I stand there, shirtless, exhausted from the mountain and craving sleep, but he’s determined to punish me for my investigation. To remind me to keep my mouth shut. “You’re feeling better now, Captain?”
He ignores it. “The General is headed to Classit tomorrow, for further negotiations, and while he’s gone you’re entirely under my leadership.”
Father’s leaving me on my own? A warning might have been nice, but I suppose this is how it’s going to be from now on. Everything trickling down through goddamn Garrick.
I think that’s what I’ll call him.
“And I require that every report be filed,” goddamn Garrick continues, “every watch observed, every button polished and bootlace tied, do you follow me?”
“I follow, sir. Though I don’t think you’ll need to worry about any laces untied with me.”
I regret the words the moment I say them, right as they’re leaving my tongue, but it’s too late to call them back and there they are.
He shoves a furious finger in my face. “The next time you speak to me like that, I’ll punish Hajari for it. I doubt you’d be so bold if you had to watch him run fifty laps at midnight.”
Cyar looks up from where he’s been cleaning his boots, alarmed.
He has no idea how mild this threat really is, comparatively.
But I nod. Garrick disappears back out the door, perhaps off to grope his fancy girl some more, the girl who certainly won’t bother to remember him after this week, and I give Cyar a repentant look. “Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize yet. But please don’t let it get to the point where you need to.”
Reluctantly, I pull on my shirt again, then my uniform, then my muddy boots. A cold, lonely hangar. Until dawn. I gather my sketchbook pages, then realize Cyar’s dressing as well. I give him a dismissive wave, but he pulls on his gloves anyway.
“I’m not letting Sinora murder you without me there. I couldn’t live with that.” He glances at the page in my hand. “Is that the Princess?”
I hide it quickly. “No.”
“Yes, it is. I just saw it.”
“So?”
He sighs. “You shouldn’t be spending time with her. She doesn’t seem to have anything useful to offer, and you’re not very good at separating how you feel from the job that needs to be done. You know that.”
I haven’t told him about the murder confession. Maybe I’m hoping I’ll forget.
“True, but I need to learn,” I say. “Otherwise I’ll never get a squadron. And then I’ll have to take orders from goddamn Garrick the rest of my life.”
He doesn’t smile. “Be careful, Athan. There’s no talking yourself out of this one if it goes bad.”
“I can talk my way out of anything.”
“But can she?”
I don’t like that question. I don’t like it because it reminds me there’s another person involved in this. I like having my own things to control, my own problems and solutions. The prospect of flying with Cyar is stressful enough, having to worry about him when the sky’s on fire. I don’t want to worry about this girl a world away whose mother is destined to burn.
But I do.
21
ATHAN
The next day I hide in our lounge. I’m not exactly worried about the Prince, but I’m also far from inclined to take any undue risks, now that he knows the truth. Besides, I have Thurnian lessons to catch up on. We’re supposed to be studying the local language before we sail south. I busy myself conjugating verbs, trying not to think anything undignified about Aurelia, and then suddenly, like magic, she’s right there in front of my desk in the Safire lounge, inviting me to tour the palace.
I don’t know what to do.
I need to follow Cyar’s advice, and I try to look to him for help, but he’s pretending to read a book on the nearby couch. So much for his noble lecturing last night.
He’s officially useless.
She continues to press, and I tell her I need to finish the assignment, but she just says, “I’m sure Officer Hajari would finish it for you. Wouldn’t you, Cyar?”
He looks up, surprised. As if he hasn’t been listening to everything. “Yes, I suppose I could.” He catches my look. “Or no. I don’t know … I mean … there’s a Landori word for this, but I can’t remember—”
And that’s that. I stand and announce, yes, we should do the tour, and she beams at me, all bright and warm and smelling too damn wonderful, and I make sure to hurl a dictionary at Cyar on the way by.
“I hope you find that word you’re thinking of.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant,” he calls with a guilty smile.
