Storm from the East

by Joanna Hathaway

  “They don’t have food on these ships?”

  “I meant the transfer.”

  He turns. “Well, goddamn.”

  The sailors on the dock pretend to keep loading things, but I catch them grinning at one another like the nosy rats they are. Gleeful at the unexpected nighttime entertainment. Trigg’s in over his head if he thought there was even a chance of transfer.

  And just like that, the preposterous situation finally comes into better focus.

  A test.

  “You think you’re the best?” I hear Father asking me. “You think you can handle anything? Then here’s the first member of your squadron. A farm kid with no formal training, no Academy wings—and he might even be better than you.”

  It’s exactly what Father would do. After all, he did make me train under Goddamn Garrick Carr.

  I cross my arms. “You got yourself into this. You volunteered.”

  “I know.” He glares at me, as if it’s my fault. “And you have no idea how important this is to my family. I need this.”

  His hand fidgets near one of his tattoos, a rabid-looking squirrel, and the gesture’s childish enough it flattens my hostility slightly. Sometimes I forget. I forget what it’s like for everyone not born into my family, the ones like Cyar, who join up not because it’s in their blood, but because to be a Safire officer is to have a prestige and status that probably doesn’t exist anywhere else on the flat, dusty farms far from Valon.

  And I think it cost Trigg something to admit it to me.

  “You have good aim?” I ask reluctantly.

  “The best.”

  “Then we’ll be glad to have you.” They aren’t the words I want to say, but I say them anyway.

  “Thanks, Captain,” he replies, not even trying. A crinkle of smugness reappears. He eyes Cyar again, in the distance. “Besides, you need some Brisali talent to balance your future squadron out.”

  It finally clicks.

  Savient. Rahmet. Brisal.

  The three united regions of our nation.

  I sigh. “I hope your aim is as good as your mouth, Avilov.”

  “Definitely, Captain.”

  “Don’t call me that. I’m a lieutenant.”

  Trigg grins again, fully restored. “But not for long, Captain.” He glances behind me. “And hey, I think your papa wants to see you. If he gives you some good money for the crossing, let me know. I love playing cards!”

  I turn, and sure enough, there’s Father standing beside a black automobile parked along the pier. He waves for me.

  “Ask for at least a hundred,” Trigg whispers right in my ear.

  And just like that, Garrick Carr has lost his title to Goddamn Trigg Avilov.

  7

  AURELIA

  Norvenne, Landore

  Nighttime at Gawain’s home is overwhelming in its opulent silence. A palace far larger than our own, filled with endless, twisting halls and glittering mirrors, and I’ve become disoriented twice already. In my guest room, shadows darken the gilded frames and wood-paneled walls, soft lamplights tickling brass trim. Somewhere, Reni’s attending a diplomatic function with Mother—no doubt hoping to achieve a private audience with Gawain—but I feigned an illness to avoid the entire thing. I’m truly not in the mood to entertain Havis in front of everyone again, and more importantly, I need to determine how I’ll get the General’s son alone.

  I have six days.

  And that needs a strategy behind it.

  Nearby, Violet studies the local train schedules, preoccupied because she’s going to make her escape at last. I invited her along to Norvenne under the pretense of giving her a change of scenery, but secretly, it’s a chance for her to stay here until her Safire Captain comes to make good on his ardent promises.

  While she dreams up her new future, I sit by the window, mulling over what to do next. Havis’s observation during the naval display has me worried, his unsettling and urgent suggestion that Landore is growing suspicious of Safire ambition. Though the Royal League’s verdict against the war in Resya proved Gawain’s inclination to protect his royal brother, King Rahian, I still can’t rest easy, because I know the lurking truth—that even if Rahian himself doesn’t support the Southern revolts against Landorian power, his kingdom still holds Nahir sentiment like the Safire Commander claimed. It held Lark. Who knows how many other Resyans profess allegiance to Seath? And what will Gawain do when he discovers that? Endorse a Safire intervention after all? Or will he try to take matters into his own hands, shoving the Safire out of the way?

