But then I think a bullet in the head might be better than marriage to Katalin Illiany of Karkev, and I down another shot.
“The navy is your greatest asset,” Kalt argues with Arrin as we wander. “Fifteen of my destroyers can deliver more firepower in an hour than a thousand of his damn planes.”
He stabs a wobbly finger at me, and I smack it with my bottle.
“Great,” Arrin replies, teetering on the granite ledge of the wharf, sea waves heaving below. “But you’re mostly paddling around for days on end. Fishing on your little ship.”
Kalt begins to protest, but I cut him off. “Pilots are the greatest asset.” I hiccup. “What other weapon can get behind enemy lines?”
“Seventy-five-millimeter shells,” Arrin offers.
“Shells with no ounce of … brains or intuition. Load me up with bombs, then you’ll get some damn firepower!”
I finish with a triumphant miming of explosions, and Arrin stops walking. “Hang on—you can put bombs on those fighters now?”
“Of course,” I say, like he’s stupid, but it’s ruined by another hiccup.
Arrin turns to Kalt. “He’s better drunk. Actually sounds clever.”
“Without my little ship, your army wouldn’t even make it to Resya,” Kalt retorts, still stuck on the earlier offense.
The whole world lurches suddenly, and I flop down onto the cold stone.
Everything spinning.
“Oh God, we killed him,” Arrin says, and something pokes me in the side. “Hey, Athan. You’ve got to die by a bullet, not a bottle. Father said that to me once and—wait.” A hand snatches my wrist. “Is that my watch? What the hell, Athan!”
Kalt snorts. “He stole it years ago.”
“You little thief!”
I don’t even care anymore. The sky’s whirling with stars above me, impossible to count. A wondrous place that could be up or down or sideways right now. I’m grinning just because. Steal those stars. One, two, three, four …
Eventually, Arrin and Kalt become so far gone they actually start to get along again, and shivering snippets drift over to me—their memories of stealing leftover drinks from Father’s soldiers long ago, getting sick, blaming it on a cake Mother made.
“You have a sailor boy?” Arrin’s hazy voice questions, and Kalt mumbles something in reply. “Folco? Folco Carr?”
Of course it’s Folco, I want to say, if I wasn’t spinning so much. Who the hell didn’t see that?
I realize I miss it like this. A family that almost feels like a family. Maybe I can forget the truth. For an hour. For a night. I don’t have to look at Arrin and see those photographs Ali showed me of the dead kids shot in Thurn. I don’t have to imagine a minefield in Karkev, pale bodies mangled in the pale snow. I can just see my brother. Pretend it’s another life, another world. A better one.
The moon above me blinks pleasantly in and out of focus, smiling down on laughter, memories, secrets. Slapping waves. Time twisting. Then the lights reflecting on water spiral outwards, little sparks in the black. Little fiery planes with wings lit up like matches at 3,500 feet.
I freeze.
Not tonight.
Please.
I reach for Ali desperately, anything to forget, to keep them away, and mercifully she curls near, pressed warm in my heart, her sweet smile more powerful than 3,500 feet. She’s too bright. All the stars in her dark eyes. A thousand promises to count.
I return her smile, because she’s here.
I feel her.
And I have to tell her who I am, but not with a stupid letter. She deserves my words, my voice, my mouth. I have to get to her, and in the fractured home of frantic dreams, I walk to her. I walk and I walk down an abandoned hall while the broken walls shrink on every side. No sign of Arrin or Kalt. Only Ali, waiting for me on the other side of that door. I know it, but I can’t reach her, and panic grabs at me, the fiery planes exploding, the children dripping blood, the hours stretching into weeks, years, centuries, and then suddenly, it’s only been a moment.
My eyes fly open to grey light.
I push up onto my elbows, disoriented.
Dawn.
Arrin’s already wandering down on the shoreline, and Kalt leans against the cement post of the pier beside me. “We’re a matching pair,” he observes, eyes ringed red. “Impossibly in love.”
“I’m not—”
“He told me the truth about Etania. About the princess. You’re an idiot.”
