Storm from the East

by Joanna Hathaway

There’s a brutal pause. I feel the fist of that declaration on my own face.

  “Not on it?” Kalt repeats, his voice holding a trace of panic.

  He’s been on that ship for five years. He bleeds for that ship.

  And Folco’s there.

  “I’m transferring you to the Warspite,” Father explains. “Once you’ve finished the parley, you’ll be reassigned.”

  Folco fumbles his cigarette, then retrieves it from the wood floor quickly.

  I’ve never seen Kalt pale, not quite like this, and my anger flares hot on his behalf. I remember finding him and Folco on the Pursuit last summer. They’re happy—they get along well, quietly in the background—and only one person would meddle with that for no other reason than because he can. I glare at the source, furious that I actually felt sorry for him a few minutes ago. But Arrin won’t look up. He’s signing papers.

  I want to drop him onto a mountain and light him in flames.

  Helpless to the order, Kalt backs away from Father, and Folco stands. They leave together.

  Father motions for me next, and I walk over, struggling to douse the anger. “You see how it is here,” Father says to me. “Your brother is the God of War, and what he says, you do. When I’m not there, you never question him. Do you understand?”

  He doesn’t mean Kalt.

  “Yes, sir.”

  I see exactly how it is.

  Once everyone’s trickled away, only a haze of smoke left behind, I stand in front of Arrin, who’s still seated at the desk. I want to grab him and tell him what a bastard he is. I want to tell him he has even less loyalty than me, betraying the brother he used to love. It was always Arrin and Kalt. Sneaking their bottles, a thousand stories I’ll never know. But he stops what he’s doing and looks up.

  His eyes hold no defense.

  “My whole damn invasion relies on you idiots in the sky,” he says, “so you sure as hell better keep up to me.”

  II

  ALLIES

  Dear Athan,

  I’m not going to mention the fact that I still have no address from you and my stack of waiting letters daily grows. I’ll spare you this time. Instead, I’d like to tell you that I’m currently flying in my very first aeroplane—and I positively hate it.

  What is your expression right now? Entirely horrified? The earth below is far too small and with all this rattling and occasional swooping from side-to-side, I rather feel this could be the last letter I ever write you. How do you do this every day? How do you find this fun?!

  I suppose it must be the sky. The shaking metal and ungodly height aside, the sky itself is a truly breathtaking sight to behold—I won’t deny it. The clouds are sun-dappled and smudged together, like paint on canvas, and the colours keep growing richer the closer we come to sunset. I feel I could lose myself right into the feathery swirls. A heavenly kingdom that goes up and up and up …

  So, for you alone, I might endure this experience again in the future.

  If you insisted.

  I should point out that flying isn’t the only thing I’m willing to weather for your sake, Athan. I’ve also displayed a remarkable resistance to each argument made against my affection for you (of which my mother has many) and have only come out more convinced of it. You see, she thinks that what we shared this summer was only an infatuation and she’s glad it’s over. She’s glad I’ve chosen to be reasonable and move on, because (she says) unless you choose to remove your uniform and never wear it again, I’ll only be hurt in the end. You’ll already be dead. A boy who can be ordered and broken.

  But she doesn’t understand how I can’t even bear to think that! Your mad love of this hideous flying aside, the idea of you dead is like the roots of my very soul being torn up. Even if we someday outgrow this “infatuation,” I know it won’t ever truly be over, not even when I’m old, because you’ll forever represent the spirit of the very sky to me. No one can kill the sky. No one can shrink it back down to the earth. I need to believe there are some things in this world which can’t be stolen from it. Some wild and breathless realms, too high to touch, even by war, and you are one of them—always.

  Now look at all these poetics you’re missing out on.

  Send me an address. Please.

  Ali

  5

  AURELIA

  Norvenne, Landore

  “And who, pray tell, is this obnoxious one? Some king who died twice in battle?”

