Dark of the West (Glass Alliance)

by Joanna Hathaway

  There’s too much trust in her gaze, and the thought of lying to her for another minute seems beyond shameful. But then what would I say?

  Ali, nothing in my life makes much sense, but I know I’d fight for you if you gave me the chance. But my father, he wants to destroy your mother, and truthfully, I think I want that too, because my mother was the innocent one and yours stole her from me. But maybe when this is all over, if it ever can be over, we’ll meet in the middle and try to—

  Her eyes study my face so intently that I take a step back, embarrassed. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” she says, and her hand moves, as if to reach for me again. “The sun made more freckles across your nose. They look very sweet.” Her lips part softly, curved with invitation. There’s no question about it. It’s an offer for me to take more, honest and true, and I would if it wasn’t the worst thing I could do to us both.

  I resist the fierce temptation and hold out my arm. “We should go back. They’ll be wondering where we are.”

  “I don’t care what they think.”

  “Please don’t force me to answer to the Queen.” I try a smile.

  She relents and slips closer, her hand taking mine unexpectedly. “I wouldn’t do that to you.” She smiles in return. “And at least we have tonight.”

  36

  ATHAN

  “Nice mask,” Cyar says to me from across the room, the same one we shared during our first visit, “but I don’t know what you are.”

  “Hm?” I’m staring out the open window, at the rainy evening. Glorious mountains and all.

  “It’s a masquerade. I think you have to be … something.”

  “I am.” I turn, holding the mask to my face. “A Safire pilot. The General’s son. Take your pick.” I laugh at my own joke, though it’s really not that funny.

  Of course I know why I picked this mask and not the dozen others in Norvenne. I just can’t quite admit it to him. She’s going as Elinga, the unicorn, and that makes me Elois, the dragon. Cyar’s a romantic, yes, but maybe not enough to waltz around as creatures from a damn painting.

  He smiles wryly at me. “Don’t waste your ace, then. I think you’ll need it.”

  I’m not sure what he means. Presumably he’s pleased, as always, to hold his experience with women over me—though technically he’s only ever kissed one, and he hardly sees her as it is, so really, his expertise is entirely hypothetical and in his head.

  “I have a very clever ace, in fact,” I say, “and it’s—”

  I stop.

  “Go on,” Cyar says. “Does it have anything to do with your remarkable ability to waltz?”

  My hands grip the mask, the satin-trimmed purple and black, the little gems like fire along the edges, and I can’t move or breathe. My brain is turning cylinders.

  Cyar frowns. “Athan, are you all right?”

  A very clever ace.

  One very clever ace.

  The throttle releases and I’m charging through the truth, all of it there and ready to be captured. Every clue. Everything I should have seen long ago if I hadn’t been so blinded by my own self-misery. Every perfect piece that fell into place right on time to the ticking clock—the loss of Hady to the Nahir as we arrived in Landore, the subsequent attacks as we bartered for our right to be in the South, our fighters sitting there with no desert camouflage, the Nahir suddenly armed with weapons and airplanes, and now, like divine fate, their trail leading right to Resya, the homeland of Sinora Lehzar.

  And the plea of the man Father shot in the back alley.

  The name Seath on his lips.

  “I have to see my father,” I hurl at Cyar, wheeling for the door wildly.

  “What the hell?” Cyar says, blinking at me.

  “Wait.” I swing back and toss a folded paper at him. “Stay on my wing, all right?”

  He doesn’t question it. He’s stunned by my madness, gaping, but he nods and takes the paper, staring at it likes it’s a scorpion.

  Thank God for Cyar.

  * * *

  I arrive at Father’s quarters and bang on the door. I’m past worrying, past fear.

  Just desperate.

  Father opens it with an annoyed expression, and the scowl deepens when he finds me on the other side. Around him I see Arrin and a young man who is Southern-looking, not in uniform, and my suspicion turns to raging certainty.

  “Would you excuse us, Ambassador Gazhirem?” Father says to the man. “I need to deal with my son in private.”

