“A painting?”
“Yes. Because it’s been ten years.”
He nods. He knows that today is all about forgetting, even though we can’t.
But then I realize he’s alone as well, no sign of Mother or Uncle. “And what are you doing here?”
At this, my ever-confident brother blanches. I’ve caught him off guard and he has no time to concoct his story. He didn’t plan ahead for this, evidently.
“You’re here to find the letter, aren’t you?” I whisper.
“And you’re not?” he hisses back.
“Either way, you’re too late. It isn’t there.”
Reni frowns, peering at me closely, though I’ve never given him a reason to doubt me. I long to tell him what I’ve read. The dark words that threaten to tie our own mother to Seath. Seath of the Nahir! Leader of the Southern uprising and the last person a Queen of the North can be associated with. It must be him—how many Southern men go by that one name alone? But I can’t tell Reni. Though he carries the blood of kings, though he’s the one who will take the throne and continue our line into another generation, he is also my brother, and I know him too well. This letter would spark him to reckless action, and I can’t be responsible for dividing our family even further.
“Very well, then,” he says. “But we must keep our eyes and ears open—you with Havis, can you do it?”
I nod, since now Havis holds even more danger than a marriage proposal.
He wants more than my hand in this game.
Sighing, Reni leans forward and kisses my forehead briefly, rare affection from him, and I look up, at his tired face. “We’ll get through this,” he says softly, certainly thinking of the illusionist’s stunt tonight. “Tomorrow is for us, isn’t it?”
They’re the words of our father, the thing he’d say when long meetings kept him away from us, when he had only time to pat our heads and promise us better the next day.
I nod, wanting to savour Father’s promise, but I feel dark, dark, dark and void of colour.
The sun, rising and falling.
II
MURDER
7
ATHAN
Rahmet, Savient
The four-hour flight from Valon to Rahmet is as miserable as expected. My family sits tense in the airplane, too small a space for all of us at once, and my hungover head throbs to the beat of propellers. Far below, the land changes from faint green to sparse brown, powerful bluffs rising up amid a swath of red plains and feathered ravines. I try not to think about Cyar. He was desperate to come along, to see his home after months away. He longs for Rahmet the way I long for mountains. This is his earth, his sacred place, and I wish I’d had the courage to stand up for him. To ask Father to bring him along.
But I didn’t. And now I’m left weighing the facts of my life alone.
Cyar in Top Flight.
Me not in Top Flight.
Me translating wireless reports for twelve hours a day.
Me exposed as a traitor with my nose broken—or worse.
Father sits across the aisle from me now, working on his speech, his sleeves rolled up, the tattoos from his long-ago rebel life on display—crossed swords with a shrewd fox between them. His pistol is visible against his uniform, its bloodstains left behind on the cement at home, ready to be scrubbed up by some unfortunate bootlicker. And I wait for something. A glance, maybe. Even a flare of anger. Anything. He can’t destroy me and then pretend I don’t exist.
But I get nothing.
* * *
We arrive at the military base in Rahmet’s capital mid-afternoon. It’s a sprawling complex of sun-browned buildings and tiny gardens, flashes of colour everywhere. Sunflowers and red sage. Trees of purple jacaranda, pink hibiscus, sun-bright lemons. All the sights and flavours Cyar tries to describe when we’re huddled together during cold nights of field training. But on the drive from the dusty airfield, we also passed walls pockmarked with the wounds of bullets and mortars. Broken homes and ruined plazas. All of Savient looks like this in places, and even Valon has roads that lead nowhere, neighbourhoods destroyed and left as nothing.
Perhaps it feels wrong to rebuild on old bones.
While we wait by the base steps for our ride to the city square, where Father will give his speech, I study the intricate architecture of the skyline. My hand itches for a pencil, my uniform already wet with sweat against my neck. It’s damn hot.
Mother clings to Father’s arm, pale, the product of her many sleepless nights. “Don’t give your speech today,” she pleads. “Let’s wait until tomorrow. Only tomorrow.”