  Havis’s sardonic question is muttered under his breath, prompted by a nearby statue of a rather large and vainglorious rider on horseback. It’s mottled by age and salty air, as are the giant carved lions towering over the marble pavilion we stand on, the Black Sea sprawling before us. Both Havis and I have been entirely forgotten by the huge crowd gathered on this balcony. The bloated pageantry of the day is dazzling in its scope with banners fluttering, instruments playing, and what seems to be an entire naval fleet lurching through the waves below. Destroyers, cruisers, battleships. It’s a grand show of death in the harbour, and everyone else is riveted, none more so than King Gawain of Landore, who’s quite happy to remind everyone of his supreme reign on both land and sea.

  There’s only one true empire left in this world—and it belongs to him.

  “If it was possible to come back from the grave and enjoy a second glorious death,” I say drily, “a Landorian would find a way to do it.”

  Havis snorts. “Or perhaps any Northern king in general.”

  A volley of shots explodes from a ship, ringing in my ears, and the crowd applauds happily.

  “There used to be ruling queens,” I inform Havis over the noise. “Before Prince Efan. I’m fairly certain it was a much better time.”

  “You clearly don’t know the same women I do,” he replies with a grin.

  I roll my eyes, glancing over to where Mother and Reni are keeping vigil with King Gawain and his gaggle of Landorian officials. The King beams beneath a regal beard and wolfish brows, puffed up on the sight of his own splendid navy. Mother is patiently enduring it all, nodding at his monologues from time to time, an unreadable mask on her face. And Reni looks appropriately intrigued, smiling often, though since I know he’s mostly here to meet with Gawain and establish himself as the soon-to-be King of Etania, I’m not convinced how genuine his enthusiasm is.

  And then there’s the General’s son. He’s tall and thin-faced beside Gawain, dressed in a grey Safire uniform with red stripes on each shoulder, appearing impassive to the display in the harbour. Dark chestnut hair matches his father’s, his pale cheeks ruddy in the breeze, and from what I gathered in the few moments of introduction before this show began, he operates with a dull, nearly monotonous voice that’s so unlike the Commander’s it defies belief. Since Havis and I are now relegated to our place on the sidelines, under the guise of a happy couple betrothed, I can only watch from a distance. It’s a miserable charade. But at least we can comment on the entire spectacle without being overheard.

  Leaning against the pavilion’s railing, I venture with, “Do you still think the General’s other son is the more sensible one?”

  Havis copies my repose. “Why do you ask?”

  He’s clearly suspicious, and has been since I insisted he take me to Resya, but I resist his wary appraisal. He can’t yet know of the wild, new idea that sprouted in my head during our flight here. If there’s even a whisper of a possibility that the General’s second son is the more reasonable one, as Havis suggested, then he might hold value for the mission Lark has left in my hands. An unexpected opportunity.

  “In these weeks since the coup,” I reveal carefully, “I’ve realized that exposing the truth is quite a powerful tool. The night of the masquerade, something happened which altered the course of the nightmare. And it wasn’t with a gun.”

  Havis tilts his head. His black hair’s windblown, strands beginning to curl at his neck in the damp air. “What did you do?”

  “Not me,” I lie, since he still has no idea what took place in th
e throne room, my blackmail against the General. “But my brother, he rallied a whole kingdom with only a radio address, and—”

  I’m interrupted by a thunder of propellers overhead. Two full Landorian squadrons of fifteen aeroplanes fly past, and from the western sea, an enormous battleship appears, cutting through the waves despite its impossible size. Heavy and squat in the middle, it’s over twice the length of any other ship present—and fiercely decorated with giant guns.

  Its presence earns an eruption of applause and whistles. The Northern Star. The Landorian fleet’s flagship is often featured in countless newspapers and pranced about like a prize horse before the cameras, but seeing it in person is something else entirely, and my stomach turns with strange dread. It seems large enough to swallow the coastline whole.

  When I glance again at Gawain, he’s grown rosy cheeked with satisfaction, nudging a bearlike balding officer who’s appeared beside him. They both, rather indiscreetly, investigate the General’s son to catch his reaction.

  Captain Dakar reveals nothing. In fact, his gaze—part perturbed, part disinterested—is so magnificently his father that it eliminates any doubt about where he came from.

