Storm from the East

by Joanna Hathaway

  “What the stars is going on?” I ask.

  Havis doesn’t need to answer, because in the swelling silence of our aeroplane, the pilots have ripped off their headsets and turned on a radio. It emits crackled words that echo darkly in the tiny space.

  “… and so we do repeat that last night, the navy and air force of Savient launched an unprovoked attack against our kingdom without any declaration of hostilities. Casualties in the Sixth Army have been reported near Esferian, men who even now bravely resist for the sake of our kingdom, and in obedience to His Majesty King Rahian…”

  My absolute shock is mirrored on the stricken Resyan pilots, and on Havis, who stares at me as I stare at him. “You understand the report?” he asks.

  The radio still sputters in Resyan, exalting the noble resistance of the army in the north, and I don’t care if Havis now knows the secret I’ve held from him for so long. I don’t care about anything except these impossible, terrible words. “This can’t be true, Havis. Not so soon. How could it happen this fast?”

  That is the only fact which registers for me. Because I was just with the Captain, mere hours ago, and the Landorians.

  How could no one have seen this coming?

  “I don’t know,” he admits, and his hollow, defeated response terrifies me further.

  I’m not sure why I thought Havis should have anticipated this betrayal.

  But he’s as human as anyone.

  “… King Rahian wishes all to remain calm and fearless. We have done nothing to warrant such hostility, and our honour will shine in light of this betrayal. We will fight with a clear conscience. We will defend what is ours.…”

  “The League will condemn this,” I say desperately. “They’ll involve themselves and put pressure on the Safire to stop. They must!”

  “It’s too late,” Havis says.

  I spin in my seat, overwhelmed. “Too late for what?”

  “To intervene and choose either side. Instead of claiming innocence, Rahian has raised a weapon. He’s fighting back. Now he looks like he has something to hide from the world.”

  “He’s defending himself.”

  “Perhaps—or perhaps not. The League won’t involve themselves so long as the truth remains unclear.”

  “That’s not fair!”

  “No. But then, what in politics is?”

  I’m angry now. Truly furious. This is why the Captain said Resya wasn’t safe. A warning of sorts, perhaps born of kindness, but not good enough. He knew his brother was plotting an imminent invasion even as we sat around those glittering tables, discussing peace. I thought we had a few precious weeks or months. Time for the Commander to fully rouse his war machine and find fresh evidence and make a new case for action. But he didn’t wait for that. He just launched this hell, breaking all the rules, and the Captain’s interest in our parley was nothing more than a sham, buying them the hours they needed for this surprise attack.

  “… Resist, beloved Resya, and we will be rewarded with victory.…”

  “I’m the real fool here,” Havis admits. “My mother will kill me. And then your mother after that. I’ll be dead twice over.”

  His weak smile tries for humour, but it’s a waste. I feel numb, touching my amber stone, as if it might undo reality, take me far, far from here.

  There’s a loud knock on the aeroplane door.

  Outside the window, a small truck idles beneath the pinkening sky, a girl about my age leaning against it casually.

  “Don’t say a word,” Havis orders me as we rise.

  There’s no time to ask why. A woman appears before us in the cramped aeroplane, anger on her brow, grey hair braided, the deep lines on her skin unable to steal from her beauty. She glowers at Havis, then at me, then Havis again.

  “You fasiri of a son!” she hurls in Resyan. “You knew! Surely you did! And still you brought her here?”

  “I didn’t,” he protests, but it lacks his usual confidence.

  “He can’t know she’s come,” the woman barges ahead, limping towards us, favouring her right knee. “No one can. It’s foolishly dangerous.”

  Havis gestures at me. “Mother, she—”

  “No, I don’t care about any mad ideas you have! She should never have—”

  “She speaks Resyan.”

  That silences the woman. She looks at me, recognition dawning. “Ah, Your Highness,” she says, backtracking quickly, as if formality might undo her harried entrance. “It’s an honour. I’ve longed to meet Sinora’s daughter!”