  Stars.

  Everything feels perched on a precipice! It can’t get to that point of heated confrontation. There must be a way to diffuse the situation. Instinctively, I touch the amber stone at my neck for reassurance, the one Athan gave me. Outside my window, the glamorous streets of Norvenne sprawl lamplit and ethereal, an elegant sea of tiny sparks beneath the moon, and I count the rising stars above, imagining I can use them to map my way back to him, to some place where only he and I will be, far away from this madness, only us.

  I pull out paper and pen.

  “This is really a rather long time for you to be silent,” I write as fervent distraction, “and I’m beginning to think you do, in fact, have a girlfriend in Savient. She’s discovered us, hasn’t she? You’re home and now in trouble. I have it half in mind to come there myself and duel her with pistols.”

  I almost add that I have good aim, then am horrified by my own dark humour.

  “No, I hate the very idea of guns. Instead, I think I’ll have to lure you back through other means. Might a kiss work? Or two? I promise with a bit of practice, I’ll become quite good. There’s nothing I can’t improve on when I put my mind to it. In fact, if you’d let me practice on you, I’d put even more than my mind to it.”

  I feel my cheeks tingling, confessing things I’d certainly never say aloud to him, but it feels safer in ink, unspooling these lovely ideas that have tempted me ever since his mouth captured mine during the coup. A desire I can’t stop, not even with the looming uncertainty on every side.

  A giggle interrupts my most lurid thought mid-sentence.

  I cover the letter with my elbows, mortified, and Violet beams over my shoulder. “Don’t stop. It’s getting good!”

  “You’re such a spy!”

  “No, it’s perfect. Though maybe you could mention his—”

  “Ssshh!” I order, ending the letter exactly where it is and signing quickly. When Athan and I began writing each other in the summer, back when I had an address to send these to, I started adding a little extra heart buried in the flourish of my signature, though I’m not sure he’s ever noticed. They’re like my kisses on the seal—a secret, just for me.

  I frown at the grin still on Violet’s lips. “You have more to add?”

  She holds up a small brown package. “Heathwyn had me bring this for you,” she confesses. “She hid it away for a week, but felt too guilty to keep it any longer.”

  The plainness of the package connects to Violet’s guilty expression, and I snatch it, overwhelmed to find familiar, untidy lettering.

  Athan’s messy scrawl.

  Stars, my governess is a crafty one! She’s determined to keep herself innocent of this friendship my mother disproves of, but I’m already delirious from the words I haven’t read, imagining the way they’ll taste, drinking them up, dizzying with relief. I tear open the letter, reaching in and finding a photograph. My smile nearly aches. After two months, the sight of Athan Erelis, even in black and white, is infinitely better than my fading memories. It’s a portrait. He’s serious—too serious for him—but it’s his face, in uniform and Safire cap, epaulets and insignias across his chest that mean things I don’t know. I only know they make him look older, more important. I wish he was smiling in the picture.

  I turn it over, and the back says, “Eyes on the horizon.”

  There’s another paper in the package and I pull it out, desperate for the words, the words that
are everything I need.… But it’s a sketch. Athan’s usual style—dark shading where he pressed down with his charcoal, parts smoothed away with an eraser—of a kestrel holding a crown.

  It’s the Resyan royal crest.

  Disappointment grows, and Violet’s face mirrors mine, the realization that there are no other papers. No letters. It’s only a portrait of him and a sketch—a sketch that makes no sense. It isn’t something poetic or tied to us. It isn’t our mountain. Our shared story. It’s simply … a crest. I sit down on the bed, heart heavy, clutching the photograph, and drop the package beside me unceremoniously. It hits with a thud.

  Confused, I reach in deeper, my fingers grazing something smooth and cool.

  I tug it out and open my hand.

  A bullet.

  It gleams merrily beneath the lights, like it’s happy with its dark purpose, and I stare at the portrait, then the Resyan sketch, then the grey bit of lead sitting in my palm, trying to see what Athan is saying. Trying to understand … And then I know.

