Storm from the East

by Joanna Hathaway

  I nod, seeing in Havis’s measured precision the tenuous politics on every side. I killed a Southern ambassador who was also a revolutionary. If the truth slipped out, I’d have both the kingdom of Resya and Seath of the Nahir seething for amends. And yet I’ve also just gained a fraction of terrible power over Havis. It’s in his cautious gaze, waiting for whatever move comes next. I’m not the same princess who faced off against him last spring. He knows that better than anyone.

  “Take me to Resya,” I say firmly. “To the capital.”

  “Why?”

  “That isn’t for you to know. In return, I’ll accept your marriage proposal officially. I’ll tell my mother only the best things about you. You’ll stay in her good favour and have yourself a princess after all.”

  Interest grows in his gaze. He’s a man of opportunity. And I’m an interesting opportunity.

  But then he grins. “Actually, I don’t want a little girl for my wife.”

  My cold hands make a fist, ready to hit him, to make him, for once, do the thing I expect, the thing I need. “Now you reject me? You don’t want a stained gift, is that it?”

  “I fired the killing bullet, not you.”

  I reach out and grab him tight. I feel like I’m all alone in a shifting place, nothing certain, and the one person who has an answer to it is as complicated and fickle as a mountain spring.

  “You need to take me,” I say, hating the desperate plea in my voice. “You’re the only way.”

  He glances down at me, his brow rising quizzically. “What a strange world this is. Did you ever expect to be begging me to marry you?” He removes my hand from where I’m gripping his arm, putting space between us again. “Fine. I’ll get you to Resya. But be warned, you might not like what you find.”

  “It’s too late for that.”

  And it is. I see Lark standing in front of me, blood sputtering from his neck, his gaze a look of stunned betrayal. A question—why? He was the one who taught me how to fire the pistol. He taught me himself at the target range, not far from where Havis and I now stand.

  My cousin. My friend.

  I feel my vision wavering.

  Tears.

  “We’ll go,” Havis continues, peering down at me with evident concern now, “but first I have some news that might brighten your day. As it happens, I’ve arranged a parley in Landore, to bring Resya and the Safire to the same table. It was my king’s wish that I do my part to set this business from the summer straight.”

  I blink away the sting in my eyes. “A parley?”

  “Yes. General Dakar has already agreed to it, and as of this morning, so has your mother.” He taps his cigar, embers scattering. “Though I think the Landorians are more interested in turning this into a ridiculous arms display. We’ll take what we can get.”

  I can scarcely comprehend it.

  A chance for peace.

  For reconciliation.

  “The General won’t be there, though,” Havis adds quickly, “so don’t get any ideas. It will be his son.”

  My mouth falls open. “The Commander? No, he can’t possibly—”

  “Never. It’s one of the other ones. The captain in the navy. The best option for this.”

  Havis sounds genuinely confident, and I remember he once told me this other son was the practical one, the one with the most sense. Which means he’s trying to shift the right pieces into place, the right players. Ones who might listen and be reasonable.…

  Stars. He can be useful!

  Havis offers me his hand politely. “I suppose this make us allies?”

  I ignore it. “Regrettable ones, if so.”

  He laughs, glancing to Ivory, patting her gently instead. “Pretty mare. But we’ll get you a better one in Resya.”

  The dismissive comment reminds me of the truth. His handsome smile, his confidence, his quiet affection for horses—it’s all a ruse, and I can never trust it no matter how contagious it may be. Havis strides at the edge of this complicated world, observing the chaos as though it will never hurt him personally. What a luxury he holds. To care for nothing, not truly. But I have far more at stake in this game, and our alliance will only last as long as Resya.

  I take Ivory’s reins, shoving past him.

  “I don’t want your damn horse.”

  Because once we’re in Resya, I’m leaving him behind—for good.

  4

  ATHAN

  Valon, Savient

  Father never mentions our drunken night.