“I haven’t come all the way here to wait,” he replies, motioning for a nearby attaché.
“Then I’d like to stay here.”
“Sapphie, you know it means a lot to have you at my side.”
“Does it?” At her question, he glances back with a knife-sharp gaze, the sort that might make anyone else cower. But she only straightens. “I’m afraid.” There’s a tremor that belies her boldness. “I don’t want to be on those streets today. I want to stay here.”
Father doesn’t respond to that. A convoy of shiny black motorcars has grumbled to a halt before us, men getting out and saluting, and Father nods at each. Mother’s fear is swept aside by protocol. We all move to get in the nearest car, but she remains where she is, planted with arms tucked around herself.
Father waves a hand, wearied of her. “I don’t need this. If you wish to stay, fine. Athan will stay with you.”
I step back from the car. An indirect order.
“No, let me,” Arrin says out of nowhere.
Father turns with a frown. “You?”
Arrin nods.
There’s a moment of silence, Father deliberating, and we all wait for the inevitable dismissal of Arrin’s request. If anyone should be on that podium, it’s the decorated eldest son with his medals. Not to mention, Mother and Arrin left alone together would probably end in anarchy.
But Father relents. “All right. Athan will stay too.”
Kalt gets his little wisp of a smile, the one that’s silently pleased with the outcome of events. Now he’s the only son to be seen with Father. They climb into the car and it’s Leannya who pauses at the door. She looks divided, no doubt regretting any decision that takes her away from Arrin, tiny gold shadow that she is. But she offers us an embarrassed wave, an innocent betrayal, then slides in beside Kalt.
“Don’t forget to wear your sun hat,” Mother calls.
“I won’t,” says Leannya’s voice from the window.
The convoy springs to life, spitting up thick dust, and the three of us left behind stand awkwardly. I tug at my sweaty collar.
“Let’s walk in the gardens,” Mother says to me.
“Now?” Arrin asks behind her. “At least wait until it cools off.”
“It’s the only place beautiful here.” She’s still talking to me.
Arrin opens his mouth, and I cut him off with a sharp look. He rolls his eyes but stops, surprisingly cooperative today.
“A walk would be nice,” I lie, giving Mother a reassuring smile.
She returns it.
In the compound garden, there’s not much to see. We loop the fragrant yard on an old dirt path lined with flowers and spiked agave, one fountain sputtering warm water in the middle. Mother clutches her arms to her chest as she goes. She glances up at the apartment buildings beyond the high walls. We follow ten feet behind, giving her space. We both look ridiculous, dressed in our best uniforms—Arrin with his medals—and wandering this trail in uncomfortable silence.
I pluck a tiny lemon and put it in my pocket. For Cyar. Academy food usually tastes like old newspaper, and he’s relentless in his attempts to improve it with the dried herbs his sister sends.
Cheers rise from the nearby square, drifting in the heat. Malek’s voice echoes over a microphone. He applauds the Rahmeti people for their loyalty and courage during unification. It’s always the same shiny words. In my
mind, I see a young Cyar, hiding in his basement with soldiers bleeding on the floorboards above his head, an entire town decimated by shells, ripped apart at the seams.
Loyalty and courage.
“Father’s rather furious with you,” Arrin observes.
“I hadn’t noticed,” I reply.
Anger’s still hot inside me. I’m certain it was Arrin who told Father about my seventh-place standing. Arrin who would have made a deal of it and suggested that maybe I wasn’t trying entirely hard enough, whispering my treason.
He shrugs after a moment. “I’m sure it was the same speech we’ve all heard. How he didn’t sacrifice everything to have such a lousy, useless, rotten son. Am I right?” There’s a trace of humour in his voice.
“Maybe,” I say, annoyed he’s right.
Mother sits down on a bench to adjust her sandals. We stop, keeping distance.
“You’re carrying the tradition,” he continues, “and you had it coming. Don’t look at me like that—you did. Trying to flunk out of the squadrons without Father noticing. Are you an idiot?”
