Dark of the West (Glass Alliance)

by Joanna Hathaway

  I ignore the excited chatter. Dizziness and nausea overwhelm me, the weariness sudden and thorough. I just did more high-force maneuvers in ten minutes than I normally do in an entire week. When we land, I sit in the cockpit, sucking in air like I’ve been underwater, every muscle trembling with exhaustion. I have nothing left to give.

  Filton waits below, relief etched on his face as I slide open the cockpit glass. “Not a scratch, Chief,” I say, jumping down. My knees give way slightly.

  He offers me an arm. “Very good, sir. Very good.”

  Cyar lopes over, face streaked with sweat, dark hair matted. He looks a bit undone. “God, that was terrible! I was on Garrick’s tail and that pilot came right out of the sun. Cut between us and chased me off before I could even say a thing over the radio.” He stops and looks me up and down. “Did you get him?”

  I nod.

  He glances to my plane, then shifts on his feet. “Sorry. I would have come along, but I thought you were right behind me. By the time I looked back, you’d disappeared.”

  I manage a smile. “Just testing out the plane. She’s quite fast.”

  There’s a breath of silence before he says, “Athan, I owe you one.”

  “You do.” I shove his shoulder, grateful I can still do it. Anything for him.

  “Lieutenant Erelis,” a third voice interrupts. Merlant marches over, mouth set, silk scarf untied. “You were supposed to stay on my wing! You were not supposed to let me out of your sight.”

  Cyar steps away, but I straighten. “Sorry, Captain. I had no choice.”

  “You damn well did! Flying alone your first time up is the most foolish thing you could have done. You’re lucky we aren’t fishing you out of the Black right now.”

  “If not me, then it would have been Cyar. No one else was running to help him.”

  He opens his arms. “Because the rest of us were using our heads! Trying something called strategy rather than blind flying. And even after the round was won, you still carried on. Right over Hady! All on your own.” He gives me a look of disbelief. “You’re a lucky fool that plane you met was one of your own.”

  Garrick appears around the nose of my fighter. “What’s this, Captain?”

  Merlant gestures at me. “I’m trying to explain to your rookie what strategy is.”

  “Not much luck, I’m guessing?”

  “You’re welcome to take a shot at it.”

  Garrick looks at me. “You flew off like a devil, Charm. Incredible dive. I’ve seen pilots nearly kill themselves with moves like that. How’d you keep her out of a stall?”

  I shrug. “No other choice.”

  “Did you get him down, then?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You’re sure of it?”

  “The whole thing was in flames. There’s no plane left.”

  A slow grin lights Garrick’s face. “My God, really? Not bad, Charm! Your first time up, too!”

  I stare at him. A compliment from Garrick? What do I do with that?

  Merlant looks the same. “Captain Carr, you can’t encourage this in a squadron.”

  “Can’t encourage what? Bringing down the enemy?”

  “No, every other damn thing he did.” Merlant ticks off his fingers. “Leaving formation without permission, abandoning his leader, never bothering to radio his intentions, attacking the enemy without support … I’m not sure there’s a rule he didn’t break. Sorties aren’t a one-man show.”

  Garrick steps between us. “Captain, my rookie just shot a plane out of the sky on his first time up. I’d say that’s pretty damn impressive. Strategies only get you so far, then instinct and luck kick in.” He glances at me. “Though next time it would be helpful if you tried to be a bit more of a team player.”

  I nod.

  Merlant throws Garrick a dark look. “I will be reporting this to Major Wick. The Lieutenant broke direct orders.”

  That threat stops everyone, even Filton and Kif, who’ve been checking my plane over. Garrick straightens his shoulders. His voice is low. “Listen, Captain, there are two squadrons here. We may be training with you, and the Lieutenant will show you the proper respect, but he doesn’t answer to you, nor will he ever. He answers to me, and I say he did a good job today.” He steps away from Merlant and claps me on the shoulder. “Stay on your leader’s wing next time, Charm. I’m not going to be the one who has to explain your death to…” He trails off, no need to finish.