  I know.

  I look up at Violet, horrified. “When did Heathwyn say this arrived?”

  She frowns. “A week ago?”

  I don’t explain anything else. I simply run for the gala about to begin.

  8

  ATHAN

  Valon, Savient

  Father has me sit in the automobile with him while the final cargo is loaded onto the Intrepid. It’s beginning to rain, a dreary night fog pushing in from the sea, and for a long moment, he’s focused on some transcript in front of him—reading, his usual way of making everyone else seem like an afterthought even after a direct invitation from him. By the faint smile on his face, I’m guessing the cable’s from his Landorian ally, General Windom. Windom devised a perfect distraction for us today, luring everyone in the North away from the scent of war, buying us time while we prepare to invade. His parade of Landorian ships culled all the deadliest ones from the Black for a weeklong display in Norvenne.

  And I have to admit, it encourages me to know Windom is still on our side, unafraid of the historic gamble we’re about to make. He believes our allegations against Rahian—and he’s happy to see the man deposed. Maybe this war will be short and easy after all. A brief nightmare, and then escape.

  Freedom. Mountains.

  Ali.

  “You look excited to leave,” Father finally observes, seated at my right. Apparently, I’m smiling a bit. “Arrin left today on the Impressive, and I hope to God he stays there until we’ve at least secured the beachhead.”

  “He’s bold, sir. Not stupid.”

  “Usually.” Father studies my face. “What do you think of Katalin Illiany?”

  Of course this isn’t the friendly goodbye I’d hoped for. There’s always something else, and it’s a cruel place to begin, since he still hasn’t admitted the truth to me—that I’m the bait and reward. But I keep my face obedient. “Arrin said her father won us a corner of Karkev. They were good allies for you.”

  “A corner? It was a hell of a lot more than that. Listen, Athan,” he says with cold precision, and I know I’m going to get a lecture I don’t want to hear. “War is never the final goal. We want to see these regions thrive independently again, build a lasting alliance. But we’re also the outsiders. The victors. They need their own leader at the helm, someone who’s loyal to us. That’s who Governor Illiany is in Karkev.” He pauses, glancing at the closed car door. “And that’s who Seath will be for us in the South, once we’ve finished there. Do you see what I’m saying?”

  I nod. A powerful and loyal ally in the South is the ideal for my father. No costly occupying force necessary. Just blissful trade of wealth for years to come, Seath and my father crowning themselves as the new kings of the modern world.

  “Karkev isn’t Savient,” he finishes. “Marriages and family connections mean something there, at least for the time being.”

  And with that, he’s acknowledged my status as bait without actually saying it.

  “For the time being?” I ask, grasping that single sliver of hope.

  He gives me a look. “As long as it’s deemed necessary.”

  Maybe a longer war is better.

  For me.

  “Sir, may I be honest?” I ask hesitantly.

  Father’s expression narrows, and it’s clear he doesn’t quite know what to expect from me these days, the star traitor. “Yes. If you’ll stop looking at me like a kicked dog.”

  I quit the ingratiating act. “I’m not trying to be Vent,” I explain preemptively, “but I keep hearing stories from Thurn, and I know the Nahir are doing a good job of pretending to be our enemy. I know it’s fake. But it’s also real.”

  It’s real, because I remember the bullets hammering my own wings last summer. An entire charade I was oblivious to—but it had deadly consequences.

  3,500 feet.

  “They’re not going to bother us in Resya,” Father replies. “You don’t need to worry. You just need to fly.”

  Wouldn’t that be nice?

  “But I’m supposed to keep pretending they’re our enemy,” I press, “even though they’re not?”

  “You’d better, or I’ll put a gun to your head myself.”

