Dark of the West (Glass Alliance)

by Joanna Hathaway

  Incredible!

  She’s a creature designed for battle. Cunning and fast, no hesitation anywhere. I’m grinning ear to ear.

  “Charm, quit those maneuvers without permission,” Ollie orders. “This isn’t a damn circus.”

  “Sorry, Leader.” I swing her back into position off his right side, but not before waggling the wings, just to see how she handles.

  Perfection.

  9,000 feet. 10,000 feet.

  I’ve got her steady now, confidence growing.

  “Careful in the wind up here,” Ollie says. “Keep close to me, Charm.”

  “Will do, Leader.”

  “And watch your slip while you’re at it.”

  My slip? I frown behind the oxygen mask. I’ve been accounting for the crosswind just fine, adjusting the rudders. I clench the stick and follow after him.

  For our first authorized maneuver, we do a curving dive, one after the other. Sailor escapes critique, but I’m not so lucky.

  “Trim yourself, Charm. Airspeed increased too much on that bank.”

  It sure as hell did not. I was steady the entire way through, no sideslip to right or left, but I bite my tongue. “Understood, Leader.”

  Next a roll at 1,000 feet. Low enough to leave no room for error.

  Again, I fail.

  “A little late coming off it, Charm. You trying to go for a swim?”

  God, I could shoot Ollie out of the damn sky right now!

  The formations of three spread out, running through mock fights in rapid succession. I spot Cyar pulling out of the same inverted roll.

  “Nicely done, Fox,” Garrick says over the radio. “Speed well-maintained.”

  I grind my teeth in frustration. All my moves are perfect. Easy in, quick out. No room for complaint. But the Moonstrike pilots pretend not to see, accusing me of whatever flaws they can find, telling me to get it right or get out of the way. Too much thrust, not enough altitude, light on the trim.

  I give up and start doing my own maneuvers. To hell with Ollie’s “no circus” rule.

  On my final wingover, I lower my flaps abruptly, slowing and dropping, cutting far too close to him.

  Ollie brakes hard. “Good God, Charm! I’m not the damn enemy. Stay clear, would you!”

  Serves him right.

  We land and I roll to a halt near the hangar.

  Filton waves eagerly. “That was a fine display, sir! The squadron’s in top form, isn’t it?”

  I jump down from the wing without a word. Across the tarmac, one of the Moonstrike pilots is giving Cyar an encouraging clap on the shoulder, and jealousy burns.

  Filton coughs. “I’ll just settle her in, then.” He motions to Kif.

  The two of them scurry off and my eyes fix on Garrick and Merlant. They’re conferring together by the base, glancing at us two rookies, then Garrick waves me over.

  Watch your mouth, Erelis.

  God, not only am I talking to myself, I’m referring to myself as the phantom who doesn’t exist. This is bad.

  “What was that flying about?” Garrick asks when I arrive. “You sure you won Top Flight?”

  I restrain anger, barely. “There wasn’t anything wrong with it, Captain.”

  “That’s not what it looked like from Ollie’s perspective.”

  “He’s blind!”

  “So you decide to go off and do your own thing?” Garrick shakes his head, rubbing sweat from his red hair. “You going to act like this when you’re frustrated in a dogfight?”

  There are a lot of very irreverent things I’d like to say to him right now. They almost snarl free, but Merlant’s silent, steady gaze stops me.

  “This is exactly what I said would happen,” Garrick declares. “There’s too much of that pride in him.”

  Merlant gives a slight nod.

  That pride.

  That Dakar pride is what he means, and the conclusion stings.

  Garrick stalks off towards HQ, leaving the two of us alone, and Merlant adjusts his red and blue silk neck scarf. “I wondered what would happen if I told them to give you hell,” he explains.

  I swallow, throat suddenly parched. “You asked them to do this?”

  “An experiment.”

  The realization stifles my anger, giving way to shame. “I wasn’t trying to cause trouble, Captain. I was just…” There are no words, no excuses. Merlant has a way of making it seem unnecessary. He’s like Father, but for different reasons.

