Dark of the West (Glass Alliance)

by Joanna Hathaway

  “Those farmers with field guns, Your Highness?” Arrin grins. “No, we hardly broke a sweat. The only reason it took two years was because we quite liked the cold and didn’t want to leave so soon. The mountains in Karkev are stunning. Have you been?”

  “I’ve no interest in visiting a corrupt place like that.”

  “You’d prefer the heat? Then how about Thurn? There’s a rumour we’re headed there next.”

  She fidgets with her fork. Even that’s graceful. “Thurn is a wild place, Commander.”

  “Then let me tame it, Your Highness. I’ll do it for you, in your name, because you deserve nothing less. I’ll make that hell into a paradise, fit for both your crown and mine.”

  She rounds on him. “You aren’t a prince! You’re a uniform and little else!”

  Of course. That’s all we are in this room, to these people.

  But Arrin tilts closer. “That’s not what most ladies say, not once they get beneath this uniform.”

  She gasps.

  It’s a damn good thing no one else heard that.

  “Ignore him,” I say quickly. “He’s drunk.”

  She looks across the table, noticing me for the first time. “He had one glass of port.”

  A servant scuttles over to refill the Princess’s glass, and he’s nearly trembling with nerves. He won’t look her in the eye. I begin to wonder if we missed a lesson on protocol somewhere. How do I even address a royal? Do they still cut off people’s heads here for looking at a king the wrong way? Someone should have been a bit clearer with us before this moment, seated at this elaborate table, Arrin about to sink his own ship in the usual spectacular fashion.

  But he finally deigns to acknowledge my presence. “I’m not drunk, Lieutenant Erelis. But you should be, because you’re clearly not a winning personality when sober.” He turns back to the ample curves. “Your Highness, the Lieutenant’s still a rookie in the ways of war. He doesn’t yet realize that all of this”—Arrin gestures at himself—“could be buried and forgotten tomorrow.”

  Good God, is that one of his lines?

  “And as a matter of fact,” he continues, “what are you doing here anyway, Lieutenant? Go sit with your own kind.” He gestures at Garrick and Cyar and the rest. “That’s an order.”

  “Sir,” I say with a submissive nod, standing.

  It nearly burns my whole tongue off.

  “And good evening, Your Highness,” I add to the Princess, attempting to recover some manners, but she doesn’t even hear me.

  Oh well.

  I try to scout out Father in the sea of uniforms. There’s a bump against my shoulder, a Landorian colonel giving me an annoyed look as he passes. I don’t apologize.

  Why should it be me?

  After wandering a bit more, I find Father leaning against the farthest balcony of the pavilion, the sunset sea behind him. He’s standing with a man who doesn’t look local. Brown-skinned, with sharp, lean features. Southern? The man laughs and tells some story, clutching a wine glass in each hand, his arms linked around the same number of women. Father listens carefully.

  When I near, the man urges the ladies away. He looks me up and down. “Who’s this?”

  “My youngest,” Father says, which is suspicious. If Father’s introducing me honestly, then this man is in on the game, and this isn’t idle conversation.

  Then again, Father’s conversations are never idle.

  “Stars, another son? They don’t end. Ah, what are you? Fifteen? I know exactly how it is to be the youngest. I bet you’re only here to smile and serve the food.”

  I narrow my eyes. “I’m almost eighteen, actually, and—”

  “Yes, just here to serve the food,” Father interrupts. He hands me an empty plate. “Get Ambassador Havis more of the dessert pastries. Those women left nothing. Bring another glass of red wine, too.”

  Me?

  “Do I need to ask again, Lieutenant?” There’s an edge of impatience in Father’s voice.

  I shake my head and turn.

  “They can be quite temperamental at this age,” the Ambassador says, vaguely smirking.

  I clench the plate in my fist and resist the urge to hurl it back at him.

  Fifteen? That’s just insulting.

  At the dessert table, I grab small cakes and stack them haphazardly. As many as can fit, crumbling beneath my fingers. I fill a wine glass with cranberry juice. It all looks the same anyway. My mistake.

  I swing from the table and stop in my tracks.

