Dark of the West (Glass Alliance)

by Joanna Hathaway

  “Yes.”

  “Did you tell your brother?”

  “Never.”

  She sighs, her hand reaching for mine. The gentle touch softens my raging anguish. She leads me to the vanity bench and we sit together on the velvet cushion, a heaviness in the silence. She wears no jewelry, but her wedding band glimmers on her finger, the one thing she never removes.

  “Listen, then. I will tell you the truth about your father. You are my own heart, my bright star, yet you see precious little of the true world beyond these walls. I will show you. I will show you why you must trust me in these matters.” She holds my gaze. Steady. Then she speaks in Resyan. “The truth, Aurelia, is your father died because of a lie. A few men in our kingdom questioned his right to this throne. They said he was never a son of Prince Efan, but rather the great-grandson of a farrier. They’re the ones who killed him.”

  I blink at her. Her words don’t make sense. Everyone has always said Father’s heart gave out suddenly, that there was nothing anyone could do, he died too young and—

  “They were foolish men,” Mother continues plainly, “and I have no pity for the foolish. They believed what they wished, no matter the impossibility of it. But your father … Your father didn’t think it honourable to punish others for ideas. He thought the whispers against him would pass.” She drops her eyes. “That rumour in the night found a way to steal the light of my life.”

  The pain in her voice can’t be hidden. It’s raw and vulnerable, and a horrible pain seizes my chest. All of his warmth, his gentleness. Taken for a lie. I didn’t think it was possible for his death to be any more painful.

  Murder.

  “Why doesn’t Reni know the truth?” I whisper, afraid of the answer.

  She grips my hand, endless sorrow in her eyes. “How I long to tell him, my star. I know his bitterness. I see his anger towards me. And if I told him the truth, perhaps he’d trust me again. But if anyone should ever ask him about his right to this throne, his answer must be ‘yes’ and it must be held with all the conviction in the world. He can never doubt. He must be blameless.” She looks sadder than I’ve ever seen her, a mother who can’t ally with her own son. “Death was your father’s fate and he let it be so,” she continues, “but know that I didn’t let it go unpunished. Those foolish men paid for their crime, in secret. The rumour was cut at the roots.” She draws a line across her neck, a Resyan gesture that not only reflects death but also deep necessity. Something that can’t be undone. “We are safe, and your brother will never rule in fear.”

  A shiver treads along my skin. I should hate the idea of it, the idea of an execution without trial. But I don’t. No one should be allowed to hurt a gentle man like my father and get away with it. They deserved what she did.

  “And what about Seath?” I ask.

  She touches my cheek. “We have no trouble with him. He may be violent now, but many years ago, he was a reasonable man, studying to be a doctor at the university in Resya. Your uncle did business with him. Unfortunately, your uncle was left in his debt.” She shakes her head. “I have a way to settle the matter. The Havis family has great influence. But you must never speak of Seath, do you understand? Certainly not here.”

  I nod quickly. They’re a mirror of the words Havis spoke, and I understand now. Rumours in the night can steal everything, and my mother already walks a fine line between worlds. This rumour of her brother dealing with Seath—even innocently, years ago—could ruin her if placed in the wrong hands. The sort of crime that might cost our kingdom everything.

  Long ago, I watched a newsreel of a Landorian traitor being executed before the Royal League, before all the representatives of the Northern kingdoms. An officer accused of aiding their enemies in Thurn. They read the verdict, put the noose round his neck, and then the film ended. Reni said it was an honourable death, but I can still see the man’s panicked face. The reality of impending death, before a thousand cold eyes, and it still haunts my midnight thoughts. He was only a common soldier.

  What would they do to a traitorous queen?

  “These are two quite different things,” Mother continues, seeming to sense my fear, “but only one matters. Paying off Seath? That can be done. The South is not so fickle as your Northern textbooks would have you believe. But protecting your brother from a lie against our throne? That is a more dangerous game. I know he longs for a happy kingdom, but I won’t allow the dissenters in our square to gain influence. I have seen what these ideas can rouse, and I will use my fist. I will frighten them with the General’s alliance. Anything to make sure they understand the order of things, and your brother’s right to rule is never questioned.”