“Better than your brand of it.”
Father’s amplified voice drifts over the walls.
“Some men look to the stars to find their destiny. Some men wait on fate. But Savient leaves stars and fate to lesser men, for we forge our own destiny and shape it to our will. Soon the war in Karkev will be won…”
Arrin points at the square. “Are you listening to those words? Are you really hearing them? That’s our father. That’s what you’re up against and you think you can win by playing the fool?”
“… it will be our victory and ours alone. Not by luck or by chance but because our skill, our strength, and our honour said it would be so. It must be so. And so it is, and so it will always be with the great men of this world, favoured by God. So it will be with the Safire…”
“Do you know why I can get away with what I do?” Arrin presses. “It’s not because I play a fool. It’s not because I do what I want. It’s because when I’m on the frontlines, I’m everything he expects me to be. I’m brilliant. And he needs me. That’s the only thing he’ll negotiate with. The only card that wins.”
I tear at my sweaty collar, unbuttoning it. Arrin’s making too much sense. This isn’t right.
“Look at you both,” Mother interrupts from down the path. There’s a smile in her voice. “You pretend not to care, but I know the two of you are tied together until the very end.”
“Lucky for Athan,” Arrin says, stepping away.
She has an orange and yellow hibiscus flower in her hand, and she walks to him, bringing it to her nose, breathing in the scent. “Not like you and Kalt, though. You two were my twin terrors, weren’t you? Together every moment of the day, searching for mischief. You talked him into all of it, didn’t you? Always a leader. He’d have been a good boy if not for you.”
Arrin appears wary. “Let’s not take a trip down memory lane, Mother.”
She fingers the delicate petals. “But you remember the sea, don’t you? You were so small then. Only to my knee. We were in the land of my parents and you’d run up and down the cold sand, catching shellfish.”
“I can barely remember last week, Mother.”
“You’d cling to my neck while I took you to the deeper water. You were scared, but you trusted me. I wouldn’t let you fall, and your toes touched the crests. Now do you remember? Before he took you from me?”
Arrin tries to keep space between them, but Mother grasps his hand, like she might just throw herself into his arms if he’d only turn around and invite her. Arrin looks frustrated, vaguely undone. Fighting some invisible battle, and Mother’s in tears now.
“I love you, Arrin,” she says desperately. “I do.”
He shakes his head and pulls from her. He walks down the path alone, stopping beneath the shade of a tree, shoulders hunched.
Mother covers a sob with her hand and stumbles in the opposite direction.
I look back and forth between them.
Stuck.
I pick up the hibiscus she dropped and put it in my pocket, trying not to crush the paper-thin petals. She’ll want it later. Then I shut my eyes. In the darkness, the world’s vague and warm, my skin prickling with heat. Another cheer rises on the wind. What sort of man can conquer an entire land but let his family come to this? Someone needs to ask that question. Someone needs to save us from ourselves.
A loud crack resounds off the compound walls, and I open my eyes again.
I wince at the bright light.
Another crack follows.
Echoing.
Before I can think, something heavy hurls me down behind the nearby fountain, both of us collapsing against the dirt. “What the hell are you doing?” Arrin growls. “Get some cover!”
I look at him, scrambling to catch up. “Gunshots,” I manage. I’m not sure if it’s a fact or a question.
“You don’t goddamn say!” He hits me on the head, hard, then pulls out his sidearm, scanning the garden, the sky, the apartments. He grunts. “Damn it, I can’t see anything.”
“Where’s Mother?”
He doesn’t answer, just glances around again, then hauls me to my feet.
Our boots pound down the path in her direction. She’s frozen by a small lemon tree, staring above the walls. We come to a wild halt at her side, and there’s another violent snap in the air, close enough my eardrums burn.
Arrin waves us to move again, but Mother begins to faint. I reach out and grab her, sinking with her as she falls. I kneel there, wondering what to do next. Everything’s cold with fear. Icy in the noon heat.
Then why are my hands warm?
I hold one up, running with red.
