Dark of the West (Glass Alliance)

by Joanna Hathaway

  His hair falls in a mess over his forehead, like he never bothered to do better when he woke this morning, or when he got off the aeroplane here, and the casual appearance accentuates the informal greeting.

  I really don’t know who raised them.

  I lift my chin, waiting, and it takes a moment. Understanding dawns and both boys step swiftly to the side, one right and the other left. Violet and I walk straight through the middle. We continue down the hall and I don’t look behind.

  “Regardless of manners, the handsome pilot was quite taken by me on the steps,” Violet insists. “Did you see how he smiled at me?”

  “No,” I say, because I’m sure he was staring more at her breasts.

  * * *

  The sun’s lowering behind the mountains by the time I have a moment alone with Reni. He’s been in meeting with Uncle, and refuses to admit any details of it to me, which only sparks my irritation hotter. I don’t trust either of them. And that realization, the feeling of something unspoken between us, like we’re on opposite sides of a divide, leaves us both sullen and silent as we cross the lawn to the quiet edge of the forest. There’s only the distant sound of engine noise, one of our Etanian aeroplanes rattling down the runway and rising into the golden sky.

  Reni leans against an elm, his arms tucked under each other. “Well, I’m beginning to see how they got Karkev under their belt.”

  “It’s true,” I agree. “I don’t think the Safire care much for precedents.”

  Reni snorts.

  The Etanian plane spins high above us, a glinting bit of green in the reddening sky.

  “And now Mother’s decided I’m not to be a part of the negotiations with the General,” Reni continues, his frustration clearly chafing. “Uncle says she thinks I’ll do something rash. But we need to bring up Karkev. Dakar needs to acknowledge the truth. He said he’d secure his own borders, no further, and now he’s taken the whole thing! He claims nothing was written down, but does a man’s honour need to be in ink?”

  The plane does another sudden spin, impressively quick.

  “Yes…,” I say, watching.

  “Yes?”

  “I mean, no.”

  The plane drops into a steep dive and disappears from sight. I’ve never seen a pilot practice tactics near the palace. I don’t think it’s allowed, but perhaps they’ve been inspired by the Safire show this morning.

  “I suppose you’d be applauding these things, Ali, being the fan of the Safire you’ve suddenly become this spring. Are you still in awe?”

  His words light the match, and I glare at him. “You want to know why Mother won’t invite you to these negotiations? It’s because you aren’t even strong enough to handle the fate of your own horse!”

  He flinches visibly and the drone grows louder again, gathering strength.

  “That’s a rotten thing to say,” he whispers.

  It is, and I mean it. “Don’t you dare leave Liberty like this. If you don’t have the nerve to put him out of his misery, then I will. I’ll give the order to pull the—”

  Propellers erupt above us, drowning me out as the Etanian plane charges over our heads, rolling wildly across the tree line like it’s coming down in flames.

  “What’s that mad pilot doing?” I gasp.

  Reni scowls. “About to get himself in a lot of trouble, that’s what.”

  He turns on his heel, sprinting for the airbase, certainly glad to have a sudden and tangible mission. I chase after him, eyes to the sky. The plane attempts an even higher loop, fighting the strong mountain wind, wings trembling. It’s nearly terrifying. I half expect the little plane to come to pieces.

  A man in Etanian uniform rushes over when we reach the tarmac. “Forgive me, Your Highness. I wasn’t aware of this.” He waves down the runway to where three young men stand in the shade, including Slick. “I’ll deal with it right away.”

  Recognition darkens Reni’s face. “No, Captain. I’ll deal with this myself.”

  Now the mission has taken a very personal turn, and I have to hurry to keep up with Reni’s ever-lengthening stride. But my eyes are still stuck to the display above. The three boys also peer at the sky, unaware of our approach. One’s in Safire uniform.

  “What is happening here?” Reni demands imperiously when we arrive.

  All three whirl to face him.

  Slick swallows, going pale as a daisy petal. “The Safire wished to test one of our aeroplanes, Your Highness.”

