Dark of the West (Glass Alliance)

by Joanna Hathaway

  The introduction encourages a smile from the young man—he can’t be much older than Reni. “I’m honoured, Your Highness.” He bows to Reni, then to me, finally revealing his eyes to mine. They’re a bright copper.

  We sit, and Mother waves the footman out. Discussion begins with routine things, like the splendid weather in the mountains and Havis’s mother’s continued illness. He’s grateful he was given the brief leave to see her, and we each offer appropriate condolences.

  Lark says nothing, sipping at mint tea and fidgeting with his fork.

  Reni watches his restless hand.

  “Ambassador Gazhirem, have you been to the North before?” my brother asks suddenly.

  The copper eyes glance up, caught off guard by this direct address. “I haven’t. It’s my first visit and I’m quite impressed.” He speaks Landori with confidence, his accent as refined as Havis’s.

  “Indeed,” Reni continues, “and please forgive the intrusion into matters that might not concern me, but may I ask the purpose of this first visit?”

  The words are mildly caustic, since the crown prince should certainly be concerned with all matters, and Mother casts Reni a warning glance. His eyes remain on Lark, intent.

  Lark sets down his glass. “I have a proposal, Your Highness. From Resya. Perhaps I might share the details with you in a private meeting?”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Mother says. “I’ve heard enough already.”

  Lark frowns. “I was referring to the Prince, and he deserves—”

  “No,” Uncle intervenes. “We’ve had our deliberations and made a decision.”

  “Discussed what?” Reni asks, chagrined. “I have a right to hear it.”

  “We’ll discuss later,” Uncle says.

  “No. No, I insist on hearing.”

  It’s the first time Reni’s ever not deferred to Uncle, and uncomfortable tension prickles the air. Lark appears vaguely amused, gaze darting round at the key players in this standoff. It’s as if he is waiting to see who will say what and when. Sensing a stalemate, he leans towards Reni across the table. “My father works for King Rahian. He has a proposal that could bring us all peace.”

  Peace.

  I sit straighter.

  “Why didn’t your father come himself?” Reni asks.

  “In the South,” Havis offers, “it’s a gesture of trust to send your child to dialogue on your behalf. It displays faith in the goodwill of another.”

  Mother raises her hand. “Enough of this. Years ago, I had much respect for King Rahian, but he has turned himself into a bitter isolationist, ruined by drink. I won’t entangle myself there.”

  I can see Reni’s expression brighten slightly, a bit of pleasure in his eyes to hear Mother say this. It’s what he has longed for from her, a blatant refusal to get involved with her homeland—and to hear it out loud, to the face of an ambassador from Resya, is victory to him.

  But Lark won’t be hindered. “It isn’t Rahian’s fault. His crown descends from Efan, as yours does, and yet he’s rejected at every turn simply because he was born into a kingdom on the Southern continent. I thought you, at least, might understand the injustice of that.”

  “It isn’t injustice,” she replies. “It’s politics, and my hands are tied. I’ve plenty before me with the General. I won’t push my people to accept the entire world at once.”

  “Ah, yes,” Lark says darkly, “you’d pick that man over us.”

  His boldness is astonishing, and Reni’s anger flashes. “You’d best watch your tongue and remember to whom you speak,” he says. “You’ve no right to address her in such a manner!”

  “I have every right,” Lark replies. “I’m the same as you at this table.”

  Reni and I gasp. No one else looks so surprised. Havis only rubs his head.

  “Blood ties,” Lark explains curtly. “Cousins, to be exact. My father is your uncle.”

  Mother drops her cutlery. “Thank you, Lark, for choosing such an inopportune time to make this announcement.”

  “They should know the truth, since you’ve never bothered to share it. Are we so embarrassing to you?”

  I stare at Lark Gazhirem, at his agitated fingers and youthful shoulders and obstinate face, and try to reconcile the fact that he is actually family. Mother doesn’t speak of those in Resya. I never imagined she might have more brothers and sisters there, cousins and in-laws, but here he is.

  Reni appears equally confounded by the revelation. “Cousins? But you aren’t a Lehzar.”