* * *
The palace is a friendlier place now that it’s free of Sinora and Father and Malek. The court has decided that without the promise of speeches and good food, there’s little point to being here, and the halls are empty and echoing. As long as we stay ahead of the Prince, we should be fine.
Aurelia takes us from statue to tapestry, explaining each one, the story and significance, how it fits into the five hundred years of Etanian glory, and it’s a little overwhelming how one tiny kingdom can have this much history. She’s particularly proud of her great-grandfather, showing off a marble bust of his bearded face.
“He helped end the Wars of Discontent in the Heights,” she explains. “Drafted the peace treaty, in fact. They were awful wars, went on for twenty years. I think two hundred thousand soldiers were killed?”
“Battles in mountains aren’t advised,” I say.
“Truly, how can anyone fight for twenty years? In any case, we learned our lesson. War is no good. We’ve no interest in a repeat.”
She tugs me along, pulling me by the arm—which I pretend doesn’t affect me but is actually the best part of the tour—and we enter the grand ballroom. Without the din of music and laughter, without the tables and silks and steaming dishes, it’s like a hollow golden shell. Our steps sound lonely on the marble floor. Their royal ancestor, Prince Efan, gazes down from above, a sword in his hand and a fox at his feet.
“I like the fox,” I say with a grin.
She replies with her own smile. “We’re going to hold my birthday masquerade in here,” she announces, stretching out her arms. “You should come, Athan. It’s at the end of the summer. Surely you could get leave?” Her voice is teasing, but there’s a genuine question in her eyes.
“I don’t think you know how the military works,” I say, teasing back. “Or war in the South.”
We exit through narrow corner doors on the far side, presumably where servants scurry in and out, then make our way, stealthy, down some narrow stairs, down another hall, and into a library. This room’s smaller, with shelves of colourful books. The carpet on the floor bears the woven crest of Etania, and the windows stretch from floor to ceiling, letting in light and a beautiful view of the mountainscape beyond.
“My father’s library,” Aurelia says with another grand sweep of her arms. “His favourite place.” Dust particles shimmer around her like a halo. “Want to see my favourite painting?”
She has that secret look, just for me, a perfect hook.
“Of course, Princess.”
“Please, call me Ali.”
But I can’t. I really can’t, not when she’s already this close under my skin. Cyar’s right—people have a way of lodging themselves into my heart, and once it’s done, it’s done. I’ll lose all sight of Father’s mission. Maybe I already have.
“Or at least Aurelia,” she pleads, coming near, gold earrings shivering with the movement.
I give in. “Whatever you’d like.…”
She waits.
“… Aurelia.”
Victory brightens her face, settling on her lips in a mischievous quirk. I can’t win against that. She takes my arm again—my reward for weakness—and tows me into an adjacent room. On the far wall hangs an oil painting of a dragon and unicorn, the two creatures crouched together on a sunset cliff.
“My father pa
inted this one for me,” she says. “The fable I love best—Elinga, the unicorn of the mountains, and her friend, Elois. I’m dressing as Elinga for my masquerade. I’ve designed a gown and matching mask!”
“Delightful,” I say with exaggerated interest.
She hauls me to another painting. This one’s a battle scene, with swords flashing and horses rampant. Three suns blazing. A black steed in the centre, tail in flames, its eyes charged with flickers of orange. “More to your liking, Safire boy?” she asks wryly. “That’s Prince Efan winning his battle. Remember the one I told you about yesterday, with his horse?”
“Prince Efan. The man every king in the North claims to descend from.”
She looks surprised. “You know the story?”
“Believe it or not, we do have history books in Savient. Though I am wondering—why’s the horse on fire?”
“They say he was a gift from God to win the battle.”
I grin. “Fate happened, and you wound up with a crown on your head. Not bad.”
She doesn’t laugh, and it makes me feel bad for saying it. We study the painting, wordless.