  Reni looks incredulous. “That’s a Safire pilot up there?”

  No one answers, so the Safire boy nods. It’s the young one with black hair. He seems embarrassed.

  “They made us do it,” Slick insists, “and we were afraid to say no.”

  “Made you?” Reni repeats.

  “You know how they are, Your Highness.”

  This earns him a resentful glance from the Safire boy.

  “Regardless,” Reni says, “I’d expect better resolve and loyalty from one of Her Majesty’s pilots.”

  Slick flushes, and the plane hurtles past, performing an upside-down roll.

  We all stare.

  “This doesn’t look safe,” Reni announces.

  The Safire boy shades his eyes from the sun. “Don’t worry. He’s very good. But today there’s a lot of—how do you call it in Landori? Wind from the side?”

  “Crosswind,” the other Etanian pilot supplies.

  “Yes, crosswind.” A smile splits the boy’s face.

  Reni brushes him aside. “Bring that plane down now,” he orders.

  For a moment, the foreign boy appears confused, since we’re nowhere near the airbase and have no way to communicate with the reckless pilot above. But Reni just scowls further and the boy does the only thing he can—he jogs onto the runway, flapping his arms at the sky. It takes a few moments, no indication that he’s successful, before the plane circles lower and waggles its wings in response. It’s caught on strong gusts, bucking from side to side. A mad show from any angle. But despite the fight, it lands on the runway without a jolt, gentle and smooth, and the Etanian pilots glance at each other, evidently impressed. Brakes hiss as it screeches down the tarmac. The nose swings round when it comes to an abrupt halt not far off, oil dripping down the wheels and propeller whirring. The three pilots go to meet the daredevil.

  I snatch my brother’s arm. “Don’t be too harsh, Reni. The plane is still in one piece.”

  He glowers in disgust.

  This is it, then. The first battle of the visit and I can’t even call for support. Who’s going to come? The ground crew?

  I simply watch, helpless, as the propeller silences, and the glass cockpit slides open. The fair-haired boy from the hall stretches out, wearing a triumphant smile and a pair of flying goggles, his hair even more a mess now. He doesn’t notice us standing in the shadow of the elms. “How was that for a show?” he calls to the pilots, words tinged with the Savien accent.

  They say nothing, as if they weren’t at all impressed only moments before, and the other Safire boy motions in our direction.

  The one in the plane turns. His sunlit smile fades. He hops down from the wing, pulling off the goggles, then lopes over to us, hair all askew.

  “Your Highness,” he says, giving a short bow to Reni. There’s a streak of black oil on his cheek. “How are—”

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” my brother asks.

  The pilot glances over his shoulder. “Flying, I think.”

  “Yes, I can see that. Do I look stupid to you?”

  The blond boy stares. “No,” he says, though he really shouldn’t have hesitated.

  “Then give me an honest answer.”

  “I was comparing your airplanes to ours.”

  Reni crosses his arms. “Comparing? To test maneuverability, I assume? Airspeed and thrust?”

  The Safire boy smiles. “I didn’t know you were a pilot.”

  “I’m not.”

  “It sounds like you are.�
�

  “No, it sounds like you’re spying.”

  The boy begins to laugh, but it dies on his lips when Reni takes a step closer. The boy puts his hands in the air.

  “Our aeroplanes aren’t to be used for your amusement,” Reni says. “You Safire think you can run around the world and do what you like, but not here.”

  “Please forgive me, Your Highness. I wasn’t trying to cause trouble.” He sounds honest enough.

  Reni waves him off. “Save your excuses for the Royal League when you and your General are tried for war crimes.”

  The boy frowns at that, Reni stepping round him for the other pilots, and then he gives me a shrug, hands still raised. I’m not sure what it means. If he’s embarrassed or apologetic or uncaring. “I haven’t been in the sky for weeks,” he says after a moment, as if the whole thing can be redeemed with this reasoning. “And your pilots said it would be fine.”

  “It’s not fine,” I say.

  “I see that now, Princess. But I only wanted to fly.”

