“Then why all the rifles?”
The man catches my eye in the rearview mirror. “Some are less in the middle.”
When we pull through the metal gates of the airbase, guards salute from their posts. A large flag above parades a winged lion with a crown between its teeth. We’re now on a flat, open ridge above the city, dusty with few trees, everything orange in the setting sun. Four wooden barracks, three curved hangars, and one long runway oscillate in the heat. A lone stone building, elegant but still bleached and weathered, sits apart from the rest, encircled by rosebushes.
“Welcome,” Wick says with pride, “to the centre of my fighter command, home of the 10th Squadron Lion’s Paw. Captain Carr, you and your first officer will come with me to HQ.” He waves at the elegant place. “The rest of your men may settle in the west barracks. Hard to get lost here, but if there’s any confusion, check with the pilots.” He points at a group of men sitting in rickety chairs by the nearest hangar, playing cards.
“You heard him, then,” Garrick says to Moonstrike. “Get everything in order before dinner.”
He and Ollie follow after the Major. The other Safire pilots shoulder their packs, wipe their sweaty foreheads, and head off. No invitation offered to us.
I turn in a circle. Faded green hills stretch east and south, nothing on them but a few smudges that might be little buildings or villages or maybe just barren patches of earth. Beyond that—who knows?
Cyar shades his eyes. “I think we should make some friends,” he observes, studying the men playing cards. “Otherwise it might get lonely here.”
He’s right. It’s doubtful Moonstrike will even look at us until we’ve shot down an enemy plane. And in Havenspur, that might take a while.
We march across the deserted runway for the lounging pilots. No airplanes out. No mechanics in sight. Faint music drifts from one of the hangars, a girl singing, so it’s probably on the wireless.
The pilots don’t notice our approach. One looks about Arrin’s age, his feet stretched out before him, a black cat resting on his shoulders. It watches us arrive with yellow-moon eyes.
“You fellows the 10th?” I ask brightly in Landori.
They turn, cigarettes smoking in their hands.
I motion at Cyar. “Officer Hajari and I just arrived. We’re wondering where the west barracks are?”
Wind whips through the thirsty grass at our feet. They continue to stare, like I’m speaking Savien.
“Need a compass?” one finally asks.
“Already have one,” I say.
“Then you see that setting sun? Follow it.”
They chuckle behind cards.
After the cramped days at sea, this is too much. “Listen, we—”
“I’m Baron,” a square-jawed pilot interrupts. “You are?”
“Lieutenant Erelis.”
“A little officer, hm?” He stands, analyzing me. “Are you with the unnecessary Safire contingent sent to give us the help we don’t need?”
I glance at my uniform. “No, I’m with the rebel Nahir unit sent to give you more headache.”
Baron steps near, nasty stink of sweat smothering me. “Listen, son, we’ve done well enough on our own without you fellows. Soon this matter will be back under control, then you and your fancy aeroplanes can turn round and head home.”
“I’d be fine with that.”
“Of course you would.” He pauses, thick brows drawing together. “But since they’ve sent you over here anyway, might as well borrow some of your brandy. How much have you got?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Dear God, your General better not have sent only bullets. Tell me you brought the important things too!”
Amusement twists his lips, and I look around at the seated pilots and realize they’re all hiding laughter. One snorts out loud.
“I’ll see what I can do,” I say, unsure what’s going on.
Baron slaps my arm, grinning. “Glad at least two of you fools were brave enough to come over. Sit down. Do you play?”
“Baron, they were looking for the barracks,” says a much younger pilot with brown skin and matching eyes. “Someone should be friendly and show them the way.”
“I’m about to win this round. I’m not leaving until it’s finished.”
The one with the cat around his shoulders stands, and it lands gracefully, slinking beneath the metal chair. “I’m Captain Efan Merlant,” he says to me. “Welcome, Headache.”
Damn, he’s the captain? I salute quickly, as does Cyar, but he waves us off. “We’ll get you settled, Lieutenant. Greycap, you sounded the most concerned. Show them the way.”