  She kisses me on both cheeks, rather aggressively, and since I’m still not sure what’s going on, I wield civility as well. “Thank you, Lady Havis. You’re feeling well these days?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “I know you were ill last spring…”

  Her eyes run over me briskly, an offended frown on her lips. “Never better. Do I look ill?”

  I shake my head, realizing at once that this was another of Havis’s invented lies to get away from our palace, to do whatever it is he does for his own self-serving agenda. It’s hardly a surprise, but I still pin him with a disparaging glance.

  He shrugs guiltily.

  “You look faint, Sarriyan,” his mother announces. Like fasiri, it’s another local word that my mother never taught me.

  “There’s a war on,” I reply pointedly.

  Dark humour warms her face, a familiar shade of her son. “There’s always a war on somewhere, dear. Eventually everyone gets a turn. Come, let’s find you breakfast. You must be famished.”

  She picks up my trunk with ease and limps for the aeroplane door.

  Havis waves. “You heard the woman. Best do exactly as she says if you value your life.”

  With a scowl at him for good measure, I follow his mother out onto the lamplit tarmac, into the mild morning air.

  For a breath, I simply stand there, letting this one fact settle—I’m truly in the South. It isn’t as monumental as I’d anticipated. Simply a standard aerodrome with sun-bleached hangars and colourful gardens. But apprehension creeps across my skin as I watch the fleeing throng of urgent faces, the panicked shouts and shoves. Everything in me begs to turn back. To get into that awful winged contraption and go home. These people are escaping before the worst hits, while I’m marching right into the crosshairs.

  This is why I came, I remind myself. I’m here to make a difference.

  The very idea now seems profoundly preposterous, in light of that radio address.

  As Lady Havis packs my trunk in the idling truck, I tug her son’s arm back towards the aeroplane. “Please take me to the palace,” I beg Havis. “It’s our only chance at peace and I need to at least try.”

  His strained, distracted gaze finds mine. “And how do you factor that?”

  “My mother. She’ll intervene on Resya’s behalf and stop the General from advancing. He’s her ally, isn’t he? He might listen to her, and now is her time to be the bridge of reason.”

  “There’s no way in hell that will happen,” Havis declares shortly. “Clearly the parley was a disaster.”

  “The General wasn’t at the parley,” I point out, then raise my chin. “And besides, I won’t leave until she does. I’ll be a guest at King Rahian’s court, in the gunsight of the Safire Army, until she goes to the General and does whatever she must to make him stop and listen.”

  Yes, this is a risk, and goes against everything she’s worked towards with her image—striving to erase any loyalty to the South—but it’s the only thing that might save Resya. This invasion is not the way to solve the lingering tension, and she needs to act—fast.

  But Havis looks down at me, a bit pityingly now, the look I’ve come to dread from him. The promise of half truths and unspoken devils. “She can’t intervene. It’s not possible.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because your mother isn’t who she says she is, and if anyone finds out where she actually came from, it will mean a disaster for her, for you, for your b
rother.”

  I step back, stunned. “How dare you suggest—”

  “Remember we’re not alone on this tarmac,” Havis interrupts, lowering his voice and ushering us deeper into the aeroplane’s shadow. “It might be difficult to hear, Aurelia, but your mother wasn’t highborn. My family bought her a title and noble pedigree. We know how to create an illusion. How to pay off the right people. Your father thought she was the daughter of a count, and so did the rest of the nobility in Resya. Believe it or not, it isn’t difficult to lie at the very top. Not when you have money.”

  I stare at him. “My mother was a commoner?”

  “I suppose that’s one word for it.”

  The revelation is utterly stupefying, provoking a thousand questions. But I’m also still reeling from the prospect of war—immediate, tangible, filling this tarmac with sweaty panic—and it overwhelms my sense of personal regret. It strikes the flame of fear, of desperation. There’s no time for the baffling past, only the demanding present. “Then I’m still going to the palace,” I declare. “My mother’s lineage aside, I’m still a princess, the daughter of a king, and I will do what I can to stop this war.” I meet Havis’s annoyed gaze. “Lark and I had a mission to expose the truth, Ambassador, and I intend on doing just that. With or without your help.”

