Dark of the West (Glass Alliance)

by Joanna Hathaway

  It’s so far from the truth.

  “Listen,” I say, “you can believe me or not, but I’m the only one my mother will listen to. If you wish her to be convinced of it, you’d best tell me.”

  He finally looks intrigued, motioning me to the table.

  I oblige, immediately suffocated by gingery musk.

  “I’ll try to make this as clear for you as I can,” he says. “Stop me if I get ahead of myself.”

  “I think I can manage.”

  His glance is a subtle challenge, and he gestures to the South on his map. “Tell me, then, why everyone wants to call this place their own.”

  He hardly waits for an answer before opening his mouth again, apparently expecting me to say nothing, but I cut him off. “It’s the Harosh,” I say, pointing at the territory far down the meandering line of the Izahar River, deep into what’s nearly the ends of the earth. “That’s where the treasure is said to be found. Gold and copper. Iron and cobalt and diamonds. All kinds of wealth, the things many Northern men have chased but never succeeded in reaching.”

  Lark appears impressed. “You read your books.”

  “I’m studying for the exams. There’s also a rather depressing aria my friend likes to sing about ill-fated lovers long ago, where the girl was killed by her father and the boy, a knight, was banished to fight there. It seems we find it both a terrible and wonderful place.”

  “It is,” Lark agrees.

  In truth, this is all I know of the Harosh. No one mentions it. It’s more a myth.

  “But what does this have to do with peace?” I ask.

  “Nothing immediate,” he says, still pleased, “I simply wanted to hear your answer to that question.”

  I narrow my eyes at him. “I’m not here to play games with you. If you’d like a history lesson, I can bring my textbooks next time.”

  “I’d be curious to see what’s there.”

  “Lark, what is your father’s proposal for peace?”

  He pauses, fiddling with the edge of the map. “Tell me about Resya first.”

  I suck in a breath, trying to save patience, but he seems bent on historical and geographical discussion, circling whatever hope-filled idea he’s dangling. “Resya? It’s the jewel of the South. Lush in the north, filled with mountains, and trickling to desert in the south. It has gardens and arid steppes and grand operas.”

  “And does our king fight the Nahir? Does he love the North?”

  I hesitate, unsure if this is a trap or not.

  Lark lowers his voice. “The answer, Cousin, is he does not. He won’t help his royal friends. He’s been betrayed by both North and South, left to fend for himself, and he will bleed for neither cause.”

  The truth of this statement is blunt and startling. I know Resya has been, at best, tolerated as a fellow royal kingdom, and at worst, suspect of being too weak, with the unhelpful sentiment growing round it. But now Lark is telling me these alarming facts with no pretense. No mystery or question about it.

  King Rahian is refusing to fight the Nahir cause.

  “Are you telling the truth?” I ask. “If so, you cannot speak a word of it here. I beg of you!”

  Something melancholy settles on Lark’s face, a tad sympathetic. “You are my blood, Cousin. I only tell you the truth. But sooner or later, the North will figure out the game. Rahian has refused to allow Northern armies to launch from his borders. Instead, they’re forced to sail all the way to Havenspur, here.” He indicates on the map. “From there they have protected routes to transport supplies inland. A narrow point of advance. It’s been generations since a large enough force amassed to attempt further south. But now there are aeroplanes and armoured carriers. In this new war, swift armies will bring victory, and using Resya’s wide border as a staging ground could make the difference.”

  “And your father’s proposal?”

  “To sway Rahian’s neutrality. To allow the Safire and Northern armies into his realm and bring about a shorter conflict. Your mother could do this.”

  Realizing he still means to implement war, I sigh at the map in frustration. “You lured me here with a different promise,” I say. “You said there was a way to peace.”

  A long pause quiets the room. “There is.”

  I glance up, hungry for hope.

  “Negotiation,” he explains.

  “Negotiate?” I ask, now confused. “With who?”

  He hesitates. “The Nahir.”

  “The Nahir!”

