Storm from the East

by Joanna Hathaway

  At a pair of tall doors, footmen bow slightly, allowing us to enter a parlour with a ceiling canopy of painted leaves, ornate gold lattices across the windows glittering with sunlight. Behind a grand desk sits a man about my mother’s age, his black hair curling and flecked with grey. His eyes widen on the three of us.

  “This is Sinora Lehzar’s daughter,” Jali informs him grandly. “Come all the way from Etania to visit!”

  Rahian stands, waving his remaining officers and footmen from the room, then he’s round his desk and striding for me. “Aurelia,” he says in disbelief, pulling me into an unexpected embrace—tight, earnest, like I’m a long-lost child returned home. Flustered by his lack of formality, and the whiff of liquor on his breath, I push back and try to compose myself. “Your Majesty,” I say, “I’m truly honoured to be here and see my mother’s beloved homeland at last. Though it appears I’ve stumbled into a war?”

  He shrinks back, expression caught. “I’ve made a mess of this, haven’t I?” he admits, rubbing at his weary face, one that’s handsome in a simple, uncluttered way—green eyes, elegant nose, and a slightly too-big chin. Somewhere in his veins is the faint reflection of his great-grandmother, a Northern princess of Elsandra, the girl who merged Prince Efan’s blood with the Resyan throne. “I should have suspected the damn Safire wouldn’t be cowed by the League’s ruling,” he continues, glancing to Havis, “but I won’t stand for this. Surely the North will see I’ve been provoked and rule I have a right to defend myself?”

  “Your Majesty, I think it’s quite evident the League’s rulings no longer matter,” Havis replies hesitantly. “Not to the Safire.”

  “Then all the more reason to resist their vain expansionism. To prove their folly.”

  “But is that worth the cost of your own life?” Havis presses, stepping closer. “Your Majesty, I didn’t wish to bring you this news, but truly, you’d serve Resya better by leaving now and saving yourself, your son. I fear if you stay for this reckoning, you’ll only lose everything that—”

  “Enough,” Rahian interrupts sharply. “I will not abandon my people, Ambassador. What king would I be then?”

  Havis and Jali say nothing, and I suspect their responses to that statement are both equally cowardly. Havis always advocates running, saving his own skin. I saw him do that very thing at our coup in the summer. And Jali? I’ve known her fully ten minutes, and I already suspect what bone she’s made of. They’re a matching pair.

  “Your Majesty, might we speak in private?” I ask, and I can practically feel Havis’s eyes narrow at my back. “I have a message from my mother, for your ears alone.”

  The lie comes easily off my tongue, and it works. Something hopeful edges into Rahian’s gaze. “Of course, Aurelia. Anything you wish.”

  He gives Havis and Jali a swift, royal nod, and they retreat resentfully for the twin doors, a suspicious, mutual question in their eyes. Once alone, Rahian walks to his desk and fills a diamond-patterned glass with brandy. “There’s something you wish to say,” he acknowledges. “Speak freely, please.”

  There is indeed something I wish to say, the lines I rehearsed on the bike ride here, and I switch to Landori so Rahian will see I mean to be a diplomat, not simply a friend. “Your Majesty,” I begin, “my mother wishes you to negotiate. That’s been her hope all summer, to arrange a meeting of North and South, to prove that Resya has no reason to invite suspicion about supporting the Nahir. If you agreed to this, immediately, you might yet save face and the lives of your people. She would help you. We could create a lasting peace for all.”

  Rahian gazes at me like he senses the false fabrication of my story. “It is hardly so simple, and she knows that as well as I.”

  His tone makes it clear I’ve just stepped into an adult’s realm, offering foolish advice, and it frustrates me—especially since I know I’m lying, creating something my mother would never agree to, yet desperate enough to try. But then he smiles sadly. “Oh, Aurelia. I have no choice but to fight. There are those in my own kingdom who despise me, who believe I am aiding the Nahir in their revolt. They are welcoming the Safire even now. Rejoicing in my downfall.”

  He speaks in Resyan again, a tired sound that’s trying to be brighter, for my sake, but can’t manage it, and his words startle me. The realization that some here in Resya might not be against this war. That some even welcome this intervention—no matter how drastic.

