Dark of the West (Glass Alliance)

by Joanna Hathaway

“You killed it,” I say.

  She smiles again. Her fingers work quickly, reassembling the cloth, tying this way and that, then she hands it back. A flower. “This one won’t be bad luck.”

  She looks friendly between the flickering candelabras, and I can feel her reaching across the divide, trying to offer something real. Against my better judgment, I reach back. She can’t know who I am. Or if she does, she’s better at this game than I ever want to be. “I’m still sad you killed my swan.”

  She laughs. “So, what else do you do, Lieutenant? I mean, when you’re not at war and all that.”

  I shrug. “Paperwork.”

  “And?”

  “More paperwork.”

  “Oh.”

  “Are you disappointed?”

  “Not at all! I just thought…”

  “Go on.”

  “Well, you’re Safire. You must do something special.”

  “Such as?”

  “I don’t know. Flying blindfolded, maybe.”

  I snap my fingers. “Yes, I completely forgot to mention that part.”

  A giggle’s hidden behind her palm. “I assume that’s how you won Karkev?”

  “That and our talent with wine toasting.”

  She laughs out loud now, bright and honest, and I almost do the same. Hers is contagious. But she coughs it away just as suddenly, casting a glance to Sinora, who’s watching us both with a bemused expression.

  The Princess contains herself quickly, fiddling with her cutlery and lining them up on her empty plate. She avoids my gaze, our moment of solidarity gone.

  “Dance with me,” I say.

  It’s one of those times when I surprise even myself.

  “Dance?” she repeats.

  I nod to where others have begun to waltz, violins and cellos and the rest of it. “Yes. I’m not very good, I admit, but … well…”

  She waits.

  “I’ve never danced with a royal. And maybe you’d be willing to give me the honour?”

  A faint blush of pink appears across her nose. “I…” She glances at the head of the table again.

  “Come with me, Princess, or I’ll have to pick someone else.”

  I push from the table and leave her behind.

  Please don’t come. Please don’t come.

  Then why did I say it? Was it for Sinora or for me? I don’t know, and I wait at the edge of the dance floor, wondering what I’ve done, afraid of this girl I barely know.

  The scent of jasmine appears at my side.

  “Thank God you came,” I lie. “I was worried I’d have to ask your brother.”

  She laughs, but it’s a bit hesitant again, like she senses my fiction.

  I hold out my gloved hand—I think that’s what I should do—and she takes it. We skirt the group to a less crowded corner, eyes following us the entire way, and I’m not sure how to begin. “I have another confession to make, Princess. I only know how to waltz in theory.”

  “You’ve lured me out here and you don’t know how to dance?”

  “I assumed you’d be the expert.”

  She makes a little exasperated noise, like the one Cyar made earlier, then puts my arm around her waist. “Violet was right, then. You’ll have to be the woman and follow my lead.”

  She presses closer, apparently comfortable with this, and I suddenly realize that this might be the most of a girl I’ve ever held at once. “Should I find this insulting?” I ask, trying a joke. My breath’s coming a bit shorter. I hope she can’t tell.

  “No, though everyone in the room will think you dance like a lady.”

  With that grinning jab, she begins the waltz, taking evident pleasure in pushing me here and there, coaching our steps and counting the beats. I’m terrible. Truly miserable. I run us right into another couple by accident and they mutter something about the damn Safire getting in the way.

  That’s just unfair.

  The Princess gives me another pitying look. “You’re really not very good at this.”

  “It’s not as easy as flying blindfolded. My feet keep getting in the way. I don’t know what they’re doing.”

  She laughs freely, too close, thin blue fabric against my arms. I can feel the heat from her, the gentle curves. Her skin’s the colour of sun-washed sand, a softly scented warmth that I feel through my uniform, through my own skin and muscle and bone. I feel it everywhere. And I wonder what she thinks of me. She can’t know the truth. She wouldn’t look at me like this if she did. And I like the way she’s looking.

  “Princess Aurelia,” Father calls.