  “You’re not going to the palace, Your Royal Highness. I’m keeping you safe, and we’re heading for Thurn.”

  “Thurn?” I repeat. “But that’s a war zone!”

  Havis glances at his watch. “Yes, and as of a few hours ago, so is Resya. Except here we actually have eight divisions of Safire steel pounding towards us at this very moment, while in Thurn, if you find the right corner, the right city, you can exist quite removed from everything. We’ll wait the nightmare out, then fly north when it’s time.” His eyes crease, a flicker of concern there. “I know Lark wanted you to find his secrets. I understand that. The two of you spent too much time together, and perhaps I should have stopped it. Or perhaps I wanted you to find his secrets, too. But not like this. Not with a war that will endanger you, bring your mother down entirely. Lark is dead, Aurelia. Make a better move.”

  I’m about to reply, but a cough sends Havis and me stepping away from each other. It’s the girl from the truck, watching us curiously. I’m not sure how much she’s heard, but I pray not the part about my mother’s false title.

  She reveals nothing. “Her ladyship’s impatient to go,” she informs Havis politely, gaze quickly occupied with the tarmac at her boots.

  He pins her with a pointed glare, then marches past, headed for his mother. When the girl’s gaze pulls upwards again, I’m greeted by deep amber eyes, the shade of the necklace I wear, and the flash of a thin, cautious smile. The barest edge of a welcome, given the nightmare we’ve arrived to find.

  I can’t return it. I’m staring up at the mountains now brushed with brightening sun, feeling suddenly very alone.

  What now, Lark?

  With three minutes of the radio address—and one unfortunate twist in our family history—our mission has been completely upended. Lark’s words echo in my head, telling me his father, my mother’s brother, wasn’t so grand as her, his humility suggesting a reality I never thought to imagine. A Southern woman who not only took the crown of a Northern king, but who doesn’t even have the expected lineage to justify her inherited title. Half of my life is built on a precarious lie.

  And only the Havis family knows?

  It’s a disaster. An utter disaster, with war already upon us, no speeches or declarations to announce it. Hellfire simply unleashed in the dead of night. Lark said the Safire would destroy the world and rebuild it again as they saw fit. Perhaps he’s right. Perhaps there isn’t anyone in Savient with a heart for negotiation.

  I touch my necklace.

  No.

  There is one—and I’m suddenly sick with the idea of him flying into those deadly mountains, even at this very moment, somewhere north of me. Is he already in the air? Is he as frightened as me? He doesn’t belong in a sky like that. He’s too alive, the way Lark was, and I have to keep him that way. Somehow. I have to believe the General and the Royal League and all of these men who claim to desire peace, deep down, might yet listen to reason and give King Rahian a chance to explain himself.

  And since my mother can no longer intervene, it will have to be me.

  14

  ATHAN

  Black Sea, Coast of Resya

  Our first sortie is to escort the second wave of bombers.

  I’ve spent three hours pacing in the Intrepid, trapped and helpless behind locked doors, and my claustrophobia and anger have reached their exhausted zenith. All I want is to fly. To get out there and do something.

  When the all clear’s given, it’s early morning. We storm out with a frenzy which must mirror Army Group North, now storming the coast. In the distance, the Victory can be seen unleashing her fighters in rapid succession—Thorn Malek and his fellow pilots, swooping down low over the waves, following the ground troops as amphibious vehicles hit the boiling beachhead, too close to the gun-infested earth for comfort. The entire coastline is smoking. A deadly riot of thunderous shells and flak firing on every side. The battleships still pummel enemy fortifications farther inland, their giant batteries shooting streams of fire high into the sky, and on the shore, the poor kids of the infantry struggle to disembark beneath a barrage of bullets.

  The naval guns are so loud, I can hardly hear Filton as he stands above me on my plane’s wing root, offering a sunburned hand to help me up. Kif’s skinny arms feed the machine-gun belts, his freckled face riddled by pale nerves. It’s a familiar echo from Thurn. Both of them graver this time, more focused. I realize I wouldn’t want their job. Entrusted with the weighty task of keeping their General’s youngest son alive.