  It’s partly polite, partly a threat directed at me, but I no longer care.

  The Ambassador doesn’t hesitate. “Have a pleasant evening, General,” he says with a slight bow, then stalks by me for the door, smiling warily, brown eyes curious.

  Then he’s gone.

  Father looks at me, something like expectation in his gaze—like he’s been waiting for me all night. Waiting for me to show up at his door in a fury.

  I don’t like that.

  “Your ace in the South,” I say, watching his face. “Tell me it isn’t Seath.”

  There’s only a flicker in his expression, a slightly raised brow and then a subtle twist at the end of his mouth. He fills a glass with brandy and glances at Arrin. “There, you see? He is the brilliant one. It took you months to figure it out—and you had every report at your disposal.”

  “In my defense,” Arrin replies, arms behind his head, “you were the one who specifically said the Nahir cutting out my tongue would be a favour to you. It didn’t cross my mind you’d be encouraging your friends to do that. But then, when have I ever been given special treatment?” He looks at me. “Not like Lieutenant Erelis.”

  Neither one is denying my absurd claim.

  This can’t be true.

  “Father, what are you doing?” I demand, and I know I sound stunned, a step behind.

  He eyes his brandy in the lamplight. “It’s as you said, Athan. Seath is helping me take the South. I supply him with the weapons, he wages the war. He’s uniting that place, far faster than anyone has before, and with him on my side, I’ll succeed where every other Northern king has failed.” He tastes the brandy. “And in return, I’ll one day stand with Seath as ally. He’ll have the Free Thurn he’s fought so long for—once we’ve cowed the royals into submission. Fear of him is a helpful motivator for now.”

  I stare, horrified. “You’re arming the Nahir?”

  “Seath isn’t the monster they believe,” Father admonishes quickly, “and he’s certainly more reasonable than many down there. He’s a revolutionary, Athan. A man who wants a change of power, a new order to things. And who better to help with that?” Father indicates himself, as if that needs to be clarified.

  And suddenly it does make perfect and terrible sense. Two revolutionaries challenging the established, royal order in a secret alliance. Two leaders who fought their way from nothing, who are demanding attention whether anyone wants to give it to them or not.

  Of course Father would admire a man like Seath.

  Of course Seath would admire a man like Father.

  “If Gawain catches wind of this—” I stop. There’s an edge of desperation in my voice. “If anyone in the North finds out, we’re ruined. The united kingdoms would outnumber us easily.”

  “I don’t leave a trail,” he says simply. “Nothing on paper or otherwise. I have a man to go in-between.”

  The pieces shift together with my dread.…

  “Havis,” I say.

  It’s too much, too fast. Seath and Father have together conspired to put an innocent kingdom in the crosshairs. They’ve convinced the North that Resya is to blame for all this trouble. They’ve made sure the evidence leads there, not to Father. When the kings of the North wonder who is arming the Nahir, they’ll see Resya in their reports, in their suspicions.

  And Resya is Sinora’s homeland.

  She’ll be the only Northern queen with ties to the kingdom that armed the Nahir.

  “Seath is helpin
g you bring down Sinora,” I say, feeling helpless before the scope of all this. “You’re going to make her as guilty as Resya when you go to war there.”

  “Don’t look so glum about it,” Arrin remarks.

  Father nods. “That was the idea, though Seath has his own quarrel with her. It goes back further than mine. Fortunately, I now have an even better sin to condemn her with which won’t take quite so long.”

  In this moment, I’m not sure whether to be in awe of him or terrified. He’s feigned friendship with the Landorians to get his army into their Southern territory. He’s feigned an alliance with Sinora to lure her into the right trap. Now, he’s mobilizing the Nahir and supporting their revolution and blaming it on another kingdom entirely. It’s all a charade. The weeks Kalt spent out on the sea looking for Nahir, the aftermath of the arms exchange we passed on the Pursuit … Those exchanges were with us. We gave them guns and mortars and better aircraft, pinning it on Resya. And that reality brings a bitter truth, hollowing me out and leaving a fierce hurt.