  “No,” he continues, “to repel this unlawful invasion and expose the Safire on their own aggressive agenda is my only hope. Negotiation no longer stands. I will lose everything if they arrive in this city. If they press me into their ruthless tribunal.” His wounded eyes meet mine again. “Besides, what would your uncle say?”

  I frown. “My uncle?”

  “Yes.”

  We look at each other a long moment, my expression confused, Rahian’s slipping to stark discomfort. “But your mother sent you here. I thought…”

  No, no one sent me, because I came here on my own, and beyond the window, a bird sings—one I’ve never heard before.

  “Oh, child,” Rahian says after a moment. “You don’t know.”

  “Don’t know what?”

  He steps closer, an offer of comfort, as if I’m the one with a kingdom being overwhelmed by bitter steel, but I’m too busy trying to figure out what Uncle Tanek has to do with any of this. “Understand one thing, then,” he says. “This isn’t about me and my own fate, and to think of it in such small terms will only make it worse. What Seath and the Nahir dream of … It’s far greater than Resya, than this one war. It’s an idea that can scarcely be believed. And I fear he might succeed at last.” Wind tickles the silk tassels and skitters the drapes, a warm breath of faint smoke and orange blossoms. “Can you not see it happening already, Aurelia? You’re from the North.”

  The blurry picture slides into focus at last. The thing I should have recognized right away. Last summer, Lark suggested that perhaps Rahian could be pressured, or even threatened, by Seath into helping the Nahir in exchange for a peaceful, untouched kingdom. Rahian is the sole royal left in a land of ruined monarchies. Has he made a deal to save his throne—lend arms for the Nahir insurrection in Thurn, and spare Resya itself from their violent anti-monarchical revolt?

  Perhaps he’s as guilty as the Safire claimed before the League.

  An immense sadness wells inside me for this man, unexpected, because what an unenvious decision to be forced to make, one no leader would want to face. Whatever I once believed was wrong, because this situation is far too tangled for mere negotiation. Not with the League now rendered powerless, and a nation like Savient on the march, and a man like Seath of the Nahir plotting invisible games which condemn entire kingdoms.

  Rahian gives me a mustering smile. Brave, not yet defeated. This king who has been coerced into the darkest of corners. This father trapped between the swell of Nahir revolt and spreading Safire ambition. This man choosing to stay and fight, to defend his people, to accept the consequences he invited.

  And to my surprise, I find I want to help him.

  * * *

  I’m confined to palace grounds after that. A well-meaning order, since everyone’s convinced enemy aeroplanes might materialize from oblivion at any moment, but for me, it’s another prison sentence. I pace the garden walkway—all of the vibrant flowers far too cheerful for this miserable reality—and I run the facts over and over in my head. Everything at hand.

  “There’s always a way forward, Cousin.”

  There is. I still believe Lark’s words, and I just have to find it, somehow. The world needs to know this entire situation is far more complex than they imagine. The world needs to know that the Safire can’t simply march in here with guns blazing, refusing to listen to reason, defying the League’s clear ruling.

  The world needs someone to explain.

  “Princess?”

  I spin, finding Tirza following a few feet behind me, and her presence is a welcome relief. Her warm am
ber eyes.

  I’m not sure where to begin, so I simply launch right into it. “Last summer,” I say, “an idea nearly destroyed my home. A thousand men marched for my palace, compelled by a lie about my mother, determined to seek justice. They hung by their necks for that belief. But my brother, he wielded another idea, one of innocence, and he brought neighbouring kingdoms to our aid, because they believed him with an equal conviction. Enough to save us.” I pause, struggling to gather all my racing thoughts, hammer them into a shape that makes sense. “I see now how powerful ideas are, Tirza, and so I believe we need to share the right ones about this war. We need to prove its wrongness and force the Safire to answer for what they’re doing here. But I can’t do that on my own. I need your help … reporting.” I take her hands. “We can record this awful war together. We can make sure it ends better than it began.”

