Father’s voice. And Admiral Malek’s.
Out here?
I walk in their direction, Cyar trailing behind, and a circle of dark figures appears around the corner. We stop abruptly. The world lurches again, and I grab the wall.
“Havis didn’t tell me anything else,” a desperate man implores, on his knees before Malek. “He only said Sinora Lehzar doesn’t know the ones in Etania are false. She believes her people are truly protesting us, and isn’t that what you want? She—”
Malek towers over him. “Then why didn’t you bring us his message right away?”
“I was going to, I swear! I wouldn’t lie.”
Sinora Lehzar.
I know it, distantly, in my fog. The woman Father hates. A Southern traitor from long before Savient. Arrin threw her name as a challenge once, when he was sixteen, and Father broke his nose for it. It’s the only time I’ve ever seen Arrin almost cry.
The desperate man turns to Father now, rushing with, “It’s complicated. You know this. She’s a damn queen, and we’re dealing with Seath—”
Father steps close and aims a pistol at the man’s head. “You don’t ever speak that name aloud.”
He cowers. “Of course not.”
“Have you?”
“No, no! I swear to God and all things sacred, I haven’t!”
The man’s panting breath fills the chilly silence. The gun looms at his forehead.
“I believe you,” Father says after a moment.
The man’s shoulders drop in relief.
“But I don’t trust you any longer.”
A sharp report echoes, a shower of red scattering on cement along with bits of brain, and Cyar’s fingers bite into my arm. I grab the wall again.
Father stares at the body a moment, then glances up, spotting us frozen in the shadows. Cyar’s boots scuff backwards. The instinct to flee. I feel it too, but Father’s walking for us, pistol in hand, his gaze forbidding me to run. I can’t make my feet work.
“Hajari, leave us,” he says when he reaches me.
It’s the sharp edge that heels even Arrin.
Cyar hesitates for one noble moment, like the idea to wait for me crosses his mind, even if only for a breath, then his boots are hurrying down the path behind. Don’t blame him.
I look at the body on the ground. Blood curls around the man’s head, dark as oil in the night. “What did he—”
“Traitors must be dealt with,” Father says. “He said one thing and did another.”
My limbs go weak.
“Tell me you’re going to make Top Flight, boy.”
Oh God, he’s doing this now? With a gun in hand, with a body behind him? And I’m drunk as hell. Maybe that’s a good thing. I’m not even sure what’s happening.
“Yes, sir.”
“I hear you’re barely in seventh place.”
Damn Arrin. At least Torhan knew how to keep a secret.
“That’s not a bad position to be in,” I say. “Seventh out of thirty is really quite…” My voice dies.
His eyes narrow. “I realized years ago that you do everything halfhearted. I’ve watched it and let you carry on, because I figured you were just a child and eventually you’d grow out of it. But here you are, five weeks from graduating and no more committed to anything except your own damn self.”
“No, sir, that’s not—”
“I won’t pull strings for you. Fixing odds helps no one, not in war. But things have become more serious”—he shrugs at the body behind—“and I know there’s a wealth of talent buried in that head of yours. You can pretend to be different all you want, but you’re fighting for something. I know you are because you’re my son, and I won’t leave you at home.” He stabs the pistol at me. Instinctively, I back up. “This is my only warning to you. If you’re not headed for the squadrons, then I’ll find another way for you to help me.”
“Another way?” I sound a bit hoarse.
“Yes. You could be adjutant to Malek, or a translator in my command. You have a perfect grade in linguistics, don’t you?”
I knew I should have failed at everything. Why didn’t I figure that one out? Why didn’t I let myself fade long ago? Is it because of Cyar? What the hell was I thinking?
I’m not as smart as everyone believes. This proves it.
Before I can speak, he grabs my shoulder, his fury so hot I brace for his fist. A broken nose. But it doesn’t come. Only his face inches from my own. “You listen and listen close. I didn’t sacrifice everything—the blood of my men—to have a son who leaves the hard work to others. I’ve been through hell for you and you would throw it in my face!”