  Again, he uses that informal address on me, as if only Reni deserves a proper title. It’s exactly what Havis does.

  I face the other way, partly annoyed, partly not wanting to be swayed by the honesty in his gaze.

  “I’ll be reporting your leniency to the Queen this evening,” Reni informs the Etanians, relishing the traumatized look on Slick’s face. “I doubt she’ll be very pleased to hear of this.” Then he walks back and tugs at my arm. “Let’s go,” he says, giving Slick, then the Safire, a last stern glare.

  The blond boy sighs, rubbing the oil splotch from his cheek. He looks rather defeated standing there—long Safire hair tousled with sweat, hand gripping his flying goggles, all of him made more romantic by the pretty aeroplane and sunset mountains beyond.

  But since he’s now set the precedent for foreign spies in our aeroplanes, I suppose he’ll have to deal with the inevitable consequences.

  I shrug at his last hopeful glance, more a plea, then follow my brother back for the palace.

  * * *

  In the evening, Mother holds a music recital to welcome our guests. The old palace theatre, with its mahogany walls and carved stage, brims with the upper class of Hathene, everyone eager to observe the Safire from a comfortable and close proximity. They sit in their velvet seats, talking behind hands and stealing glances at the General and the Queen, then hush when the draping curtains are drawn back.

  Instrumentalists perform first, a duet between violin and viola, followed by a troupe of dancers in traditional dress. After that is Violet, ready to share her beautiful voice. She glides to the front of the stage in yet another alluring gown. This one covers up more, thankfully, but the lace along the arms is still thin and delicate. A mauve ribbon sparkles in her auburn curls, and in her hands she holds an entire fan of peacock feathers.

  I hope to the stars Havis isn’t in any way responsible.

  As everyone sighs along at just the right notes, her voice pure crystal, the kind that belongs crooning on the wireless, Reni sits next to me, mesmerized. Perhaps he didn’t notice what happened on the steps with Cock, a fact which makes me feel guilty, like I should warn him or protect him from the truth. But then I remember Liberty and I feel less charitable.

  Wondering how her new admirer is enjoying the show, I peek over my left shoulder to where the Safire soldiers are seated across the aisle. Cock leans forward in his chair, his captivated gaze on Violet. Beside Cock is the pilot who flew the second fighter plane, the one with jet-black hair and high, handsome cheekbones. There’s a weary weight to his head. I follow the line of Safire and realize they each appear quite bored—or perhaps quite tired—with the exception of Cock.

  Movement at the end of the row catches my attention. I peer harder in the low lights, realizing it’s the blond boy, the daredevil, discreetly waving at me. He makes a spinning motion with his hand, kept low behind the seat, then places it to his chest, face something like regretful.

  I give him a confused shake of my head. At least his hair’s finally combed.

  He tries again, a bit more dramatic, though still low enough not to be seen by those around him. It’s the worst kind of charades, and I stare at him, baffled.

  Reni nudges me sharply. “Violet’s singing,” he whispers.

  I face forward again as she reaches her highest note. The violins swell, and she lifts a hand, like she’s the star of the North. Rousing applause greets her. Then the lights lower, instruments shifting hands, a horn sounding in the darkness, and she begins a song in Savien.

  Both Reni and I turn to each other, stunned.

  When did she learn this?

  The strange words sound sharp along the edges, but the melody is haunting. A beautiful song that brings the room to perfect stillness.

  I glance over my shoulder at the daredevil again. I can’t resist.

  He’s still watching me, but there’s an annoyed look on his face now, like I’ve offended him somehow. I’ve no clue what he’s getting at. I try to convey that in the faint light, try to shrug at him without being noticed, and then, as if frustrated by me and the theatre and even this beautiful song in his own language, he gets up and marches down the aisle and abandons the show.

  Just like that.

  15

  ATHAN

  The music show is the end of my endurance and I can’t listen to another word of that miserable song.

  Sinora picked it on purpose.

  I know it.