  “Yes, Captain.”

  He nods, giving me what might actually be a genuine smile, then heads for the barracks. Cyar follows. Filton and Kif disappear into the nearby hangar.

  I stand before Merlant, slightly embarrassed, still nauseated.

  Nothing left to give.

  Merlant looks drained, too. I suppose there’s no such thing as an easy dogfight. “This is the problem with you Safire,” he says quietly. “You think you know everything already, need no one’s help. You think that because you got it right ten years ago, and created something from nothing, you can do it again with ease.”

  I rub my aching head.

  “You can’t do this alone, Athan. You need to be a part of a team.”

  “Cyar’s my team,” I say tightly.

  “Not when you’re a captain. When you’re captain you’ll have ten pilots looking to you for guidance. You can’t abandon them for one.” He walks closer. “I lost a good friend up there last year. I know this isn’t a game. You can treat it like one, but up there people die. And you die. It’s about victory, assess, victory, assess. Strategy, Athan. You should know that better than anyone.”

  Exhaustion and reason win out. “I understand, sir.”

  “Good.” He pauses, shaking his head again. “You really made the bastard run, though, didn’t you? We usually let them off once they’ve waved the white flag and headed for home.”

  “He picked the wrong plane to go after.”

  Merlant smiles faintly. “I’ll be writing the operations report for Major Wick, and I’ll be sure to mention your score. Perhaps we’ll overlook the rest this one time. But only once.”

  I glance up, relieved. “Thank you, Captain.”

  He nods and heads for base headquarters, as sweaty and tired as the rest of us. His black cat runs along at his heels. I didn’t even notice it trot over.

  * * *

  Night falls, and I’m still pulsing with adrenaline. Sleep doesn’t come, only the feeling of loops and dives in the sky, up and down through the atmosphere, the moment of blinding fear when I was caught between crosshairs. I turn onto my stomach and write Ali, holding the paper in the compound light. As always, I end up staring at the blank sheet for far too long.

  How do I share what I’ve done today? Where do I begin?

  It wasn’t so bad, really. Some heart-stopping moments, then parachutes. As Merlant said, they often just let the other pilot go after a certain point.

  See? There are principles and rules—rules I might have broken a bit today—but we’re not out for blood. We’re out for the challenge, for the grin of victory. Doesn’t that make sense, Ali?

  I don’t even know why I’m worried about explaining this to her. She’d probably agree with me.

  I sigh and lean heavily on my arms, sinking into the mattress.

  “This bed is as old as Thurn,” Cyar says below. “It creaks every time you breathe.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Can’t sleep?”

  “No.”

  He slides out of bed and stands beside the bunk. Even in the scant light, he still looks a bit undone. “You know this is only the beginning.”

  “I know.”

  “We’re going to have to keep going up there, facing better pilots than that. And when this summer ends, who can say what’s next? This could be on for years. Years, Athan. And this is our life now. There won’t ever be a day when we do our best, and then it’s over. It’s not like the Academy. The better we do, the more they’ll send us up.” He pauses. “And they’ll keep sen
ding us up, over and over until we…”

  “Until we win,” I finish for him. I won’t let him think the other option.

  He catches himself. “Yes, until we win.”

  Neither of us mentions that “win” is a vague term in the South. In Savient, there was an end. We unified. Is that even possible here? I don’t know. I don’t think anyone knows. If it was up to me, I’d just give the rebels their Free Thurn and then everyone’s happy.

  But no one’s going to ask me.

  “We’ll be the best and see it to the end,” I say.

  “We will.”

  “I won’t go up there without you, Cyar—I won’t.” That’s the truest thing I know.

  We share a thin smile, vague in the darkness. Then he returns to his bed and I fold my paper. I’ve survived my first day of eighteen.

  Tomorrow, I’ll write.

  VII

  TRUTH

  Dear Ali,

  Here we go—this week’s exciting installment is about a bet.

