Storm from the East

by Joanna Hathaway

  Let me paint you a picture of what I’m trying to say. There’s a woman I’ve met here, Jali Furswana, and she’s a princess like me, though her kingdom (Masrah) was overthrown in a Nahir-inspired revolt many years ago. She never talks about what happened to her, or how she eventually arrived in Resya, her sister marrying Rahian, but I must confess that I see in her some frightening version of myself. What if our coup in Etania had been successful? Would I now be living on another court’s charity like this, in denial of my fate? What if you hadn’t managed to get me to the throne room in time? Where would my mother be today—convicted of a false crime and blamed for my father’s murder?

  It seems all too possible now that I know the stretch of this earth. The sheer brutality and injustice of these political games. And yet do you know how this princess spends her days? She floats about the pool like a listing swan, a wine glass in hand, oblivious to the increasingly dire developments on every side. She cares little for her adopted kingdom, convinced that she, at least, will survive to the end, safe behind palace walls. The other evening, a lieutenant with his arm lost below the elbow showed up to one of our dinners, his stub freshly bandaged from the front, and she had the nerve to ask if he could perhaps be a dear and keep it hidden below the lace tablecloth while she ate. And she’s not the only one. Oh no, there are other wealthy nobles in this kingdom who don’t yet understand the consequence of this war, who even hope for a Safire victory. Anything is better than violent Nahir revolt, they think. Anything is better so long as they get to keep their titles and their prestige, even as thousands march into those mountains to be sacrificed for their right to exist in luxury. So you see, this is why I have to care, Athan. Because too many people, who have the chance to make things better, refuse to look and see—both in the North and in the South, it seems.

  I’m sorry. I feel I’m lecturing at you here, and this must sound like some university essay, but truly, it’s easier to simply write about these events as if they’re far away, to not feel them too deeply. Our newsreels always show young soldiers smiling, lifting victorious rifles like they aren’t stumbling backwards with every day that passes, and I think that part is fine—the necessary façade. They have to pretend they’re winning, that victory is on its way. But it’s the proof of their fantasy that fractures my heart. Resyan tradition forbids them to show any dead bodies, even the enemy, so it’s always your aeroplanes they film in defeat, smoking like an ember shot to the earth. A little puff, a little flame, then someone smiling again, because see? You can be killed. You can be beaten. You’re only human, like us.

  Athan, they don’t know how human. It’s you. You’re in those planes, and Cyar. They celebrate it, because they don’t know the stories behind each little puff of smoke. The secret histories. They don’t know how you held my hand as we climbed our mountain, the way you jumped along the rocks for the fun of it. They don’t know how every night I dream of pressing myself to your chest, feeling the expanse of you which is sacred to me, every heartbeat like my own, every touch made of stars, because I remember exactly the way your breath—so alive, so gentle—felt against my neck, your lips following in soft exploration …

  I need to stop. Thinking like this always breaks my resolve not to cry. But please, Athan, when you watch your reels, imagine the stories too. Each Resyan plane is also a heart. They’re your enemy, but they’re still alive, and I pray you remember that and act with honour. The things I’ve seen from the front, from your soldiers … No. This isn’t what you need to hear, not even if I could send you this letter. Of course you’re doing the right thing, even in war. You care too deeply, like me—and you always will. And in fact, you’re not even in this war. You’re in Thurn, far away, and someday when I tell you all of this in person, it will make such perfect sense, because you and I, we’re the same.

  Holding your heart forever,

  Ali

  IV

  THE CAULDRON

  20

  ATHAN

  Adena

  For a month we fly dawn to dusk, following the steady advance. There’s no rest. Arrin won’t let anyone stop, not with the pincers of our two fronts so close to snapping together, pushing the Resyan army into retreat. From the sky, the war looks simple and clean—we see the mushrooms of black as Army Group North fights its way through the tangled terrain, the trail of supply lines spreading out behind. A patchwork hell. A chess match of smoking squares.

