoke. She knows she can’t rescue me from this. I think she’s always known, and now it’s simply becoming more real.

  When the Impressive is announced ready for the official ceremony, she and Father descend the stairs for the docks.

  Arrin and Leannya follow behind, their arms linked, laughing together as they go. Leannya’s his tiny golden shadow, always at his side when he’s around. She’s the only person in the world he thinks of before himself. And for her part, she tries to look after him, too.

  When we reach the wharf, the crowd parts, cameras flashing, bulbs shattering.

  With a grin, Arrin passes the ceremonial bottle of wine to Leannya.

  Father doesn’t object, since having his sweet daughter send his new warship off will look rather nice in the papers, perhaps even better than his decorated eldest son.

  Leannya maneuvers herself onto the canal railing, refusing every offer of help from a nearby colonel, then stands firmly in her heels and lace-trimmed dress, raising the bottle high above her. She gives a grand smile for the photographers, looking a hell of a lot older than her fourteen years—when was the last time I saw her? Four months ago?

  “For the glory of Savient,” she proclaims, making it sound entirely charming.

  Then she hurls the bottle at the Impressive’s hull with all the force and determination worthy of a Dakar, and it shatters into a hundred pieces, iron plates running red.

  4

  AURELIA ISENDARE

  Hathene, Etania

  My boots are entirely muddied by the time I reach the familiar honey-coloured walls of home. After depositing Ivory at the stables, I try to dart inconspicuously for the back doors of Hathene Palace, through the still-dreary east gardens, then sprint across the wide lawn and pray my mother won’t see from any of the broad windows. Her quiet displeasure looms like a shadow beneath the spiraling grey pinnacles.

  I slip in through rear smoky kitchens and nearly run right into a young hall boy carrying a freshly plucked goose. He blushes hard. The kitchen maids standing at the wood table try not to stare as they knead dough for the oven. It’s not the first time I’ve used this route, but thankfully we’ve an unspoken agreement where I hurry through silently and they pretend they’ve seen nothing. It’s awkward, yes, but it only ever lasts a moment or two. A brief moment of nearly tripping over vegetable crates, smelling spice and flour and sweat, then I’m up the flight of narrow stairs and bursting into the bright marble halls of the main wing.

  Home.

  The glossy floors shine beneath my dirty boots, arched alcoves on either side displaying oil paintings and colourful tapestries. I hurry down the empty hall—it’s still too early for the courtiers to linger about, the ladies in fox furs and the men with waistcoats and scarves—and bits of mud fall behind me in a convicting trail.

  Mother’s rooms are in the quiet western wing, a peaceful place far removed from the dining halls and audience rooms and state apartments. The place where she can watch her beloved sun set each evening. But when I come in view of her parlour, raised voices filter through the oak. My mother and brother. I approach cautiously. Pillars guard the Queen’s parlour doors, the elk and wolf crest of Etania painted atop, wrapped in our kingdom’s motto—Loyalty binds us.

  I knock.

  The voices cease swiftly. After a breath, the door opens and my brother, Renisala, stands there, handsome and dark-haired, his hazel eyes at first annoyed, certainly affronted by someone’s nerve to knock so boldly, then changing to relief as he waves me in.

  I’m his ally.

  Uncertain what trap I’ve stepped into, I try a smile at both, but Mother’s gaze is still fixed on Reni, her body very still, her anger silent as a cat coiled tight. She reminds me of the si’yah leopards of the Southern steppes. Here, they’re only painted in their elegance, silver-striped creatures with russet fur, decorating the halls. But in Resya …

  “And what do you know, my son?” she asks sharply, accent glittering like desert stone. “You who have never stepped a foot beyond the western Heights?”

  Reni raises his hands. “Stars, this isn’t my vain opinion, Mother! It’s in the papers! It’s reality, being discussed in every royal council across the North—except ours. This Southern uprising is spreading faster than it can be contained.”

  “And you think the truth comes from a bit of paper? The page lies as easily as the tongue.”

  He frowns at her derision. “Seath is on the move again, rallying these Southern fools to his Nahir cause, and it’s only a matter of time before that ambitious General Dakar spies a new opportunity there. He’ll set his army on the things everyone else in the North can’t keep ahold of. He’ll stir it up, unite the South even stronger. And then do you know what happens, Mother? The world grows desperate. The Nahir, the North. It will be a nightmare, the precarious balance upset, and we can’t entangle ourselves in that.”

  Mother’s brows are still raised. “The people of the South are no fools. The fools are those here in the North who insist on taking what doesn’t belong to them, who haven’t stopped pushing and taking for a hundred years no matter the nightmare it has become.”