  The familiar words fade behind me as I escape the theatre, desperate to shut them out. Words about soaring hawks and seaweed fish and waves crashing on white cliffs. It’s a folk song from Mother’s home. The north of Savient, where mountain and water meet. She used to sing this same song to me during the revolution, drowning out the night gunfire, promising me over and over that the flashing lights on the horizon were too far away to hurt us.

  Grief twists my anger, aching.

  I’ll never hear her voice again. Not now or any day until I die.

  And it’s because of Sinora Lehzar. Sinora, who knew who I was the moment she looked at me, a razor question in her gaze. She’s the face from the photograph on Father’s desk, beautiful and hard, wielding something far more formidable than a gun—a gold crown.

  “Slow down,” Cyar calls at my back.

  “I’m not listening to that poison.”

  “It’s just a song, Athan.”

  From anyone else, the comment would snap the thin restraint inside me. But it’s him. And he says it in his usual honest way, calling a spade a spade, and maybe it is too ridiculous to think Sinora could have known this song, this one song, was mine.

  I slow my stride.

  At least he’s talking to me again. Up until now, he hasn’t said more than one full sentence. For Cyar Hajari, that’s approaching merciless. He blames me for giving in to the Etanian pilots and their obnoxious goading, and now we’re both marked spies. That’s a bit true, since I could have turned back when they suggested Safire pilots are only able to fly with fancy machines. But how could I let that go? And how was I supposed to know aerobatics are forbidden this close to the palace? They should have mentioned it. Cyar says I should have asked.

  Yes, because my family always asks before acting.

  “I just want to sleep,” I admit to him, rubbing at my raw headache. The long day of travel, the time adjustment—it’s ruined us all. Well, all of us except Garrick, since that girl on stage might as well have been singing for him alone. “When are we up for watch?”

  “Three in the morning,” Cyar says with his own look of woe. He’s as excited as I am about the prospect of babysitting airplanes in a cold hangar.

  Together, we walk the silent halls for our guest rooms. Everyone important is still perched in their theatre chairs, and I think of the Princess watching me with her perplexed little look, pretty eyes and full lips ruined by the same disease of Norvenne. That displeased, royal frown. Reminding us we’re strange foreign creatures, b
affling and base, to be endured only until no longer needed.

  We turn the corner for the Safire apartments and find two figures standing together in the low evening lights. It’s Malek and a rich-looking Etanian man.

  “The shipment went to your eastern airbase,” Malek says quietly, “so it should be easy to unload. I trust you have the proper way to disperse it?”

  “Indeed,” the man replies, sounding pleased. “I’m well-connected, I assure you. On paper we have it bound for the Queen’s Mounted Regiment.”

  It takes my distracted brain this long to realize I understand them not because they’re speaking Landori but because they’re speaking Savien, and I stare at the mustached man.

  An Etanian lord knows Savien?

  Malek spots us walking towards them, and steps away.

  “The show over, Lieutenant?” he asks me.

  “We left early.”

  Malek gives me an examining look, like I’m the one discussing logistics with one of Sinora’s men. But I remember the lord now. He was at her side when we arrived. He didn’t look so friendly then. A bit hateful, actually.

  Now the man offers me a meaningful smile on his way by, the sort that implies we’re in on the same secret. I’m the wrong person for that. But I give him the same smile in return, because I’ve learned it’s always best that people at least think you know the secrets.

  “Good evening, Lord Jerig,” Malek says.

  “Pleasant evening, Admiral.”

  The man disappears down the hall.

  Then Malek nods at me. “Lieutenant,” he says simply, and since I find the man intimidating even on a normal day, I say, “Admiral,” and keep walking for our room.

  Cyar shuts the door once we’re inside and turns on me.

  “Tell me what you know, Athan.”

  “Nothing,” I say quickly, but his glare is still suspicious.

  I wave my hands in surrender. “All right. There was a shipment of vintage weapons. It’s a royal tradition to share these things. They use them in parade.” The excuse sounds even worse now that I’m saying it out loud. I must have been really tired when Kalt used it on me.