  I’m gaping at him as his warm hand finds my arm, gripping firmly. “Yes, Cousin. Listen to me. Seath has never been allowed to make his case to the Royal League. No one from our cause has ever been allowed to speak the truth of what’s happening. But if they could share their side, perhaps then the North—all of you, so far away—would see our dark reality. You’d see what I have seen.”

  His dogged gaze is terrible bait. “And what, exactly, have you seen?”

  “Those ridiculous feathers being worn in Landore? They’re from the golden pheasants of Thurn. Beautiful birds with a long, scarlet plume. The Landorians have taken to slaughtering them and sticking them in their hair, simply because they can. Soon there won’t be a single one left.” He leans closer, ginger scent curling round us. “And how much else has been taken these past hundred years? Our land? Our traditions? What are bullets in birds next to bullets in people?”

  Something sickens within me, alongside disbelief. “How on earth do you know all this?”

  He holds his tongue, his earnest gaze struggling between fear and defiance—though of what, I don’t know. And then it dawns on me. The passing words he spoke. I feel a deeper horror settling cold on my skin, his hand still gripping my arm like he might convince me by simply not letting go.

  “You said Seath has never been allowed to speak to the League,” I whisper. “You said no one from our cause has ever been allowed.”

  His brown eyes flicker. “Yes.”

  “Stars, you’re—”

  “Nahir.”

  He says it so quickly, like a fired bullet, that for a moment it’s as if he hadn’t spoken at all. I stare at him. The roundness of his face, a pink blush creeping beneath the olive tone of his skin. The way he swallows tightly, uncertainty beneath the defiance. I sit there, stunned, and realize he’s as stunned and bewildered as am I.

  I’m not sure he meant to say that out loud.

  “You…,” And I trail off. I have no words, no framework for a confession like this.

  He offers me the bottle of wine lamely.

  “But you’re—”

  “I simply am,” he interrupts, glancing at the closed door, his voice lowering again. “And you can’t tell anyone, Cousin. No one knows, not even Havis, but you and I—we’re family. I know you’ll keep my secret. I want to help you … and perhaps you can help me.”

  “Help how?” I repeat, my overwhelmed voice sounding only half-formed.

  The Nahir were not supposed to look like Lark Gazhirem.

  “You don’t want war, and neither do I,” he insists, quietly earnest again. “No one truly does. What I want is a negotiation. The world’s finally taking notice of us, desperate to avoid what will come, and now at last is the time. But I can’t do this on my own. No one here will listen to me—certainly not your mother. I see that now. But you—”

  I shake my head wildly. “I don’t understand, Lark. Why the stars would you tell me this?”

  “Because you have power! You’re young, yes, but I learned how to resist at your age, how to fight. You can, too. The old want to wage war, but we aren’t like them, Cousin. We can do better.”

  “What could I possibly give you?”

  “A voice,” he says with certainty, like he’s perfectly aware of how the world sees him—how I see him—and he’s fine with it, since he is only himself. His energy becomes his honesty. “Your mother’s voice, in particular. It could be the one we need, someone who comes from both worlds, who has allies on every side. Not everyo
ne needs to pick up a rifle to fight. Not every battle looks the same. She could plead our case if you showed her the truth. You said she’d listen to you.” He swallows again. “I know you want to protect your family’s reputation, and yourself, but what about the rest of us? What about everyone beyond this palace?”

  It’s too familiar, an echo of Athan yet again, asking me on the mountaintop if I’d think only of myself. Live forever behind these walls and do nothing. I stare at the map on the table before us, where the world looks wonderfully safe and simple. Divided with lines and colours, the soft, small hearts entirely invisible.

  Lark clears his throat. “There’s also the matter of your uncle’s debt.…” I freeze, and he looks equally uncertain, which does nothing to reassure me. “I know he still owes Seath money, and you should understand that Seath doesn’t let betrayals go, not when there is so much to gain. A Northern royal family is valuable leverage.”

  He offers no hope, only the truth.

  I close my eyes to the devastating reality before me, this world with too much at stake. We’re ensnared either way. In debt not only to the Nahir but with a family member in its ranks. And if Lark is one, then what about Lark’s father? And his siblings? And everyone else? If this truth spread on the wind—Sinora Lehzar, Queen of Etania, blood to Nahir fighters—it would be far worse than any feeble connection to Resya’s questionable loyalties.