I’m too bleary and hungover to launch a defense.
“But don’t let him trick you.” His eyes fix on Arrin, who’s looking for something, maybe a place to be sick. “He’s hiding worse.”
Kalt doesn’t say anything else after that, loyal in his own way—or else vindictive—and the sun appears above the city at last, brilliant and blinding. Arrin holds out his hands, like he’s determined to keep the day from starting all over again. Like he can hold it back just a while longer, to be tired and drunk and alone a few more hours yet.
But he can’t.
And the eastern sun climbs.
3
AURELIA
Hathene, Etania
The week after the executions, our palace is silent and still, as it has been since the coup. Courtiers mourn the ones who were killed that night—Lord Marcin especially, since he was my mother’s favourite advisor, and my father’s boyhood friend. A man raised alongside a prince who never once spoke in envy or hungered for more.
But his daughter is different. She’s made of another bone, filled with restless dreams, and we’ve spent these silent weeks as constant companions, both of us scared to be alone, both of us left untethered.
Longing to escape the persistent chatter of death, and the newly returned Ambassador Havis, I take Violet to the stables, to its safe realm of leather halters and creaking metal latches, the place that has always felt like my true home, but before I can lead Ivory from her wooden stall, Violet pushes past me. For the first time in her life, she throws her arms round my mare’s neck—this creature she’s never adored the way I have—and hugs tightly, her face buried in the sweet-smelling mane, grieving, surrendering to the exquisite gentleness of a horse.
I watch her a long moment and, as always, my guilt is a hot ember in my chest. Her father, her only family, was murdered at my masquerade, and the immense grief has turned her against herself, evenings spent second-guessing final decisions and last words.
I understand it too well.
“I’m sorry, Violet,” I whisper. “I’ll never forgive myself for what happened.”
I haven’t spoken this aloud yet. But it feels like time, at last.
Slowly, she releases Ivory and faces me, tears caught behind long lashes. A plain wool sweater hugs her luxurious curves, her rich auburn hair hanging limply against her hunched shoulders. “Oh, sweetheart,” she says softly, “it wasn’t your fault.”
“No, a lot of things are my fault. Too many things. But I’m going to make it better. I promise.”
Tears now hover behind my own eyes. I feel them, finally, after all these weeks of silent emptiness, a well of shame opened up and poured out at last. The apologies don’t need to be made only to Violet, and that’s why I have a mission before me. A plan. I’ll take the photographs of the executed children and share them with the Royal League—the photographs from my cousin Lark which I used as blackmail against General Dakar, the vicious crime his own son carried out in Thurn—and perhaps there will be justice. I can undo my wrong of using them to save my family. I can make amends.
But Lark?
He’ll never come back, no matter who I tell, no matter how many apologies I make, and my heart aches—never-ending.
Someone clears their throat nearby, interrupting our shared sorrow. I turn and find Reni standing in the alley, an uncomfortable expression on his face. For a long moment, his eyes are on Violet, searching for something I know he won’t find. I’ve read the letters from her much older Safire officer, Captain Garr
ick Carr. He begs her to meet him in Landore, in its grand capital of Norvenne, says he’ll meet her there and make good on his promise to find her an audition at the royal opera. Someone willing to sacrifice on her behalf. Someone who would break an order to get to her.
I only have the fading memory of a hurried kiss.
I shake myself from that pang, resisting the unbidden jealousy. “Ride with me?” I ask my brother instead, to end the awkward stalemate between him and Violet. I’m not sure there’s anything worse than watching two heartbroken people with old love hanging between them.
He nods, well aware this means I’ve more to share with him privately, and Violet honours the exclusory request. She touches her ivory hand to my amber one, then walks gracefully past Reni, avoiding his hopeful look. I know it isn’t cruelty on her part. It’s necessity, because in her fragile state, one sweet word from him might undo her resolve for her new beginning, far from here.
Reni’s gaze fiddles with the alley floor a moment, his embarrassment evident.
“Get Liberty and we’ll race,” I suggest, to rescue him from himself. A familiar challenge, from days long ago, and I muster a smile. “I’ll meet you by the gardens.”