  “I have my mother’s name,” he explains, as if it’s of no great importance. “Listen, I know your dislike of the General. You don’t want another to interfere in your affairs, but this is exactly what everyone in the North wants for the South. They don’t give us a chance to defend ourselves. They don’t let us speak—”

  Mother’s fist falls on the table. “I said this matter is closed!”

  “—but I have a proposal that could save us all from war.”

  Havis puts a swift hand on Lark’s arm, pushing him back. “Now certainly isn’t the time or place. Let’s not ruin this meal with useless debate.”

  Mother’s expression is still tight. “Thank you, Ambassador.”

  There’s silence, then Lark says, “Though it is rather odd that despite your disdain of Resya, you plan to marry your daughter to one of ours. What on earth will your proper Northern friends think?”

  For an awkward moment, the words don’t register. Then suddenly the air has disappeared from the room and my breath catches. I look from Havis to Reni to Mother—all of them staring at me—and she leans forward, like she’s going to reassure me, but I don’t give her the chance.

  “What does he mean, Mother?”

  “My star, he spoke out of turn, as he has since the moment he sat at this table. I didn’t wish to tell you this way. I wanted—”

  “What does he mean, though? What does he mean?” Panic has me fighting for coherence.

  “You’ve always been aware of the Ambassador’s intentions. This isn’t a surprise.”

  I turn to Reni, but he won’t meet my eye. There’s evident pity on Uncle’s face. A touch of regret on Havis’s, even.

  It’s true. It’s true and everyone at this table knew it except for me.

  “Is this a proposal?” I ask Havis, terrified of the answer.

  “Not yet.” He looks oddly addled. “We’re going to announce it at the end of the summer when—”

  “Not until you’re seventeen,” Mother explains.

  Seventeen. Marriage.

  Death.

  I should have seen it coming. Havis warned me and I didn’t believe him. I convinced myself Mother trusted me, that she needed me here with her, an ally, and that Reni might find a way to intervene. I let myself get distracted by Athan Erelis, let myself believe I could have his warm kiss, that there was a chance at something more, and it was a lie of my own making.

  I’ve tricked myself.

  “You see, then?” Lark persists, raising his hands. “You would give your daughter to this man, you would send her to a kingdom with a drunken king, and yet you make me look the fool here?”

  Mother turns on him. “Yes! Because your father’s schemes threaten to undo everything I’ve worked for. I brought the Safire into alliance. I made this happen with my own two hands. The world isn’t in a state for you to plot games and win profit for yourself. You’re up against players too large for that.”

  “This is about peace,” Lark declares. “This is about the peace our ancestors dreamt of. Or have you forgotten where you come from?”

  Mother points a finger at him. “I do not answer to you or your father, Lark Gazhirem. You shame your mother’s name with this.”

  “You don’t even know what I’m asking,” he replies, vaguely hurt. “You won’t even listen!”

  I sit in the midst of the hurled words, splintering, wounded, and only Reni’s hand on mine reminds me to breathe.

  I stand from the t
able.

  I want to cry, I want Mother to see my pain, but there’s nothing in me except fury. She reaches a hand towards me. Her eyes beg understanding. But I leave them all and their rotten betrayal behind.

  * * *

  I spend the entire day in my room, refusing every knock. The first few times it’s Heathwyn, speaking softly, and then after that it’s Mother, imploring me to open the door and let her in for only a moment.

  I sit by the window, temper burning.

  The colourless world has become a heated red. I can’t even soothe myself with thoughts of Athan’s arms round me. Instead, I imagine lying beneath Havis, his heavy, hot breath on my face. His beard against my naked flesh. Everything of mine taken by him. Trapped in Resya, learning to kiss his lips, forced to please him while Reni rules Etania, and Athan flies in a faraway sky, and the world burns up in flames.

  I want to scream until the palace shatters round me.

  There’s another knock at the door.

  “Please let me in,” Reni says. “It’s nearly midnight and you’ve eaten nothing all day.”

  I glance at the clock.

  Midnight? It feels like it’s been only an hour, or maybe an eternity.

  “I have a meal, Ali. And some pastries.”

