Storm from the East

by Joanna Hathaway

  “Oh, I will, Captain!”

  I don’t want to make this any more dramatic than it is, so I offer my hand, the one thing I can think of to convey respect. That’s what Garrick told me.

  Trigg grins, restored.

  We shake and that’s that.

  * * *

  At dawn, there are shouts across the field, someone hollering for all pilots to the flight line. The base dissolves into chaos and palpable panic. Mechanics sprinting for the planes, tent flaps thrown open.

  Groggy and already sweating, we sit in front of Torhan, bracing for the worst.

  It’s worse than the worst.

  “The Resyan army corps from Erzel broke through southwest of here,” he says, disbelief in his voice. “They’ve cut right below us and slashed our advance in two. We’ve lost contact with the advancing Fourth Division.”

  Rain drizzles on the tent, slapping at the canvas in mocking applause.

  “Then we should swing the Fourth farther east?” Ollie suggests. “Surely we can outflank their move?”

  “It’s too late. Both bridges over the Lirak have been blown,” Torhan replies bluntly. “An entire Resyan division has been caught on our side of the river. They can’t get back to Irspen. So if ours go east, we run right into them. There’s no way out. Trapped on either side.”

  We each stare at the map, reality wobbling together in our exhaustion. Three divisions of soldiers—at least twenty thousand in each—are now surrounded on all sides. One Resyan division is trapped between our 4th and Evertal’s advance from the east. Our 4th is trapped between the river and the freshly mobilized Resyan corps marching up from Erzel. And the Resyans from Erzel will soon be running headlong into us, coming from the north. A disaster of conflicting lines.

  Why the hell would the Resyans blow their own escape route?

  “Where are the engineers?” I ask. “We can fly them into the circle. Get bridges up, get ours over the river.”

  It’s the least we can do until we figure out what’s happening with Evertal to the northeast.

  But Torhan shakes his head. “The nearest engineer battalion is with the Seventh Armoured.”

  “And where’s the Seventh?”

  Torhan swallows. “A hundred miles behind us.”

  It’s a nightmare, then. The initial thrust was history in the making. The tanks piercing through, a giant wave of military might sending the Resyans into a frantic retreat. But the tanks can’t keep up with us. Not in these mountains, with the engineers forced to blast out fortifications at every turn.

  Arrin does have blind spots after all.

  And when Torhan tries to reach Arrin for the official report, the next move to make—they realize he’s with the 4th.

  Encircled.

  My damn brilliant brother has walked himself right into a trap.

  21

  AURELIA

  Madelan

  This is how a month of war crawls by for me—quietly, lit by chandeliers, my pen scrawling away as I draft dozens of press releases which Tirza helps me edit and translate into polished Resyan with her journalist’s eye. I’m grateful for all the essays Heathwyn had me compose last summer. It was practice for the University exams, but now I’m discovering a far better use for this skill of persuasion.

  Together, we share the photographs the official papers refuse to publish—the dead, the mutilated—to drive home the true cost of Savient’s willful disregard for the League’s ruling, both to Resya and to the world. I keep a copy of everything we write, knowing it will be necessary evidence once the inevitable end to the conflict arrives and the war for culpability begins.

  I also try to bring Jali Furswana into friendship, since I believe she could be a powerful voice to represent Resya’s interests should Rahian be found guilty and left out of the equation. She’s someone who understands that violence is hardly the answer, whether it comes from the North or South, who could speak to both the danger of national insurrection and the arrogance of foreign interference. Masrah has weathered both over the decades.

  Unfortunately, Jali holds little interest in my political questions, refusing to speak about her tumultuous past in Masrah or how she wound up in Resya. She simply pens endless poetry while she suns herself beneath the palms, forcing me to listen to her compositions.

  This is the land of a hundred generations,

  the land of my heart,

  and here I stand, a mountain you cannot pass.

  O my enemy, my beloved.

  My own brother!

  I offer myself on this sword.