She pushes the thick hair off her neck, over her slender shoulder, and I’m caught by the urge to trace stray strands from her skin. To feel her warmth, to run my fingers along her arm and around her waist again.
The sudden grief on her face spoils the idea. “They say,” she says softly, “that nothing can harm a descendant of Efan. They say we have divine blood in our veins and that God will watch over his chosen line. You must think that’s strange.”
Of course I do, but she looks at me now, all of her heart on display, trembling in front of me, and suddenly I see it very clearly. Her father wasn’t kept safe—he was murdered, and the idea of it haunts her. The certainty that something wrong happened at the very heartbeat of her existence, something ruined before she ever had any say or stake in the matter. Something that could ruin her, too.
I know. Because it’s the same fear in me.
“I don’t think God plays favourites,” I admit, afraid she’ll think I’m callous and unbelieving. “I think we have to watch out for each other.”
She looks at me a long moment. Not scrutinizing or searching, simply looking, like I’m oil on canvas. Like she’s memorizing the colours of my soul. “Is that why you wear this uniform, then? You truly believe it’s the best way to do good?”
“Yes,” I say, “and no.”
I can’t help being honest. She turns my thoughts grey again, that in-between fog of doubt.
Her eyes linger on my face, and I want her to like what she sees. I want her to find what she’s hoping for. In this moment, all I want is to tell her the truth, to be honest and see what she thinks of it, to see if she’d still laugh at my stupid jokes even knowing who I am. If I played it right, she’d still forgive me at this point. I’m not my father. She’s not her mother. I could get her on my side before the war breaks.
The idea grows like a trap, luring the words into my mouth.
A sudden noise saves me from myself.
Both of us jump. I hold out a hand, keeping Ali back, and walk carefully around the tall bookshelf behind us.
Long-lashed green eyes stare back at me, caught.
“Sorry, Lieutenant. I was looking for … books,” the singing girl says, glancing rapidly from shelf to shelf, proving to me she’s as mindless as she seems.
Ali’s quickly at my side, expression firm. “Lieutenant, please excuse us. I’d like to have a word with my friend alone.”
Thank God.
It’s the escape I need, before I do something stupid.
I take it and run.
AURELIA
Athan obeys without a question, a nice perk of his being military-bred and conditioned to orders. I need offer no explanation. Once he’s disappeared out the library door, I cross my arms at Violet. “Were you following us?” I demand.
“I was attempting it,” she replies airily. “The two of you are like mice. Here and there and everywhere.”
“Who put you up to it?”
She doesn’t answer, creamy cheeks pinkening.
“It was the peacock feathers, wasn’t it?” I hiss.
Violet clutches my arms gently. “Now wait, Ali. Just listen. Havis was worried about you. He didn’t want you running into any trouble this week with strange men from foreign countries.”
“Havis is a strange man from a foreign country,” I say. “And what does it matter to him what I do?”
“He’s protective of you, of course. He considers you dear to him.”
Trust Violet to make it sound romantic! But this has nothing to do with his false affection towards me. This has everything to do with the fact that I know too many of his secrets, that I read his letter, and he doesn’t trust me with any of it. I actually wish he were here right now, to confront him properly.
“Violet, you can’t tell him a thing.”
I refuse to give Havis a reason to slander Athan’s reputation—and I know he would, at first chance, to keep me under his rein. I’ve been alone with Athan all day. Scandals can grow in any direction with fertile whispers like that.
“Oh, there’s nothing to share,” Violet says with a clever smile. “I see no strange men. It seems, instead, you’ve found an attractive lieutenant from an allied nation, which has nothing to do with his stipulations.”
I realize what she means, her cheerful deception pulling a grin from me. She’s too clever for Havis. “You’re the dearest,” I say gratefully, then pause. “You think the Lieutenant is attractive?”
I’m a bit afraid of the answer. Not that I’d deny it, but saying it aloud feels too official. Like I’m committing myself to something I don’t yet understand.