The young one, Greycap, jumps up. “Yes, sir.”
“Don’t let anyone around here give you more trouble than this,” Merlant tells us. “They’ll answer to me if they do.”
“Thank you, sir,” I say.
He nods, blue eyes looking me over, and I wonder if he knows the sort of headache I really am. The Dakar sort.
But Greycap is waving us across the compound, so we follow after him. He’s our age and enthusiastic, his mouth and feet moving rapidly, cheerfully revealing he’s one of the best pilots here. For some reason, it doesn’t sound like bragging from him. He says he’s called Greycap because they all go by call-signs. No one uses his real name, Nazem La’hile. His family is from Thurn, and his grandfather joined the Landorian forces sixty years ago. They’ve been loyal to the crown ever since. Local Thurnian recruits, he says, used to wear grey caps to distinguish them. Hence his call-sign.
“What are yours?” he asks eagerly.
“Don’t have any yet,” Cyar replies, with equal enthusiasm. He’s already won over.
Greycap appears incredulous for a moment, hopping up the barrack steps. “That better change soon. Otherwise we’ll just have to call you Safire One and Safire Two.” He laughs, like the idea is incredibly funny and we should be laughing, too.
Cyar obliges.
Inside, our new friend points out the recreation room, the small mess, then the showers and latrine. “I hope you’ve been taking those pills from the medic. Otherwise you might end up spending a lot more time in here, on your knees.” He smirks. “Don’t drink the water. You’re not as hardy as me.”
Then he marches us to the tiny room we’ll share. One bunk and a closet. It’s not much bigger than the one on the boat. After he leaves, taking the force of his energy with him, we settle quietly into yet another new room, the wind creaking lazily through wooden frames. I throw my bag on the top bunk, then make sure to check every corner for snakes.
“They like warm places,” Cyar reveals cryptically, a towel around his shoulders as he disappears into the hall with a grin.
I know he’s lying. I think.
I pull out the two letters I wrote while at sea and sit by the window, keeping my feet off the floor, safe from the shadows beneath the bed. I wonder if the governess gave Ali my first letter, and if she’ll give her these. Perhaps it’s all for nothing. Ali’s dark eyes tease my thoughts, luring me to that last moment of our dance. Her mouth close and tempting, begging me to be weak for just a moment. So close.
I thud my head against the dusty window.
I hate regrets.
I look out at the South, at the unfamiliar world waiting for me, and even though I’m used to strange streets and sharp corners, grey places I don’t want to be, now that I’ve tasted Ali and those mountains and the whisper of freedom, all of this leaves me dissatisfied. More than usual.
All I see is wasted years stretching into an unknown horizon.
* * *
Our first dinner’s a tense affair. The mess is divided down the middle, Landorians on one side, Safire on the other, with the officers dining separately. Since Cyar and I don’t actually have our own squadron yet, we’re left with the rest.
In the name of diplomacy, we head for the Landorians.
“This is Safire One and Safire Two,” Greycap announces as we sit.
&n
bsp; Baron raises his brow. “That might get confusing in the air.”
“How about Light and Dark?” a wiry blond suggests, giving us a sly glance.
Greycap frowns. “Be respectful, Spider. They’re officers.”
The other pilots chuckle behind mugs of ale. They’re at least five years our senior, if not more. I might need to start telling the Landorians I’m twenty-one. Could probably get away with that, and I’m certain the Safire pilots won’t rat me out. They’re already not supposed to admit my real name under pain of the firing squad.
We eat while conversation bounces around like nonstop flick-rolls. They all idolize Captain Merlant, or Knight, as he’s known in the air. Then they share their signs with us—Runyan, Gallop, Prince—and though I press for information on what it’s like down here, the sort of action they’ve seen, they all dance around the topic and try to get me drunk instead. They start listing the things they miss most back home. Spider roars with laughter as Baron continues to take his crude answers a notch seedier, voices getting louder with every swig of drink. The Safire pilots ten feet away glare, so the Landorian pilots call to them, which they ignore, which only makes the Landorians try harder. Then the door to the mess opens and Merlant steps through.