  He shrugs. “You’re just very much seventeen,” he finishes.

  “I’m better than this.”

  He nods. “I believe you, Lieutenant. And I look forward to seeing it.” He pauses. “And that was nice flying up there. Though that last stunt where you nearly took out your own leader? Save it for battle next time.” He allows a smile, then heads back the way Garrick went.

  I stand alone, wondering what they’ll write about me in today’s flight report. “Very much seventeen,” they’ll say, and Father’s fiery displeasure will radiate from across the entire sea. Now it really does feel like I’ve made the wrong move. Loss of airspeed, late off the roll, and smoking on the ground for everyone to see.

  That pride.

  Those two words burn worst. I have to do better.

  * * *

  At the end of our first week, Moonstrike is ordered on a trip to the edge of Havenspur, to gain a better feel for the area. Another piece of our Thurnian education. It’s a half-hour drive by vehicle, reinforcing how deceptively large the city is, the swelling mansions of the promenade giving way to skinny streets and tight alleys, mostly inhabited by exuberant kids and bored cats. We’re deposited, armed and perspiring, in an open market. The faint breeze is saturated with smoke and spice. Saffron, pepper, others I can’t place. The buildings around us are inlaid with mosaics, intricate spirals painted above doorways, laundry laid out to dry on wooden steps. Metal fans spit air through open windows, curtains fluttering.

  Beneath the market’s fabric canopies, men and women laugh and chatter, their fingers stitching, smoking, strumming instruments, but their eyes watch us as we walk the square.

  Cautiously curious.

  I struggle to catch the fragments of wavering conversation, the offers made by vendors as they barter with customers, some of them even offering to me. I hardly recognize any of the words from my lessons, which annoys me. I’m supposed to be good at this language thing.

  “Keep moving,” Wick instructs. “They know we don’t buy from them.”

  That’s an easy order to follow when the sellers are old men. But soon enough, a little boy’s tugging at my arm, green eyes wide and expectant. He opens a case holding golden strands, a small stone on each end. Necklaces. Not very grand ones, but still pretty.

  “For good luck,” he says in Landori, tiny smile bursting with excitement.

  I have no choice. I hold out a few coins and let him decide what a strand’s worth.

  Wick looks back and sighs. “Lieutenant. Don’t encourage this.”

  I ignore him. The boy studies the coins, then carefully extracts two from my palm. I choose a necklace with an amber-coloured stone, and thank him in Thurnian.

  He offers me a plucky salute, then he’s disappeared into the crowd again.

  “Well done!” Greycap announces, his arm around my shoulder. “You got robbed blind. And it doesn’t even seem like your colour.”

  “It was for a good cause,” I reply. “And it’s not for me.”

  “Tell me who she is.”

  “Who says it’s a girl?”

  “Well, it wouldn’t look good on Fox either.”

  I laugh, slipping the gift into my pocket, and suddenly wonder when, if ever, I’ll have a chance to give this to Ali. Frustrated by that realization, I change the subject. “I have no clue what anyone’s saying here, Nazem. Are you sure I’m studying the right books?”

  “Different dialect out here. They have their roots further south.”

  “How many dialects are there?”r />
  “In Thurn? Five or six.”

  God, this place is getting more and more complicated. What’s the point in trying? I’ll never be on the ground long enough to learn this. I’ll be thousands of feet up in the air, where I’m useful. Negotiating down here is an entirely different realm.

  Sudden shouts erupt ahead, and my hand quickly falls to the pistol at my side. By an ancient fountain, two young women are arguing with a Landorian soldier of local background. One girl leads the charge, dressed in a flower-print dress and heels, brown hair in a braided knot, as impassioned as the soldier and hurling rapid Thurnian words into his bitter face.

  “She says one of our soldiers stole from her display,” Greycap explains. “She says her mother is Landorian and we’ll be hearing about it.”

  “You think she’s telling the truth?”

  Greycap opens his mouth, then shuts it. He shrugs.

  No one moves to intervene. Everything’s silent in the square.