  Surrendering, I rise from my chair and unlock the door. Reni takes a cautious step inside. He holds a tray bearing the promised desserts. We sit on the bed together and divide the food between us, picking at it silently, and I’m afraid to speak. I might just tell him everything, even the unbearable desire I hold for a boy I can’t have.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t warn you,” he says, guilt in his hazel eyes. “I knew.”

  It isn’t a surprise. He knows many things, keeps them from me, locked away behind closed doors with Uncle. But this one thing he should have told me. This thing that might ruin my life. And now I also know something, and I’m prepared to use it. I have no choice.

  “Father was murdered,” I say, picking out my next pastry.

  Silence.

  I study each one, the different designs of frosting and fruit, the spirals of dusted sugar. I say nothing and make my choice, then look up into the shocked and wounded face of my brother, see the way even horror makes his handsome features harden into something regal.

  “It’s the truth,” I say. “Mother told me. He was poisoned by his enemies. She doesn’t wish you to know, because she’s afraid it will make you a reckless king, but now you know. I’ve told you. I’ve given you this card to hold. Now you have to do the same for me.”

  His hand trembles as he reaches for mine, hoarse pain in his question. “How can this be?”

  I explain as much as I can, about Father allowing ideas to flourish, how he didn’t wish to punish those who spoke against him in secret, but I don’t mention the buried rumour of Father not being royal. I won’t give Reni a reason to doubt. I won’t let any poison fester.

  The truth breaks over him, my revelations hitting like stones, heavy, and his shoulders droop. Perhaps he’s feeling foolish for ever entertaining the protesters’ concerns, for speaking against Mother.

  Perhaps I’ve shown him his own shame.

  “Thank you for telling me,” he says, voice thin with grief. His hand squeezes mine. “And in return, I’m to stall this engagement?”

  “Any way that you can, Reni.”

  “Of course.”

  And I believe him. I wrap my arms round him tightly, forever in love with his firm and gentle nature. He puts on a good show of being ironclad, of being proud, but inside he’s all Father, too earnest for this shifting world. Wanting it to be better and more orderly. More kind.

  There’s a soft knock on the door and Heathwyn’s troubled face appears.

  Reni deposits his sorrow somewhere deep inside, hidden, and stands quickly, bidding me good night.

  Tonight will not be an easy one for him.

  Alone with Heathwyn, I await a lecture, something about how I am too old to be abandoning my mother’s table so childishly, then locking myself away, but instead her lips purse. “I may regret giving this to you, lamb, but I haven’t the heart to keep it on me any longer.”

  She produces an opened envelope and hands it over. “Aurelia” is written on the front in small, rushed letters, no address anywhere, no other name.

  I tug out the paper and unfold it. My heart flips. “It’s from the Lieutenant.”

  “Yes. He gave it to me before he left. He asked if he could write you and I was thoughtless enough to hesitate.” She sighs. “He did look very hopeful.”

  My exhaustion gives way to pure joy spiraling like lights. “He says he misses me, Heathwyn, and that he’ll try to write me, even from Thurn! He says he’ll never forget the way my smile—”

  “Yes, I’ve read it, though I quite wish I hadn’t. I should have thrown it away.”

  “But you didn’t,” I say, tracing the paper with a finger.

  “I didn’t,” she replies, frowning at her own charity.

  “You can’t tell Mother. Please don’t, Heathwyn.”

  She gives a deep sigh. “You have everything, but I think you deserve one thing all your own. Don’t give me a reason to regret it, sweet girl.”

  I’m already rereading the letter, the words written in wavering cursive, endearing in their sloppiness. “He’s going to send me an address as soon as he can. Hand me some paper, please! And a pen. I need to have a letter ready to go. I hope he doesn’t think I’ve forgotten him. I wonder if he’s already left across the sea?” I look up. “Tell me, Heathwyn. Do you believe the General can make the Nahir agree to peace? Do you think they might see his army and give up before there’s even a fight?”

  She kisses my head, handing me a pen. “This war is young and doesn’t yet know what it wants. There’s time for all things hopeful.”

  I’m determined to believe her.