  “That’s General Windom,” Havis says, nodding at the balding man. “The Saviour of Thurn or the Butcher of Thurn, depending on who’s telling the story.”

  “Butcher?” I repeat.

  He shrugs. “Rumours. Or maybe not. I dare not mention them here. But this ship they’re so proud of, I’d wager it alone is worth the cost of your palace. There’s a lot of money sitting in this harbour.”

  “You sound intrigued,” I observe flatly.

  “No. I don’t deal in arms, Aurelia. That’s not going on my conscience.” He gestures at the Northern Star. “This damn creature could unleash twenty tons of deadly steel in a single minute, with a firing range of seventeen miles. You’d be sunk before you even saw it coming! It’s a ship of death. And if I had to guess, I’d imagine it’s meant to leave a rather strong impression on anyone Safire who might be watching.”

  I raise a brow. “They want to impress the General’s son? Are they worried?”

  “Worried might be an understatement. And impress is too friendly.”

  Everyone else cheers again as the monstrous battleship blasts its horn, reverberating off the pavilion walls, and Havis gives me a dark smile. “What were you saying about the truth being a powerful tool?”

  I glare at him. I know he doesn’t believe my words are enough to tackle this brewing tension, but that’s because he doesn’t have the imagination for it. He doesn’t care the way I do—desperate, in the deepest place of my heart, to find a better way forward.

  And this is why he’ll never win.

  “You’ll see soon enough,” I reply between gritted teeth, glancing at the Captain, more determined than ever to do what I must. “And friends in high places are always helpful.”

  Havis shakes his head. “Stars, Aurelia. The General’s son isn’t going to play for you. Never expect anything in return from the one who has the most to gain.”

  I look out at the steel-coloured sea, a dozen deadly ships swirling in the harbour, and I know what I might accomplish with this alliance. It’s the promise of atonement for my sin. The promise of a world where horror cannot be unleashed without consequence. Where justice—not power—reigns and never again will children be shot before a damn wall.

  “Perhaps,” I say, turning from Havis, “I’m the one who has the most to gain.”

  6

  ATHAN

  Valon, Savient

  Without any fanfare, our warships glide out of harbour and into the Black Sea. Here and then gone, bearing weapons and men and tanks, their hulls emblazoned with names like Triumph and Victory and Fury.

  On the night Father orders the Impressive south, the night of my scheduled embarkment, the Moonstrike squadron assembles on the pier near an aircraft carrier called the Intrepid. The dock bustles with activity, glassy black water catching sparks of light from flashlights and cigarettes as our fighter planes are secured carefully onto the runway of the massive ship. Major Torhan, our old instructor from the Academy, is waiting for us. He’s been promoted to Group Commander for our sector of the campaign, and he greets the arriving squadron pilots with a curt nod. They all graduated from his school, the very best. Captain Lilay of Lightstorm—the sole woman to hold the rank, tiny and serious with a gleam of chin-length black hair—Garrick Carr, Ollie Helsun, Sailor, the rest of the Moonstrike pilots we’ve been flying with since last summer. But Torhan doesn’t meet anyone’s eye as he makes count, simply checks off names on a clipboard.

  “Lieutenant,” he greets me, his efficient presence reassuringly familiar.

  “Congratulations on the promotion, sir,” I say quickly, since this is an impressive rise—from heading the Academy to commanding battle squadrons.

  “Thank you, Lieutenant. Now bring your first officer.” He nods at Cyar. “There’s someone to meet before you board.”

  I share a glance with Cyar, then shrug and follow Torhan like the old days. No questions asked. To our left, the Intrepid lurches in its berth, taunting me with the promise of cramped days at sea. “Since you’re on track for your own squadron, Lieutenant,” Torhan says over his shoulder, “it’s essential—particularly in war—to find you a non-commissioned officer to train up as well. We usually try to promote from within the squadron, but in your case, we thought it best to assign someone with genuine talent to complement your own. And straightaway.”

  I stop looking at the ship. A bit of suspicion coils. “Who is it?”

