Perhaps that thing is me.
I release Liberty with a last stroke on his shoulder, then step out where all can see. “My Royal Chase is no place for this kind of display,” I say to Reni alone, but loud enough everyone else can hear, too. “This isn’t how we settle things in Etania, is it?”
Reni’s silent gaze begs me to be his ally.
But I can’t. My father, and now Reni, may have allowed such opinions, and perhaps these men have the right to believe them, but it can’t be like this, not now.
I have to stand by Mother.
“No,” I continue louder, “Her Majesty is right. This isn’t the way to express a concern. They won’t ruin our day with incivility. The General is our honourable ally now, a man committed to encouraging peace, and these men seek their own vain attention.”
Everyone stares.
I motion at the guards. “Don’t just stand there. Do as your queen orders!”
They pale at such a blunt order, from me of all people, but lead the men from the lawn quickly. The lords and ladies nod their heads, murmuring agreement, and Reni is wounded. It’s only in his eyes. He still sits proudly on Liberty, shoulders squared, but thick betrayal hangs between us.
How I wish I could explain.
How I wish he knew the truth of Father’s death, of all the things unseen.
But Reni doesn’t even glance at me on his way to the start line, denying me the chance to kiss Liberty’s nose for good luck, to wish him a safe race. He doesn’t even notice Violet and Slick.
I stand bereft beneath the sweltering sun until Mother kisses my cheek. “Thank you, my heart,” she says in Resyan, so no one else will know the depth of her gratitude.
Please, Father, tell me I did the right thing.
But there’s no reply, only a hush falling as seven riders take position at the start.
A gun fires, echoing, and the horses leap forward, earth flying behind. They gallop the lawn at a blistering pace and the first hurdle—a four-foot hedge with ditches on either side—is taken at full tilt. Only one horse refuses to follow through. The rest are up and over, sweeping past us with Reni in the lead. A heart-lurching jump into the river is next, and he doesn’t slow down. Of course he doesn’t. I hear Mother make a tiny, terrified noise as Liberty launches himself over the drop. Two horses follow behind. The crowd gasps, thrilled, and the animals are nearly on top of one another in the water, struggling to find footing and reach the opposite bank. Reni storms up the far side of the river and disappears into the woods. The rest follow in pursuit.
We can see nothing for a few heated moments, only hear the sound of hooves echoing among the oak and chestnut and pine.
No one speaks, waiting.
Then Liberty bursts out of the woods and into the river again like a hurtling star. There’s a gasp from the crowd around us. He’s quickly up the riverbank in a spray of water and sweat, Reni atop with a soaked leather coat. They’re both nearly neck-deep in splattered mud. Liberty reaches forward to stretch into the gallop of the straightaway, breaking for the finish line, but his hoof hits the slop of wet dirt and slips beneath him. He falls forward, shoulder hurling into the earth, and Mother cries out beside me.
My breath disappears.
But Reni hangs on, kicking with his heels. Like an awkward baby deer struggling to stand, Liberty scrambles up just as another horse crashes through the water behind them. Reni senses competition and whacks Liberty with his crop on one heaving flank. The stallion pushes forward, but there’s a limp in his front-right leg. He gallops slightly off-kilter, favouring the injury.
“No,” I whisper. “No, no, no.”
My brother continues with that wicked sting of his crop. Once, twice. Again and again, Liberty trying so hard to give Reni what he demands. Destroying himself to obey. His ears twist in frustration, in pain. And I did this. I’ve given my brother a reason to push beyond what’s right and win something for himself. I want to run and throw myself in front of him, like those men, and beg him to stop.
But I can only watch as Liberty fights, brutally, for the lead.
He crosses the finish line first.
The trumpet sounds, and everyone claps brightly, congratulating Mother, the spectators on the hill celebrating with loud whistles and applause. My brother doesn’t lift his hand in triumph, though. He pulls Liberty to a halt and swings wildly off, dropping to the ground, kneeling before anyone can stop him, feeling Liberty’s injured leg with desperate hands.