  I do my part, the only thing I can do, even as it gets harder and harder for me. I obliterate enemy trains and tanks as they rattle for the front. I pound my guns into them, little shapes that scatter in flame. But mostly, I wound enemy fighters. Cyar shadows me into the blue and we duel them at 10,000 feet. The dark marks multiply along my plane’s flank, and Kif has to repaint them at least once a week since I keep managing to knock my fighters out of commission, getting in too close to my kills, crash-landing when a brake line’s shot.

  Filton begins to look wistful every time he waves my planes goodbye.

  “I’ve never ruined a single fighter,” Ollie informs me before a sortie. “Two wars. Dozens of missions. And no scratches! I knew you weren’t that good, Charm.”

  But it’s not really about being good, and he knows it. It’s about luck. I can count all the stars I want, do sit-ups until I feel sick to my stomach, but in the end some lucky hit from a rookie Resyan pilot might pierce my fuselage at its weakest point—and then I’m butter.

  Just like that.

  Just like Sailor and three other pilots from Moonstrike.

  On the fortieth day since we lit up the mountains, we finally come within one hundred miles of Irspen, the royal city where Rahian spends his summers. The place Arrin once thought he could take in two weeks. It’s nearly laughable now. Irspen’s the industrial hub of the north—factories and steel mills built along the Lirak river, railways running to Madelan and every other large city. A strategic point, though they’d be idiots to do anything but surrender with Evertal driving from the east and Arrin driving from the north.

  They’re about to be caught between two anvils.

  We’re gearing up to fly near the recently captured city of Adena as Garrick briefs us for another day, the Moonstrike pilots circled together on the patch of sun-dried grass where our planes wait, and it’s too damn bright. I throw on sunglasses, rubbing at my always aching head, half listening, half watching two of our soldiers yank around a horse. They’ve latched their packs onto its back, but it refuses to stand still, swinging in terror.

  “Thief, why don’t you shadow Charm today?” Garrick suggests to Trigg.

  That pulls me back. Trigg, too. A few weeks ago, Trigg showed up to the flight line tossing an anti-tank grenade back and forth in his hands. He refused to admit where he got it, and just like that, the call sign for our new wingman was decided. Thief. He grinned when we bestowed it on him—as is tradition—and cheerfully said, “It’s a goddamn honour, gentlemen.”

  He still has no idea it wasn’t a compliment, and now he looks at me as I look at him. Garrick’s order is a meaningful one since Trigg hasn’t gotten anything down, and I suspect Garrick would like me to monitor him for once. I should have done that long ago, since he’s supposed to be in my future squadron, but I honestly don’t give a damn about Trigg Avilov. Not right now.

  My headache works itself into a pulse.

  Nearby, the horse whinnies.

  Cyar can’t take it anymore. Muttering about “army idiots,” he marches over and grabs the rope from the nearest soldier, a Rahmeti boy. Cyar scolds him in Rahmi, saying you can’t treat a horse like a dog, they don’t work like that, and for God’s sake how do you think yelling is going to make anything better? With a gentle hand, Cyar does his scratching-the-neck thing, calming the horse in a way Ali would like.

  Ali.

  I shake the thought of her away quickly. Every time her name finds its way into my head, I feel the instinct to squash it. I don’t want her to be a part of this—the downed planes, th
e scorched mountains. I want her in the evenings, when the stars come out, a secret escape just for us. Her warm kisses brushing my neck in some faraway throne room. But not here. Not in this place where I’m plagued by an emptiness that’s growing inside me every day. A hollowed-out space where all my guilt should be, twisted and raw and shameful.

  Instead, it’s just nothing.

  Nothing except this damn headache.

  Sweat pools beneath neckerchiefs as we ready to fly, running through our personal rituals and superstitions. We all have them, little things that feel like luck. But Trigg’s are more obvious. He runs his hands along each wing—right and left—then the tail, and finally the nose. He holds one hand high like a prayer. I realize, as I tighten my parachute, he actually is praying.