“I never—”
“You have two choices. Top Flight or my command.” He pushes me hard. “Now go sleep off the drink. We’re flying for Rahmet in the morning and Hajari won’t be coming along. If you want to do this on your own, then you’d better get used to a life where he doesn’t throw you a goddamn map every time you need it.”
He gives me a last contemptuous glare, then holsters his pistol and strides back for the bloody traitor.
I stare after him, bleeding inside. “Father, wait!”
He doesn’t turn around.
I don’t know why I thought he would. I don’t even know what I would have said.
Desperation.
Shaking, I retreat inside and I’m fairly sure the whole world’s crumbling beneath me. I head for Mother’s room without thinking. I don’t even know if she’s awake, or sober, but everything’s turned off in my head. Thoughts, words, ideas. The entire brilliant creation of my mind is short-circuiting, and by the time I’m standing in front of her, all I want is to feel her warmth.
She doesn’t need to ask any questions. I’m sure she heard the shot, too.
She rests her head against mine, her arms around me gently. I’m ashamed by how quickly it stills my panicked heart. Seventeen, damn it.
“Father just—”
“I know,” she says, and there’s no reaction. Not a flinch or a tremor, only weary acceptance. She’s seen a thousand things from him. She’s seen worse.
I want to tell her what he said, the threat that now hangs over me, but I don’t know where to begin. I don’t know whether to lie or tell the truth or find somewhere in the middle, and she pushes me back, still gentle. “Are you going to make Top Flight, my love?”
Her question holds no mystery.
She wants to know whom I’ll choose. It’s the only question there’s ever been.
“I … I don’t know,” I admit. “My flying scores are too low, but perhaps they’ll put me here, in transport. I’d be closer to you then.”
She silences me with a feather of a finger. “Is that what you truly want?”
The clock on her table ticks away the midnight silence. One, two, three, four. It winds up my brain, ticking it into the stupid knot it always is. No, I want to shout at the entire world. There are a hundred things burning inside me and I don’t even know which one is true. I want to be away from here. I don’t want this life any more than I want my own body buried in the damn ground! But I also want to fly, every day if I can, because it’s the only place that feels right. I want to fly with Cyar, because the thought of him flying alongside some other pilot, some stranger who doesn’t even care about him the way I do, who won’t keep him safe, makes me feel like I’m kicking at walls and can’t get out.
But I don’t say it.
I don’t know if I’d be betraying her or myself.
“I know you’re confused,” she says softly, but firmly. She’s been made tiny from years in His shadow, light worn away, but somehow she’s still outside of it. “A mother knows the depth of her saddest child. She feels the pain of her most broken one. You were mine, but I gave you up long ago. Please don’t leave your brothers alone in this. Don’t choose me. I fear for what he will ask of them.” She peers up into my face, her grief holding the weight of an entire family.
I look at her helplessly. “But I
’m not like them.”
“No, you’re not. They are earth and sea. They can only go so far until they run up against each other.” She touches my cheek. “But you are the sky, my love. You are limitless.”
The conviction in her eyes is too much. She thinks I’m better than them. She’s always thought that, earned or not, and it’s as unfair as Father’s threat, an expectation I can’t ever live up to. I’m selfish and rotten at the middle. I’m even as drunk as Arrin right now.
I don’t want to do what she asks.
I give her the briefest kiss on her cheek, then escape for my room, chased by guilt and frustration. I’m surprised to find Cyar waiting there, still a bit wide-eyed. He’s supposed to be in the guest room downstairs. Oh well. Don’t want to be alone tonight. I give him my bed and take the floor, and he gives me a torn glance before pulling the covers over himself.
He knows when to say nothing. But he wants to.
In the silence, the walls seem to shrink by the minute, caving, burying me alive. I can’t sleep. I can’t think. I drift into the wide sea of memories from long ago, with smoldering towns, flashes of bullets, the smell of petrol and ash. I see a mangled corpse lying in a ditch. My brothers stare like it’s the carcass of a wild animal—nameless, forgotten—and Arrin kicks at the twisted limbs. He’s thirteen, godlike to me. Tall and unafraid. He can talk back to Father and take the punishment without flinching. He can run laps for hours, in the heat, in the mud, with Father cursing him every step. A fierce fire that never dies out. And all I want is for Arrin to look at me. All I want is for him to say my name and—
I close my eyes.