  But once I’m in the cockpit, a fatherly smile crooks Filton’s lips. “They won’t even have a chance at you, sir.”

  I expect to smile in return, but I don’t. Or I can’t. My eyes are on Garrick, his red hair smothered by his flight cap, and I wonder how much he actually loves that girl in Etania. As much as I love Ali? And does Ollie regret taking the fall for drunk Garrick? Reputation now shot? And what about Sailor? He’s done this a dozen times, even though his brother was killed in Karkev and his mother ordered him to stay home. He’s still here. He loves to fly. Farther down the flight line, Captain Lilay adjusts her headset, iron confidence in her habit. A woman who’s been flying into battle since the glory days of Savient’s birth. Trigg fixates solely on his ground crew. Maybe scared. He’s never done this before. And next to my fighter, Cyar salutes me, something meant only for us.

  They’re all suddenly too real.

  Routine. I need to focus on routine. And anger. I plug in the radio cord and oxygen tube, adjusting the rear-vision mirror. My hand flicks the starter pump, my plane shuddering to life with a jolt. It’s always so abrupt—almost a surprise, though it shouldn’t be—rattling my bones and stomach. I became good in Thurn about not dwelling on my fear. I forced myself to focus on the moment. On Captain Efan Merlant and his steady strategy, the honourable pilot named for a long-dead king. But now I know the truth—those battles around Havenspur weren’t a real war. Not like this one, with its incendiaries and white phosphorous. Bones to dust.

  What if honour can’t survive here?

  “Lightstorm, form up,” Lilay orders her squadron over the radio.

  With engines snarling, Lightstorm surges off the Intrepid, then Eastwind.

  Moonstrike follows last. I quickly have Cyar on one side, Trigg on my other, as we eat up the air, pushing for 10,000 feet.

  We spot our mission above the haze of smoke.

  Fifty Safire twin-engine bombers have already left their distant island runway, their wings alone spanning twice the length of our fighters, giant propellers growling on either side. A transparent nose serves as window for the navigator and bombardier, while gunners man positions along the flanks and tail. They�
�re deadly and vulnerable at once, too heavy to maneuver sharply, easy prey for enemy fighters, yet able to press farther into Resyan territory than any battleship gun can reach. A relentless softening of resistance far behind enemy lines, hitting bunkers, roads, railroads, supply lines, anything to clear a path for the Safire divisions on their way.

  We pull up alongside the gently swaying herd. Too many of these didn’t return last night. They’re probably as angry and scared as us right now.

  “Charm, do you copy?” Garrick’s voice crackles over the radio.

  “Copy,” I reply.

  “You too, Fox. And Avilov.”

  Great. A parting message for the three rookies.

  Cyar’s wing drifts closer to mine.

  Trigg drifts downwards.

  “It’s time to forget those games from Thurn,” Garrick says calmly. “No straggling here. Stay high and don’t let the enemy pilots lure you down low. And when things get wild, take care of your own ass. That’s it.”

  We each affirm, Moonstrike now above the bombers, flying top cover. Lightstorm and Eastwind are on either side. Flashes of flak already explode into the sky ahead, Resyan anti-aircraft guns trying to peg our position, and it’s a safe bet their fighter squadrons are coming to greet us. Far below, the beachhead is pure chaos, soldiers struggling to hold it, to press inland, the tiny shapes of Thorn Malek’s squadron darting here and there above them. Past that, the coastal hills are charred with giant swathes of scorched forest and crater shells. Remains of Safire bombers still smoke, spread out like grotesque butter among the trees.

  I try not to look down.

  Up.

  Always up, to the horizon.

  “Lightstorm under fire. Two o’clock low,” a scratchy voice says.

  I think it’s Ollie. I’m too busy scouring the sky to confirm. Black dots like stars materialize on the horizon, and my finger slips to the trigger as I ground myself into the cockpit, ignoring the gut-kick of fear. Stick between my hands, feet on the rudder, trigger ready. Time to remember Merlant’s strategy.

  Height. Sun. Wingman.

  “Fox, keep close,” I say.