  “I don’t think God appreciates thieves,” I remark on my way by.

  “Says who?” Trigg grins, the dirty kind. “God keeps the best alive, you know.”

  “Guess you’d better watch your back then.”

  His smirk disappears.

  I’m not sure when I got so mean.

  There’s a sudden commotion across the airfield, and we both forget our mutual suspicion. A truck screeches to a squelching stop, prompting a flurry of activity and salutes. It takes a very long moment for me to recognize Arrin. He has no cap or badge. Nothing to distinguish himself as Commander. He’s thinner and in a dirty uniform that’s seen much better days.

  Followed by his officers, he hustles across the field towards a camouflaged transport plane. No one notices us pilots standing there waiting to go up.

  “They’ll burn the bridges,” a colonel worries at Arrin’s heels.

  “They won’t,” he replies. “It’s their only way back to the capital. They’d be goddamned fools to burn them now.”

  “We’re stretched thin already, sir, and they’re mobilizing the base at Erzel.”

  “Won’t matter once we’re across the river.”

  They sweep past us, and I hear myself speak before I can stop myself. “Arrin!”

  He halts in his tracks. Turning, surprise brightens his tired face as he peers between all the pilots, finding me. “Little brother!”

  I wave.

  “Some idiot show-off came right down to 200 feet above my lines and shot up a Resyan bastard.” He grins. “There’s a rumour it was you.”

  They all look at me—Trigg, Garrick, Ollie. I might have chased another to the deck yesterday. But with Cyar, of course.

  I shrug. “My brakes weren’t working.”

  Arrin doesn’t get the joke. He knows nothing about airplanes. “Do it again,” he orders me, already moving for his transport. “That was brilliant! Exactly what they needed to see.”

  Then he’s gone. Flying south for some other part of the line.

  Like clockwork, we’re in the air again too, clipping through the sky. Trigg’s locked on my wing. He flies with good pitch, his plane hardly wavering in the strong wind. He’s solid, I can admit that. Steady. But he says nothing over the earphone. He’s just there, a wing’s span from me, brooding.

  Engagement comes quickly. A handful of Resyans fleeing below us. They’re trying to get somewhere—and fast—and don’t even notice us until we’re on top of them. Guns and cannons fire. I let the others take the lead on this one, since I want to watch Trigg. Two Resyans are trying to slip off to the east. An officer with his red-tipped wings, another shadowing him. We’ve learned the higher-ranking pilots always distinguish their planes from the rest. And this one must be someone important if he’s trying to get the hell out without even firing a shot.

  “Thief, you’re on the officer. I’ll take the wingman.”

  He doesn’t move.

  “Do you understand, Thief?”

  “Understood, sir.”

  Sir? Something’s definitely up.

  The two Resyans open their throttles, putting desperate space between us.

  “Thief, get on that officer. Engage him.”

  “Yes, I—”

  “Stop talking and do it!”

  Bullets spray from Trigg’s plane. Right into the Resyan wingman. Fuselage damaged, the enemy fighter’s belly before it explodes into a charred skeleton of a plane, careening for the forest below. A deadly shot executed with easy precision, and the Resyan officer flees wildly for the horizon.

  I’m so angry I could shoot Trigg myself.

  I swing back for our group and he dutifully follows. As soon as we land again, I jump from my cockpit and march past Filton—who’s thanking me for being nice to the plane—ripping the goggles and headset from myself as I go. I’m dripping with sweat. Everything soaked. I’m hot and furious, unable to comprehend how someone could be this damn obstinate. Defying a direct order. He sure as hell won’t be anywhere near my squadron.

  If I get one, of course.

  If we all live that long.

  “Be respectful about it,” Garrick warns, striding alongside me. “You’re the leader here.”

  “He’s deliberately pushing!”