I blink back tears.
No one else seems concerned about the stallion’s state, only watching curiously as the head groom jogs over and joins Reni, the freckled stable boy now holding Liberty’s reins and looking wide-eyed. They walk Liberty forward a few steps and he staggers.
“Might mean a bullet for that one,” Slick observes matter-of-factly to Violet.
Violet covers her mouth and turns away.
I draw closer, shaking with anger and horror. I have to know.
“We’ll need to give him a few days’ rest, Your Highness,” the groom says to Reni, unable to disguise his grief. “We won’t make any decisions until we see what we can do.”
Reni nods, silent, and removes his helmet. His dark hair is matted and wet. I want to hit him and hug him at the same time, the selfish, selfish boy. He’s destroyed his beautiful horse. He did it to win, and yet here he is now, trembling with regret.
They lead Liberty away at an awkward hobble, and I place my hand on Reni’s arm.
He pushes me off. There’s a glimmer in his eyes. “Don’t say it.”
Then he’s striding for the palace, mud-splattered and defeated, and I curse this lovely summer day for being so rotten on the inside.
13
ATHAN
Norvenne, Landore
After eight days of negotiations, Landore approves our base in Thurn.
Father had me record their hours of debate. A discreet way to bring me into the thick of things. I sat silently in the back of their meetings with another young translator, writing down the Landori discussions as Savien words. Every day that the tragedies mounted—first the loss of Hady, then a slaughtered unit outside the city of Beraya, and after that an attack on a Landorian merchant ship off the coast—was a strike against Gawain. His council couldn’t hide their panic. They resented the stalling, and Father’s steady optimism won him allies.
The morning after his victory, Father orders Arrin, Kalt, and me to an early briefing. For the first few minutes, only Kalt and I are present. The clock on the wall ticks the awkward silence. It bears the crest of the Landorian forces—a crowned lion, flames in its growling mouth. I trace the design on my thigh with a finger. Waiting.
The door swings open, and Arrin stumbles through still buttoning his collar.
“Late night?” Father asks, the barest thread of humour in his voice. The dangerous kind.
Arrin’s undeterred. “Entertaining Gawain’s daughter with a trip to the opera. She rather likes me, in case you haven’t noticed. I’m sure that’s been helpful to you.”
“Entertain?”
Arrin appears offended. “I wouldn’t mess around with a princess. I’m not that stupid.”
Kalt raises a brow, silent, and Arrin whacks his shoulder, then slumps into the vacant seat on his left.
The lion clock keeps ticking.
Quarter after seven. Could I be out of this in ten minutes? What are the odds of that?
“The coming weeks will be strategic ones for us,” Father continues, “and unfortunately, I can’t be everywhere at once. Arrin, you’ll go to Thurn with Windom, to investigate the situation firsthand.”
Arrin slaps the table. “I get to be the first one of us to visit Thurn’s welcoming locals? Fun.”
Father looks at Kalt. I love when he ignores Arrin completely. “You’ll return to Valon. Evertal’s conducting our summit with the new Karkevite leadership, and I need someone as my voice there.”
“How about I take the summit?” Arrin asks.
“I won that war. Send Kalt and his sailboat to visit the friendly Nahir.”
“You’re well aware that Windom is grateful for your expertise,” Father replies.
Arrin grimaces, drumming his fingers on the chair. “He’s the one who’s been in Thurn as long as I’ve been alive. He and the rest have made a damn mess of it, and now I’m expected to clean it up and tame the rebels? These aren’t the kind who’ll shake my hand at the end of the day.”
“You’re quite right,” Father agrees, “and if they cut out your tongue, they’d be doing me a favour.”
I laugh. Can’t help it. Kalt suppresses his behind a cough.
Father turns to me. “And you’re coming to Etania.”
Laughter dies on my lips. “Sir?”
“Yes, what?” Arrin echoes.
“I’m not going alone,” Father says. “I’ll have Malek there, but he’ll be with me every moment. I need someone to watch where I’m not.”