  I nearly put us into another couple pushing her from me. She spins around.

  He’s standing at the edge of the floor, Malek at his side. Malek’s lips rise on one end.

  “Your mother has outdone herself,” Father says. “I hardly feel worthy of such a reception.”

  The Princess smiles. “You deserve all of it, General.”

  He nods, watching, certainly noting her hand still half around my arm. “You’re a gracious host yourself,” he says after a moment. “But you needn’t humour us too far.” He smiles, glancing at me. “I didn’t know you could dance, Lieutenant.”

  I’m not sure why, but guilt has me by the throat. There’s nothing to be guilty about. I’m doing exactly what he wanted. It’s the worst time and place to lose words around him.

  “I was teaching Lieutenant Erelis how to waltz,” the Princess says, rescuing me. “No one’s ever shown him.”

  “Evidently,” Father says, amused.

  Malek laughs, a rare thing, and they both turn, moving on in the direction of Sinora’s table. I’m not sure if I’ll be hearing about this later. Since I’m not his son here, there’s not much he can do in the immediate future. Though there is Garrick.…

  “Will you get in trouble for this?” the Princess asks me.

  “No, I don’t think so.” I spot Cyar at the mostly empty Safire table, playing with a wine glass, bored. My escape. “Though I should head back. It looks like I’ve left him on his own long enough, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes, I think you’re right,” she says, studying Cyar with careful consideration. Then she releases my arm and gives a cheeky smile. “You’re dismissed, Lieutenant.”

  Another bit of laughter escapes me. “Thank you, Princess. And thank you for dancing with me. It was an honour.”

  “No, the honour was mine.”

  She seems to mean it, and I want to tell her, “No, it isn’t and you don’t know what you’re saying.”

  Instead, I say, “I’ll try not to forget what you’ve taught me.”

  I walk away while I still can, threading between the chatter and music, and Cyar sighs when I drop into the seat beside him. “Your table sounded far more exciting than mine,” he says.

  “I’m never doing that again.”

  “Your father seemed pleased.”

  “He’d better damn be.”

  I rub at my forehead. It’s a relief to speak Savien. Familiar, easy words. An hour of fast and formal Landori has my brain knotted.

  “That bad?” Cyar asks.

  “Garrick certainly didn’t do me any favours.”

  “But you ended up waltzing with a princess.”

  I rub some more, then raise my head and look at him. “Do you know what she was doing this morning, Cyar? Rescuing a bird.”

  He stares at me. “A bird?”

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  How do I explain this thing that makes no sense?

  “And so I’m not going to drag her into this mess. It’s better to let her stay out of it, right? I’ll keep working on the Prince. He’s stupid enough he’ll admit things without even realizing it. But I’m not going to talk with her anymore. That’s it. No more. Don’t let me do it.”

  “I won’t.”

  “That’s an order, Hajari.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  There. I feel better saying it out loud.

  I take off the restricting gloves
finally, the scent of jasmine coming with them, and lean back in my seat. The music continues to play, laughter drifting, the fancy room strange and dreamlike. I’ve done everything Father wanted. I have one of Sinora’s children speaking with me, willing to get closer, and she might actually see me as a person, not a uniform. Someone to trust.

  But it doesn’t feel like success.

  “I would have been completely on my own at that table if not for her,” I say, more to myself.

  “At least you weren’t poisoned with the wine,” Cyar replies.

  18

  AURELIA

  The morning after my dance with the Safire pilot, Heathwyn’s less than pleased. She says such intimacy doesn’t look proper in front of the court and he should be politely discouraged away. I try to explain that I’m only doing my small part in diplomacy, since it’s not as if I’ll be invited to any formal negotiations, and Heathwyn replies that the negotiations are behind closed doors, for good reason, and the footmen will be far more interested in gossiping about the things they can actually see in broad daylight—like royals flirting with young men of no standing.

  “Do you want all of Etania to hear whispers of their princess charming an upstart?”

  “He’s not an upstart,” I reply. “He simply can’t dance.”

