Dark of the West (Glass Alliance)

by Joanna Hathaway

  “Mother knows best.” Arrin raises his glass.

  Shameless, he turns and gives his brunette a full kiss on the mouth.

  “Must you do this at the table?” Mother asks sharply.

  “You invited me to sit with you,” he replies, coming up for air.

  “Yes, I invited you. Not your friend.”

  The girl’s smile disappears. No woman wants to be on the bad side of Lady Dakar.

  Kalt silently creates a fortress of vegetables on his plate. Garrick fiddles with the cuff of his uniform, blending into the background. The brunette’s the only one who doesn’t know what to make of it and her red lips press together nervously, cherry red even in the low lights.

  “Are you from Valon?” I ask, since someone needs to try.

  “Yes.” She brightens. “And you study at the Air Academy?”

  So Arrin does talk about me now and again. Or maybe she just recognizes the uniform. Probably that. “One month left to go.”

  “You’re very young to be a pilot,” she replies, genuinely sweet, as Leannya said she was. “You must be nervous.” Then she adds, “And you look so very much like your mother.”

  “Not really,” I say, acknowledging the first statement, then stop, because it sounds like I’m denying the second. Which is ridiculous. No one could see me next to Mother and not know we’re the same blood and bone. Same fair hair, grey eyes, fine features. Not to mention, a good three inches shorter than both Arrin and Kalt. She used to tell me I’d catch up, but that became wishful thinking about this time last year when I was still barely brushing six feet. I always try to fudge it on physical reports. Who can tell the difference between five-nine and six anyway?

  Arrin grins. “Ah, my little brother’s brilliant. He’ll be an ace, flying in the skies so high above the rest of us.” Always such cheerful sarcasm with him. “Not long now until he earns his wings, then it’s off to the war with me and we’ll see how brave he really is.” He tries to top up my glass and I move it out of his reach. “Come on, clever brother. A drink to celebrate your talent.”

  “Only if he makes Top Flight,” Garrick says, not sounding very hopeful of my odds. “Seventh place is a lot of ground to make up.”

  “Seventh place?” Arrin repeats.

  “Yes,” Garrick continues casually. “Major Torhan says he has no instinct in the air.”

  I’d like to remove that pleasant, fake smile from his lips. “You have no right to discuss my scores, Captain.”

  Garrick shrugs. “It’s only your family. And besides, Top Flight isn’t everything. Transport pilots are vital too.”

  Rather disingenuous considering he currently holds the highest record at the Academy and is also wearing two new medals from the front.

  Arrin’s still studying me, calculating suspicion in his gaze. The kind that wins him battles. “Athan’s not a damn transport pilot. With a mind like his, he could outfly any plane in the sky.”

  “Outthink or outfly?” Garrick asks. “Two different things.”

  Yes, it would feel damn good to beat his score and not even try. I imagine some other world where I actually want to make Top Flight, where I’m on fire for the frontlines, and the first thing I do is steal Garrick Carr’s glorious star from his swaggering, cocky hands.

  It’s a nice fantasy.

  Arrin turns from me to Garrick. “Well, I suppose you’d know, wouldn’t you?” His smile reappears and he addresses the table. “This is a hero of the war, everyone—a hero! You heard about the victory this winter at Ersili, yes?”

  We each nod, me the most. Anything to keep Arrin distracted from whatever direction he was headed.

  “Captain Carr here,” he gestures at Garrick and then nudges his girl, encouraging an interested smile from her, “shot down a hundred planes on his own. It was incredible. I saw the entire thing.”

  “You might have added some extra zeros on there,” Garrick says, far from self-effacing.

  “That’s not the story you tell at home, Captain.”

  “In that case, I believe it was a hundred planes plus a bunker.”

  “And eight tanks!”

  Arrin and Garrick are the only two who laugh, because apparently war is funny.

  “And how many of your own squadron did you lose, Captain?” Mother asks.

  The laughter dies, and Garrick blinks. Who brings the dead to a dinner party? Only my mother.

  “Well,” Garrick begins. “I … it was Ersili we’re talking about? That was a daytime assault and I think—”

  “You have lost men, haven’t you?” Mother presses. She places a protective hand on mine.