  I think that was his attempt at a joke, barely, and I must look pathetic enough because Father frowns, shifting on the leather seat. “Son, I know war is hell. I’ve lived it myself, in the thick of it. But this world has endured royal arrogance long enough. A true change is essential, for the greater good, and any sacrifice will be worth it. We’ll keep the Nahir as our perceived enemy for as long as it remains helpful, so that these kings are always scared of the shadows. But once we have Resya, there will be no more royals in the South—the first step towards independence there. Seath has ensured that Rahian will be found as guilty as we said he was, and even better, his guilty trail with the Nahir will lead right back to the Queen of Etania.” He smiles thinly. “Sinora won’t slither her way out of that trap as easily as the coup. Another game ended. At last.”

  I ignore his deeply gratified expression, this vision of his greatest enemy’s downfall. “Seath has evidence against her?”

  “More than you can imagine. I told you before—their quarrel goes back far longer than mine, and even I don’t dare step into it.”

  I struggle to follow, my brain working to fit these moving pieces together. I believe my father’s trying to do something right in the South for once. Give it freedom, a chance to recover from decades of imperial trespassing. But it’s a mad way to go about it, allying with Seath, and I can only see two versions of the future, neither of which are particularly appealing for me personally.

  One has us invading Resya, an entire kingdom resisting our advance—war unlike anything I’ve yet endured—and at the end, Rahian is convicted of aiding the Nahir revolution, a trap which entangles Sinora Lehzar to her doom as well. Two guilty royals. Traitors to the North. And I lose Ali altogether, because I’m the pathetic son of the man who ruined her mother, a man who’s now happily controlling Resya, his first territory in the South, while his ally Seath is one step closer to removing all Northern royal influence from the region.

  The other version has all of the same war horrors, except in this one, the Landorians consider our invasion of Resya a massive betrayal after their League verdict against it—never mind what Windom says—and they come to their fellow king’s rescue. We’re forced to fight the greatest empire in the entire world, plus their allies, and it won’t be a short war. It’ll be a duel to the absolute death. And I still don’t have Ali.

  Sometimes, I wish I was actually Athan Erelis. I wish I knew none of this and just had to fly.

  “Do we have an understanding then?” Father asks me expectantly.

  I nod, even though we don’t.

  I need cards back.

  “Good. Then that’s the last I’ll speak of this.” He means I better stop asking questions. “And I do hope the Princess honours the understanding she and I made as well.”<
br />
  My stomach tightens. “What?”

  He waves. “With the photographs from Beraya. I’m not sure whose idea that was”—he gives me a pin-sharp look—“but regardless, she’d best keep her side of the bargain and hide those forever. It would be a shame to try both mother and daughter before the League as defenders of the Nahir.”

  It takes me a horrified second to rally my voice enough to speak. “She’ll honour her word, sir.”

  “Sinora’s daughter?” Father gives me a disbelieving smile, then checks his watch. “I believe the Intrepid leaves in twenty minutes. Good luck, son.” I reach for the car door, but Father puts a hand on my shoulder first. “And don’t let Arrin off that ship before they secure the beachhead.”

  At least he’s worried about one of us.

  9

  AURELIA

  Norvenne, Landore

  I’m not entirely sure what I’ll do when I arrive to the reception, since I already announced I didn’t wish to attend, but here I am anyway. Not to mention, I was supposed to strategize my first encounter with the General’s son, a flawless negotiation, but all of that’s gone up in smoke and I don’t care. I’ll march right up to him if I must.

  Music murmurs from behind the elegant doors of the grand ballroom, the sight beyond familiar to me—tables dressed in ivory, crystal goblets shimmering, footmen tiptoeing here and there amidst candelabras and jewels and false laughter. And I, Aurelia Isendare, Princess of Etania, shall march inside and demand an audience with the duplicitous Captain Dakar while decorated in nothing more than my nightdress.

  I steel my nerves to do it, determined, but another door, farther down the hall, bursts open abruptly. I startle, overwhelmed by the sudden urge to throw myself behind the nearest potted plant.

  This was a truly terrible idea!

  But then—stars in heaven, it’s the Captain. He’s moving with impressive speed away from me, his uniformed shoulders hunched, and right behind him trails a young woman with radiant red hair.