  Two planes, one Landorian and one Safire, raced each other in the absolute middle of the night, then dove a good thousand feet through the air. Before you ask, no, it wasn’t very safe, but that’s why I didn’t participate. It was a bunch of other bored (and very drunk) pilots, and tragically, the Safire pilot lost. He couldn’t quite make the winning dive. Though I’m sure if it had been me flying, the Safire honour would remain intact. I’m not bragging here. It’s just the truth.

  (All right, maybe bragging a little.)

  Beyond that, we play kickball, we swim, we drill in the sky. The evening is my favourite, when it’s finally cool and I can sit out here in the hangar and find some quiet. I really should be writing my sister, you know. She sent me a strongly worded letter this week about how those who break promises are bound for the worst parts of hell. Well, it wasn’t quite so direct, but to that effect. And it’s true. I did promise her a letter a week. But somehow they each end up addressed to you. You’ve captured all my thoughts, Ali, and I don’t have any left for her. And before you tell me I’m cruel—don’t worry, I’m not even her favourite brother, so I think I’m safe from hell for now. She just likes telling people what to do. It’s a habit that runs in my family.

  So what should I share with you next, Princess? I feel like I owe you something heroic in here. Something impressive I’ve done, that you’ll read over and over and over again. But to be honest, I don’t find this mission very inspiring. I mostly feel a bit overwhelmed. We walked the streets (it’s so damn hot, sweat everywhere, sorry for the smudges) and a local girl actually threw herself at Cyar, begging for help. She believes we Safire are here to rescue them. Can you believe it? They think we’ll fight against the Landorians, at their side, which just shows how complicated this whole mess is.

  I wish there was an easy answer. I know there usually isn’t.

  Instead, I’m just going to lie here and enjoy this evening, see the sky filled with a hundred thousand stars. I’ve never seen this many stars, Ali. It reminds me of your eyes. I think I’ll always remember your dark eyes when I see the perfect night sky here. So perhaps there is something beautiful here and it’s tied, forever, to you.

  I’m saying too much now. And I haven’t even had a glass of wine. This never ends well. Cyar’s the poet, not me. I love your pictures of the woods and mountains. I have them pinned near my bunk here. I’ve included more of my own—the freckly-faced fellow is my rigger, Kif. (I have my own ground crew. Did I mention that in my last letter? Am I still bragging?)

  Thank you for writing me so faithfully. I look forward to each one of your letters.

  Yours,

  Athan

  To my most talented Lieutenant (Star of the Safire pilots):

  Of course you’d have won the bet! I have no doubts about that. You once put our own Etanian pilots to shame, and though no one quite realized it, you were in fact the talk of the palace, remember? I should have mentioned this to your General when we spoke. I mentioned your good manners and he said that wasn’t enough for a promotion, so I’ll be sure to mention your exceptional talent and daring moves in high wind next time. I’m determined to see you awarded the highest rank in your entire air force. What would that be? Commanding Captain or Colonel or some such title of a famous squadron? With golden diamond wings?

  I’ll allow you the bragging, Lieutenant. It’s well-earned, I think. But you really should do something about that younger sister of yours. May I speak from experience? There truly is nothing worse than a brother who says one thing and does another. I know you might hold a differing opinion of Renisala (and I don’t blame you) but he is everything wonderful to me. He’s a piece of my soul. When he pays me no attention, it’s like I’m on the earth and he’s in the sky, discovering an entire realm of places I can’t follow. My greatest fear is that someday he’ll stay up there for good. That he’ll lose sight of me below. And you really are in the sky, Athan, so now can you imagine how your sister might feel?

  Anyway, thank you for sharing your feelings on Thurn. I like to hear your thoughts, since you’re so close to it all, and I agree there are no easy answers. But I believe they must be out there. And I believe we can find them, together, perhaps even before this gets any further along.

  Imagine if there didn’t need to be any war!

  Perhaps there’s time to make things right.