  True surprise fills Tirza’s face, but it quickly shifts to understanding—relief, as well. The unexpected realization that a Northern princess is going to work in Resya’s defense. “You’re right, Aurelia,” she says earnestly. “War is simply a story. And we have the means to tell it properly.”

  My name spoken by her, like a friend, is enough. I may not be able to stop generals and kings and commanders, but we can still fight—all of us. We can use our words, not weapons, and perhaps, together, we can open eyes and write a better ending.

  I’m here, Lark.

  Dear Ali,

  I’m not sure how long this letter will take to reach you, or if it even will, but I want to at least write it so if you ever ask me someday—did you think of me? Did you remember us when you were at war? I’ll say yes, because I am. And I do. This is my proof. You’re all around me here in Resya. Your mother’s kingdom is beautiful from every angle, and I’d give anything to explore these mountains. From my plane, they look like green castles, with pillars and ramparts and tumbling cliffs. A place we could hike for days and never grow bored. Trails twisting to the horizon.

  But I’ll admit, it’s always a shock when I do walk on the earth. The sky above is wide and empty. If someone dies up there, they’re gone in an instant. Nothing left behind. But down below? You see the waste. It doesn’t matter how careful you vow to be with a shell, somehow the wreckage always goes farther than you think. I try to feel glad I’m not in the army. I don’t have to march through the ruined towns, talk with the stunned people, be confronted by my own guilt. But maybe that’s delusional? Do you think I’m as bad as them? I should mention that some of the Resyans are glad about us being here. I swear to you, they’re grateful, selling us coffee and fresh fruit, encouraging us onwards …

  Alright, I think this is a conversation we’d have better in person. But the truth is, a lot of people in this world don’t like kings, whether from the North or the South. I know you’ve got a good heart, Ali. You care. But others with crowns? I think they’re a bit selfish, and I’m not even sure they know their own people.

  I’m sorry. I’ll save this debate for a day when you can challenge me right back and tell me kings are noble and good and God-ordained, and where would this world be without them? And isn’t it hard to command an entire kingdom and ensure every last person is perfectly satisfied? And how is ruling with a gun any better? (Am I guessing your lines right?) I’ll stop there, and tell you instead that I saw a farm horse the other day that looked exactly like yours. I think it had good withers or frame or something like that. I even fed it wild clover. Kept my hand flat just like you taught me—and only lost two fingers in the end!

  God, has it only been eleven days? It feels like longer. I wish you could see it here, once everything’s beautiful again. You don’t want to see it like this.

  Yours always,

  Athan

  Dear Ali,

  Twenty days and somehow I’m still alive. I guess my training is actually paying off! Every dusk, I count stars to sharpen my vision, and every morning, I do a hundred sit-ups to strengthen my core, to resist blackout while flying. All of these little tricks to stay alive, but do you want to know something funny? (It’s not really funny, but it feels a bit funny as I’m sitting here in my cockpit.) I think the soldiers on the ground have it better than me. If we do well, and provide cover, they love us. But if we’re late to the game, caught up in our own battles at 12,000 feet, they hate us. They spit on us, like it’s our fault we couldn’t get there in time to save them. They envy the freedom of the sky.

  But think about it. As horrible as they feel their lot is, at least they have each other in the end. They die side by side. It’s bloody and awful, but they get a friend with them, a real voice. The earth is final and tangible. You can touch it as you leave it. But when I die, I’m going to die completely alone, in some empty expanse of sky. Just the fuzzy static on the earphone and searing metal. I hate the smell of smoke now. Whatever happens, I’m not going to burn. I keep my pistol close, right below the throttle.

  Quick.

  See, this isn’t really funny at all. I don’t know why I used that word. Maybe I mean this is ironic? They think the sky’s better, but it’s actually worse? You’re the one attending university, so I’ll trust you on the proper word choice. I only know numbers and angles. I’m the worst with words. Are you even reading these? Can you send me a little sign in the stars or something? You believe in that kind of thing—and I’m counting them every day, waiting.

  I miss you.