Nothing’s gained without sacrifice. Everyone seems to accept that but me.
6
AURELIA ISENDARE
Hathene, Etania
“Ah, you look lovely in blue, Aurelia.”
“You say that about every colour I wear.”
Heathwyn, my governess, smiles. “Because it’s always true.”
She pins my dark hair with a maroon feather clip, her aging hands soft and warm, her own hair brown and greying. In the mirror, my silk dress gathers in all the right places. The rich hue illuminates my amber skin, still a bit paler from winter, and silver beading spirals across the bodice like lights and colours in a night sky. I raise my chin, as Mother would, pearl-drop earrings swinging.
I look seventeen already.
“Now please be courteous with the Ambassador tonight,” Heathwyn instructs. “I’ll not hear of any more impertinent comments. A smile and nothing less.”
I turn from the mirror, facing both my governess and the delicate chaos of my room—chiffon and lace dresses strewn across the bed, headbands of gem and pearl scattered, textbooks towering and filled with notes for the university exams. “But I can’t smile at him.”
“You must.”
“I can’t.”
“But you will.”
And she’s right—I will. Such rotten luck, but I will.
At the banquet hall doors, I find Reni waiting for me between the marble pillars, dressed in a decorated military coat, though the only place he’s ever fired a gun is on a hunt. He offers an arm, and down the velvet promenade steps we go, smiling grandly.
Smiling, smiling, as we should.
Before us, a long table shimmers with crystal pitchers and silver platters, chandeliers casting a golden glow, illuminating the painted ceiling above, where wild elk arch their antlers before the immortalized form of Prince Efan, his resting sword decorated with peaceful pink orchids—the sacred flower of Etania—and a fox crouched loyal at his feet. Each represents an aspect of the man who began our Northern dynasty six hundred years ago, a man who was brave and gentle and clever at once. I’m sure in Landore they have the same glorious painting, except with their own sacred white roses on display. Every kingdom honours Efan.
Mother stands near the head of the table, dressed in a taffeta gown of gold, tiny mauve flowers stitched into the waist and trailing down to the hem, her chin held high despite the tension of the General’s impending visit that permeates the court. She shows no fear, sharpened by a crown she never asked to wear and steeped in the patience of a woman forced to navigate the council of men. In Resya, it’s custom for friends to greet each other with a kiss, and she places one now on the bearded cheek of her oldest and most loyal advisor, Lord Marcin. She bestows this honour only on family and those she trusts intimately. It’s an elusive gift, one the men of our court crave. Anything to prove they’re beloved of Boreas Isendare’s ruling widow.
And as for Havis?
I spot him standing in a corner by himself, sipping a very full glass of red wine, stifling a yawn. Stars. But I give him a polite nod, the most I can muster, and he raises his brimming drink in my direction.
“Try a bit harder in public, couldn’t you?” Reni whispers.
“Not until I find out what’s in his rotten letter.”
I can’t help but wonder if it might be about me, a marriage proposal mixed in with his other more political requests, but my brother only grimaces through his smile. A princely feat.
The ladies of court, dressed in beaded gowns and draped in silken evening shawls, part respectfully when we arrive at the table. Lord Marcin and Uncle Tanek and the rest of Mother’s council, all of them in tailcoats, bow from the neck. The retiring Colonel Lyle, whose party this is, stands with his entourage from the Royal 3rd Squadron, each wearing a uniform inlaid with the gold and green of the Etanian flag. It’s a pretty picture of harmony, which is a relief considering the war of opinion beyond our palace gates.
“Beautiful darling,” Mother says, taking my hand. She kisses my left cheek, then the other, trailing a scent of jasmine. “What a gown this is! Sapphire goes lovely with your dark hair. You’re breathtaking, my little star. Is she not, Lord Marcin?”