  Now, for your next letter, you must tell me what it’s like to fly. Do you get nervous? Have you had any close calls? You must also write it after a few glasses of wine. I’d very much like to see what you have to say then.

  Consider this a royal command, Star of the Safire.

  (But write your sister first.)

  Yours with affection,

  Ali

  31

  AURELIA

  Hathene, Etania

  Transpiration, condensation, precipitation.

  I spend my days balancing between two worlds—one where I study for my exams and pretend everything is fine, learning the mechanics of the earth, drafting essays for Heathwyn and taking practice tests, and another where I hide in Father’s library with Lark while he quizzes me on health and biology, dispelling any illusion I once had about the terrifying Nahir. He knows far too much about the common head cold.

  But when we open my history books for our weekly discussions, I discover he lives in another third world altogether. We can’t read a single page about the South without him pointing out something that shouldn’t be there, or should be there, or is vaguely inaccurate though not quite wrong. Battles. Treaties. Accords. He goes on and on about forced borders and displaced peoples and I listen, wondering what I can trust from his mouth and what might simply be his version of a “locked” chest.

  “This,” he says, pointing at a page which describes the wasted potential of long-ago Thurn, “is classic Northern arrogance. They pretend there was nothing grand before they came. As if our cities aren’t as old and beautiful as Norvenne itself!”

  “They don’t look that way in the photographs,” I observe. “They’re usually half falling down.”

  “The photographs? From the newspapers?” Lark draws a deep, balancing breath, and I’m fairly certain I inadvertently try his patience more than I should. “This is exactly what I mean. You’ll justify anything to prove you’re better than the rest of us. Do you even remember the old monarchies of the South?”

  “There really were royals in the South?” I ask, intrigued.

  “Stars.” He thumps one hand on my book. “Education is wasted here.”

  I’m wildly fascinated by the prospect of far-away royalty, wondering what they might be like and if they’re still there and how their palaces are, but Lark’s only interested in war and politics and theories of resistance. When I press him further on the subject, he waves it off, saying monarchies are the way of the past and the South has moved beyond it, to a place where all might be equal and have their say—with or without a gun.

  “You remind me of someone else I kno
w,” I remark with a sly smile.

  He gives me a quizzical look, doubtful, but I keep my Safire friend a secret. I’ve learned well of Lark’s deep hatred towards the General, which might be even greater than his hatred of Landore. Any mention of Athan certainly won’t go over well. But this only reminds me that I’m still not sure why Lark cares so much about Thurn. He’s from Resya. All of this is closer to him, yes, but it’s still not … his. How on earth did he wind up embroiled in the Nahir cause?

  I want to ask, but I feel it’s a later lesson. A more personal one. In the meanwhile, I’m beginning to realize Athan might indeed be right about the South, that there is something darker going on than we in the North know, truths you can’t understand until you’re there to see them with your own eyes. Enough to make a girl beg the Safire for help. It gives further credence to Lark’s impossible hope—that my mother, who has lived in both worlds, might arrange a negotiation and invite reason to reign and peace to be restored. If she became the woman who saved the world from war, Lark says, how could anyone in the North ever speak against her?

  It’s a gamble, and we both know it. But Lark is practical enough about the whole thing it suddenly seems entirely reachable. And I like that.

  So, I sketch visions from his Southern life—born of his rambling monologues—and then add them to the little secret box which is the heartbeat of my joy. I’ve tucked Athan’s letters away there, the one place that seems safe and inviting in a world of sheer uncertainty. His folded pages hold the scent of kerosene, and heat. His touch. He tells me stories of Cyar hunting for snakes, of the funny new pilots he flies with and their training flights above the sea. My stories in return must seem painfully dull. But I always kiss the letters before I seal them, though he’ll never know.

  “I have a plan,” I wrote him in the last one, “and you’d be pleased with my dedication to it. I’m not simply waiting behind these walls any longer. I’m going to do more than anyone imagined. Perhaps I’ll make a Safire soldier yet.”