  Garrick glances to Arrin, then back. “Yes.”

  Her hand tightens, hot against my skin. “I don’t trust those airplanes. Imagine what it must be like to fall from the sky in one, nothing to do but pray the whole way, flames and the rest. Imagine the terror.”

  “Yes, imagine it,” Arrin agrees, an edge to his voice again. “Imagine your little favourite in danger. Here he is, finally old enough to join the rest of us, and there’s not a thing you can do about it.”

  I try to slide my hand from beneath hers.

  She grips my arm instead, pleading. “Arrin, it’s your brother you speak of. He’s only seventeen. How could you—”

  “You’re right. He’s so young, isn’t he?” Arrin shoots me a poisonous look. “Tell me, Mother, is that how old I was when I started fighting? Kalt, you’d know. Was I this old? Enlighten everyone.”

  My other brother looks up from his plate. “I know you’re old enough to recognize when it’s time to stop.”

  “Old enough to know when to stop? Me?” Arrin dissolves into laughter, looking at his girl. “Sweetheart, am I old enough?” She’s moved as far across his lap as she can get without touching Garrick. Arrin points his chin at me. “What about Athan over there? Is he old enough for this? Would you make a man out of him? Perhaps you could tonight, if you have the time?”

  Both Mother and the girl gasp.

  This really is going down on record as one of Arrin’s greatest nights. If only Cyar were here to witness the unraveling. Or better yet, Father. That would be breathtaking.

  Arrin raises his hands. “What? I was kidding. It’s a joke.” He looks around the table at each of us, like we’re all slow-witted. He helps himself to the blueberry cakes being served. “I’m sure everything will be fine and Athan will stay perfect as he is now.”

  Mother ticks her fingernails against the wine glass. “Are you done?”

  “I believe I am.” He lights up a cigarette, the sour smell turning my stomach. His gaze meets mine, predatory again, seizing on whatever he can find. “You don’t approve of this?”

  “It’s not good for you,” I say.

  “Not good for me?”

  “No.”

  He blows out a strand of smoke. “I had no clue. What would I do without you, littlest brother?”

  I stick my fork into the cake and ignore him. I’m not going where he leads.

  But that doesn’t stop him. “Don’t worry, Athan. You’ll get your vices too. You know that, don’t you, Mother? He’ll be like me. One tour on the frontlines and he’ll come back entirely bent out of shape. Drinking, smoking, doing whatever else we rotten boys do. Imagine that. Your favourite brought down to earth with the rest of us.”

  Mother hurls her fist against the table. “Even if he were all those things and more, he’d still turn out a better man than you’ll ever hope to be!”

  Someone sucks in a breath. Possibly Kalt. Or maybe it was me.

  The words flinch across Arrin’s face like a physical blow. For a moment, for one solitary sliver of a moment, I almost feel sorry for him. He’s always been a mess. But then he grins. “I think that’s the drink talking, Mother.”

  She springs from the table, pale and furious, and her glass spills. Before any of us can react, she’s gone. Off across the low-lit room and through the gaping doorway. The guests around pretend not to notice, heads
down, carrying on with conversations, though of course they’re watching.

  Arrin stares at the red wine stain on the tablecloth. “I think it’s time we hid the bottles from her, especially when I’m around.”

  The two-day girlfriend on his lap looks to me for help.

  Me?

  It’s at this moment, uncanny timing, that Father chooses to enter the hall, Admiral Malek and Colonel Evertal following in his wake. They’re his closest advisers, comrades since the beginning. Malek’s dark brown skin is accented by a granite uniform decorated in medals, his face wielding its usual detached gaze. His son is a captain in the Air Force—a captain I’d give anything to fly with, in that fantasy world where I actually make Top Flight. Captain Malek is everything my brothers are not. Evertal, at Father’s left, wears the same crisp uniform as the men, her blonde hair twisted back tight, pulling at harsh lines around her eyes. Arrin is the closest thing she has to a son.

  Those in their way move aside, eyes following raptly.