  There’s Arrin and the Princess, leaning close enough now he’s got a very fine view of the ample assets. And she’s lit with a smile, her hair rich with the sun’s glow, listening as he demonstrates some trick with a coin, leaning closer every second.

  How the hell does he do that?

  Kalt materializes from the crowd beside me, also watching. “Quite a gift, isn’t it?”

  “The gift of having the face of a god and the morals of a port-side sailor?”

  “Yes, well, if it gets her to sing our praises to Gawain, then who gives a damn?” He crosses his arms. “No matter how much people want to strangle Arrin, they still want to claim him as their own. Father. Evertal. Even this Windom.”

  “I mostly just want to strangle him.”

  That earns me a slight smile. “Did you know one of the rebel militia units in Karkev asked to shake his hand after they surrendered? They were that impressed by his fight. God, it’s almost mythological.”

  There’s sincerity in his voice. Genuine, bittersweet. At least I don’t care about living in Arrin’s shadow. In or out makes no difference to me, but it’s not the same for Kalt.

  I offer him a pastry. “If only Gawain had a prince, right?”

  It takes a moment, the joke seemingly lost, or perhaps an inch too far, but then he begins to chuckle. Both of us do. It feels good to laugh, for real, in this overstuffed circus.

  “Not enough servants are there, Lieutenant?” Garrick says on his way by, stealing from my plate. He’s outfitted in his full dress uniform, armed with medals from Karkev. On a mission for fancy Landorian beds, no doubt. “Thanks for the dessert, rookie.”

  His first officer, Ollie Helsun, follows behind, giving a snort. Ollie’s the very best wingman. He’ll laugh at any unfunny quip if it’s made by Garrick.

  “Your arm looks rather lonely tonight, Captain,” I observe.

  “Haven’t found a lady yet worth my stamina,” Garrick replies in Savien. He sounds charming, like we’re sharing bawdy humour, pilot to pilot, but the fact that I beat his Academy record simmers between us. It’s going to for a while.

  “Perhaps you can take a lesson from the Commander,” I say, equally charming.

  He glances at Arrin, absorbing the scene—the porcelain girl of perfection tracing medals on my brother’s chest. His expression sours. In Savient, being a captain counts for something. Here, he’s just another one of us.

  Another meaningless Safire uniform.

  He marches off, Ollie trailing after, and I want to call, “There are some targets too high for even you, including my score!”

  But I don’t. Because I’m a lieutenant now.

  “Pilots are cocky bastards,” Kalt observes. “If you’d like, I can shoot him out of the sky with my ship. Friendly fire happens.”

  “Please. By the way, do I look fifteen?”

  “What? No.”

  I leave my brother, continuing back for Father and Havis. They’re deep in conversation, alone. Father’s presence has a magnificent way of discouraging anyone not invited.

  The Ambassador grins when I offer the desserts. “Very well trained, aren’t you?”

  I bite my tongue, and Father waves the plate away. I set it on the balcony beside us.

  “As I was saying,” Havis continues, “I quite miss the years based here in Landore, but my reassignment has proved invaluable.”

  Father nods. “Etania.”

  “It was an unexpected change, but a welcome one.”


  I raise my brow. “From the greatest empire in the North to that little kingdom?”

  “Your point?”

  “It sounds like a demotion, Ambassador.”

  “It was a reassignment,” Havis repeats.

  “Then congratulations. I’m sure you’ve earned it.”

  Father gives me a warning glance.

  “You must know, General,” Havis continues, like I’m not worth his time, “I was truly shocked by the news of your tragic loss.”

  “It was the act of a coward,” Father says tightly.

  “Indeed. It has stunned the world, felt by everyone in the North, even in the little kingdoms.”

  “Yes,” Father agrees, “there does seem to be much regret and fear, what with the condolences sent to me.” Father lowers his voice. “But of course I don’t quite believe this could happen to just anyone. I believe my wife was a carefully chosen target.”

  “It’s possible.”

  “And I believe your enemy is the same as mine.”

  “Also possible.”

  They’re dancing around the name they won’t say out loud.

  Sinora Lehzar.

  It’s not time to speak it, not yet, but the danger of even discussing the possibility here makes my palms sweat. Maybe that’s why they’re doing it.