  This would ruin her. Forever.

  Unless …

  “Let me simply talk with you,” Lark says urgently. “You want to talk. That’s why you found me here. So I’ll tell you what I know, and at the end, you can decide if it’s worth your neck on the line to speak on my behalf. Our behalf,” he adds, and I’m not sure if he means the two of us, or the Nahir, or all of the South itself. He pauses. “Not all of us can be like your father, Cousin. Not all of us can choose to hide from the world. We have to live with it, darkness and all.”

  I let out a trembling, terrified breath.

  “Do you truly believe this, Lark? That Seath would speak to my mother? To the North?”

  It sounds too impossible.

  But Lark nods fervently. “I do, Aurelia. I do. Your mother is one of us. And Seath … he’s old. He’s weary. Everyone’s tired down there, even the Landorians, and Seath is ready to take any gamble he must. Let a truce be reached. But the Safire? They are young. They’ll bring fresh air to the flames, stir the South far beyond Thurn, and how can anyone escape that alive? The North will suffer as much as any. Their General is a tyrant. Too good at war and too ambitious to stop.”

  It’s a mirror of what Reni said months ago. To hear it repeated, from one on the other side, only frightens me more, solidifying itself into an inevitable truth. But then that fact frustrates me further. I’m tired of anticipating the worst, of bracing for our family’s condemnation. Of never acting and always despairing. This can’t be all there is to life—surrendering to terror, allowing a few desperate men to dictate who lives and dies, dictate when there should be war and when peace. What if they all sat down for only a moment? What if they stopped long enough to hear one another out? Couldn’t my mother undo the wrong by negotiating good?

  Perhaps my wayward cousin is actually right. Perhaps there’s another move to make.

  “Talk to me then,” I say. “I can at least listen.”

  28

  ATHAN

  Havenspur, Thurn

  Major Wick gives a briefing in the ops room before our first flight up. Pacing before a map of the South, he carries on for an hour about land grabs, city divisions, broken treaties, and stalemates. It’s a complex situation. A lot of names punctuated with swearing. Resya is an erstwhile ally—isolationist, now, and refusing to allow Landorian army boots into the kingdom. Myar was once under Landore’s control, but they lost it during their retreat north fifty years ago. Masrah was Thurn’s neutral neighbour—quiet and ambivalent—until it wasn’t. And Thurn itself has four different territories, each in various states of upheaval.

  “The people round Havenspur are quite likable,” Wick says. “They appreciate our hard work, what we’ve done for them. It’s the ones farther out.” He waves his hand, sweeping east to west. “They can’t be trusted.”

  Generally speaking, he’s just pointed at the entire map.

  “And Seath?” a Safire pilot asks. “Does he have any sympathy near Havenspur?”

  “Seath,” Wick responds darkly, “could talk a prince into trading his own crown for a bloody rifle. So yes, I’d imagine he does have sympathy here. I always plan for the worst, gentlemen. I trust no one.”

  I can’t help feeling a bit bad for Greycap. He’s seated next to me and Cyar, and didn’t need to be in this briefing, since it’s all for the Safire. But he came anyway, showing us to the mugs of coffee, poking us into the right chairs, and now he has to sit and listen to someone disparage most of his countrymen.

  “It’s not that bad,” he assures Cyar and me under his breath. “Wait until you taste mezra!”

  We all grin—Greycap because he’s excited, Cyar because he’s always intrigued by new food, and me because the whole thing’s contagious—then Wick growls at us to pay attention, the older pilots giving us unimpressed looks, and we shut our mouths and straighten quickly.

  A board near the door has the Moonstrike squadron divided into different groups, call-signs written in chalk, and we walk over with our nearly empty coffee mugs. Garrick and Ollie are at the top—Falcon and Hawk. Never anything subtle with them. The other pilots locate their names, laughing about who’s going up with who.

  Two extra names are scrawled at the bottom of the first flight—Charm and Fox. That must be us.

  Garrick claps a hand on my shoulder. “Ready, Charm?”

  “I thought for sure I was the Fox,” I reply.