  The soldier switches to Landori and says, “You bleed for Seath!” loud enough everyone can hear, and understand, and the woman hesitates only a second before spitting on his boots. The other girl, much younger, searches the rest of us rapidly, looking for an ally, and her gaze falls on Cyar. I’ve only made it two steps for him when she flings herself against his chest. Her hands grasp his uniform, appealing in her local dialect, and only a few words register—“Listen, Savient” and “Help me, Captain.”

  Cyar appears stunned by the girl suddenly in his arms.

  I reach his side and she glances at me. Her eyes, amber like the necklace, take in my uniform, my face, my fist around the pistol. She says something else to Cyar. I don’t understand any of it. Cyar shakes his head at her, visibly torn. He glances at me with a question, but I can’t answer it. Neither of us can. This whole place is strange and confusing, filled with rules we don’t know.

  Landorians. Locals. Nahir.

  The vast majority could be one or two or three of those things at once.

  Cyar shakes his head again. “Not a captain,” he says in Thurnian. “Not a captain.”

  But it sounds more like an apology.

  “They think you Safire are here to save them,” Wick says caustically on his way by, striding for the Landorian soldier with spittle on his boots. “We’re so wicked and cruel.”

  He rolls his eyes and a hiss escapes the younger girl. Pushing back, she releases Cyar and runs into the crowd, heels clicking on cobblestone, swallowed by the saffron and smoke. The older girl moves like a cat. With cunning quickness, she snatches the soldier’s rifle right from his unsuspecting hands, then her flower-print dress disappears back into the crowd and she’s gone.

  Local men swiftly close the gap. Staring down Wick.

  The Landorian soldier glares at his empty hands.

  Everyone else watches silently—above, below, to the side—but now with an edge of anger, their curiosity towards us disappeared.

  Anger and betrayal have a palpable feeling.

  Somewhere, a female voice begins to serenade the market—soft and clear, echoing off stone walls, luring everyone back to the sunny afternoon—and Greycap gives us a faltering smile. “Faria. Only women sing it. Come on, let’s listen.”

  He tugs at our arms.

  But I know the truth, and surely Nazem La’hile can see it also. It’s too much like Savient. Like Rahmet and Brisal. No one will live forever in subservience, their loyalty forced with a gun. They want something better, as we did. Stuck between worlds, the sides shifting every day, divisions disappearing, colours bleeding together and creating something infinitely more honest and alive and dangerous.

  Cyar looks at me.

  It feels like true revolution.

  VI

  EDUCATION

  29

  AURELIA

  Hathene, Etania

  Sun warms the deep places of the woods, casting scattered shadows across the dirt trail, filtering through leaves. I fiddle with the reins and press with my legs, and Liberty collects nicely on the bit even as his ears twitch rapidly at the symphony of forest sounds. He’s eager as a colt to be outside again. The jurica has worked, and I want to kiss Cyar. The groom’s impressed enough with Liberty’s progress to encourage these slow rides, strengthening his injured leg, and since Reni is currently in Classit, or perhaps Lalia, I’m the one to do it.

  Violet trails behind on quiet Ivory. She’s a rather helpless rider, perched awkwardly in the saddle, and she keeps jerking at Ivory’s mouth every time my mare tries for a passing leaf. They both appear equally exasperated with each other, and I want to apologize to poor Ivory.

  “Don’t pull so hard,” I say, halting Liberty by the river.

  “She doesn’t listen,” Violet protests.

  “Because you’re confusing her with your cues. You do nothing and then you suddenly yank.”

  Violet sighs. She doesn’t like being hot and sweaty, or wearing pants. Today she has to contend with all three. “Is it true?” she asks instead. “You’re touring the University tomorrow with the Ambassador?”

  I frown, walking Liberty on. “Who told you?”

  “Her Majesty was discussing it with my father. She sounded very pleased.”

  She was indeed pleased, and also surprised, since I invited Havis along of my own free will. I feigned a desire to get to know my betrothed, but really, I want to find out if he knows the truth about Lark, and if he thinks a negotiation with the Nahir could work. I’ll play along with the engagement if it means finding out those answers. I need to know.