  “But what if they—”

  “There is nothing to fear,” she says firmly. “Everything will be made right.”

  She’s as confident as if she were dealing with a pebble in her shoe, as if she had already reached down to flick it away, and something shifts inside me. Something important. Like the sun rising above the mountains, beginning as a shiver of light, then changing to a glow, and then appearing in bright brilliance, this mysterious thing suddenly makes sense. Of course she wishes to welcome General Dakar. Of course she wishes to show the North he can be brought into alliance. He has a chance of saving the South. He could ruin the Nahir and therefore Uncle’s lingering debt, rescue the world from madness and remind Etania what the strength of this new age looks like.

  His victory is our victory.

  A man who creates peace from chaos.

  And Mother knows this. She’s always had a plan in motion, always, even in spite of the ire of Lord Jerig and Uncle Tanek and Reni. The world looks darkly different now. Filled with necessary secrets. Stories upon stories that never appear on paper or in ink.

  Is this what Reni thinks about late at night? Does he wonder about the things he can’t see?

  Can I even keep a secret like this from him?

  But I must, because Mother’s right. He’d never stop running. If he knew our father was murdered for a lie, he’d fight his way into the very past to make things right, rousing a long-dead rumour, breathing new life into something dangerous in his efforts for justice.

  “Perhaps you could let Reni give a speech,” I suggest, trying to help his cause, the least I can do while she’s listening so closely. “The ones protesting in the square don’t know any better, but perhaps there’s a middle ground to be reached? A way he could appeal to them to trust you?”

  She cocks her head, studying my face and the mouth that spoke the words. A long moment passes, then she says, “If life has taught me one thing it is this—never negotiate with your enemy. Stay one step ahead instead. Now, you write that in your books and put it in ink, my dear heart. We women must always have our secrets.”

  III

  LOYALTY

  Leannya,

  I’m writing in the hope of this reaching you before you head to Brisal for summer classes. Can you send me an address once you’re there? I’ll keep it close.

  As you might have heard, I managed to get myself into Top Flight after all—even took first place and smashed the record set by that ass Garrick Carr (don’t tell Arrin I called him that, but you know it’s accurate). Everyone’s thrilled about my success—meaning everyone in a rank above me, Torhan and the rest—since it seems they were betting on me all along, but I feel suspiciously like a new thing for them to play with. That’s unsettling, given what they can now order me to do. But the actual flying on test day? I wish you could have seen it! It had nothing to do with any of them—just the familiar raw adrenaline, the energy shivering through the metal and into my skin, light glinting on glass and wings in bright flashes, an infinite and endless sky, high high high above the madness.

  All of that joy has made me an official Lieutenant, in line for my own squadron. (Cyar got second place, an officer pinned with wings, but I’m still the superior rank. I hope this means he has to pack my bags if I ask.)

  Since I won’t be seeing you when
I’m briefly home in Valon, here’s my official hurrah for Arrin. I’m sure winning the war in Karkev has humbled him entirely, given that his name is now the one on everyone’s lips, all those fireworks and such every night in his glorious honour. Is he even sleeping at home? (Don’t answer that. Yes, you’re supposed to be watching him, but let’s not expect too much.) I’m grateful our oldest brother has managed to win the war, and now he’ll win the next one (in theory), and if I’m lucky it will be before I ever get the orders to join in.

  Oh, I forgot. I already have orders. Father’s taking me with him to Landore—so much for sitting it out. Something about wooing a king into letting us put a base in one of their colonies … Does that sound suspicious to you? I’m optimistic still.

  Either way, I promise to write from wherever they (he) send me next. I’m praying to train under Captain Malek in the 4th. Wish me luck on that front. You know how great the captain is!

  With all my affection,

  Athan

  11

  ATHAN

  Norvenne, Landore

  I’ve never seen anything like it.

