Storm from the East

by Joanna Hathaway

“They don’t stick in the rain or mud,” she says affectionately. “Loyal as a lover!”

  I hide my disgust and fake interest as she instructs me on the tricks of firing a bull’s-eye, how to aim so it can’t miss. I pull the trigger when she commands. The rifle kicks into my shoulder and the ear-piercing cracks sing my guilt. I’d desperately hoped the bullet I fired at Lark was a fluke of sheer luck, that I hadn’t meant to aim so true. That it was all fate.

  But now the board in front of me says otherwise.

  Flawless shots.

  “Brilliant, Sarriyan!” Lady Havis says. “Such instinct!”

  Her praise stabs my heart. The cool steel feels too easy beneath my fingers. The same dark creature that killed Lark, that killed the boys before the wall. A creature who can begin wars and end wars and change worlds forever.

  “You know what I can do,” it seems to say with a smirk. “You know my power is greater than the truth.”

  Not if I can damn well help it.

  I’ve had two days to plot what I’ll say to Rahian, to compel him to choose negotiation and end this war, and I’m ready to act. Wearing a blouse and pants from Tirza, along with a pair of her leather boots—a perfect fit, as she promised—I look like I’m her sister. Our dark hair tucked back and wrists graced with matching bracelets.

  She steals one of the motorbikes, which makes me feel a bit guilty about compelling this girl to betray her employers, and thieve no less.

  But who am I to complain? The bike belongs to Havis, after all, and I quickly climb on behind her, the machine beneath us jolting to life. Then we’re off, sprinting out the gates and down the mountainside for Madelan’s city limits. I breathe in the fragrant dawn air, closing my eyes to revel in the joy of escape. It’s like riding Ivory with abandon. The rattling horse growling between my legs, the hot fuel tank near my calves, the thick rubber wheels jolting and sparking when metal strikes pavement.

  We reach a curve in the road, and Tirza swings us to a dusty halt beneath a twisting throng of juniper trees. The ridge overlooks Madelan, the entire city seeming to grow out from the mountain forest. It’s built in elegant tiers, the spires and colourful roofs illuminated by sun, giant bridges crossing a wide river that cuts through the valley. My breath catches at the sight. A place far from the cold grey stones of Hathene, full of lush and vibrant beauty.

  This is the home of half my heart, I think, waiting for the tingle, begging my blood to sing in response.

  But there’s nothing.

  Northeast of us, aeroplanes dot the skies, and Tirza squints her eyes. “Fighters,” she identifies. “It must be getting worse.”

  “Worse?”

  “Fighters are defensive. Bombers offensive. I don’t see any of our bombers, which means they must be desperate to defend the northern cities, no time for anything else.”

  I raise a brow. “Do girls in Resya always study military strategy?”

  Tirza laughs. “Some of us journalists do. And my cousin Kaziah, the one in Havenspur, she’s a sniper. She’s taught me plenty.”

  “The Landorians allow women to serve?”

  It seems impossible, especially from a kingdom which adores tradition, but Tirza shrugs. “When you’re surrounded on every side, the first thing to go is pointless custom. Who says a girl can’t fire a bullet as well as any man? Look at what you did yesterday.”

  Yesterday’s target practice is the last thing I want to be proud of, but we’re already off again, no time for my rebuttal.

  We race down the hill and I shut my eyes, indulging in momentary fantasy. Imagining it’s Athan on this bike, his warmth for me to press against, the scent of sky and kerosene, firm beneath my hands, alive, alive, alive. He and I exploring this new kingdom together, only us, chasing the highest mountain peaks and learning each other’s thoughts and patterns, getting into fights and debates and breathless fits of laughter, because even when he’s rotten and I’m stubborn, we’re still the most wonderful to each other.

  Is it wrong that I want this war to end not only because it’s horrible, but also because I don’t want us to die before we have a chance to repeat that hurried first kiss? Am I made entirely of selfish fears and dreams and—?

  Tirza hits the brakes, the bike screeching, and my eyes fly open, fantasy shattered. Our roadway has become a sea of automobiles and trucks and marching people. It’s congested as far as I can see. A staggering group of perspiring women, bewildered children, and leathery-faced men with muddied boots and sunburnt arms. Everywhere, threadbare coats and dresses caked in dust.