  “No, too obvious. If we want the enemy to go after a plane, we have to make sure it’s Hajari’s.”

  I turn to object, then realize he’s laughing behind us. “Arrin picked the name for you,” he explains. “He said you’d be my little good luck charm in the skies. I sure as hell hope he’s right.”

  I ignore that. Probably a taunt rather than a compliment, coming from Arrin.

  He motions gamely for the door. “Let’s go meet the ladies.”

  We march outside and the morning heat’s already brewed full force. Garrick directs me to the nearest hangar, then takes Cyar across the runway to another. The Moonstrike pilots have already found their fighters, and only one remains lonely, shining in the light, calling to me. I zip my flight suit, excitement kicking into gear. Also some nerves.

  A middle-aged man with blond hair waits by the nose. His pants have oil stains, the Safire crest stitched to his grey shirt. “A nice day for flying, Lieutenant,” he calls.

  I nod, confused by his familiar address.

  “I’m Filton,” he says, “your chief mechanic. Arrived last night from Brisal.” He jabs his thumb at a thin, freckled boy behind him. “And that’s Kif, your rigger.”

  Right, my new ground crew. The perks of being in a squadron even though it hardly feels earned yet.

  I extend a hand, trying to seem confident, older. “Pleasure to meet you, Chief.”

  He responds with a firm grip. “No, pleasure to meet you, sir. I’m only here to keep the engine running smooth so you don’t have to worry at 10,000 feet.” He winks.

  “Appreciate it,” I say, laying a reverent hand on the sun-warmed metal. The underside of each wing is painted with a large black sword. Machine guns point from the nose, twin cannons mounted on either wing, and the thick armoured plating from nose to tail inspires courage. This isn’t the tame plane I learned to fly on. This is a weapon.

  “Charm, quit daydreaming and get your ass inside,” Garrick hollers on his way by.

  As always, he’s a joy to train with.

  I run through my rituals quickly—tightening the flight boots, pulling on leather gloves, buckling the life vest—and Filton works his way around the plane, te
sting each flap with approving comments. Kif follows and nods.

  “Everything good, Chief?” It seems like a question I should ask.

  He pats the fuselage. “Ready, sir. We tested her earlier, and she gave a little growl of protest after her days at sea. Purring soon enough. I’ll be sure to shine her when you get back. She’ll be the prettiest plane in the sky, I promise.”

  His enthusiasm further bolsters my confidence. I’ve really got my own ground crew—two of them, even.

  Not bad!

  He helps me buckle the heavy parachute, then I climb into the cockpit and settle myself. Everything’s in order. I pump the primer, flick the engine, and she comes to snarling life with a slight jump, the propeller spinning to a blur on the nose. Filton gives a thumbs-up. Then he and Kif place a hand on either wing, guiding me onto the open tarmac. They let go and offer a last salute.

  On my own now.

  Garrick orders a check-in over the radio. Six pilots altogether in the first flight. We’re flying in formations of three, one plane leading each, and I’m playing right wingman to Ollie for the day. The flank of his plane has three black strikes on it. Three shot down in Karkev.

  “We’re first,” Ollie announces.

  “Copy that, Leader,” says the other pilot, Sailor, on his left side.

  I grip the throttle, ready to release. “Copy that, Leader.”

  Control gives clearance and we open up. The planes leap forward, engines roaring, and I barely hang on as my plane hurtles down the runway and fights to be airborne. No choice but to let her have her way. She storms up into the blue like a wild grey horse, streaming smoky wake.

  Goddamn, this plane’s fast!

  My pulse races and I struggle to keep her flying straight in the wind, wobbling a bit as I adjust to her whims. We climb rapidly. Already at 2,000 feet. The earth below changes to the blue of the sea, naval ships appearing like little toys playing games on the waves.

  “Don’t let her push you around too much, Charm,” Ollie says from ahead.

  I hear his laughter, which only fuels my determination. Might as well try a quick roll to the right. It’s been too long since my last time in the sky and the glory of it’s overwhelming. Addicting. I spin away from Sailor, my plane wing over wing before I’ve barely finished the thought.