  “You mean I’ve been fighting you?”

  Father shifts and won’t meet my eye. “I wouldn’t put it quite like that.”

  Not quite, but close enough. Those Nahir pilots who tried to kill me are on our team. It’s all a show—a deadly show—to make it look real.

  Do their pilots know the truth? Or are we all in the dark, committing ourselves to this lethal game, believing it counts for something?

  I look between my father and brother. Twin masters of madness. I’m scared to be in the same room as them, to know they don’t give a damn about anything, not even me. “I don’t know what it is you’re planning here tonight, for Sinora, but please swear to me the Princess won’t be involved. She has nothing to do with this.”

  Father frowns, vexed. “She’ll be fine.”

  I don’t believe him.

  Arrin rolls his eyes at me. “Despite what you think, that girl knows far more than she should and is liable to start slandering our mission. Good job winning her to our side.”

  “She says you murdered children, Arrin.”

  “You too?”

  “You’re not denying it?”

  Arrin looks to Father, disbelieving, then throws his hands in the air. “You created this mess, Father. How’d you not guess he’d end up too far in to see straight?”

  “Tell me what you’re doing tonight,” I growl at my brother.

  “Me?” Arrin’s usual stupid grin returns. “I have a date in Hathene.”

  Of course. The entire city is in a state of unrest and he’s there like a moth to easy flames. “Don’t stir something that’s already boiling, Arrin. This kingdom, and every kingdom around, will pin it on us and then—”

  “They won’t pin it on us,” Arrin says.

  “Why not?”

  “Because those protesters were bought by us.”

  The shock of this revelation is significantly lessened, thanks to the Nahir one. I realize my hand has worked itself into a brutal fist.

  “Well, they were ours at first,” Arrin continues, “back in the spring. And we might have given them some rifles for tonight. But actually, it was much easier than expected to get Etanian tempers riled. They really feel strongly about getting this Resyan woman off their throne. I wanted ours to storm the palace tonight, to deliver the coup, but to be honest, the group’s grown since my speech to the League and I’m not sure what they’ll do when they reach here. Might have to have an actual battle with them. Take a few out before we can win and look like heroes.”

  I stare at him. “Who the hell is going to fight with us against Etanians?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe supporters of the Prince. Civil wars are messy, Athan. Anything can happen!” He sounds disturbingly intrigued about the possibilities.

  “Civil war? You’re going to burn all of Etania for one woman?”

  Arrin holds out a hand. “Yes, but for once I won’t take credit. I’d like to, but really, this is your moment. Because let me tell you—the protesters weren’t very happy when they learned a Resyan woman murdered their beloved king. That was the moment they truly wanted her head. They’ll help us get her under house arrest, and after that we’ll do some investigating. I bet if we looked hard enough we’d find proof she personally helped her homeland arm the Nahir. Can you imagine where that would lead, Athan? To a noose, I’d imagine. Sinora Lehzar and her Southern sympathies. The woman who murdered her husband in a spectacular plot for a Northern throne.” He pauses. “A murder confessed from the lips of the Etanian princess, in fact.”

  Blood disappears from my face, flooding me. Strangling me.

  The murder.

  The fatal weakness Arrin needed to make this all possible. Now we don’t have to let this build with time, slowly gathering evidence against Sinora. We get to seize everything, right now, because we found a crime that is all hers, the crowning sin of a traitorous woman linked to the kingdom now arming the Nahir.

  And it’s because of me.

  Me betraying Ali’s trust for a chance to save her.

  I pretend I’m not shattered by guilt, struggling to be stronger than the fear in me, because now I have no choice. I have to finish this betrayal and actually save her.

  “I’m going to the masquerade,” I say, like I’m giving my own order.

  Father downs his brandy, then gestures at me. “You’re certainly not.”

  “Why?”

  “Don’t you dare question me, boy.” It’s the sharpest command he’s given me in months. I forgot how it takes the heat from my skin. How it takes everything from me, leaving me empty. He’s at me in a stride, gripping my shoulder, hard enough to throb. “I’m taking this palace, Athan, and you stay out of it. I’ve worked too hard to let your weakness get in the way. Don’t be your goddamn mother.”