  I holler into Tirza’s ear over the noise. “Where are they going!”

  “Probably here! They must be coming from the north, from the villages.”

  Stars, how long have they been marching this road? Since the first bombs fell? And where will they stay once they’ve arrived?

  Horns honk as we go against the crowd, pushing north, towards the downtown, but everyone else fights to go the opposite direction, south, away from the capital.

  Tirza shifts in frustration, putting us onto another road altogether. We scoot through rolling neighbourhoods, past shuttered stores and marble pavilions and city parks, and I struggle to read the signposts at the intersections, to gain my bearings and scour for any clues about Lark’s address. Rayir d’ezen Cala—Flower of the Sun Street. While my spoken Resyan is strong, my ability to read and write it is less so.

  But there’s little time for that. Tirza crosses another intersection and we’re forced to slow again, hitting a river of olive surging the same direction as us. Young men in Resyan uniform and officers hollering orders. A giant beast with a metal turret snarls out from the street running perpendicular to ours, rolling right in front of us, snorting black smoke while men atop motion for space with their rifles. Everyone below covers their ears frantically, civilians scattering into the grass.

  I stare in shock. I’ve never seen an armoured tank before, only on newsreels. We have none in Etania. There’s no need. But here it comes, forcing its way along, another close behind.

  They’re uglier than on film. Harsh and angled and loud. A bit dirty. They squeak and hiss on clicking tracks, and the soldiers fall into line behind them, marching as before down the wide road. Officers thread through on horseback, their elegant caps bearing the red and gold kestrel of Resya. Heeled boots kick into gleaming flanks and the horses don’t hesitate. They surpass the tanks, trotting onward at a trusting pace.

  “They’re not using those horses in battle, are they?” I exclaim.

  Tirza stares, true regret on her face. “These mountain roads aren’t easy for vehicles, not after a heavy rain. There’s only one way to navigate them quickly. Just like Savas once did.”

  My heart throbs. Tanks and horses. How can they go to war side by side? At least the men have a choice! They’re choosing to follow an order while those poor horses won’t understand the truth until it’s upon them.

  We swerve onto a narrow, cobbled road, the rising sun bright in my eyes, and I desperately rehearse my lines to Rahian, my appeal to reason.

  The clock ticks.

  18

  ATHAN

  North of Esferian

  The sun’s a sharp glare on my fighter’s canopy as Sailor and I drop low. Sweat trickles down my spine, my cockpit cramped, my parachute harness hot and constricting in the heat. Grabbing at me.

  “Got anything yet?” Sailor enquires over the earphone.

  “Nothing,” I reply.

  We’re clipping along at around a thousand feet, enacting the role I devised for us in that faraway strategy room. It’s still more terrifying than any dogfight, coming this close to the ground. Danger hidden in every green crevice. But I have a bomb today—five hundred pounds of ordnance strapped to my fighter—so I scour the earth, eager to just drop it and peel upwards again. Sailor’s right behind me, carrying his own load.

  Back at base, Cyar’s sick as a damn dog. Whatever the medics poked him with on the ship failed miserably, and he woke
up slick with fever sweat, nearly heaving all over my boots when he forced himself up and tried to dress.

  “You sure as hell aren’t flying,” I informed him.

  “I could,” he protested weakly. “Someone might just need to clean the cockpit after.”

  Then he threw up again.

  I ordered him back into bed and once on the flight line, managed to maneuver myself amongst the Moonstrike pilots, passing Trigg off on someone else and taking Sailor as wingman. We were all nearly sick by that point, though, because one of our nearby barracks was visited by Resyan bombers in the night, and the stench from the incinerated bodies—sour and sharp and putrid—was amplified by the morning heat, filling the airfield.

  My fingers dance on the trigger as I look down. I couldn’t do much for the sorry bunch in the barracks. But I can do something now.

  And there it is.

  “Tank, four o’clock.”

  “Good eye, Charm! Theirs?”