  “Trigg Avilov.”

  I rack my brain, sifting through the other pilots who graduated last spring. I didn’t have many friends among them, but I knew their names. All the ones who claimed top score after testing and joined the fighter squadrons as officers in training. No one was named Avilov.

  “Did he graduate a different year, sir?”

  “No, no.” Torhan stops. “He never went to the Academy.”

  Cyar looks dumbfounded. I’m sure I do, too.

  “He’s a remarkable pilot,” Torhan continues firmly. “Truly talented. We haven’t promoted him yet, since he lacks the Academy qualifications, but I’m hoping under your guidance on the frontlines he’ll be there soon enough. He’s your match, Lieutenant.”

  Suddenly, I’m thinking not to like him. Petty, yes, but the praise irks.

  “Then why isn’t he in line for a squadron?” I ask, not caring how it sounds.

  Torhan pauses. “He doesn’t have quite the same instincts for leadership. Not yet, at least. Why don’t you meet him?”

  He points to a brown-haired kid about our age lounging on the ropes, bag at his feet and uniform unbuttoned most of the way. He’s alone, staring at the Intrepid with a standoffish gaze. Taunting the salty beast right back.

  “Avilov!” Torhan calls.

  The boy stands—rather slowly—and saunters over. With his uniform sleeves rolled up, his tanned forearms show off tattoos, shadowy in the lamplight, and he stares at us while we stare right back. This entire thing is as bizarre and unexpected as my engagement to Katalin.

  Torhan says he’ll leave us to get acquainted before we board, and I’m fairly certain he senses the awkwardness. He loves to make the most of uncomfortable situations. Encouraging growth.

  I offer my hand diplomatically once we’re on our own. Cyar does the same. Trigg accepts both with an off-kilter grin, the kind that doesn’t warm me any faster.

  “Where did you learn to fly?” I enquire. That seems a good place to start.

  “Flew cropdusters on my family’s farm in Brisal,” he replies. “My uncle contracts with the navy and saw my talent. Had me test for the Air Force. They were so impressed they put me through a quick summer course. Got to do lots of those”—he mimics a circle with a hand—“what do you call them?”

  Good God.

  “A wing-over?” I suggest.

  “Yes. That. A hell of a lo
t of fun, and they said I had the best damn aim they’d ever seen.” His grin radiates something very close to smugness. “Can’t wait to try out a real twenty-millimeter cannon.”

  Cyar frowns. “It’s not so easy when another plane is firing back at you, rookie.”

  A bold jab, considering Cyar’s never even shot anyone down yet, but I don’t let on.

  “Don’t doubt it,” Trigg says, not seeming a fraction worried. His eyes take in Cyar, the copper skin darkened after nearly a month at home in Rahmet. “Be honest, ace, how much did you pay to be his first officer?”

  Cyar appears blindsided. “I’m sorry?”

  “A Rahmeti kid with the General’s son? You’re here for a reason. What is it? Higher wage? Quicker promotion?”

  I’m not sure who looks more appalled by the suggestion—me or Cyar.

  I want to throttle him, but Cyar’s better than that. “We’ve been flying together since the beginning, and I graduated with second highest score at the Academy. I’m here for myself.”

  His clipped reveal makes Trigg pull a face that’s either genuine surprise or veiled mockery. “Right. Though it’s not like first place was a surprise going to him.”

  He says it like I’m not even standing there, and I’m actually speechless.

  “Listen,” I finally say. “You can’t just—”

  “Oh, don’t worry,” Trigg interrupts. “I get it. For the record, I didn’t want to be assigned to you either. I’ve got a friend in the Skypirate squadron. That’s where I asked to be. You really think I’m excited about being wingman to you? I sure as shit am not! It’s a goddamned suicide position, benefits aside.”

  He adds a few more creative curses after that, the kind Arrin would find endearing, then stomps for the gangway.

  What the actual hell?

  “Hang on,” I call, marching after him.

  “I’m requesting a transfer,” he announces. He doesn’t look back. “And I’m hungry.”

  “You won’t get it.”