  Reni gives me a grimacing glance, as if he can’t believe the things he’s hearing. These careless words from her are what he fears most. The South is her home. A place she understands while the rest of the world watches in panic. But she can’t say such things aloud. Not here. Not now. Not when our father went against tradition and gave his crown to her in full, so she might rule absolutely until Reni was of age.

  She al
ready looks too much like a si’yah cat in a kingdom of wolves.

  “Isn’t Seath dead?” I ask cautiously, because that was certainly what I read in the papers only a month ago.

  A fresh shadow mars Reni’s face. “True or not, someone is masquerading under his name and leading the insurrection.”

  Mother laughs dismissively, a bold sound in the tension of the room. “Seath isn’t dead. He’s never dead.”

  Before Reni can react to that, I intervene and offer Mother the hidden letter in my coat pocket, playing for a distraction.

  “It’s from Ambassador Havis,” I say, confident the bait is strong.

  It works—Reni looks as if I’ve just handed over a suspiciously decorated dessert.

  Mother ignores his curiosity, ripping the seal, and I slip to Reni’s side, both of us facing the large map on the wall, giving her the illusion of privacy. His hand brushes mine. It’s a reminder of his love—and also a request I stay on his side no matter where this conversation leads, even if it wounds Mother.

  I don’t commit myself yet. Ignoring his earnest glance, I focus on the map as if it really is of sudden and great concern. Red lines cover the beige shadows of continents, the tiny shape of Etania buried in mountains, surrounded by our neighbouring kingdoms which make up the western Heights, and all of us in turn dwarfed by the oldest Northern empire—Landore. Across the continent are the eastern nations of the North, new and young and violent, demanding to be treated as equals despite their lack of royal rule. Savient dominates the landscape, having swallowed three into one.

  And far beneath the Black Sea is the Southern continent, Resya abandoned at the edge. My readings for the university exams say it was the chaos of the South which once worked to our advantage. There were too many groups, each at odds. They say the people of the South don’t have a shared history as we in the North do. Mother disagrees, of course, saying there was once a university there—I can’t remember where—which was the most advanced in all the world, founded by a Southern queen no less, which seems too much like myth since there aren’t even any monarchies in the South. Instead, the possibly dead Seath is uniting many under his Nahir cause, the uprising greater than it has been in over fifty years. Landore is on the cusp of losing control of its territory, Thurn—along with the precious natural resources and any chance of peace.

  Truly, how can anyone say what the best path forward is?

  “And what does Havis want now?” Reni asks, slicing the silence with his disdain.

  Mother says nothing. We turn, as if we haven’t been waiting for her to speak the past minutes. As if we aren’t both desperate to know what requests a shifting man like Havis would bring from Resya.

  When she remains silent, Reni tosses a newspaper onto the table before her. The headline sits ugly in black ink.

  NAHIR AMBUSH LANDORIAN ROYAL 6TH REGIMENT, EAST OF RESYAN BORDER

  “I don’t live in a fantasy, Mother,” Reni says, “and I see the cards on the table. We can’t have anything to do with your homeland, no matter what Havis says. Not when it fails to take decisive action against the insurrection.”

  She looks at his face, and then mine, certainly seeing the anger in him and the regret in me. She knows I’m on his side in this. But the familiar strength of a challenge brightens her dark eyes. “And what if this ‘insurrection’ is in fact a great revolution? A necessary change to right the injustice of the past? What then, my son?”

  Her implication hangs starkly, uncomfortable. Reni has no answer. If she could—if it wouldn’t stain Reni and me forever—she’d stand before the entire North and say this is all a fiction, that the broadcasts lie, that the Nahir are not the absolute reflection of her people, and that one day, soon, the South will rule itself again in honour, free of Northern influence.

  She’d say that—but then she’d have every royal against us.

  She closes her eyes briefly, and when she speaks again, she speaks in lilting, soft Resyan. “I desire more trust from the both of you. The two of you are my very heart. Truly, your blood of two worlds is a strength, a great power, though it may not seem so yet.”

  Reni says nothing. He likes to pretend he can’t speak her tongue, as if he’s Etanian through and through.

  But I reply quickly, in kind. “I believe you, Mother. I do.”

  Reni throws me a frustrated glance, betrayed, but I can’t bear to say any other. On quiet evenings when her door is closed, Mother sits with me and talks in Resyan, only the two of us, and she’ll remember how the capital city there glows hot in the evening light, colours of ginger and caramel. How the nights are so peaceful you can hear your own heart beat and thoughts turn. How the lingering heat can be tasted on the tongue, warm and citrus-sweet.