  I have to admit they’re rather beautiful, inspired by Masrah’s classic heroes, but what good are ancient knights in this modern war? With Rahian endlessly distracted by changing battle lines, often touring his battalions, his home is left in the hands of Jali—an opulent realm of fantasy—where no one notices what Tirza and I are typing away in the shadows, Havis occasionally plotting an elaborate escape to Thurn in between rounds of increasingly disillusioned liquor shots.

  While they feast and smoke and flirt, we write.

  * * *

  At the beginning of the sixth week of war, I discover a photograph to change it all. It’s early morning, the usual Resyan officers disappeared in a flurry, which alerts me to something afoot. Someone mutters eagerly about an encirclement, a surge of victory in the air, and I hurry past the banqueting hall now serving as army intelligence, searching for my new friend Officer Walez.

  Walez won me over immediately because he’s the perfect reflection of Reni. Dark haired, hazel eyed, wielding a serene pride that’s nearly weightless. I miss Reni and Mother so terribly—not able to receive or send communication with the cables down—and being with the young Walez makes me feel I’m closer to them somehow. When Walez caught me rustling through reports in the briefing room after his superiors had left, he didn’t scold me or turn me over. He simply smiled, bowed from the neck, and said he’d be happy to pass along whatever information I desired. Perhaps it was the power of my crown at work again, but he’s been so faithful in his mission that I truly believe he does wish the truth of this war to be revealed for all. He never asks why I want to know these things.

  He simply helps, an unspoken understanding between us.

  Today, thanks to Walez, I possess photographs captured straight from enemy lines, and I know they’re a true prize.

  Tirza’s wide-eyed delight proves it.

  “Stars, Ali! These are perfect!”

  I try not to look too closely at the grainy shots. They might be perfect for our pamphlets, but they’re a terrible glory to behold. Perhaps I’d hoped the Safire would prove us wrong. Perhaps I’d hoped that the outright brazenness of this invasion would be their greatest crime. But now I know that’s not true, because in my hands is an image of lumpen figures sprawled on the earth who were once Resyan prisoners—all shot in the back. Safire soldiers idle nearby, some with guns still raised, complicit in this callous tactic, ruthlessly ignoring the rules of war. The fact that this photo even exists is the greatest insult they could do to a Resyan soul. Lifeless bodies desecrated before the cameras, captured forever in a disturbing mockery of their final moments. We’ve seen terrible images over the past weeks—individual cases of brutality, trickling back from the front—but this is the first that feels indicative of a larger Safire policy towards prisoners which holds no mercy.

  “The official reports will never show these,” I say softly. “They’ll be locked up for the duration of the war, hidden away.”

  Tirza nods with a sigh. “Why the stars should the evidence disappear simply because we don’t have the heart to look at it?”

  It won’t. Not if we can help it. But then, what should we do with them? It has to be the right move. Evil used for good. On a nearby table, I catch a glimpse of the morning’s paper, abandoned by Havis after his late breakfast. The front page, as usual, features a Safire plane caught in a fiery nosedive. I’ve forced my heart to keep beating when I see them.

&nb
sp; Not him.

  Not like that.

  But it sparks an idea, gaining clarity. “We should write something in Savien,” I suggest. “Safire soldiers might be picking up our pamphlets too, and they need to know we aren’t afraid to share these with the world.”

  “But neither of us speaks the language,” Tirza points out.

  I smile, a bit sheepishly, pulling out the Savien textbook Reni gifted me.

  Tirza’s mouth drops open. I’ve been studying it in secret, trying to remember what Athan taught me in the summer, the pronunciation, the inflection, the sound of his voice saying these strange words. And while I still don’t know much, I’m fairly certain I can patch together a compelling sentence or two.

  I grab my pen.

  “Call them all arrogant swine,” Tirza prompts. “Say their days are numbered and Resya stands to defeat their vile attempts at imperialism!”

  My pen hovers as I think. “No, we have to actually get through to them, Tirza. Not with insults, but with the facts, like we do with everyone else. We have to make them listen.”