  I’ll believe it until the very day the earth opens up and swallows me whole.

  26

  ATHAN

  Havenspur, Thurn

  During our four days at sea, I’ve scoured every level of the Pursuit, an obsession born of claustrophobia. I have to know where it all goes. The ship’s a maze of narrow passageways, leading up and down with ladders and railways and metal steps, salt clinging to the dank air, the whole thing rolling side to side in the large waves. There’s not much else to do. Cyar writes love sonnets to his girlfriend when he thinks I’m not looking, and the other Moonstrike pilots mostly ignore us. They served in Karkev together and have their own inside jokes. Their own private camaraderie. The only moment of excitement is when a flare appears in the inky night, the Impressive discovering the bloody aftermath of an arms exchange gone badly. We don’t see anything of it. But it’s still a pleasant welcome to the South.

  When Thurn materializes on the horizon, the frayed coast is a damn relief. Waves crash on broken rocks, a brilliant gold sun lowering beyond. The Impressive blasts her horn as we enter Havenspur’s harbour. Promenades meander along the shore, shaded by long-leafed trees, buildings of cream and sienna rising up, towers twisted and roofs decorated with broad arches. The Pursuit is quickly moored at a dock closer to the city. Next to her waits a local supply ship, the sailors on board the smaller vessel watching us disembark with vacant eyes. They rest against metal boxes, unhurried, tanned faces shining in the sun.

  As we stand on the humid wharf, waiting for our hosts, an armed Landorian soldier orders something at them in Thurnian.

  They shrug, bang the containers, then shrug again.

  The Landorian looks chagrined.

  Unsure what to do, we pretend not to notice. Sweat pools quickly on my neck and tiny bugs try for my ears. Ollie removes his officer’s cap, fanning his face with it, and the other Moonstrike pilots group around him, their backs to us, as usual.

  “I wonder what sort of snakes they’ve got here,” Cyar says to me curiously, analyzing the strange, lush world just off the dock.

  “Please don’t go looking.”<
br />
  “Oh, don’t worry.” He grins. “They’ll find us.”

  Right when Cyar’s about to go for a search anyway, three motorcars cut their engines on the road, and a short, stocky fellow steps out of the first. He’s dressed in uniform, fair cheeks burnt from the sun. He attempts pacing grandly down the dock to us, though he doesn’t quite have the build for it. “Gentlemen, I’m Major Wick. Welcome to Havenspur.”

  He shakes Garrick’s hand and the two of them discuss the logistics of our fighters’ arrival, further along the coast, close to the airbase, then they motion us to the cars.

  Kalt’s up on the Pursuit’s forward deck, and I wave goodbye. He nods with what might be a smile. It’s difficult to tell from below. Then again, sometimes it’s difficult to tell with Kalt up close.

  We’re soon rolling into the downtown sprawl of Havenspur. It’s larger than it looked from the water, unfurling itself slowly as we rumble over patchy cobblestone and deeper into a warm maze of large colonnades, fancy motorcars, and women in wide-brimmed hats. Graceful buildings line the road, flecked with scaling paint—teal and coral and bronze—their bruises concealed by bright flowers. Ornate brass fences shelter billowing orange trees and patios for tea. It would almost be Norvenne if not for the many soldiers easing among the crowds, rifles slung over their shoulders, observing the late afternoon current with discreet precision.

  Ollie rolls the front window down. Hot, fragrant air seeps into the car. “The girls here are quite pretty,” he observes, nodding appreciatively at one with a dress almost above her knees. He throws his officer’s cap back on.

  The Landorian orderly behind the wheel chuckles. “Havenspur’s one perk, isn’t it? The ladies in this city come from good stock. Nobility, even. Did you know General Windom is a second cousin of His Majesty? His family was one of the first to settle here. He’s a good man, knows the land well.”

  Ollie’s still tossing suggestive smiles out the window, distracted.

  “Do the people here consider themselves Landorian, then?” I ask from the backseat.

  “Yes and no.” The man brakes to let soldiers pass. “Somewhere in the middle, I suppose. But they’re loyal to the crown, of course.”