And then what could I ever do about that?
“Certainly,” Violet replies. “Too young for me, of course, but he has a refined grace that’s delightfully boyish, yet still conveys a hint of something deeper.”
“He does,” I say, pleased by her analysis.
“I’m a rather quick judge of character,” she reveals, “and I think he’s a sweet match for the sweetest heart I know.”
I kiss her cheek. “Oh, thank you, Violet! I’m sorry Havis tried to bring you into this.”
“Well, I got a fan from it. And don’t worry, I never intended to tell him a thing. I’m here simply because I’ve never seen you flirting so madly with a boy—the show’s been irresistible! Though I have a lot to teach you, darling. You’re going to kill him with all these depressing facts about war.”
I laugh and kiss her again, once, twice, then quickly on the lips.
22
AURELIA
The days of quiet halls are everything. Wonderfully everything.
Reni is happy to be king of an empty castle, spending his hours in the council room with Uncle, pulling in the sour Lord Jerig from time to time, and as I predicted to Mother, he refuses to let me anywhere near his business. He’s polite to the remaining Safire and little more.
Heathwyn is my only deterrent to spending time with Athan. “Polite discouragement,” she reminds me.
But since I can’t fulfill Mother’s first duty, with Reni, I have no choice but to fulfill the second, with the Safire, and so I abandon polite discouragement—really, I abandoned it days ago—and spend every quiet hour that I can with Athan and Cyar.
I’ve never loved quiet this much.
We hide in the hangar as rain stammers on the metal roof, playing card games. They teach me words of Savien, and I teach them Etanian. I know, now, that when Cyar arrived at their Academy, the Savien language was new and unfamiliar to him, his mother tongue being Rahmi, and that Athan was the one who coached him through it and then helped him tackle Landori afterwards. I know that Cyar has a girlfriend, a year older, with black hair and dark eyes, and that he sees her only in the summers, though with his training ahead in Thurn this will be the first one away, and that makes him sad. He misses her. They write letters and she talks ab
out helping his mother with gardening back home and she particularly loves sunflowers.
I know a lot of things about Cyar.
But Athan remains a step ahead. He dodges questions and latches on to whatever Cyar says. He always has something to add. Languages come easy to him, and to prove it, he tells a story about his brother trying to jump off a pier, switching from Savien to Rahmi to Landori and then even to a few words of freshly learnt Etanian. I don’t know the point of the story. Then I compliment him on his leather watch, and he says it was a special gift from his pier-jumping brother long ago. Then, a few moments of conversation later, he circles back to the topic, grinning, and says, “Or maybe I stole it from him. I don’t remember.”
Always stories within stories.
I know he says these things to make me laugh, and perhaps that’s why I sometimes don’t. I like watching him try. I’m sure that deep down this entire show is because he’s only a farm boy and what else does he have to brag about? Certainly not the crescent moon of purple lingering ugly beneath his eye. I’d like to grab him and make him slow down for just a moment. I want to look at him and really see. But he’s too quick.
Confusing and quick and captivating.
When the sun arrives again, we visit the stables and I show off Ivory and the other horses. Cyar is in love with each one, complimenting them from withers to fetlock. Athan hangs back. He pats Ivory in her stall once, then retreats again to a safe distance in the alleyway.
“Come on,” I tease, “you fly an aeroplane. You’re not allowed to be scared of this.”
“My plane doesn’t get moody when it’s hungry,” he replies, serious.
Cyar rolls his eyes and scratches Ivory’s neck. She relaxes into his touch. “You’d like Rahmet, Princess. Everyone has a horse. In the spring, we celebrate the change in season with a festival, the best horses on display. They hold riding contests that anyone can enter, even the girls—and the girls usually win.”
I must have a dreamy look on my face, because Athan shakes his head and says, “Don’t let him fool you. Rahmet’s full of snakes and spiders the size of your hand. Far from magical.”
Dark of the West (Glass Alliance) Page 22