“What’s this noise about, boys?” he asks his pilots. “I can hear you well across the compound.”
Baron has a sheepish smile. “Talking about home, sir.”
“It’s more than that, Baron. Don’t play me here.”
“Women. Just women.”
“All poetry, I’m sure.”
“What do you miss most about home, sir?”
The Captain picks up Baron’s mug and takes a swallow. He’s distinguished now in his silk neckerchief and dress coat embroidered with the royal crest. Far from the relaxed pilot stretched out earlier. “I miss rainstorms when the sun shines through. For a few moments, everything’s vibrant and alive with colour. Two worlds meeting. Then gone again.” He pauses. “Also my wife. And many other things.”
“See what a lover he is?” Baron jokes, but there’s admiration in his voice.
Merlant smiles. His gaze drifts around the table, stopping on me. I’m sure he knows who I am. Wick must have told him. But his stare is different from most. There’s no scrutiny, no expectation. The blue eyes are faintly curious. He gives Baron the mug back. “Try not to drive our new friends away.” Then he offers a respectful nod to the Safire pilots.
Just as quietly as he came, he goes back through the door. I ignore protocol and follow after him. Bold, perhaps, but it’s what I’ve learned. Outside, it’s still warm in the darkness, and he’s stopped at the top of the wooden stoop, as if waiting for me. The two of us stand beneath the ghostly compound lights.
“You do look like trouble, Headache,” he says, gesturing at my eye. There’s still a faint mark there.
I debate lying, but figure the truth is absurd enough to sound like a lie. “A prince gave me that. You know how they are.”
He chuckles, lighting a cigarette and passing it to me. I wave it away. We’re facing southwest, inland, and there’s a hazy smattering of lights on the horizon. The limits of Havenspur and then darkness.
“Your name’s Efan,” I observe. “Like the famous prince?”
“The very one. My father’s quite a proud monarchist.”
“Then please don’t hold it against me, because mine is quite the opposite.” It’s a test, a hesitant one, to see what he’ll say, but he only smiles, eyes still focused ahead. Reassured, I continue. “Tell me, Captain. What are we up against down here? No one seems eager to lay it out for us.”
“We’d rather not frighten you fresh from the ship.”
“I’ve already built this up in my head to be miserable. You might as well tell me how it is.”
He turns. “Why these questions now? Your squadron will be briefed in the morning.”
“Because I want to hear the things you won’t tell them.”
The statement’s presumptuous. Arrogant, even. But again, it’s what I’ve learned, so I wait, and he considers me a moment before nodding. He sweeps a hand towards the darkness. Brass lion cuff links glint on his wrists. “Out there is them. In here is us. That’s how it’s always been, and perhaps how it always will be. But we won’t give up Thurn. It belongs to us.”
“If it’s that simple, Captain, then Hady should be back in your hands. The Nahir are armed, but surely not enough to keep the Imperial Navy at bay? One siege and it would be over.”
“Isn’t that the question?” He gives a grim smile. “Let me tell you my story first, Lieutenant. Four years ago, our squadron was deployed here to support ground patrols—reconnaissance, flyovers, that sort of thing. The occasional rebel pilots we encountered were easy victories for us. Miserable aircraft, poorly trained. The Nahir didn’t have any support. The South is divided, you see. The nations around Thurn are isolationists. Keep to their own interests.” He flicks the cigarette. “But things have changed as of late. We’ve been attacked by planes with no colours on the wings, and they’ve downed some of ours. The squadron nearest Hady captured a pilot alive last week. Didn’t speak a word of Thurnian.”
I frown. “Where was he from?”
“Who knows? Wouldn’t admit a damn thing, only spoke in Landori when he was … well, when he was pressed for answers.”
Neither of us speaks. “Where do you believe he was from, Captain?”
I know I’m pushing too far, but I’m afraid I already know the answer.