  In those secret moments we share, I ache for her. Resyan operas playing on the gramophone, our mint tea steaming with lemon rind. I try to believe her stories, but they feel like a fiction, like ghosts of a place that no longer exists.

  I know her loneliness.

  But she waits, staring at Reni.

  Reni shakes his head, his earnest gaze becoming all Father—quiet, firm, diplomatic. He speaks Etanian. “Listen, Mother. I see the new wealth to be gained from Savient and know why you’ve pursued this alliance. I know how depleted our mountains are better than anyone. Savien petrol might benefit our kingdom. But that doesn’t change the truth—General Dakar is out for his own gain, in the North and in the South. And I’m to trust you as you invite him here? Welcome him with open arms even as our people protest? No, Mother. True power is a unified kingdom, and not even you can deny that.”

  The silence between us aches.

  I see the regret on Mother’s face. I know she hates to be at odds with Reni, can see how it bruises her heart. And yet her fire is as strong as his, and her stare is both fierce and gentle. It covers us both. “Someday, my children, you will see that to serve the ones you love, you must be bold in action.” She looks back to Reni. “But for now, you are not yet twenty. And until that day you take the crown, I am still Queen—and you will remember it.”

  5

  ATHAN DAKAR

  Valon, Savient

  I arrive to the Victory Week gala dressed in my full uniform—starched jacket, stiff grey wool, and spotless boots. A good half hour was spent ironing out creases and shining leather, since that’s my job, not the maid’s. Father says there’s no reason another person should do what you have the time and ability to do yourself. And though Savient might not have a real court, and Father might hold most royal customs in disdain, he can still throw a damn good party. Anything to win new allies and reward loyal friends, and we three sons are the polished reflection of him. He expects an impressive appearance.

  But I still made sure to run a hand through my combed hair, messing it up just enough a bit falls over my forehead.

  Rebellion—or something like it.

  The large room before me whirls beneath dimmed chandeliers, revelers marching about, laughing, teetering on the edge of tipsy. Voices surge above the music, lit by brandy and whisky and everything else bitter and strong. All of it’s barely contained by the mahogany walls and heavy, angled curtains. Our home looks too brooding and efficient for this sort of thing, but tonight no one cares. It’s ten years of Savient. Ten years of glory. A reckless sort of pride because the world is suddenly ours to take.

  I resist the urge to wave a white flag and run out again.

  As I press through the crowd, predictable discussions spin about the war in neighbouring Karkev. Men in suits boast over their sons in uniform, the latest promotions and honours, he’d with a hundred ideas about why a war against a pack of isolated Northern criminals has dragged on for two years and how he’d end it. Colonels and captains give me approving pats on the shoulder, too many to keep track of.

  “Looking forward to seeing you at the front,” one says.

  “Ready to shoot a few down,” I reply, like there’s no better pastime than war.

  The wives sigh over my
uniform and tell me I’m now as handsome as my brother. Which one? Doesn’t matter. On and on, none of the conversations lasting more than a minute or two.

  I sweep the room and spot Cyar seated near the back. He and a few pilots have secured a table in the corner, hiding as it were. I’m going to make a break for it.

  Kalt clears his throat next to me.

  Where the hell did he come from?

  He nods towards Mother and Arrin, seated in what looks to be an awkward stalemate. Mother’s pouring a glass of wine—drunk, judging by the level of concentration required—while Arrin flirts with a pretty brunette on his lap. A new girlfriend, according to Leannya. As of two days ago. Next to him is the red-haired Garrick Carr, his loyal ass of a friend. This evening’s off to a galloping start.

  Kalt’s eyes narrow on me, an order not to abandon him at the brink of conflict. No sign of Father anywhere.

  We head for the table.

  When we arrive, Mother offers me a radiant smile doused in wine. Kalt gets a formal nod. Garrick grunts a welcome that’s neither friendly nor cold. He’s a pilot, Captain of the Moonstrike squadron, but far from an ally. He spends too much time with Arrin and treats me like any other kid brother.

  And Arrin?

  He doesn’t give us a glance. Too busy whispering a trail of kisses across his girl’s arm. “It’s so cold in Karkev,” he says, lips against her skin. “I’m never warm, not like now. I think I’ll have to take you back with me.”

  She giggles. “Whatever you wish, Commander.”

  He plunks his cap on her head.

  We sit at the table and wait for him to acknowledge us. The meals are served. Eventually, he does. “Littlest brother of mine!” That’s me. “Have a drink—or three!”

  “No, just one for him,” Mother says, words unsteady. “Don’t be a poor influence.”