  A vast harbour glimmers before us, teeming with ships from every kingdom in the North, the busy seaways of the Black Sea converging and rallying at the steps of the world’s greatest empire. Merchant vessels and passenger liners break through waves, colourful flags snapping in the wind, and two battle cruisers of the Imperial Navy of Landore prowl among them, monstrous. Beyond the water’s edge, domed buildings of white-stone spread as far as the eye can see. Each one looks elaborate and frivolous, and lounging on the highest hill, overseeing its grand domain, is the vainly glorious royal palace.

  Our Safire contingent is picked up by motorcar from the airfield outside the city, escorted onto the long, wide avenues of Norvenne. Father’s been here before. So has Arrin. But Cyar and I stare out the windows, entirely overwhelmed by the beauty and opulence. No scars of battle anywhere. Not a single pock-marked wall. It’s a place that doesn’t remember war, and couples stroll beneath linden trees, laughing as they toss coins for musicians and fountains.

  The radiant centre of the Northern world. An empire of seven hundred years.

  It’s making Valon seem rather rustic.

  Garrick spends most of the trip reading a briefing in his lap, but even his mouth hangs slightly open when we pass between the towering pillars of the palace gates. They’re inlaid with jewels and solid gold.

  Real jewels and gold—on a damn gate!

  Acres of buildings open up before us. Gardens with fancy sculptures and glassy lakes. A vast central courtyard is hemmed in by aureate walls and rows upon rows of windows, while an elegant statue of their long-ago ancestor, Prince Efan, perched astride a stallion sits in the centre.

  “Why doesn’t your family have a place like this?” Cyar jokes, turning circles as we walk for the huge entrance.

  “We have the Impressive,” I reply.

  When we step through doors and into the entrance hall, we’re greeted by unexpected chaos. Well-dressed lords surge by, calling for their stewards, panicked like a bunch of colourful fish out of water.

  “Thank God you’re here!” one exclaims, his only greeting to Father. He’s heavyset, stuffed into ridiculous velvet pants, and I don’t dare look at Cyar. We’ll both laugh. “The news arrived an hour before you, General. They’ve seized Hady! The Nahir. Overwhelmed us, caught us by surprise, and then”—the man looks like someone’s squeezing him from the inside out—“and then they hung the city consul and two of his advisors. God in heaven!”

  Amusement about the velvet pants disappears.

  Father glances at Arrin, then back. “Hady? The port city?”

  “Yes,” the man moans. “They’ve access to the river and canal now. To the sea! How could they have organized such an attack?”

  “How indeed?” Father shakes his head.

  “Please, General. His Majesty is already in discussion with the council, and awaits your contribution to the matter. General Windom is also here. An old friend of yours, I hear.”

  “Yes.” Father smiles. “It has been a while.”

  I remember Windom from the years when we first moved to Valon. He was the first Landorian official to consider Father’s rule legitimate. He came in the summer with his daughter, touring the factories where the Safire airplanes and tanks were being produced at record speed, watching the impressive wealth steaming in on trains from the mountains. He was the first to see Savient’s promise—and believe in it. Now, apparently, the two of them are conspiring together over the South.

  Father never forgets an ally.

  The velvet-man brightens. “I’m confident the pair of you can concoct a grand strategy.” He glances to Arrin. “And bring your son. Certainly the hero of Karkev will have much to offer.”

  God, they’re worshipping Arrin here, too?

  But my brother pales slightly at the request. I give a questioning look, and he turns his back on me, which he can do now. Father ordered me to adopt Mother’s long-forgotten surname, Erelis, for the time being, as a safety measure.

  “You’re young and untried,” Father said, “and I don’t want you in any crosshairs.”

  So far, Arrin’s doing a great job of pretending I’m nothing but a speck of a junior officer to him.

  They stride off to meet with General Windom, and Kalt stares after them, left behind.

  Cyar glances at me. “A bunch of Southern rebels have overrun the Landorian army and taken an entire city hostage?” he asks in Savien, so none of the lingering footmen understand. “I hope the King doesn’t expect us to get it back for him.”