Arrin stares.
I turn back to Mother. An ugly wetness grows on her dress, beneath my fingers, her eyes wide and unfocused. My lifted hand shakes. Something hot trails to my elbow, soaking the fabric.
Arrin drops to his knees beside Mother. He throws off his impressive uniform, pushing it to her wound. “Pressure here,” he orders, forcing my hand on it.
Red bleeds through.
I clutch the makeshift bandage while Arrin moves her jaw to open the airway. Fragments of medic training flit through my horror and I want to grab them, but they’re too slippery, disappearing in panic.
More boots pound through the garden, soldiers surrounding us, setting a perimeter with weapons raised. I hardly notice. My eyes are on her face. Each breath from her is like a gasp, a sucking from deep within. A horrible sound.
“Get a medic!” Arrin shouts. “Her lung’s collapsed!” Then he holds her gaze with his own, his gloved hand steady around hers. “You’ll be fine. Father’s coming, I know he’s coming.”
She tries to say something, but it gurgles from her chest, that awful sucking noise. Blood mixes with the dirt beneath us, her skin like snow even beneath the speckled shadow of the tree.
The air smells like blood and citrus.
Sweet and sharp. Sickening.
Arrin slams the ground with a fist. “Where the hell’s the goddamn medic?” Then he leans near her, taking off his gloves so his hands are bare around hers. “Please, Mama, please hold on.” My right hand is still pressed to the wound, my left arm supporting her head. I stare into her face, and she reaches a bloodied hand for my cheek, unable to close the distance. I bend closer and she touches me. She tries to speak again. I taste salt.
People shout—soldiers and orderlies—but Arrin’s the only one I hear. He talks to her, promising her things I can’t make out. The doctor finally appears. At last. Father and Evertal and Kalt and—
“Let go, Athan.”
I don’t know who says it. I’m gripping Mother with both arms and they’re trying to put her on a stretcher. I stand up. My knees throb. The group rushes for the base and I trail behind in a blood-stained uniform, hands sticky. I touch my cheek and it comes away red.
Father pales at the sight of me.
I’ve never seen
him pale.
“Take my son,” he orders Evertal. “Clean that off.”
Evertal nods, gripping my arm, and I try to protest. I need to stay with Mother. She was trying to reach for me. She couldn’t. But there’s no strength left in me. We step through the doors and Evertal steers me to a sink. She washes my hands, murmuring bits of comfort that don’t mean anything. Everything inside me shakes. Blood everywhere, all over me. Mother’s blood. It’s washing down the drain in ribbons. It’s splattered on my face like paint.
The room sways at a strange angle and my stomach lurches.
Evertal grabs me, forcing me to look at her. “Eyes up here. On the horizon.” She squeezes my shoulders. “Don’t look anywhere else.”
I nod in a knee-jerk kind of way.
What the hell’s she saying?
This can’t be real.
* * *
Afternoon turns to evening, the world a strange dream around me. Blurry and unending. Muted words about fear, about horror, about the attackers who haven’t even been found. I pray and pray, but God doesn’t answer. Father’s used up all his divine favour and now there’s nothing left for her. Hours have passed when Arrin finally sits down in the hospital chair next to me. He swallows, leg trembling slightly. “We did everything we could, Athan. We did everything right. It didn’t work.”
His words sound faint. I’ve been waiting long enough for this and it washes over me vaguely, like someone else’s death, someone I don’t even know.
Arrin rests a hesitant hand on my shoulder.
I’m too far away.
The hot night sinks down, and I drop into bed, crawling into a long, fitful sleep. It drags me to a strange place where past and present meet and nothing makes sense. She’s still alive and begging me to wake her. “Don’t let him take you,” she weeps. “Don’t let him do this to me.” She reaches like she did in my arms, reaching and not finding. “Wake me,” she whispers.
Wake up, wake up.
Wake up!
Kalt shakes me with both arms. He’s leaning over my bed, alarmed.
Dark of the West (Glass Alliance) Page 8