  His words are worse than any fist to my face. They bruise my soul.

  Anger suffuses my throat viciously. Anger that he’d take this incredible risk and not think twice. Anger that even though I’m trying my best, even though I don’t want to hurt Ali, there’s no way for this to end without her despising me.

  I’ve condemned her entire world.

  Father’s still got me by the shoulder. “You need to use your head, Athan. You think only a step ahead when you should be thinking ten. You need to think on the ground the way you do in the air.”

  I almost laugh in his face. He doesn’t know a thing about the air. In the air, you react within the space of a second, you make up everything in the breath of a brutal, terrified moment, and if you’re lucky, someone else ends up burning instead of you. There’s no such thing as ten steps ahead.

  He holds my gaze, determined, this man who’s my father, gambling with the fate of the entire world in his steady hand.

  “I understand, sir,” I say.

  “Good.”

  I pull from his grip. “And I’m going to the masquerade.”

  I’m gone before he can do anything. I bolt across the room, and Arrin tries to stop me on the way.

  “Don’t be an idiot,” he says. “Don’t try to—”

  I’m out the door.

  AURELIA

  It’s humid by the time I reach the grand ballroom, the aftereffects of an evening rain. The air feels slightly sticky, my hair curling, my satin gown heavy and clinging—freshwater pearls embroidered into the bodice, fastened with petals of lace, silver skirts twirling round me. With the feathered mask, I’m every bit a magical creature. Elinga of the mountains.

  At my throat rests Athan’s necklace, the precious amber stone, and though Heathwyn says it doesn’t match my gown, not even slightly, I don’t care.

  There’s a glimmer of certainty building inside.

  Being with Athan again has shifted everything right, illuminating the secret things in my heart, chasing the shadows everyone else tries to bring close. I know the words I’ll say to him tonight. I’ll mean them with everything in me.

  No one will touch what’s ours.


  “Shall we, then, pretty unicorn?”

  Reni smiles, offering me his arm at the top of the promenade steps. He’s dressed in a green tunic with gold trim, high leather boots, a sword at his side, and topped with a plain brown mask. He claims to be a pirate, but I think I know which treasure he wants for himself tonight.

  Together, we descend the stairs, stepping into a land of fantasy. Flowers gather in archways and windows, colours in roses and peaches, lights like stars across the vaulted ceiling. Green vines wind from chandelier to chandelier, and on each table a burst of flowers and flickering candles. Hundreds of jeweled masks sparkle, courtiers watching me arrive with half-hidden smiles.

  Mother waits for us beside Lord Marcin. Her sweeping red gown is vibrant and startling, a bright flower in the soft light. She kisses me on the cheek. “Happy birthday, my heart.” Then she steps back, noticing my necklace. “What is this?”

  “A gift from the Lieutenant.”

  She tilts her head. “It doesn’t quite match your gown.”

  “It’s perfect,” I say, touching it again. “And I’m going to wear it every day.”

  “I think it’s hideous,” Reni offers with a smile.

  I’m about to protest, but his attention is already ensnared elsewhere. Violet’s wearing a strapless dress, slender shoulders revealed, face obscured by a gold mask of butterfly wings. She looks fragile and miserable and very alone, standing beside a table with fresh-cut freesias. He adjusts his sword and strides in her direction.

  I worry for his heart—and hers.

  But I do what I must, putting on a polite smile and wading through the large herd of masks, listening to compliments from lords and ladies, from aging counts and countesses, accepting their frivolous praise. It’s fine and well for the first little while, familiar and fluttering voices, but soon an anxious tremor twists my hands together. The minutes escape.

  Where is Athan? Why hasn’t he appeared?

  I wait in my shimmering gown, alone, the moments ticking, taunting. Maybe I shouldn’t have hoped for anything more. Maybe this was never his to give, not when he wears a uniform and answers to all those brutal men above him.