  I’m sure he knew where we were. It’s not hard to figure out when all three sons disappear together, staggering back at dawn. But he doesn’t say a word, his steel focus entirely on the war he’s about to launch. And as quietly as the loaded ships are sent out to sea, I send my first letter to Ali in months, the one I’ve been prolonging.

  Both my letter and the ships share one unfortunate feature.

  We’re not exactly honest.

  The ships’ deadly cargo of tanks and artillery are bound, on paper, for our Landorian-approved army base in the territory of Thurn—conveniently located right next door to Resya. We’ve spent the past five months helping them “settle” the insurrection in Thurn stirred by the Nahir, a military presence that my father won through cold-blooded deception.

  An insurrection he also secretly watered with arms.

  Now, these ordinary supply routes are ones the Northern royals will expect. Nothing suspicious which might alert them to our amassing invasion force. And in a twist of my own precarious fate, I’m summoned to the main campaign briefing by Admiral Malek. It’s the kind of elite gathering I’m not usually invited to, and it feels, for some reason, like a trap. But there’s no turning down the grim-faced Malek—rather terrifying as he is—so I show up to Safire High Command, the stone building foreboding in the night lamps, a ghostly fortress. As I’m heading up the steps, I find another member of my family already being hauled out by Colonel Evertal.

  “I’m in the army now,” Leannya protests. “This is my right!”

  Evertal looks down at her, exasperated. “Hardly. You’re still in school and far too young for this.”

  “You helped Arrin when he was my age. Don’t deny it.”

  “Exactly right,” Evertal replies wryly. “And I can only handle one of you at once. Good night, little wolf.” She glances at me, still stuck on the stairs in front of them. “Lieutenant.”

  She shuts the door on Leannya’s indignant face.

  My sister spins, a scowl wrinkling her nose. “She swore to let me in, Athan. She’s a damned liar!”

  Evertal might have promised, but I suspect there’s a very good chance she caught one whiff of Father’s displeasure in that strategy room and quickly reneged on whatever pact was made. He doesn’t like Leannya involving herself—one of the few things he and I actually agree on.

  “Try again for the next war,” I offer brightly.

  “Stop making jokes, Athan. It isn’t right that he’s sending all three of you at once and I can’t even do my part. He gives me nothing.”

  She’s talking about Father, and there’s no choice but to distract her, to keep her from nurturing this bitter anger that has no resolution. Look at me. The weeks since the Etanian coup have been full tilt and I’ve been left adrift at the edge. His silence is the worst void. You just have to put on your most obedient face and say nothing except what he wants to hear, then hope you might win the stalemate.

  “Since you’re staying, perhaps you might watch over Katalin?” I suggest. “Teach her some Savien. Be a friend?”

  “I don’t trust her. I feel sorry for her, yes, but she hates us.”

  “Then there’s your mission. Make her an ally.”

  My sister walked into that trap too perfectly. She grimaces, well aware what I’ve done, but spying on my frosty Karkevite girlfriend at least holds some level of intrigue. The possibility of secrets and hidden agendas.

  “Excuse me,” I say, gently pushing her aside, “I’m due to this d
eath parley.”

  She relents with a sigh, but nudges my shoulder in solidarity as I pass.

  Once through the door, I’m hit by a smog of suffocating smoke. Cigarettes burn as shoulders hunch over maps, fingers rattling through papers, the room filled with low conversation and strains of bravado. Everyone integral is present—Father and Malek and Evertal. Commander Vent and Arrin and Kalt. The Air Marshals of both the bomber and fighter squadrons. The Commodore of the fleet.

  All of them—and then me.

  Also Folco Carr. Not sure how he managed an invite, but there he is, seated in the corner, smoking, quiet as a red-haired fox.

  I find a place as far off the main stage as I can get. Arrin gives me a brief nod, but Father offers nothing, and I’m suddenly not sure whose order brought me here.

  A trap.