  Tirza appears skeptical, but I hurry down the words that seem best. When I’ve finished, pleased with it, I discover she’s still watching me, an expression on her face I can’t read.

  “They’re encircled,” she states. “A noose around the Safire forces.”

  Some inner apprehension lurches within me, though I’m not quite sure why. I haven’t even read the entire front page yet, too focused on my writing. “A noose?” I repeat, and I can’t hide my fear at how much death that might mean—for both the Safire and the Resyan armies. An attrition of horrors.

  “They deserve this, Aurelia. You know they do.”

  “The Commander deserves this,” I reply sharply, standing from my desk. “Not the thousands who were forced into this war, bound to an order. Can I not grieve death wherever it happens?”

  There’s no way for me to explain my conflicted heart to someone who doesn’t have friends who wear the fox and crossed swords badge, and it’s a long moment before she says, “I think it’s time you saw our press.”

  The unexpected shift catches me off guard. I haven’t been allowed to visit yet. Tirza simply takes the words we write and claims her brother has means to distribute them beyond Madelan, though it must be done discreetly, to avoid any lurking Safire sympathizers from suspecting our involvement. That would only reflect even worse on Rahian, since we’re right in the palace. And truthfully, sometimes I wonder if Tirza is suspicious of me, too, since I do often come to the Safire’s defense in a roundabout way. But I’m eager to prove myself to both of them.

  I’m on their side.

  I am.

  Our photographs tucked away, she leads me through the palace maze she’s devised for her stealthy escapes to visit the press, to avoid running into Havis, who would certainly find a way to force me back inside. We dart through the kitchens only for staff and out the back gardens, to a gap in the fencing hidden behind a thick shrub—in use by some maid and footman for a clandestine affair—and burst off of palace grounds.

  The cobbled streets open up to a pleasant breeze, sunshine bright, and I breathe in the pristine taste of freedom. Neighbours huddle together in quiet, sober conversation, mothers dragging stubborn children along from store to store. As Tirza leads me onward, I wonder how many of these people have read our pamphlets. How many are in mourning even now, having lost someone beloved in those hellish mountains? Are they glad the ugly truth is being shared and remembered?

  When Tirza eventually halts me, we’re before a small row house, its walls a patchwork of coral paint and leafy green. The faithful late-morning rains have begun to descend, splattering us both, and Tirza rushes down a set of stairs to the basement, banging on the door.

  The boy who opens it is about Reni’s age, dressed in a brown leather coat, his black hair shaved and a cigarette hanging off his lips. His green eyes widen.

  “Hurry up, it’s raining!” Tirza orders without introduction.

  He swings the door open as Tirza pushes inside, urging me to follow, and the boy steps back quickly. I shake out my wet braid, stepping into the cramped, cool space with desks pushed into corners and papers fluttering everywhere, a press at the very center.

  Tirza waves at the boy. “My brother, Damir.” She turns to him. “And this is Aurelia, the princess.”

  Damir nods a nervous greeting and steps backwards, away from me, his boots creaking on the scuffed wood floor.

  I allow him the respectful distance and turn my own circle, taking in the room while Tirza lectures victoriously at her brother about the day’s discovery. As rain stammers against two tiny windows, I inspect the small iron press, curious about how it all works, the stamping pieces currently suspended and evidently in need of someone to feed the next leaflet. Then I come to a sudden stop at a board against the back wall, pinned with dozens of black-and-white photographs.

  Tirza’s determined monologue fades from my ears. Everything disappears except for what’s before me. There, printed far too large, is a young man with a bullet hole in the middle of his forehead. Unlike the distant photograph of the executed Resyan prisoners, his stunned eyes still stare upwards beneath the mess of blood, every detail of his expression captured by the camera. On the paper next to his, a dead woman curls round the stiff figure of her infant, clutching the child to her breast. And then, an entire field of bodies—hands and feet and gaping faces—scattered and abandoned in some lonely expanse.

  I want to retch on the floor.

  “It’s terrible, isn’t it?” Tirza says quietly, appearing at my shoulder. “Pictures leave a stronger impression than words.”