  It sure doesn’t look Safire. Lighter metal, smaller turret. A machine able to strip flesh clean off the bone.

  I throw my stick forward.

  I want this over with. Only seconds away from knocking it out of the game for good. The tank grows larger, and as always, for a fraction of a heartbeat, I pause. Finger on the trigger. Not pressing. Because there are people down there. Real people inside that machine, sharing a weary smile, trying to survive this, and I want to give them one more second. One more breath. One more chance to remember home.

  Then, time’s up, because they’ve chosen to be here, same as me. That’s as much as I can afford to give, and I release the bomb clinging to my plane’s belly, over them so fast their turret can’t even begin to train on me—not that it would do them much good at this steep angle.

  The tank explodes to a smouldering cloud of black.

  They never even saw it coming.

  Better that way.

  “Your turn, Sailor.”

  Wide blue sky fills my windshield again.

  “Got it, Charm, let’s—wait, Charm! Six o’clock on your—”

  Sailor doesn’t finish the thought. We both missed a second Resyan tank, camouflaged by trees and modified with our worst enemy—anti-aircraft guns. In my rear mirror, Sailor’s fighter disappears in a flash of white-blue brilliance, pieces of him and his plane raining across the earth. I haul backwards on my stick, hurtling upwards, out of range.

  My shaky breaths echo in the stark silence of the radio.

  “That was damn fast,” I hear myself say.

  I don’t know why.

  I’m talking to no one.

  Sailor’s dead. And if not for a medic’s faulty injection, it would have been Cyar.

  19

  AURELIA

  Madelan

  We find King Rahian’s palace perched high above the downtown, nestled behind imposing walls and manned by a pack of agitated army officers. As we approach the iron gates, I search my memory, grasping for everything I know of him—a widower with a young son and a drinking habit, the only royal left in a land of revolt and overthrown monarchies.

  “Now what?” Tirza asks, eyeing the armed guards apprehensively.

  “Now I announce myself,” I reply, sounding a lot braver than I feel.

  I swing off the bike and approach, shoulders back, chin high. Perhaps I should have come in a gown, but there’s nothing I can do about it now—I simply have to be the dusty-haired princess with grit caked onto her skin.

  With as much formality as I can muster, I introduce myself as Princess Aurelia Isendare of Etania, daughter of Sinora Lehzar and betrothed of Ambassador Gref Havis. That last bit tastes like pure poison in my mouth, but I throw it in for good measure, praying fervently that my mother’s purchased title still means something here. That her name wields the respect I always assumed.

  Someone goes back to mutter over the radio, and I raise my chin higher, to be sure they see I mean every word.

  Like magic, the iron gates open.

  Behind me, Tirza appears stunned, the power of my crown at work. I get on the bike again and we grumble forward, entering the peaceful realm of Rahian. Gone is the clatter and chaos of the streets. A new world opens up with gardens of magnolias and roses, trees of passion fruit alongside trimmed shrubs in precise plots. The merging of North and South. All of it overlooks the valley beyond, the colourful tapestry of Madelan spreading out in a wash of red-roofed buildings, blue spires, and mountains. Ever-elegant palms sway in a lazy rhythm above the paved drive, and when we round the bend we discover a courtyard bursting with military vehicles and anti-aircraft guns and armed soldiers. The white-walled palace looks uncomfortably out of place next to them.

  We sputter to a halt as the uniformed crowd stares at us. Servants weave between the soldiers, pinched with nerves, the way our footmen looked the night of the coup. At the top of the marble stairs, an ornate wooden door opens and a tall woman emerges from the shadowy entrance, dressed in a fitted cream dress that accentuates strong hips and belly, wearing dark sunglasses, her raven hair puffed into a knot and a cigarette smoking in her dainty hand.

  All of the men straighten as her head tilts down at me.

  “Aurelia Isendare?” she asks, rather tonelessly.

  I stare up at her in confusion. Has Rahian remarried and no one bothered to mention it? This woman is clearly in command, the atmosphere in the courtyard transformed to rigid expectation at the sight of her, and I slide awkwardly from the bike in my mud-splattered pants, suddenly very aware that before this gleaming jewel of a person, I hardly look worthy of representing my mother’s interests.