  The briefing starts like usual, everyone staring at a map while the person in charge—in this case, Arrin—points and lays it all out. According to reconnaissance flights, he says, there’s only one stretch of Resya’s coast suitable for an amphibious landing, where the mountains recede slightly—and it’s armed to the teeth. With the rising fear since Arrin’s speech to the League when he pushed for military intervention, and the growing instability in Thurn, the Resyans have stepped up their defenses, walls of artillery fortifying every feasible invasion point. But they’re focused mostly on their border with Thurn, because even they can’t imagine someone being mad enough to simply storm in off the sea in plain sight of those who ruled against war.

  Apparently, they haven’t met my brother.

  “It’s a two-pronged attack,” Arrin informs the room. “Both land and sea. We need their strength divided. Myself and Army Group East will be coming in from Thurn, while Commander Vent and Army Group North will use the fleet to come in from the coast. We’re running an entire operation across the Black”—he waves at the map, at the vast sea between Savient and Resya—“and speed is paramount. Both armies will drive south and link up in the city of Irspen. Then it’s on to the capital.”

  “I get to hit the fortified coast?” Vent enquires with no subtle sarcasm.

  Arrin glances at him. “Losing your nerves of steel already?”

  “Not me, but my divisions might, Commander. What if the Resyans have tricked us with—”

  “Lieutenant,” Arrin interrupts, “what’s our most vital asset in this war?”

  Silence. Feet shifting. I realize very late that there’s only one lieutenant in the room and Arrin’s looking right at me. Everyone else, too. Folco’s expression is minor sympathy, like he knows I was trying to lie as low as him.

  “Fighter planes?” I say, hoping this isn’t going where I think it’s going.

  “With bombs?” Arrin presses.

  “Yes…?”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant. And where would you put those fighters with bombs?”

  Everyone stares. Father cocks his head, like he didn’t expect this either. “Ahead of our lines,” I venture. “A coordinated attack, since we can go higher than those mountains and also lower and faster than the bombers.”

  “There you go,” Arrin says to the room. “No more letting the fighters play their own games up at 18,000 feet. I want planes down low where I can see them, and then I want the rest so far behind enemy lines that I can’t. I want them targeting everything: bridges, trains, bunkers. A total destruction of enemy supply lines. Precision bombing to lead the infantry divisions. It’s a new age of war, and fast, overwhelming air power is going to make this invasion possible.”

  The head of the fighter squadrons looks stunned. “But the ground fire and flak could—”

  “It’s what the army lives with every day,” Arrin interrupts. “Welcome to combat.”

  No one can argue with that logic, but it also means a lot of fighters won’t come back. All of air force leadership looks at me like I’ve just shot them in the back.

  I’d like to tell them I was drunk and didn’t mean to do any of this.

  Arrin thrusts onward. “We open this with the naval fleet pummeling the coast and a round of bombing. General Windom has secured an island for the bombers to launch from and they can swing over at night, I presume?”

  The Air Marshal of the bomber squadrons nods hesitantly. “Yes, sir.”

  Arrin snaps his fingers. “Good. Commander Vent, you get one night of spectacular firepower from the fleet and the bombers, then when day breaks you send four fighter squadrons ahead of your divisions and hit the beach running.”

  It’s like Arrin’s mouth can’t keep up with his galloping thoughts. When he realizes everyone is still staring, half stunned, he holds up a hand, wiggling his fingers. “Let me make this clear: naval barrage, planes, soldiers, tanks. In that order.”

  Vent looks unconvinced. “And your Army Group East is simply waiting in Thurn to see if my opening gambit works?”

  I realize, then, this might also be revenge on Arrin’s part. He’s bestowing Vent with what could be the worst thrust of the war, and now I really want to know the old drama between them.

  “Neither will be pleasant,” Arrin replies, an edge to his voice. “I don’t get an entire fleet to barrage the border. When we invade, the fortifications will be fresh. Take your pick.”

  Vent’s jaw ticks. “What if you don’t make it to Irspen? What if those ‘fresh fortifications’ hold you back?”

  “I’ll be there. Give me two weeks.”