  “My father can only hope,” I reply.

  Cyar gives a short laugh. Reality must finally be dawning on him.

  I offer him my bag. “Officer Hajari, could you carry this to my quarters?”

  “Don’t get any ideas, Lieutenant.”

  “That’s insubordination, Hajari. A punishable off—”

  The nearby footman takes my bag quickly, then Cyar’s, and says, “Right this way, gentlemen,” politely waving us to follow.

  We both gape like he’s offered to carry us, too.

  “Dear God,” Kalt says, brushing me on the way by. “It’s like you came off a farm.”

  But apparently this is real, and men are here to serve us—actually serve us—so we shrug and follow them, grinning, into the maze of gilded halls.

  * * *

  King Gawain hosts a reception in our honour that night. It’s held in a marble pavilion overlooking the sea, a more casual affair which is probably out of consideration for Father’s disdain of court formality, but still feels a bit like being talked down to. Like we can’t quite handle the full spectacle of a royal feast—the manners and the servants and the fifty silver forks to choose from. Violins mix with the stir of the evening tide, and brass tables—most with spirals of Southern flair, an exotic novelty—overflow with food and wine while courtiers, ambassadors, and military elite clink glasses in the salty breeze.

  I find myself sympathizing with the exotic tables. Everyone’s staring at us in our Safire uniforms, like we’re foreign creatures that don’t quite fit. The Landorian officers chuckle behind glasses of brandy, dressed in their deep blue tailcoats and gold sashes. They all look the same—fair-skinned and well-bred and haughty. I can see the curiosity in their eyes as they study Admiral Malek, with his dark skin and many medals, every Safire uniform paying him deference. In their world, leadership looks only one way. I’m sure they’d question even Cyar—if they cared about two young pilots—for not fitting their ideal mold. I’m suddenly very proud of Savient. We might not have a palace the size of a city, but we do have a military where respect is earned and given on nothing but actual merit.

  The girls in silk dresses aren’t much better.

  “That one seems to have her eye on you,” Cyar observes, nodding discreetly at a blonde with a feathered wrap in her hair. She’s clearly appraising my value, the feather large enough she
looks like she might topple.

  I flick an olive into the air and catch it in my mouth. “You think?”

  “Yes—and don’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “You’ll just prove everyone right.”

  I don’t care. If I’m going to be a novelty, I may as well make it worthwhile.

  Gawain sweeps among his guests, large and formidable in a suit covered with emblems and medals. I’m not sure where he’d have won anything—certainly not on a battlefield—but he’s still striking in his own way. As tall as Father, with a grey beard kept trim, his face tan and soft from years of being well fed. He’s like the rounded lions carved into the arches of this pavilion. He also has three daughters, the eldest of whom possesses wide brown eyes and ample curves. Arrin’s predictably intrigued. He offers her wine, escorts her to a table with gallant flourish, but she rebuffs every attempt like he’s some mutt-dog getting under her feet. When he nabs the seat beside her, her polite disinterest flashes to temper.

  Not a good game to play. Not with our base in the South depending on Gawain’s seal of approval.

  “Keep an eye on him,” Father mutters to me, before moving on.

  What am I supposed to do? Swat Arrin’s hand? I’m only an Erelis here.

  I take the seat across from them and give a clear warning look, but Arrin pretends not to see. He’s busy bragging about his exploits in Karkev, routing the enemy and all that. She keeps her eyes on the food before her, stoic, but eventually her resolve weakens.

  Arrin Dakar always wins a stalemate.

  “Congratulations, Commander,” she says, adjusting a string of jewels around her neck. “You won a war in some backwater kingdom. I hope those farmers didn’t give too much of a fight.” She has a porcelain doll’s pout, entirely the opposite of Arrin’s normal red-lipped finds. She’s like something made of air or glass, perfect from every angle, and I like watching her. It’s enjoyable in a strange, frustrating sort of way.