“With such splendid aircraft and skill?” He swallows, cigarette forgotten. “There’s only one place here that can even begin to rival us, Lieutenant. The one place that has shared in our wealth and our history.”
Resya.
He doesn’t say it aloud, but it’s the only thing that makes sense. The one kingdom here with the resources to wage real war. A solid infrastructure, a functioning air force. A king with Northern blood, who swears he’d never aid Seath, who claims to be on our side … And then I remember that Sinora is Resyan, and I feel a deep chill in the heat.
This whole thing might be far bigger than even I thought.
“You ask why we’re waiting,” Merlant says eventually, “and the truth is, I don’t know. I think only your father can answer that. If you find out…”
I manage a grin. “I sure as hell won’t be the one he tells.”
Merlant laughs. “Not easy being youngest, is it?”
“Better than eldest.”
Somewhere out in the barren hills, an eerie cry echoes, high-pitched, then lowering to a haunting trill. I take a step towards the door.
“Si’yah cats,” Merlant explains. “You’ll get used to the sound.”
“They don’t attack, do they?”
“Not if you’re pure of heart.”
I give a questioning look.
“It’s local tradition,” he says, amused. “But I carry a gun.”
“I think I will too.”
“Wise.” He smiles. “Good night, Lieutenant.”
“Good night, Captain.”
Merlant goes down the wooden steps, then stops at the bottom. “I’ve heard you can fly, Lieutenant.”
“With no one shooting at me, yes.”
“Well, I’m sure you’ll do fine. It’s a simple trick—always know where your enemy is and always be quicker than him. I’m sure you’ve learned that well enough in your life.”
His words are what I need. Quiet and certain.
We share a final smile before he saunters into the heated dark, and I decide I might just have found someone worth following.
27
AURELIA
Hathene, Etania
The first moment I can, I seek out Lark Gazhirem and catch him alone.
I have a perfect opportunity now, since Reni and Uncle have left for a diplomatic tour of our neighbouring kingdoms, the sort of thing Reni has dreamt of for years but has never been allowed. Mother always felt it was unnecessary. A waste of precious pe
trol when the Heights have lived in harmony ever since my great-grandfather’s treaty. But with this spring of protests, and the General conducting his own profitable tour, Reni convinced the council to put it to a vote. A gracious way of doing it, Uncle said. Something Boreas Isendare would have done.
Opinion was split evenly, until Lord Jerig voted in favour—and asked if he could come along.
Now, they’re off for a month on their mission round the Heights, and though Lark’s presence clearly needles Mother—and puts the young ladies of court into a curious flutter—he is family, and she won’t go against her deeply ingrained sense of Resyan hospitality, even offering the customary kiss on his cheek each time she sees him—all of which means he won’t be banished anytime soon.
With Reni doing his part to make us look entirely Northern, I seize this chance to investigate our new cousin and find out exactly what he knows. If Lark holds the possibility of peace, real peace, when Athan’s already bound for Thurn, then I have to explore it or else I’ll never forgive myself.
I find Lark hiding in the parlour of his guest room, a map spread on the table before him, a bottle of Etanian wine open and mostly consumed. He’s wearing his usual white buttoned shirt. It’s open casually at the neck, the way a student of the university might dress. He has the clever ability to look very refined and intelligent and earthy.
He stands when I enter.
“Cousin,” he greets, forgoing formality.
I shake off irritation, determined to play my role well. Yes, there’s a sullen arrogance to him, a restlessness, but he’s also now my blood, and that’s rather fascinating. It must count for something.
“Tell me about your proposal,” I say, conveying as much diplomacy as I can. “I want to understand it and how it might bring peace.”
He raises his brow, fingers twirling a pen. His face isn’t unappealing—it’s actually rather handsome and slender, catlike, like Mother’s. “You?”
“Of course.”
The dark brow rises higher. I think he sees me as a princess with no thoughts in her head, the same way Athan believed I spend my days getting servants to paint my picture, and it irritates me further.
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