  Arrin quickly puts out the cigarette and pushes the girl from his lap. Garrick’s wise enough to suddenly be needed elsewhere in the room. By the time Father arrives at our table, we three sons have stood up respectfully, but Arrin teeters against his chair.

  Father wastes no time. “Where’s your mother?”

  Silence.

  Evertal slinks to Father’s side. She practically raised Arrin in the revolution, when Mother was hiding in terror far behind the frontlines—or so Kalt told me once—and she gives him an unyielding look now. No mercy. Affection is weakness, especially for a woman who holds a rank like hers.

  It’s Kalt who finally speaks. “There was a disagreement, sir. Mother left.”

  “Disagreement?”

  “Between Athan and Arrin.”

  Damn it, I’d like to ram my elbow into stupid, self-serving Kalt. Dragging me into this. But he won’t mention Mother’s drinking. Father doesn’t like talking about it, a secret we’re all obligated to keep.

  And apparently Father’s satisfied enough with Kalt’s answer. He won’t take the time to find Mother and learn the truth. They don’t even share the same room anymore. The only thing Father’s ever done in her honour was make the chamomile, her favourite flower, our national flower. He thinks that counts for something.

  Father turns to the brunette, and she stares up at him wide-eyed. He smiles, greeting her, and if he knows she’s just one of Arrin’s many lady friends, that he won’t be seeing her past tonight, he doesn’t let on.

  Evertal, of course, doesn’t smile. She just asks Arrin about some matter in Karkev and he gives a succinct report. Subdued.

  I glance over my shoulder at the table where Cyar sits. He notices and sends a questioning look. I shrug. Only the usual.

  I turn back and find Father watching me, expression nebulous. That’s unnerving. Kalt carries on with something about the Impressive and its sea trial, not noticing—or pretending not to notice—that his helpful words fall on half an ear.

  I finish my single glass of wine.

  Father’s gaze drifts back to Kalt.

  Another glance over my shoulder at Cyar. Now he’s motioning for the door, quite the temptation.

  “You want to leave with Hajari?” Father asks, cutting Kalt off mid-sentence.

  I swing around. “If that’s all right, sir.”

  “You’re not needed here.” He studies Cyar. “It’s a good thing you have a loyal friend like that. I’m not sure you’d even know where you were going without him.” He smiles vaguely, the kind that has something dark beneath the surface.

  Play along. That’s all I can do. “No, sir.”

  This is permission to leave and I’m taking it.

  * * *

  Cyar and I escape with a hijacked bottle of brandy. We borrow one of Father’s motorcars and drive it through the narrow streets of Valon like wild idiots, giving an old man on foot a scare. Yes, it’s a bit reckless, but Arrin’s right about one thing—we all have our vices. I’m used to my plane, to flying in smooth arcs and loops, and every bump on the road is a disappointment. I hate the heavy feeling of earth.

  We pull up beside the old wall that once protected the city. It’s no longer very impressive, remnants left to bleach and crack, but it commands a nice view of Valon, perched on a rise from which you can see for miles. The rocky green plains of northern Savient stretch to the east, forested along the edges. The vague glimmer of sea hangs in the west.

  We crawl up the shortest section, still a steep climb, then walk along the top. It’s a fifty-foot drop, but I let one of my boots hang off the edge. Up high is where I’m free. Then we lean against the crumbling stone with our brandy and get drunk. Blissful oblivion.

  Cyar grips his crumpled poem between shaky hands, trying to read it with a straight face. Something about “eternal” and “sunflower” and “smile.”

  God, he’s a hopeless romantic.

  At ten o’clock, fireworks explode above the city, all exciting sounds and swirls. Spectacular colours like a dawn sky on fire. Burning, brightening, here and there and everywhere.

  Eleven o’clock.

  We’re on the grass, laughing about nothing.

  “You compared her to a sunflower? Really?”

  “It’s a metaphor, Athan. She’s like my own little flower.”

  “I got that part.”

  “Shining in the sun of Rahmet!”

  “Now it makes perfect sense.”

  He lets out a wistful sigh. “You’re just jealous. You’ve never even kissed a girl.”

  Midnight.