My mouth hangs open. It’s only been six weeks since Mother’s death, and if Sinora Lehzar did it, then I can’t face her. I can fake a lot of things, but I can’t look into that woman’s face and smile.
I can’t.
Arrin beats me to the protest. “This is absurd, Father! We don’t know what Sinora’s capable of. You’ll give her a perfect target.”
“No, you would be a perfect target,” Father says. “You’re worth something in this game. Athan counts for nothing.”
I’m too stunned to be offended by that.
“Then take me,” Arrin says. “Let’s see how far she’s willing to go.”
Father frowns. “Your bold instinct doesn’t always translate well in politics.” He turns back to me. “She has two children about your age. You can get them to talk, can’t you?”
Now this has to be a joke. “They’re royals,” I say. “They’ll never talk to me.”
“Arrin found a way here.”
“I’m not entirely sure that’s the way you want, sir,” Kalt offers.
Arrin whacks him again, then leans on the table, motioning at me. “That bitch will know exactly who he is, hidden behind the name Erelis or not. She knew Mother. She knows more about us than anyone else in the North, and that’s a bad enough card as it is. Don’t shove Athan into it.”
Is Arrin still defending me? That might be the most surprising thing here.
Father smiles. “Of course. But I have Sinora up a tree. She’ll play innocent, anything to avoid suspicion, for as long as it takes. If she doesn’t play by my rules, I’ll simply let the noose tighten quicker.”
Only my father can smile while talking about a noose.
“You’ll come to Etania,” he says firmly, “and then, Lieutenant, you begin your training in Thurn. I’ve just received word that the remodeled fighters are on their way. New twelve-cylinder engine. Twin cannons along with the machine guns. Squadron officers are getting them first, but I’ve requested some for certain officers-in-training.”
And there it is—the hook. I sink back in my seat, the glint of new metal before me. A fresh fighter. A real one with the black swords of the Safire beneath the wings and more firepower than whatever the rest are flying with. Any advantage in the sky is worth it, especially from the man who said he’d never pull strings.
“Air Force command will be curious about how they handle,” Father continues. He knows he’s angled me into position. “You’ll give them a full report.”
“One for Hajari as well?” I ask, since this is key.
“Naturally.”
Father holds my gaze, waiting.
I nod. “Thank you, sir.”
“He bought you with a plane,” Arrin mutters. “Everyone’s gone mad.”
Father ignores him again. “Any questions?”
We shake our heads.
“Very good.”
He goes back to signing his papers, clock still ticking, and I wonder what I’ve just agreed to.
* * *
The gleam of new metal disappears the night before we leave Norvenne. I lie there, memories of Mother covered in blood sabotaging my sleep, eating away the early morning hours. When it’s time to get up, I glance in the mirror and find a pale-looking kid with shadowed eyes and a hint of weary desperation. It’s not very attractive. The only thing I want right now is to fly. It’s been two weeks since I was in a cockpit and there’s a terrible impatience building, like I’m holding my breath, drowning underwater until I’m in the sky again.
But it’s Garrick and Ollie who get to pilot the two new fighters from Landore to Etania. As dawn touches the east, the large airbase on the outskirts of Norvenne hums with activity. The Landorians have the busy east runway, their blue uniforms darting around the tarmac in the distance. Most of their airplanes are bound for the South, military transports loaded with supplies and weaponry for their forces there. We have the quiet west circuit. Father’s plane is fueled, and an unmarked transport sits beside it, smaller and older.
Father’s with me on the dispersal hut balcony, watching impatiently.
“Why aren’t our fighters on their way?” he demands.
“Nearly ready, sir,” says a crewman with a nervous salute.
“That’s what someone said fifteen minutes ago. Her Majesty expects us by morning.”
The crewman nods and scurries off, hollering orders over the radio in his hand.
On the tarmac, Garrick and Ollie are dressed in flight suits and waiting to climb into their cockpits. The two new fighters—complete with twin cannons—appear ghostlike in the low light, grey wings the colour of the sky.