He nods, striding down the alley for his stallion, and by the time our horses are saddled and ready, a faint twinge of joy struggles to resurface in my chest, restive after these painful weeks. The air’s crisp, the forest beckoning with lingering scarlet and gold. Liberty and Ivory dance beneath us impatiently. They’re burning for this as well.
“To the meadow and back?” he asks, knowing our old routes.
By his lighter tone, I think he needs to be out here as badly as I do, chasing this mountain wind stamped into our souls.
He raises a gloved hand. “Ready, set…”
On go, we leap forward, Ivory untangling beneath me, the grass swallowing her hoofbeats, mane flying. I laugh into the fierce breeze, overwhelmed by the magnificence of it. The madness. We gallop over the river bridge, Liberty pounding at Ivory’s side, more solid and muscled, at least a hand higher.
We’re neck and neck as we head onto the wide, smooth path away from the palace.
With a smile, I half halt on the reins to warn Ivory, then press with my right leg. She obeys joyfully, darting off the trail in a sharp left turn, into the stark underbrush of the forest. It’s another challenge, a shortcut to the meadow, and I expect Reni to follow. To accept the dare. But instead, the shadow of Liberty disappears into the distance, and it’s only Ivory and I cantering onward, following the river, its swirls of black tinged with golden silt.
The colour of my eyes, Father used to say.
The place Athan and I explored together.
I allow myself a brief fantasy, conjuring the sound of his voice, the memory of him when we tipped our boat over and I was suddenly in love with the way he looked all wet—blond hair darker, grey eyes glimmering with captured water droplets, damp shirt sticking to shoulders and chest and arms. A sweet temptation of details. The outline always makes you wonder about the sketch in full colour, what’s waiting below to be discovered.…
We hit the meadow in record time—Ivory tossing her nose happily at the beckoning open space—then turn and double back for home at an equally reckless pace. We’re soon storming past the usual finish line, hidden behind the palace, where Mother can’t see, and coming up behind the stables.
Reni is nowhere in sight.
Only dull grass and honey-coloured stones to greet us.
We’ve actually won—the first time in five years of rivalry!—and Ivory snorts, seeming to sense our victory as we hide within the elms, to give Reni the illusion of triumph before surprising him.
I glance at the trailhead, waiting.
It takes far longer than it should, and when Liberty finally appears, the truth arrives as well. They canter into the open at a careful pace, both horse and rider scanning the lumpen ground like it might reach up and bite them with teeth. My exultant joy dissipates. This isn’t the same pair who charged through the Royal Chase last summer. Back then, they had no fear. They were both equally brave, Liberty leaping anything Reni pointed him at.
No longer.
I skirt behind them, hidden in the trees, then squeeze my heels into Ivory again. We gallop up as if we’ve only just arrived, breathless and sweating.
“You won!” I announce with a grin. “I knew the shortcut was a bad idea.”
Reni looks over his shoulder at me, face pale and clouded. “That was a foolish move, Ali! You know there are holes off the main trails!”
“I was careful.”
“And what if careful isn’t enough?”
He’s still rattled, taking no satisfaction in his victory, and I’m startled by his ashen cheeks. The genuine fear caught in his eyes. “I simply want to enjoy every piece of home that I can,” I reply, softer. “Every perfect moment before it’s gone. You understand that.”
Reni’s expression eases slightly. “I do. But you don’t have to go through with this engagement, Ali. There’s no reason to accept Havis’s proposal, no matter what you might think. I’ll speak for you.”
“It’s only for a time,” I say, trying to reassure him as much as myself, but fresh bitterness returns. Reality can’t be outrun, not even in this place I love with my whole heart. We’re different now. All of us.
My brother clearly wants to press further, as he has these past weeks, but he already knows it’s a fruitless offer. Deep down, I think he suspects that whatever happened the night of the coup is too dark for even him to stop. The things I did, the secrets I hold. The reason I must now go deal with our faraway family in Resya. Instead, he stares up at the rounded mountains, the same way he stared at Prince Efan’s painting, like he might divine some mystical message there, in the rocky outcroppings and empty sky.