  Violet seems to believe me, too. “You’ve finally taken a liking to him, then?”

  “He’s not so bad. He likes horses.” My list of positives ends there. I’ll have to work on that.

  “But what about the Lieutenant?”

  “The Lieutenant?” I ask, like I’d forgotten him altogether.

  “Yes, your darling friend, the one you might have got to kiss you if you’d played your angle a little better.”

  I draw Liberty into a tighter frame. “I’ll never see him again, Violet.”

  “You can’t be sure.”

  “He’s only a farm boy.”

  “Those things don’t always matter.”

  Liberty throws his head, sensing my rising tension through the reins. “Yes, they do matter, Violet,” I say, turning in the saddle. We halt. “I don’t see any point in giving up someone who has everything for someone who has nothing. It’s foolish.”

  She sucks in an annoyed breath. “Perhaps to some.”

  I know we’re both waiting for the question, so I finally ask, “Have you heard from the Captain?”

  It’s a mystery I’ve wondered about since the Safire left, and since I caught her and Reni in the midst of an emotional tangle before he left for the tour, I think I have the right to ask.

  It’s my brother she’s wounding.

  “I received a letter this week,” she replies, unaffected by my tone.

  “And?” It comes out more demanding than I intend.

  “He has an uncle in Norvenne with connections to the royal theatre. They’re going to see what strings they can pull, to get me an audition, and I should have an answer by the end of summer.” Leafy branches flicker light across her resolute face. “I’m planning to go.”

  Of course he’d fan the flames of her greatest dream. He’s clever and Safire.

  “What if he’s lying?” I ask.

  “I trust him.” Her look dares me to contest Cock’s loyalty, and my hope of talking her back from the edge, for my brother’s sake, disappears. “You know nothing about him, Ali. Nothing at all. Garrick hasn’t had an easy life. He’s very lonely much of the time, and hates to go home.”

  I resist the urge to roll my eyes.

  “His father’s quite hard on him,” she continues, “always pushing for more. His younger brother is an officer in the Navy, well-accomplished, yet their father’s furious that he hasn’t been promoted in a year. Family honour rests on th
eir shoulders, and right now Garrick’s the one rising. I don’t think we can understand what that’s like. They must work for everything they earn.”

  “That doesn’t mean he’s worth the trouble.”

  “Trouble? Garrick’s brave and honourable, Ali! He willingly puts his life in danger for others. The stories he told me from Karkev were dreadful. He said he once had an oil leak and his engine caught fire. The entire thing went up in smoke, blinding him, and he thought for sure he’d be cooked to death, slowly, like a chicken.” She shudders a bit. “There were blisters on his skin.”

  My stomach clenches. Death in an aeroplane is supposed to be quick. A sudden explosion, then darkness. Being roasted alive, gradually, sounds far more sinister, and the thought of Athan …

  I can’t think of it.

  “It’s a terrible, noble thing to be a soldier, isn’t it?” Violet continues softly, sensing my horror. “I’m sure no one understands. But I tried for him. That’s the only thing I thought as I held his body. I imagined how it could soon turn to nothing. How the energy in him, wanting me, needing me, could so quickly disappear.”

  I frown. “When you held his body?”

  She straightens in the saddle. “I mean what I said.”

  “Violet!”

  “Don’t look at me like that, Ali. Don’t you dare. I’m eighteen years old, and everything was my decision.”

  Shock gives way to revulsion, the idea of her—my best friend—allowing herself to be used this way. It’s beyond improper. It’s foolish and impulsive and she’s ruined herself without thought! “He has nothing to offer you, Violet. He’s an officer and that’s all he’ll ever be. He won’t have wealth, or high status. He’ll be gone for months on end, stars know where, and you’ll be left behind, wondering every day if he’s already dead and the letter simply hasn’t reached you yet. Is that what you want?”

  I don’t care that I could be giving myself the same lecture.