  And then I have to bite back a little smile when I think of the Lieutenant fumbling over his own feet with such helpless charm. It’s not fair that a no-name officer should be so interesting. He’s like a half-finished painting, and I want to see how it ends.

  Trying to be productive for the exams, I take my history book and settle myself on a wrought-iron bench hidden beneath the trees, just in view of the hangar. I won’t go out of my way to find him. But sitting here, studying, might at least offer a glimpse of him or a chance to wave hello. I can’t dance with him and then ignore him completely. That would be rude. I might even offend him, and I won’t be responsible for such a hitch in Safire-Etanian relations.

  I read a few pages, about the Wars of Discontent a hundred years ago, about my own great-grandfather who helped usher peace in the Heights, then peek over the top.

  No sign of anyone Safire.

  It’s not until I’ve made it another six pages, through the peace treaties and reconciliations that kept our region of the North civil for subsequent generations, that Lieutenant Erelis and his friend appear. They’re both dressed casual, still in grey-tone attire but now short-sleeved and relaxed. It’s reassuring. He seemed very different in the impressive uniform last night, more imposing, but now he’s a boy again, and he glances my way.

  I busy myself with treaties. I won’t encourage anything.

  An hour goes by—an entire endless hour—and they remain by the hangar doors. They don’t look like they’re doing much. Two Etanian pilots approach for a short conversation, there’s some poking round one of the planes, then it’s quiet again. Still he won’t come. He glances at me, then talks with his friend, gradually becoming more animated, and then they both look at me. The Lieutenant shrugs and walks across the grass.

  I hide my victory behind the book. When he arrives, I pretend to be surprised. “Yes?”

  “Are you spying on us, Princess?”

  “I believe that’s your job. I’m studying for an exam.”

  “Oh? Well, never mind, then.” His hair looks a bright beautiful colour in the sun.

  “Never mind what, Lieutenant?”

  “Nothing. You need to study.”

  “Tell me.”

  He nods at the hangar. “I was going to let you look at our planes, since you were so interested in a demonstration. But I can see you’re very dedicated to your studies and I won’t interrupt.”

  I shut the book. “I’m not dedicated enough to pass up an offer like that, Lieutenant.”

  “Please,” he says after a moment. “Just call me Athan.” Then he smiles, the kind of smile that ruins any lingering objections.

  I apologize to Heathwyn in my head and stand, tossing the book behind.

  We walk for the wide metal doors, side by side. The other pilot is waiting for us, his expression like that of someone who’s just learned he was accidentally right. He glances at Athan, perhaps waiting for an explanation, but when none comes he extends a cautious hand to me. “I’m Cyar,” he says, then withdraws it awkwardly. “Sorry. I suppose princesses don’t shake hands.”

  I reach out my hand. “It’s a pleasure, Cyar.”

  He accepts the offer, relieved, his eyes warm. They’re as dark as mine. It makes him feel familiar and safe for some reason, an unexpected connection.

  Turning, I step into the cool of the hangar, drinking in the beautiful aeroplanes resting on the concrete floor. I touch the grey steel, the smooth lengths and sharp edges, then trace the symbol on the flank—a faded moon and stars crossed with swords, words written round it.

  “That’s the Captain’s squadron symbol,” Athan explains. “Moonstrike.”

  “And this?” I point at the words.

  “First into the fray. His squadron motto.”

  I test out the Savien sounds on my tongue, studying the gleaming wings closer. “He’s very good at telling his stories.”

  “Which your friend quite likes,” Athan observes, “but not your brother.”

  His bold speculation halts me a moment, but then again, this seems to be the trend with the Safire. “She has a lot of confidence,” I admit. “So perhaps she’s a good match for your captain.” I turn. “And where is your aeroplane? In Savient?”

  He shifts. “No. I don’t actually have one of these yet.”

  “Yes, you do,” I say, catching him with a smile.

  “I do?”

  “You can’t shoot down three without your own.”

  He looks to the ceiling briefly. “Can I confess another thing, Princess?”