“It’s all going to work out for the best,” he tells me. “Havis has returned from Resya with good news. Everything that happened this summer will be forgotten. The Royal League rejected the Safire petition for war and your precious lieutenant will be safe. That’s what will happen. You’ll see.”
The promises fall easily from his lips, because he has no idea what he’s talking about.
“And the Nahir revolt?” I ask. “You think it will simply disappear across the sea if we ignore it long enough?”
“Well, perhaps if Seath were a bit more reasonable, a solution might be easier.”
“And perhaps Seath is the most reasonable one,” I tell him sharply, longing to add more, to tell him about Lark’s mission. The mission that has now become my own. But my brother isn’t ready for anything else, because to him, Seath of the Nahir means chaos and unrest. A silent enemy whose revolutionaries stir violence in the valuable territories the North claimed a century ago, sending young Northern soldiers back across the sea in caskets.
But he doesn’t know that our cousin Lark was also Nahir, and Lark was good. He wanted peace and justice, the same as I do, and his sister in Resya will have answers. Lark knew the truth that no one else in the North does—that Seath is old and weary and wants to negotiate, and my mother can give him that chance. She’s both Northern and Southern at once, the only one who could stand before the League—as their equal, with a crown on her head—and share the dark reality of what’s happening to the people of the South. The lies and deception, the children murdered by Northern guns. She could bring everyone to the table of negotiation, invite justice once and for all. I’ll finish Lark’s mission like he asked me in his final letter.
I simply have to get to Resya.
But Reni throws me a pointed look. “Please don’t turn into Mother right now, Ali. Controversy won’t help our position, not after these executions.”
His cold words are a reminder of which stance I supported before the Council.
The one in opposition to his own.
Before I can answer, though, a shadowy figure emerges from the stables. Ambassador Gref Havis. Tall and draped in a heavy tweed coat, he waves at
us, a cigar glowing in his leather-clad hand.
Ivory tenses beneath me, sensing my own dread.
“Your beloved betrothed, freshly returned to you,” Reni observes to me flatly. “Good luck with it.”
And just like that, my brother’s trotting Liberty away, leaving me to this fate I refuse to back down from. It’s mine alone.
By the time Havis halts before Ivory, he’s popped his collar to cover his ears, his feet stamping at the ground in chilled annoyance. He’s a long way from the warm, lush mountains of Resya.
I raise my chin. “Is this an ambush?”
“Far too cold for that,” he replies smoothly. “All of me is frozen, which gives you a decisive advantage.”
I slide down from the saddle for the face-off. He’s sporting his usual half beard, dark along his jaw, and smelling strongly of bergamot. Where Lark was shorter, with a clean-shaven face and an earnest countenance, Havis is roguishly attractive, wielding height and a sly presence that smirks in the corner.
I miss Lark—too terribly much.
“Be straight with me,” I tell Havis. “Does my cousin’s father believe it was suicide?”
I sound bolder than I feel. I don’t let Havis see the pounding desperation in me to hear him say yes. To hear him say he’s told no one about my terrible act, that he’ll never mention it again, that I can’t be a murderer because murderers must feel it in their hearts and I never wanted Lark dead.
But Havis only shrugs. “The truth won’t change, Princess, no matter how many lies we decorate it with.”
“You’re right, Ambassador. Because I didn’t kill him. You dealt the final bullet.” My accusation works, and Havis looks a bit thrown, as if he hadn’t expected I’d work out this little fact. “You put that gun to…”
I can’t finish the sentence. It’s scoured into my memory, the pistol against Lark’s head. The earsplitting crack. The horrific scattering of blood and stars know what else. How easy and how monstrous death can be at once.
“Then it seems we both murdered a diplomatic ambassador,” Havis relents after a moment. “We’re in this together, Aurelia, and there’s no going back. We take this one to our graves. If even a whisper gets out, they’ll be telling our story for years to come—the bullet that launched an entire damn war, do you understand?”
Storm from the East Page 3