  I truly should have thought to bring a gown.

  “Did you come from Etania by way of motorbike?” she continues, the barest wry edge to the question, and I can feel her eyes—hidden by the shades—travelling over my pathetic state.

  “I’ve been held hostage by Ambassador Havis,” I reply quickly, which might be a step too far, but I need to ensure no one sends me back to him. Not yet. “I wish to speak with His Majesty immediately. Is your husband here to—”

  “Husband?” the woman interrupts. She laughs as tonelessly as she spoke. “You wish to speak with my brother-in-law, I believe. Perhaps about this war he’s waltzed us right into?”

  Her bitterness cuts through the sudden smile on her faultless fawn-coloured skin, marring her attempt to make light of the situation. She clicks down the marble steps, teetering on heels, and the sunglasses are finally removed, revealing hazel eyes. She kisses me on each cheek, wafting the scent of lemon and tobacco. “I am Jali Furswana, Princess of Masrah, and I welcome you to Resya. I’ll not let that fiend Havis steal you away any longer.”

  My brows rise. A princess? From Masrah? I think there’s a sparkle of jealousy in her gaze at the mention of Havis, and as she drags on her cigarette, my brain scrambles to remember first where Masrah is located—across Thurn, far in the east—and second, how there can be a member of the Masrahi royal family here when Lark told me in his history lessons that all of the Southern royals, save King Rahian, were gone and it was better that way. He never shared much else, too focused on the present, on his Nahir principles of independence and reform. But if Jali is truly a princess, then I’m fairly certain she doesn’t have a kingdom. Not anymore.

  “Please,” I say, “take me to your brother. It’s pressing.”

  “My brother-in-law has been trapped in meetings with the military all morning, Aurelia, but I suspect for you he might make an allowance.” She peers down at me, some meaning in her gaze I can’t interpret. “I do hope you’ve brought us good news.”

  “I hope so as well,” I reply honestly.

  She smiles then—a glasslike thing—and takes my arm, ushering me inside the palace. Tirza follows, appearing both stunned and ecstatic to be swept along in my wake. Indoors, more men in military caps stamp through the alabaster foyer, their beige uniforms drab against pale walls and vibrant tapestries, officers resting on a bronze fountain while a parrot squ
awks nearby. A little boy is also waiting, a mop of curly dark hair above moon-wide eyes.

  “His Highness, Prince Teo,” Jali informs me proudly. “My nephew.”

  The boy draws immediately to her side, and when I try a friendly wave, he ducks his head behind her knees.

  “He’s scared,” Jali explains, gesturing at the soldiers. “How truly awful for a child, isn’t it?”

  I think of the children fleeing down the roads at this moment, right past snarling tanks, through mountain roads for days on end, and I think little Teo should count his blessings.

  But before I can say this, another voice beats me to it.

  “Ah yes, God watch over the children with only three pools to choose from,” Havis announces, pushing through the doors behind us and perspiring profusely. He looks like he nearly ran here.

  Jali’s false smile brightens a fraction, which only piques my suspicion further. “Ambassador, you were supposed to bring us peace from that parley. Instead, we get this?” She sweeps a manicured hand at the herd of uniforms. “Also, Aurelia says you held her hostage.”

  Havis gapes at Jali, then at me.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell him. “Though it’s somewhat true.”

  “I was keeping you safe,” he retorts.

  Jali’s laughter echoes. “Stars, Havis. Is that how you treat your betrothed?”

  My introduction at the gate has evidently caught up with me, and Havis appears vexed—perhaps even a fraction embarrassed. Perhaps there’s something else between these two. Something from before I entered the picture. And clearly, he hasn’t yet informed the court here of his yearlong quest to woo the Princess of Etania. Convenient.

  Well, they can have each other then, because I have more important business.

  “Where will I find Rahian?” I ask Jali formally. “I think we all understand the timeliness of this.”

  “Indeed,” she agrees, toneless again. “Come along.”

  “I’ll do all the talking,” Havis whispers at me as we march up the stairs, trailing in Jali’s lemony scent. I don’t confirm or deny that directive.