  Who plots regicide at a royal gala?

  Havis smiles faintly. “You needn’t tell me these things. You know what I’ve lived through.”

  “Yes. Your brother was a good man, a loyal fighter, before—”

  “My family hasn’t been as lucky as yours, General.”

  “It’s not about luck, Havis. What happened could have been avoided, and you know it.”

  “Perhaps, perhaps not.” The Ambassador drifts back to me, unhurried. “When my brother went to war, he was like this one. Too young to know any better.” I narrow my eyes again, because he has no idea what I’ve been through or why I do what I do, but he shrugs. “I’ve since made my own way. Free of that madness.”

  “And you’re ready to work for justice?”

  There’s a long pause. The tide chugs in and out, thumping below us, and the Resyan man smiles, lifting his wine glass. “I’m from the house of Havis, General. I do anything for the highest bid.”

  He sips the juice, then makes a face.

  12

  AURELIA

  Hathene, Etania

  The loss of Hady arrives in a panicked tremor of rumours, gaining momentum and infecting the court with a vicious sense of persecution.

  “Took the consul of the city himself, can you believe it? Hung him along with the officers. Left them bloating in the sun for three days.”

  “I heard the entire week. My cousin serves with the Landorian forces, you know. He fled in time.”

  “Truly, how could a pack of rebels pull such a thing off!”

  “Outside help, I’m certain, but from where?”

  They glance at my Resyan mother with an unspoken question in their eyes, and while she hardly seems to notice, I’m terrified they might somehow peer inside her head, see the words “great revolution” and “necessary change” there, and find their unwelcome answer.

  Which is why I decide to host a Royal Chase.

  “Stars, no one wants a frivolous thing like that right now,” Uncle complains when he learns of my idea, and that Mother’s supportive of it. “The world’s on the brink of boiling over again, and you think a horse race through the woods will distract our people from it?”

  But I do, and Mother agrees. Even Reni gets a perky smile over it, because secretly he loves a good competition, especially a public one. And since his stallion is without a doubt the most magnificent in the field, of course he’ll win.

  My brother needs a victory, and I’d like to give him one.

  Race day brings the first truly hot day of summer. People flock from Hathene to the palace grounds, lured by the chance to make a gamble, and I think it’s very convenient that men are so moved by money. They stroll paths normally forbidden, admiring from afar the gardens, the royal airfield, the stables. Palace guards in green livery herd hundreds of commoners to a viewing point on a hill overlooking the lawn, while Mother and her court are escorted close to the course and the finish line, where a small podium has been raised. Cheerful enthusiasm grows as bets are placed and debated amid colourful parasols and caps.

  “It’s good for the spirit to be outside,” Mother says to me, a tad wistful. She holds a wine-coloured folding fan in one hand, and with the other reaches out for the light, like she’s grasping a tangible thing. “I’ve missed the sun.”

  It’s rare she steps outside like this, especially in summer. It burnishes her amber skin to a deeper shade that, no matter how lovely, only sets her apart further.

  It does for me, too, but they’ll never keep me indoors, no matter what the court might think of my Southern hue.

  Behind us, Uncle follows with the occasional long-suffering sigh. The Chase used to involve guns, but when I first learned that a fox would be released to die for the sport of it, I sobbed an entire night and Father changed the traditional rules to make it only a race. Uncle finds the whole thing rather pointless now.

  Lord Jerig is waiting near the podium, pinched per usual, and Mother suggests we invite him to stand with us. “Sometimes the wisest move is to invite the enemy to your table,” she explains, striding for him with a diplomatic smile.

  Well, if she thinks so.

  Lord Marcin and Violet follow behind, Violet wearing a gigantic feather and clutching the arm of a boy I recognize—Slick, from the retirement party. She laughs with him, apparently not at all concerned the Prince will soon see her flaunting this clever-mouthed pilot boy, but her gaze darts often to the stables beyond, her laughter not entirely real.

  Uncle pretends to be gracious and offers me a hand when we reach the podium steps.

  I shake my head and follow Mother and Jerig up.