“Indeed, Your Majesty,” he says with a smile.
My dearest friend, Violet Marcin, quickly leaves her father’s side and wraps her arms round me. “Ali, my sweetest heart!” Her painted lips press against my cheek enthusiastically. She’s adopted the Resyan tradition as her own, partly because it’s in her nature to be warm and bold, but also because she fancies affording Reni the same attention.
I kiss her as well, grinning. “I copied you,” I admit, touching my feather clip. “It looked too wonderful on you at your recital.”
Violet smiles her grand smile, the sort she wears on stage when she sings. “They say in Landore even larger feathers are being worn. It’s a demonstration of Northern solidarity, you see. We should certainly show our support.”
“I’m not sure how feathers will frighten the Nahir.”
“Does it matter? Now, we need a peacock.”
“Stars, where does one find that?”
“I hear such exotic creatures are abundant in Resya.…”
I cluck my tongue and swat her arm lightly. She has the nerve to find Havis handsome and urbane, a man possibly tied to alluring adventure. But she can afford such fantasies because she’s the picture of Etanian beauty—gracefully mannered, with green eyes and auburn hair and curving hips—and she’s already caught the affection of our crowned prince, the prince who’s only a year from inheriting his throne.
For her, it’s all pretend.
Not for me.
As we sit side by side, her clever smile fades, and she reaches her hand under the table, offering me a small folded paper. Carefully, I look down beneath the lace cloth as if I’m smoothing my dress. We’ve done this many times before. I peel apart the paper and find a somewhat terrible drawing of a wolf. It’s lopsided, eyes and ears out of proportion, shading all wrong, but the wolf was my father’s favourite animal, a noble creature long since hunted out of our mountains. And she knows it.
Tears prick my lashes.
Violet touches my hand beneath the lace, distracting everyone around us by boldly fluttering her smile at Reni, on my other side. They play their little wordless game while I recover from the sweet gift.
Of course she wouldn’t forget what today means.
At the head of the table, a holy man offers his blessing upon the meal, as is tradition, and Mother nods along, though I know she puts not an ounce of faith in the words. She believes in fate and the luck of stars, not divine favour.
But when he finishes, she says, “Peace upon us.”
Champagne flutes are raised—“To Colonel Lyle!”—and first sips are taken.
Footmen step forward, serving silver plates laden with gleaming confit of goose and sour cherries, with poached salmon and butternut squash. I get my single plate of creamed carrots, deviled eggs, and rosemary potatoes.
Ever since the slaughtered fawn, I haven’t tasted a morsel of meat.
Not far from me, Havis leans back in his chair, tight-lipped, tapping his knife rudely as a thin man next to him, Lord Jerig, monologues about how he might solve the Southern unrest if he were actually across the sea, and if he were actually mad enough to go to the South. Reni says Jerig is the ringleader of Mother’s critics here at court, set against the General’s visit and anything else that might stray us from Etanian interests.
“It’s all very tragic,” Jerig finishes, dabbing his lips with an embroidered napkin. “They’ve no appreciation for the ways we’ve benefited the region. And now it seems Resya itself—the jewel of the South!—is in Nahir crosshairs. When will they have enough? Will they not stop until they’ve forced us out entirely?”
“Now, there’s a tragedy,” Havis observes with a trace of bored irony.
“This General Dakar is no different, in my opinion,” Jerig adds. “He means to solve any dispute with a gun. Surely you, as a man of diplomacy, see the danger in this?”
“I’ve never met the General, my lord. I prefer to judge every situation on its own merits, not the opinions from a newspaper.” Havis pauses. “And perhaps you should do the same.”
Jerig laughs, spidery moustache wrinkling. “Ah, still the defender of the South, then? I’m not sure such optimistic sentiment will get you what you wish here at court.” His fox eyes dart across the table to me, and I sense the implication acutely, but I absorb my irritation by smooshing a rosemary potato.
Dark of the West (Glass Alliance) Page 6