  I can scarcely stand to look. This is far more overwhelming than our solitary photographs from Walez. These aren’t even soldiers. These are civilians.

  “Where the stars are these from?” I whisper.

  “Thurn. We’ve been writing about it, to let Resya know the truth of what’s happening next door, when the people there attempt to resist Northern power. Our underground contacts send these, but even here…” She shrugs. “It’s like Resyans don’t want to know. They don’t want to see this, or imagine it could happen to them. And the Landorians always concoct some explanation in their official papers. They’ll claim they’ve ‘accidentally’ mistaken farmers for Nahir, or an entire family walking the hills for a rebel unit. They have their noble excuses, anything to not feel guilty while they’re playing on the coast in their gambling halls and seaside spas.”

  As I look at the board, I realize that Lark’s photographs from Beraya reflected only one crime of many, and suddenly I wish I knew why he brought me that particular atrocity and not any of these dozen others in Thurn.

  What were you trying to say, Lark? Why did you pick Beraya?

  But he can’t answer me—not anymore—and my helpless gaze roams higher, to a single pamphlet pinned at the top of the grotesque display. It has no photograph, but it’s large, commanding attention. A cartoon. In the right-hand corner, a little sketched cat prowls, facing off against a giant, snarling lion, the sun large above them both. But the cat’s shadow on the wall behind doesn’t reveal itself. Instead, it casts a large dog, frothing at the jaws and dark furred.

  “The lion needs its match,” I say, reading the caption aloud.

  “I drew that,” Damir shares, the first time he’s spoken. Cautious pride warms his voice as he points to the cat in the corner. “It’s a si’yah leopard. There aren’t many around here, but in Thurn, there are countless.”

  “And the lion?” I ask.

  He pauses. “That’s war. Death. Every dark nightmare in this world we have to stand up against. It’s so large, it seems unbeatable, and the si’yah feels small. But we have to summon the lion’s match. The cat has to bring out its inner dog.”

  I feel another little flutter of unease, and again, I’m not sure why. “Who pays for your press?” I ask, turning to face the siblings. “You charge nothing for your pamphlets.”


  “Lady Havis,” Tirza replies quickly.

  “And how do you gather all of this evidence? You don’t even live in Thurn.”

  Damir glances at Tirza, as if confused by my lack of knowledge.

  She waves him off. “I didn’t tell her. It didn’t feel like the right time.”

  Her abrupt tone stirs an unexpected hurt in my chest. The scent of a secret I’ve been kept apart from, despite everything we’ve been working for together. “Tell me what?”

  Tirza doesn’t answer right away, only stares at me like she did in the palace, measuring me silently, something strangely aloof in her gaze. But she makes her decision, offering me her hand. I take it and grasp tight, too afraid of ruining the tender thing that’s grown between us these weeks.

  I can’t bear to lose my only friend here.

  We head outside again and the rains have moved westward. Tirza pushes us northeast at a rapid pace, the houses on either side of us dimming, becoming smaller and more tumbling, cats stretched on still-damp pavement, children playing on front stoops. When we eventually crest a high hill, I realize exactly where we are. Below is the large airfield we watched from the motorbike over a month ago, wire fences surrounding hangars and runways, a rash of military vehicles zipping about. Three aeroplanes head north at an urgent pace—heavier-looking bombers.

  Offense.

  I almost laugh darkly, because I can identify them now. Wouldn’t Athan be proud? But my wry thoughts are swiftly pulled from this tactical development, centering instead on a strange village of tents and cobbled shelters at the outskirts of the base, huddled along a thin river. Children roam the desolate paths, women laying out laundry to dry in the fresh sun and cooking over small fires, smoke drifting upwards.

  “Those Northern soldiers you mourn,” Tirza says. “They made this camp. They forced these people to flee over the border, for safety, after they turned Thurn into a nightmare.”

  Her expression holds something older, greyer, as we stare down at this pathetic specter of a village, flung far from the city center and right beside an airfield at battle readiness.