  “Two weeks?” Vent’s laugh is incredulous. “You’re hoping for the best at every stage! Let’s not forget our little rebel friends in Thurn. God help us if they decide to put on a show in Resya.”

  With that, Vent’s found his crowning moment of defiance. The tiny room of elite military staff stumbles to a stunned, collective silence, cigarettes and pens paused in frozen hands. Everyone here knows the truth—that we’ve armed the Nahir behind the Landorians’ back, the quiet exchange of guns and bullets and even planes—but it’s never spoken aloud like this. It’s a classified state secret. A necessary evil for the greater good. Not a threat to be wielded against anyone named Dakar.

  “Commander Vent.” Father’s voice is low. “Are you no longer so invested in your role for this campaign?”

  “General, I’m asking legitimate questions. I’ve been in Thurn, and I know the damage they can do for the sake of our pretend show and—”

  “There’s no need for questions,” Father interrupts. “In fact, forget Army Group North. You’ll take the Seventh Armoured instead and provide support to my son.”

  Vent’s mouth falls open.

  “Colonel,” Father says.

  He doesn’t look at Evertal, but she knows he’s addressing her. She puts out her cigarette quickly and stands, walking through the gathered uniforms to the map. “Yes, General?”

  “Take North.”

  She nods.

  And just like that, Arrin’s been outfoxed. Perhaps it’s a long overdue punishment, for all those parties that have teetered too close to the edge. Or perhaps it’s only an inevitable twist. My father loves to make people sacrifice, and Evertal is nearly closer to Arrin than Mother ever was. She raised him to this, trained him.

  And now she’s inherited the revenge that was meant for Vent.

  Arrin slaps the map. “No, I’ll take North.”

  Father raises a brow. “You want the coast?”

  “It was my idea.”

  “Very well.” There’s a flicker of dark amusement on Father’s face.

  I watch as my brother paces, his brain rapidly taking stock of his new situation, determined to make declarations and keep them. I can practically see him searching for a way to be the best. To not let Father win.

  I don’t know why, but it’s kind of pitiful.

  “Commander, you only have four squadrons for taking the coast,” I observe, eyeing Moonstrike squadron’s place on the map, on the border with Thurn. The place Garrick and Cyar and the rest of us have been shoved by air force brass.

  Arrin glances
over, as if my chair just spoke. “Your point, Lieutenant?”

  “Our fighters carry a single load each.”

  He looks confused.

  “They’re not bombers,” I say bluntly. “Why don’t you put Moonstrike in the sea assault as well, concentrate more fighters ahead of the landing?”

  I might have just volunteered Garrick for this nightmare, but since I’m probably already dead, what difference does it make? Hopefully Garrick doesn’t go back to hating me entirely.

  Father gives the barest nod.

  Initiative.

  “Yes,” Arrin mutters. “That could be helpful.”

  It’s not quite a compliment, but something, and at least now he knows our fighters aren’t miracle weapons. He’s going to need a lot of us if he plans to beat Evertal to his target city of Irspen. And as I watch my pacing brother, I can’t help but wonder if he came up with this whole thing while drunk off his feet on a lonely stretch of shoreline.

  An endless night, racing the sun.

  Since Father’s silence means approval, no one else contests. Boots shuffle out the door. Vent takes his wounded ego and a fresh cigar. Only a few remain, and Father drops a folder on the desk in front of Arrin, who quickly busies himself signing away our fates.

  Then Father motions for Kalt. “You’re going to Norvenne,” Father informs him. “The Landorian royals want a summit and we have essential communiqués which must be retrieved from Resya. Distract them and buy us time.”

  “For how long, sir?”

  “Until we have those documents from Havis in hand.”

  Kalt shifts, a hint of concern flashing. Contained. “But I’ll need to return to the Pursuit.” He gestures at the map. “The fleet will—”

  “Yes.”

  “You don’t need the Pursuit, then?”

  “No, I do. But you’re no longer on the Pursuit.”