  The show’s long over and the drink begins to fade. Thoughts steady as city lights waver on the horizon. Cyar sits, legs dangling over the ledge. The moments pass, quiet, and then he says, “Do you know I wouldn’t be here without you?”

  “Mm.” I’m trying to get the last drops out of the bottle.

  “I never told you, but they made me take a second exam my first day at the Academy. I guess they didn’t think a kid from Rahmet could’ve scored so high on the entrance tests, and they were right. I knew the numbers, the math. But the Savien words … I thought they’d send me home.”

  “They didn’t.”

  He stares at the cityscape, pensive. “No, because Torhan said ‘Put him in room 36. That’ll help.’ Your room, Athan, because I needed all the help I could get, from the one student who was bound to be the best. They told me who you were and warned me not to say anything stupid or I’d be shot at dawn. That’s why I cried the first night. I thought I’d never be good enough.” He faces me again. “And when that teacher called on me, and I didn’t even know what a nautical mile was, you were sketching the fox—”

  “Yeah, I was there.”

  He holds out a hand. “Wait a minute, this is important. It was a fox, and right there, beside the fox, you wrote the numbers I needed to answer the question. You looked at me and gave permission, and that’s when I knew you’d be my friend. You rescued me when it gave you nothing in return.” He pauses. “I’d never have made it this far without you, Athan.”

  Because you’re the only brother I have, I want to say, and I’d give my life for you.

  “And now we’re going to make Top Flight. Go wherever they send us next. We’ll be the best and I’ll tell the story to my children one day, about how I served with the General’s own son.” His face is inspiring in the darkness. Flickering lights play across his soft features, his black hair merging with shadows. Honesty woven like loyalty in his gaze.

  I try a smile and a nod.

  I can’t speak the lie tonight.

  * * *

  Cyar drives us home later, since I’m still adrift in a sweet haze. We go around back, trying to sneak through the rear gates, and run right into Arrin, Garrick, and the rest of their club of drunken heroes.

  Damn it.

  “My seventh-place little brother!” Arrin calls, zeroing in. No sign of his lady friend anywhere. He stumbles over to me wearing a jackal’s grin. “Co
me with us tonight. I know a lonely girl who’s in love with me. Not very pretty, but she might settle for you. We can celebrate you turning sixteen!”

  “I’m seventeen,” I say, annoyed that he looks blurry and out of focus. “And it’s not my birthday.”

  He shrugs, wrapping a rough arm around my shoulders. I stagger backwards. “Not so noble now, are you?” he crows. “Walking crooked. What would Mother think?”

  “Throw yourself off a pier, Arrin.”

  It’s probably the stupidest insult I’ve ever hurled, but Garrick whistles, the drunk ass.

  Arrin shoves me away. “That was a low point in my life.”

  At least he remembers. I was fourteen the first time he took me out with him, hauling me around some salty port town in Brisal, the sort of forgotten place, still burnt-out from the war, where he could be reckless without consequence. He tried very hard to get me drunk. It didn’t work—I hated the taste. So he got himself drunk instead and then started pining for some red-headed girl in a brandy-fueled monologue of woe, ready to jump off the pier, and I stopped him. Or rather, I grabbed him from the edge in a panic and he was so drunk he fell on top of me. Then his fist gave me a bloody lip, and he said he was going to die in Father’s wars anyway and I was a selfish little bastard for not letting him take the easy way out.

  Brotherly love.

  “Your loss with the girl then,” Arrin announces, once he realizes we won’t be convinced. He studies Cyar and me with a devilish smirk. “You two are always together, though. Maybe you need advice from Kalt?”

  “Shut the hell up, Arrin!”

  I’d hit him, but Cyar already has me through the gates. Not worth the effort. Or the bruises. The ground shifts beneath my feet as we walk, like a listing boat, every step uneven somehow. The house suddenly seems a long way off. I’d rather just sleep in the garden. Not a bad idea. It’s warm enough tonight, the air feels nice. Cool and fresh. I start to resist Cyar’s pull, but voices drift from the narrow alley to the left of our home.

  The drunken heroes?

  No, they went the other way. Their laughter echoes somewhere beneath the distant street lamps. I listen closer, trying to think through the whirl in my head.