  “Yes?”

  “I might have made that up. The three planes, possibly four.”

  I blink, stunned, and turn to Cyar, who’s now busily occupied with his boots.

  “You mean you’ve never been to war?” I ask.

  Athan looks sheepish. “Well, not yet. But I will. And I’m sure I’ll get at least three.”

  “Why on earth would you make that up?”

  “So you’d talk to me,” he says with fervor. “You’re a princess. I had to make myself interesting somehow or else you’d never bother to notice me.”

  Stars! The explanation is heartfelt enough that it begins to feel unfair questioning him. How does he manage that?

  I cross my arms. “Well done, Lieutenant. Now you’re not only boring, you’re also a liar.”

  He holds up a hand. “But I did get top score when I graduated. That part was true.”

  “By cheating, I’m sure.”

  Cyar chuckles, and Athan’s shoulders drop. “Are you going to dismiss me from your presence now?” Athan asks me. It’s the same sad expression from when I killed his swan, which makes me think he isn’t taking this seriously.

  “I’m considering it,” I say regally. “I don’t like dishonest people. And I’m sure Cyar could show me the planes well enough on his own, couldn’t you?”

  Cyar glances between us. “Yes. Maybe. Well, I think…”

  “Perfect. Which one do we—”

  “All right, let’s be honest,” Athan interjects. “Ask me anything. No more stories, now that we’re friends. Anything.”

  “You have a lot of nerve, Lieutenant.”

  “I’ve learned from the best.” There’s a feather of a smile on his face.

  “I’d like to hear about Savient,” I say. “What makes it special, how you’ve come this far from nothing, and why you think you can make things right in the South.”

  The smile on his face grows. “That, Princess, I can do.”

  And he does. They both do, in fact. We sit on the grass outside the hangar, hidden from palace sight, Cyar passing round candies from Norvenne while they share their history with me. They swap the tale easily ba
ck and forth, the pieces of their story connecting, overlapping, and I try to picture a world where someone could find electricity and running water a fascination. But Athan does. As a child, he had neither. And Cyar thought it was normal for abandoned bodies to simply show up, mutilated, in the morning rubbish pile on the street. It’s unfathomable. That these three rival lands, each ruled by vicious men, abandoned by everyone else in the North, could slowly unite beneath the General’s Safire flag and choose peace is almost mythic.

  But the General did it. He gave them something larger and grander to believe in.

  “Then if peace hadn’t come,” I say, thinking aloud, “you two would be enemies now. You might have had to shoot your best friend and you’d never even know it.”

  “He could be my possible fourth plane,” Athan agrees.

  “Although with his sense of direction,” Cyar says, “he’d never make it home after.”

  Athan fires a candy at Cyar, who tries to dodge but it hits him squarely on the chest, and Athan smirks. “See? This is why he was second place in our testing. Not quite quick enough to be the best.”

  “Think what you’d like, Erelis, but you’d better not land on the wrong runway in Thurn. The Nahir would like your neck.”

  “More than yours, I’ll bet.”

  They both laugh like that’s a funny thing, but my stomach turns. It’s easy to forget what they’re trained for, where they’re headed, when lounging here with palms against summer grass. “What’s it like in your capital city?” I ask, trying to reclaim the conversation. “Does it look like Hathene?”

  “I don’t know,” Athan says. “I grew up in the countryside on a farm. I’ve never been to Valon.”

  “You’re a farm boy?” I laugh.

  “Is that funny?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never met a farmer before.”

  “Good God, Princess.” He glances to Cyar. “Can you believe this?”

  “No, I can’t,” Cyar replies, “but please tell her more about your farm.”

  “I have a better idea.” Athan jumps to his feet and points at me. “Let’s get you in a plane. Isn’t that how I lured you here?”

  “You lured me here to see them,” I clarify, “not to get in one.”

  But he’s already gone, excited by the new idea, so I trail after him into the hangar. Two Etanian mechanics are working in the corner, and certainly they’ll watch what we do with interest.