  Athan

  Dear Ali,

  I don’t think I’m as good as I once thought. Will you still like me if I’m a terrible pilot? Because I think I’m becoming terrible. I’m still getting planes down, of course, and everyone says I’m doing well, that I’m certainly on my way to earning my squadron. But that’s because they don’t know my secret. They don’t see how much I struggle to stay out of enemy gunsights before I get those planes down. How much effort it’s taking just to stay alive, to stay fastest. That’s terrifying, Ali. Sometimes I feel a panic growing in my chest. Suffocating me. I’d describe it for you—what it’s like to watch those tracers skim your wings, inches away from your own death—but I won’t. Not right now. I see it in my head every night, which is too much as it is.

  I must not be that good. Someone recall my Top Flight status.

  (I don’t know why I’m telling you this, because I’d rather have you think I’m the best pilot in the world, and a hero. Stupidly brave all the time, like my brother. But I don’t want to lie to you, so here’s the truth. Just the shameful damn truth. Don’t tell my father.)

  Missing you always,

  Athan

  Ali,

  A month of war.

  An entire month, and I need to finally admit something: My name is Athan Dakar. And I should have told you long ago.

  If you hate me now, I’d understand. I’m sorry. I’ll be sorry for what I did every day of my life, however long or short that is. If you haven’t stopped reading this or thrown it into the trash, please know I want to go back in time and do the summer again. I want to go back to that moment in the garden when I was stupid enough to try and ask you for directions. I want to give you another bad luck flower. I want to dance another waltz and hike another mountain and instead of being the stupid ass I was, I’d tell you my whole name, right there with that beautiful view, and you’d be surprised for a moment, and then you’d shake your head and tell me, truly, I don’t look important enough to be the General’s son—that easy way you diminish whatever I’ve said when you’re annoyed or playing difficult to get. (I actually love it when you do that.)

  I’m sorry, Ali. I’ll explain everything the next time I see you. I swear. If you let me, I’ll kiss you and prove to you how much I care. Forget my words. Just let me show you. But that means I need to see you again, I need to stay alive, and I will—for you.

  Yours always, always, I swear,

  Not a farm boy, but please forgive me

  Lieutenant Athan,

  I hope you are good. Your sister says I will write to you and practice
my Savien. We can make my Savien good, together. She also says I will write to her, when she is in Thurn.

  I am sorry I was the bad news with you, but you are not all terrible Lieutenant Athan. Fight like you are good. See more than your gun. See the chest.

  Is the drink from Karkev good?

  Thank you.

  K. Illiany

  Leannya,

  What the hell are you doing in Thurn?!

  Whatever you’re thinking—stop where you are and don’t do it. This letter had better be forwarded to you quick, because Father is going to kill you when he finds out. And in the event these happen to be the last words you ever receive from me, I hope my efforts aren’t wasted and you turn around and go back to Valon. Do you hear me? My dying wish is that you stay the hell away from all of this.

  Dying.

  Wish.

  Your loving and possibly soon-to-be-dead brother,

  Athan

  Dear Athan,

  I know I can’t send you this letter. I can’t even write my own mother, since the cables are down and used for encrypted military communication only now. But I still think of you always, still wonder where you are, if perhaps you’ve been stationed in Thurn again. Surely you haven’t been called up to this campaign. You’re too young. Too inexperienced. You’re being trained somewhere, and I’m going to pretend that’s true. It’s the only way I can wake each morning and carry on.

  Since I can’t send this to you—at least not now—I’m going to tell you the truth of what I’m doing here in Resya, because I believe you’ll understand why. Someday I’ll explain it better in person, when I can properly ask your forgiveness, but for now let this attempt at a testament suffice. You see, I’m exposing the unjust nature of Savient’s invasion in this kingdom … and before you react, let me explain that it’s not because I wish any harm to you or Cyar or any of the kind-hearted soldiers I believe exist in your ranks (never, never, never, I swear). But unfortunately, it seems the course of this war is not being recorded properly. In the North, your General is trying to make them believe that Resya is guilty of terrible things, and therefore everyone in this kingdom deserves to suffer for the crimes of a few. That they deserve this horrific invasion because, in the end, it will lead to a better state for the world as we know it. But Athan, why should these innocent people endure such a war? How is that right? I feel obligated to ensure their side is also revealed before the world, to keep things fair. And surely you agree with that?