“Damn engines. They’ll need to refuel twice as much,” Father says to me.
I stifle a yawn. “Bringing them along is a headache.”
“I need to make the proper impression. These new planes will do just that.”
“I meant Captain Carr and Officer Helsun.”
Father pins me with a look. “You’d better learn to have a more optimistic view of Captain Carr. You and Hajari are being placed with the Moonstrike squadron for the summer. Carr is one of the best in the air, and he knows how to run a successful squadron. He’ll show you what it means to be decisive.”
I’m in the middle of another yawn, my stunned hand gripping the metal rail.
Before us, Garrick climbs into the cockpit, waving to ground crew, a stupid grin on his face like he’s putting on some kind of death-defying show. The engine starts with a piercing growl.
“I can’t train with him,” I say above the racket. The noise feels a bit like protection, emboldening me. “Let me fly with another squadron. Captain Malek would be—”
“No, it’s a good test, as Arrin suggested.” Father’s facing the tarmac again, but he glances sideways at me. “If you’re going to be a leader, you’ll have to learn to deal with your opposite.”
Of course Arrin was behind this. I can feel exhausted anger ready to leap out, but Father halts it with a sharp look. “I’d hate,” he says, “for Officer Hajari to go into battle without those cannons. I think it’s up to you to prove he needs that new fighter. Perhaps he’d even do better in another squadron, away from you? Separation is good for growth.”
With that brutal threat, he strides down the steps onto the tarmac. I’m left behind, horrified, envisioning Cyar with some slower, obsolete plane in a war-torn sky where I can’t even help him.
The two new fighters hurtle down the runway and break for the western horizon.
Fast. Deadly.
Cyar taps my shoulder. “You look miserable.”
“I couldn’t sleep.”
“And?”
“We’re training with Garrick Carr.”
He gapes like I’ve just kissed his girlfriend. “How the hell did that happen?”
“Apparently I need to learn to deal with my opposite.”
I can’t tell him the whole truth. That’s something he doesn’t need to know. He doesn’t need to know that he’ll always be the vulnerable piece of my life Father can manipulate
on a whim. I never thought how far that might go.
We walk, depressed now, for Father’s plane as the sun appears in the east, washing the base in bright light. The familiar stench of kerosene and the clang of idling metal, the oil-stained tarmac beneath our boots.
Kalt is planted by the neighbouring, unmarked plane, ticking off a list with a pencil, dressed in his heavy wool overcoat. He closes the book when I approach, and Cyar goes on ahead.
“Presents for Thurn?” I ask, watching the men load crates of rifles, handguns, even a few ancient bayonets. The sort of weapons Father’s men used twenty years ago to make Savient. “You know, if we’re going to help the Landorians, they might prefer something a bit more useful. Like actual machine guns. Maybe some mortars?”
Kalt gives me an annoyed look. “It’s for the Etanians. They like the old-guard look for their mounted military parades, so we’re gifting them some Safire vintage. Apparently that’s a thing royals do. Shows unity. And you’d better not act this fresh in front of…” His mouth sets, unwilling to say Sinora’s name out loud.
“I’ll be good,” I say, imagining Cyar in a cannonless plane. I hand him a small blue box. “Please make sure Leannya gets this when you’re home.” He inspects the box, giving a shake. “Careful, Kalt! It’s breakable.”
“What is it?”
“Perfume. Just make sure she gets it.”
He nods and footsteps pound behind, coming near. Someone calling my name.
Arrin.
I ignore him, turning from Kalt and heading for Father’s plane, but he catches up just as I reach the steps. He grips me by the shoulder before I can ascend and forces me to face him.
“You be careful,” he orders. “I begged Father to take me instead, but he won’t listen.”
I’ve spent too many sleepless hours thinking about this. I don’t even care anymore. But one emotion remains. “You’ve got a lot of damn nerve, Arrin,” I say, stepping close. “There are twelve squadrons and you made sure I’d have to salute Garrick!”
Dark of the West (Glass Alliance) Page 13