  “Yes, it’s not very pleasant having someone under your leadership who doesn’t want to be there, is it? Someone who doesn’t want to listen, who does the things you order but everything in their attitude says, ‘I don’t care what you think and I’m doing this only because I choose to.’” A grin tugs at his lips.

  “I wasn’t this bad,” I huff.

  “I’m sure Thief doesn’t think he’s that bad either.”

  With that, Garrick falls away, leaving me on my own marching for Trigg’s perfect, untouched plane. Not a dent. Not a scratch. Disappearing in dogfights does have its perks.

  “What was that, Avilov?” I demand.

  He faces me with arms crossed. “Sir?”

  “I said go after the officer and you did nothing. You just sat there. Then you take out the wingman? What’s going on in your idiot head?”

  It feels good to lay into him finally, and we glare at each other. His jaw ticks, like he wants to say more, to snarl back at me, but he knows better than that. The one shred of sense he has left. Then he backs up a step, arms uncrossing in what might be surrender. He looks at the plane, at the ground, his boots, anywhere but my eyes. “I didn’t know which one it was, Lieutenant.”

  “The one with the damn red-tipped wings! How much more clarification do you need?”

  “I know,” he says, voice a few inches tall. “I couldn’t see it.”

  “It was right in front—” I stare, confused. And then it clicks. All at once. “Are you—?”

  Colour blind.

  I don’t say it out loud.

  The utter shame on his face says it for me.

  “How did you get into the squadrons?” I exclaim, dumbfounded now.

  “Well…” He looks even more like a worm in the sun. “You see, my uncle who contracts with the navy. He … well…”

  “Yes?”

  “He’s not really my uncle. He’s my mother’s lover. He’s been trying for years to get her to leave my father, but she won’t do it, and he does whatever she asks, and I wanted to be a pilot, right? It’s all I’ve ever wanted. And he’s always trying to sweet-talk her or me, anything to win favour, and he said he’d get me here. And he did.”

  “He snuck you into the air force?”

  “They might have removed a few bits of the vision test for me. Among other things.”

  I have no words. The very idea that there are people shuffling favours, sneaking in colour-blind pilots, and all beneath my father’s nose … It’s confounding. I never thought anyone could get away with it. I sure as hell can’t get away with anything.

  How did they manage this?

  “You’ve been hanging back because you don’t know which plane to hit?” Saying it out loud, this sounds like a disaster.

  “Only at first,” he corrects quickly. “It’s when they’re far away. But once we’re in the thick of it, it’s easier.”

  Oh, God.

  My expression must be conveying this sentiment,
because he rushes on. “I study the shapes of the models. Memorize details, theirs and ours. I can usually figure it out fast, but I’ve been nervous here. Being wingman to pilots who don’t know the truth? I’m just waiting to be found out. To be court-martialed for lying.” His eyes beg me. “I know I’m a liability, Lieutenant, but I can do a good job for you. Once I’m on it, I give everything I have. I can bring those planes down. I just need a bit of extra help.” He meets my gaze again, pitiful. “I love flying. It’s the only thing I’m good at.”

  I don’t know why, but I feel bad for him. I really do. I don’t know what I’d do if I couldn’t fly because of my eyes. And I remember what he said about his family needing him to do this, as a Safire officer. If he went home now … Well, maybe he’d be in about the same position I’d be in. Never able to live it down.

  I glance around the sad state of our makeshift airfield. It’s already nothing like the proper squadron I imagined. “Fine. Fly with Cyar for now. He’ll point you in the right direction.”

  Trigg looks startled. “You’re going to let me fly with him?”

  I almost laugh. “Cyar isn’t my personal property, and he’s the only one here who will actually pity you enough to do it.”

  “But you won’t tell anyone?”

  “Not yet.”

  Trigg nods. “I trust you.”

  It’s a bit uncomfortable, the fact that I’m suddenly bound to Trigg in a real way, hiding his secret. “You’d better get this right,” I remind him. “If you’re not bringing down planes…”