  Then I stand before the crowd of courtiers, a circular brown microphone level with my mouth, and the group seems suddenly much larger. A lot of faces, familiar and unfamiliar, all staring expectantly at me, the host of the race. Waiting for me to give a pretty little speech. Even Violet hushes Slick soundly, his face wincing like a scolded puppy. But since I’ve seen Mother do this enough, I know how it should go, and I give a diplomatic smile.

  “Welcome, dear friends, to our day of sport. We are honoured by your presence, each and every one of you.” I make sure to nod in the direction of the nearby hill, to the city folk listening to my echoing voice from a distance. “I hope you will enjoy this competition in the spirit from which it was born—for the love of our steeds, for the joy of these woods, and out of respect for excellent sportsmanship. This day is for all of us.”

  I think my cheeks are a little pink, but otherwise my voice sounds steady.

  The courtiers clap—Violet extra vibrantly, as if I’ve just juggled a dozen eggs at once—and a loud trumpet rings silvery across the lawn. Seven horses appear by the eastern gardens, Reni leading the group. He’s dressed in a leather coat and tall riding boots, astride his bay stallion, Liberty, who is mostly royalty himself—a gleaming mahogany creature with black points reaching to his knees and hocks, a giant among the other horses. He prances beneath my brother’s half-halts. Sweaty froth already slicks his neck and chest.

  They’re trotting to the start line, waving at the eager spectators, and nearly to us, when there’s a sudden shout. Then another.

  I shade my eyes from the sun, trying to see.

  A strange tide erupts from within the crowd on the hill, emerging like furious ants onto the green before the horses.

  “No Safire boots in Etania!” a man shouts, throwing himself down, arms spread.

  Others shout the same, and the crowd silences in confusion. The courtiers before me clutch hats and parasols, gaping. Mother’s hand grips my arm like a vice as a mob of men in dark coats surround the horses and flail their arms at Liberty. Reni struggles
to keep the stallion from rearing up. Liberty hops to the side instead and tosses his head, whinny mixing with the chants.

  I break free of Mother’s grasp and hurry down the podium steps, sprinting for Liberty as best I can in a dress. Someone needs to take hold of the panicked stallion before he throws Reni off completely!

  Guards have surrounded the men when I arrive, cuffing them behind the head, a commotion of shouts and fists and struggling limbs. Reni is still aboard, hollering at the men. “Your voices are heard! Her Majesty will listen. See, she comes now. Make your case and you will not be ignored.”

  He sounds older addressing them, and he looks like some sort of knight, reining in his trembling, glorious stallion in circles.

  I turn and find Mother close on my heels, but she’s glaring at Reni in fury. The look on her face is frightening. “Get these criminals from my sight,” she orders the guards. “Hold them until we have answers, is that understood?”

  One of the men struggles between his captors. He has a grey mustache, his cleft chin blunt and square, intimidating even with a guard gripping either arm. “No Safire boots in Etania!” he shouts again into the wind. “We don’t want those bloody tracks here!”

  “A Resyan woman doesn’t speak for us!” another cries.

  Mother draws all of her fierce and catlike elegance into one single, dark-eyed gaze. “Your Queen speaks for you, traitor.”

  “They’ve harmed no one!” Reni declares roughly from atop Liberty.

  The harsh tone sends his stallion lurching backwards, nearly slamming into the horse behind him, and I seize the bridle. The moment my fingers are gripping the reins, Liberty stills. My hands stroke the arch of his lathered neck. His breath continues to come like a dragon snorting, sides heaving, but he respects my touch.

  Reni doesn’t even seem to notice, his gaze fixed on the protesters. “What is it you wish to say? Your Queen listens.”

  Mother snaps her fan in anger. Sweat brightens her face. “I do not.”

  “Then if you won’t,” Reni announces, “I will.”

  Stars!

  I clutch the reins tighter, but a strange silence falls, a long moment where no one moves, not the courtiers gathered in their finery, nor the crowds in their tweed and cotton, nor the guards in their green livery. Even the wicked men in dark coats look stunned. It’s as if we’re all waiting for some balance to shift. Some weight to move one way or another and make it clear how to feel about this unexpected confrontation.